If I were of a more religious turn of mind than I am, I might think that the Almighty had some quibble with the godless hordes of America's west coast.
First there is a sizeable earthquake in nearby Reno, Nevada. None dead, little damage, but a distinct warning for those inclined to heed it.
Then, last Friday morning, a 66-year-old vetinarian is out swimming off the coastline of San Diego when wham! A 17-foot Great White Shark mistakes him for a seal (so we are told, the shark hasn't yet issued its own plea in mitigation) and bites his legs off. Mercifully, he died soon after being hauled ashore.
But on Saturday the fates really move up a gear or two. Unseasonably hot weather, with or without a little help from a local boy scout troop, sparks a brush fire in the San Gabriel Mountains near Santa Anita racetrack, only a few miles from Pasadena. More than 1,000 people are evacuated and the fire service say it will take a week to bring under control.
On the same day, just across the border in Tijuana, two drug gangs or warring factions within one gang engage in a wild west shootout that lasts ten minutes and, at the latest count, kills 15 in a torrent of bullets from rifles and machine guns. This brings the Mexican drug-related murder total to 860 so far this year, after 2,500 died the same way last year.
Amazingly, a government spokesman was quoted as saying he hoped there would be 'more such events', because it was a handy way of getting the drug barons to kill one another, saving police time and manpower. I've heard of less government, but that is going a little far in my view.
OK, I've crossed Tijuana off the list for day trips, I have no plans to go hiking in tinder-dry mountains, I never was keen on swimming in the sea and I'll take my chances that earthquakes don't rumble any closer than Nevada. All the same, it's a little too close for comfort.
The strange thing is how easy it is to get used to all this mayhem. It was the same when the London underground bombs went off in July 2005. I really was close to one of them, the Edgware Road bomb, but if it is on your doorstep it is a local incident. It seems odd that the same event makes headlines round the world, even though I am more aware than most people that all this and more is being pumped across the newswires 24 hours a day, and the receiving media make an objective decision whether to relay it.
As it happens, the Santa Anita fire and Reno earthquake are almost routine and do not merit much coverage outside the region. But the shootout and the shark attack did make worldwide headlines, largely because of their Hollywood echoes - Jaws and the Gunfight at OK Corral, as well as many other westerns.
While America reluctantly comes to terms with some form of gun control after a series of grudge shootings at colleges and supermarkets, gun use seems to be out of control in Mexico.
The statistics on shark attacks suggest that they are pretty rare on the west coast - 98 incidents in the past 80 years, only 8 dead - and perhaps there is no practical way of eliminating them entirely. But it still seems strange, more than 30 years after Spielberg made his name with Jaws, that people are still being eaten alive by sharks.
The rubber shark still leaps out of the water at the Universal Studios Back Lot tour, and I have seen no reports of the stunt being suspended as a mark of respect after Friday's gory death. Doubtless the tour guides are making black jokes about the real life replay of the film.
Talking of black jokes, have you heard the one about the black 7-year-old who stole a car and went for a joyride? 'You gotta keep an eye on him the whole time,' remarked his mother.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Bill Kay meets Merle Norman and a mighty organ
Millions of American women down the years haven't had the slightest idea that when they were reaching for their mascara or moisturiser they were helping to pay for one of California's strangest rituals.
At around 7pm on selected Saturday evenings, a crowd of fairly smartly dressed people, mainly old or middle-aged but some young, congregate outside an unmarked garage door near a factory in Sylmar, a small town nestling in the San Fernando Valley north of Los Angeles.
Without any announcement, the garage door starts rolling slowly up and the crowd moves inside to a basement museum of exquisite classic cars, as gleaming as the day they were built, mainly between 1930 and 1950.
But the regulars have seen these before. They ignore the cars and form a queue at a door inside. This leads upstairs to a startlingly grand pillared hall, brighly lite with huge mirrors and even more impressive old cars, Duesenberg, Packard, Pierce-Arrow, Mercedes and of course Rolls-Royce.
These are merely another distraction, though. The queuers politely jostle their way to the far end of the hall, where a spiral staircase awaits them. On a landing a pianola tinkles, giving the first clue of the evening's real purpose.
At the top of the stairs we enter another exhibition overlooking the grand hall, this time of vehicle memorabilia - statuettes, models, awards, photographs.
Beyond that lies a small door leading to yet another room, darker, again pillared, at the end of which is an enormous Wurlitzer organ, so big that the keyboard stands alone in the middle of the room, separate from the pipes which are housed in showcases along the far wall,
This is what we have come for: one of a series of free organ concerts in this fabulously luxurious setting, which with the car collection is all paid for by the Nethercutt Collection (nethercuttcollection.org), a not-for-profit organisation started by J.B. Nethercutt, who developed the cosmetics business from a cottage industry started by Merle Norman, his aunt.
Like the Huntington Library and Gardens, the Nethercutt Collection simply reflects the passions of its founder, which were cars, mechanical musical instruments and furniture. The museum and concerts are free to those who know about them, but not many do and the Collection hardly advertises.
But no expense is spared in maintaining the collection to the highest standard, and top organists from around America - last night it was Martin Ellis, an award-winning organist from Indianapolis, who played a mixture of mainly middle-of-the-road classics and popular tunes such as de Falla's Ritual Fire Dance, the Star Wars Cantina Parody Song, the Carpenters' Sing and the Petula Clark hit Downtown.
It made me wonder what it is about organ music that exerts such a fascination. Fairground organs are more understandable, because loud music is needed to compete with the din of everything else going on. But organ music was a great attraction on radio in the 1920s and 1930s, and its curious interpretation of music intended for other instruments still exerts a strong pull.
Organs such as the Nethercutt Wurlitzer are essentially computerised one-man bands, where it is almost an additional extra to have someone playing the melody on the keyboard for a live audience - this one could even remotely play a nearby piano as well as drums, cymbals and other instruments. Ellis was a superb performer, though, with the air of an orchestra leader rather than a pianist.
I am no musical expert, but there is something about the ringing chords and rhythms that brook no argument - you take or leave it, love it or loathe it. There is some novelty value in seeing what an organ can do to Downtown, say, but it almost seems an admission of weakness to succumb to the jangly rhythms of an upbeat pop song. Something slower like the Beatles' Yesterday could work well, though.
Maybe that is why older people gravitate to organ music - a more predictable pace, sometimes loud but never harsh, a sense of richness. But I can never get out of my mind the image of Terry Gilliam sitting naked at an organ on Monty Python, a rictus grin plastered onto his face. Yes, organ music can verge on the pompous.
At around 7pm on selected Saturday evenings, a crowd of fairly smartly dressed people, mainly old or middle-aged but some young, congregate outside an unmarked garage door near a factory in Sylmar, a small town nestling in the San Fernando Valley north of Los Angeles.
Without any announcement, the garage door starts rolling slowly up and the crowd moves inside to a basement museum of exquisite classic cars, as gleaming as the day they were built, mainly between 1930 and 1950.
But the regulars have seen these before. They ignore the cars and form a queue at a door inside. This leads upstairs to a startlingly grand pillared hall, brighly lite with huge mirrors and even more impressive old cars, Duesenberg, Packard, Pierce-Arrow, Mercedes and of course Rolls-Royce.
These are merely another distraction, though. The queuers politely jostle their way to the far end of the hall, where a spiral staircase awaits them. On a landing a pianola tinkles, giving the first clue of the evening's real purpose.
At the top of the stairs we enter another exhibition overlooking the grand hall, this time of vehicle memorabilia - statuettes, models, awards, photographs.
Beyond that lies a small door leading to yet another room, darker, again pillared, at the end of which is an enormous Wurlitzer organ, so big that the keyboard stands alone in the middle of the room, separate from the pipes which are housed in showcases along the far wall,
This is what we have come for: one of a series of free organ concerts in this fabulously luxurious setting, which with the car collection is all paid for by the Nethercutt Collection (nethercuttcollection.org), a not-for-profit organisation started by J.B. Nethercutt, who developed the cosmetics business from a cottage industry started by Merle Norman, his aunt.
Like the Huntington Library and Gardens, the Nethercutt Collection simply reflects the passions of its founder, which were cars, mechanical musical instruments and furniture. The museum and concerts are free to those who know about them, but not many do and the Collection hardly advertises.
But no expense is spared in maintaining the collection to the highest standard, and top organists from around America - last night it was Martin Ellis, an award-winning organist from Indianapolis, who played a mixture of mainly middle-of-the-road classics and popular tunes such as de Falla's Ritual Fire Dance, the Star Wars Cantina Parody Song, the Carpenters' Sing and the Petula Clark hit Downtown.
It made me wonder what it is about organ music that exerts such a fascination. Fairground organs are more understandable, because loud music is needed to compete with the din of everything else going on. But organ music was a great attraction on radio in the 1920s and 1930s, and its curious interpretation of music intended for other instruments still exerts a strong pull.
Organs such as the Nethercutt Wurlitzer are essentially computerised one-man bands, where it is almost an additional extra to have someone playing the melody on the keyboard for a live audience - this one could even remotely play a nearby piano as well as drums, cymbals and other instruments. Ellis was a superb performer, though, with the air of an orchestra leader rather than a pianist.
I am no musical expert, but there is something about the ringing chords and rhythms that brook no argument - you take or leave it, love it or loathe it. There is some novelty value in seeing what an organ can do to Downtown, say, but it almost seems an admission of weakness to succumb to the jangly rhythms of an upbeat pop song. Something slower like the Beatles' Yesterday could work well, though.
Maybe that is why older people gravitate to organ music - a more predictable pace, sometimes loud but never harsh, a sense of richness. But I can never get out of my mind the image of Terry Gilliam sitting naked at an organ on Monty Python, a rictus grin plastered onto his face. Yes, organ music can verge on the pompous.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Chris Rock entertains Bill Kay
I was fascinated by the loquacious but pin-sharp Chris Rock and his followers at the Gibson Amphitheater by the Universal Studios LA theme park this week. I enjoyed his 90-minute act, but people around me were howling, gurgling, giggling uncontrollably and they were doing so because Rock was pointing truths out to them that clearly hadn't previously occurred to them.
This is, I suppose, the true role of comedians. They are the modern court jesters. In a sense, that is a statement of the obvious, but Rock takes it to a particularly high and bitter level. He rarely pokes fun at himself, in the manner of a Frankie Howerd or a Tony Hancock. He is the smart guy in the bar making cracks at everyone else's expense, and we admire him for being so accurate even when his weapons are aimed at ourselves. But humble he isn't.
Like many black entertainers, much of Rock's routine is about blacks and being black, and it is a tacit condemnation of America's race relations that there are still so many racial issues that deserve and need airing, from Obama's chances to the observation that the only blacks living near Rock were, like him, high achievers such as Mary J Blige and Denzel Washington "but my neighbour is a dentist - not an award-winning, world-beating dentist but just any old dentist. To do well in this life whites have to walk while blacks have to FLY!!"
Many of Rock's truths were uncomfortable, which made the audience laugh the louder as the mirror was held up to their own illusions and hypocrisy. While he derides whites, his special venom is reserved for black women - their jealousies, their demands, their expectations.
Of course only a black man could point this out, just as Rock observed that only a black man could refer to him and his fellows as "nigger". "Sure, I can use the word 'nigger'," he said bitterly, "but white men can change interest rates. I know which I'd rather be able to do."
Much of what Rock had to say was repetitive, and I felt he relied too much on exaggeration to make his points. Obama didn't just sound black, he sounded like he was wearing a leopardskin and carrying a spear, griding a white man into the dirt. And so on.
But he did make one poignant observation about himself. His children were going to grow up to be rich kids, he said, but he had always hated rich kids. So there was a part of himself that hated his kids.
Mind you, the couple of thousand who attended Thursday's show left considerably less rich than when they arrived. The seats weren't too expensive, $45 to $75, but they all came with trumped-up add-ons such as convenience fees, no matter how they were bought, which added another $15 to the price. And of course Universal charged for parking even though it would be difficult not to take a car to the show. And that was without the overpriced food and soda pop, programmes and merchandise. Then they started the show 20 minutes late to give everyone a chance to spend, and added a completely unnecessary 20-minute interval between the warm-up act and Rock, to keep the concession stands busy all over again. So I hope Rock wasn't too surprised when he gazed out on the rows of empty seats in the theatre. Even in LA, people do notice when they are being royally ripped off, however good the main attraction.
This is, I suppose, the true role of comedians. They are the modern court jesters. In a sense, that is a statement of the obvious, but Rock takes it to a particularly high and bitter level. He rarely pokes fun at himself, in the manner of a Frankie Howerd or a Tony Hancock. He is the smart guy in the bar making cracks at everyone else's expense, and we admire him for being so accurate even when his weapons are aimed at ourselves. But humble he isn't.
Like many black entertainers, much of Rock's routine is about blacks and being black, and it is a tacit condemnation of America's race relations that there are still so many racial issues that deserve and need airing, from Obama's chances to the observation that the only blacks living near Rock were, like him, high achievers such as Mary J Blige and Denzel Washington "but my neighbour is a dentist - not an award-winning, world-beating dentist but just any old dentist. To do well in this life whites have to walk while blacks have to FLY!!"
Many of Rock's truths were uncomfortable, which made the audience laugh the louder as the mirror was held up to their own illusions and hypocrisy. While he derides whites, his special venom is reserved for black women - their jealousies, their demands, their expectations.
Of course only a black man could point this out, just as Rock observed that only a black man could refer to him and his fellows as "nigger". "Sure, I can use the word 'nigger'," he said bitterly, "but white men can change interest rates. I know which I'd rather be able to do."
Much of what Rock had to say was repetitive, and I felt he relied too much on exaggeration to make his points. Obama didn't just sound black, he sounded like he was wearing a leopardskin and carrying a spear, griding a white man into the dirt. And so on.
But he did make one poignant observation about himself. His children were going to grow up to be rich kids, he said, but he had always hated rich kids. So there was a part of himself that hated his kids.
Mind you, the couple of thousand who attended Thursday's show left considerably less rich than when they arrived. The seats weren't too expensive, $45 to $75, but they all came with trumped-up add-ons such as convenience fees, no matter how they were bought, which added another $15 to the price. And of course Universal charged for parking even though it would be difficult not to take a car to the show. And that was without the overpriced food and soda pop, programmes and merchandise. Then they started the show 20 minutes late to give everyone a chance to spend, and added a completely unnecessary 20-minute interval between the warm-up act and Rock, to keep the concession stands busy all over again. So I hope Rock wasn't too surprised when he gazed out on the rows of empty seats in the theatre. Even in LA, people do notice when they are being royally ripped off, however good the main attraction.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Bill Kay's postcard from pasadena
I published the following today on a British website, www.headlinemoney.co.uk. But as you need a password to access that site, I thought this would be a good way of opening it to a wider audience. Do bear in mind that it has been pitched at a readership of UK financial journalists.
Wapping to the west coast of America is not quite the leap into hyperspace that it used to be. After the ten-hour flight British tourists pour out of LAX all year round to throng Venice Beach, Santa Monica, Rodeo Drive and Hollywood, eager to spend the nearly $2 they get for every ₤1 these days.
I was one of those tourists for quite a few years: in my view if you are going to go America (and I know some hate it) then Los Angeles is the most American piece of America there is. It’s brash, it’s in your face, it’s successful and – best of all – there is an un-English feeling that anything is possible.
Instead of my hour-long commute to News International, I now sit in my own office at home, looking out on sun-dappled trees and brilliant purple azaleas. If you do have to commute, the freeways are a lottery but I still prefer them to a No. 15 bus meandering its way down Oxford Street and Regent Street to Tower Hill.
Thanks to phone, email and internet, the 6,000 miles between here and London has been largely abolished as far as work is concerned. Aside from the eight-hour time difference, which means I’m asleep during the UK morning, I’m effectively no further away from London than if I was in Edinburgh or St Ives – or, at times, even Brighton.
It helps that I don’t mind waking at five o’clock several mornings a week. That’s 1pm in UK, so I then have time to read the internet versions of British newspapers and – naturally - the press releases on Headlinemoney before people come back from lunch.
Like any out-of-London freelance, I suffer from being off the press party and lunch circuit, and miss not bumping into people who might give me some work or spark some controversial and commentable idea. I try to make up for that with email phone chats, but it’s not quite the same, so I rely on regular trips to London to keep in the swim.
As a sports fan, I also miss invitations to hospitality boxes at Wembley, Lord’s, Stamford Bridge, Ascot or wherever. On the other hand, US satellite TV is pretty extensive, so I have probably seen more live Chelsea matches in the past two seasons than I did in the season before I left. Rugby and cricket are easily available, and of course I can get golf and baseball on tap locally – but I haven’t yet got the hang of the strange Robocop ritual they call football on this side of the Atlantic, and basketball leaves me cold.
The California lifestyle definitely hasn’t disappointed. Forget the exchange rate, great bonus though that is: the cost of living versus average incomes is much lower, so the standard of living is higher. It really is more laidback than frantic, frenetic, crowded, jostling London. I can get an echo of big-city claustrophobia if I drive the ten miles into downtown LA, but even then it’s nothing like London. People drive all over the road, changing their mind at the last second, so you really do have to expect the unexpected.
And Hollywood is on the doorstep. Billy Connolly, Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Chris Rock and Supergrass are among the many top-line acts that regularly appear just a short drive away. And there’s always that Beckham chap trying to teach the locals soccer.
Downsides: bureaucracy and job barriers. America may be the land of the free, but that small minority of the population that enjoys running Homeland Security, the Internal Revenue Service or City Hall do go completely to the other extreme. The form-filling can be staggering.
On the job front, the internet is hitting print media jobs sooner and harder than in Britain. The editorial staffs of the leading daily newspapers are huge by the standards of the UK nationals, so there is plenty of fat to trim and they are not hiring.
And I have recently discovered that, despite the internet, I do miss British newspapers: my son arrived with a weekend’s worth in his suitcase and I instantly devoured them.
US personal finance is of course quite different from the UK version because the law is different and, unlike in Britain, it varies from state to state. The writing approach is very different too: much more deferential to advertisers, and usually softer than marshmallow.
So I have concentrated my US freelance writing on covering business and the stock market, which is an international language and was my trade before I became Indy PF Editor in 2001. But, after 18 months, much of my work still stems from London. Consequently my writing style hasn’t had much chance to become Americanised.
In any case an English accent goes down well, thanks to the likes of Simon Cowell’s domination of American Idol, though they do find Beckham’s squeaky tones a little puzzling.
I regularly get Californians saying ‘I just LOVE your accent’ and then being astounded when I tell them that they too have an accent. Rubbing it in, I point out that in fact they have a very good English accent – it’s just that it’s the English of 300 years ago!
It can be tough to be understood in shops and restaurants, though. This is partly a language problem, but it is also a matter of cadence. I have lost count of the number of ways English-speaking Starbucks baristas mishear ‘Bill’ when they want to scribble my name on a cup - I find the answer is to bark the name at them, in caps and italics. They look a little startled, but at least I get the coffee I want.
However, I still have trouble making myself say tomAYto or banannna. Talking of which, I miss the rich flavours of English tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries and other fruit. The food here is virtually taste-free by comparison.
The reason is of course that crops here are parched by 300-plus days’ sunshine a year. The dry season has just started and will run virtually uninterrupted until October. We do get lashing rain and howling wind, mainly when the weather gods divert a storm intended for Canada. But spare your sympathy.
Wapping to the west coast of America is not quite the leap into hyperspace that it used to be. After the ten-hour flight British tourists pour out of LAX all year round to throng Venice Beach, Santa Monica, Rodeo Drive and Hollywood, eager to spend the nearly $2 they get for every ₤1 these days.
I was one of those tourists for quite a few years: in my view if you are going to go America (and I know some hate it) then Los Angeles is the most American piece of America there is. It’s brash, it’s in your face, it’s successful and – best of all – there is an un-English feeling that anything is possible.
Instead of my hour-long commute to News International, I now sit in my own office at home, looking out on sun-dappled trees and brilliant purple azaleas. If you do have to commute, the freeways are a lottery but I still prefer them to a No. 15 bus meandering its way down Oxford Street and Regent Street to Tower Hill.
Thanks to phone, email and internet, the 6,000 miles between here and London has been largely abolished as far as work is concerned. Aside from the eight-hour time difference, which means I’m asleep during the UK morning, I’m effectively no further away from London than if I was in Edinburgh or St Ives – or, at times, even Brighton.
It helps that I don’t mind waking at five o’clock several mornings a week. That’s 1pm in UK, so I then have time to read the internet versions of British newspapers and – naturally - the press releases on Headlinemoney before people come back from lunch.
Like any out-of-London freelance, I suffer from being off the press party and lunch circuit, and miss not bumping into people who might give me some work or spark some controversial and commentable idea. I try to make up for that with email phone chats, but it’s not quite the same, so I rely on regular trips to London to keep in the swim.
As a sports fan, I also miss invitations to hospitality boxes at Wembley, Lord’s, Stamford Bridge, Ascot or wherever. On the other hand, US satellite TV is pretty extensive, so I have probably seen more live Chelsea matches in the past two seasons than I did in the season before I left. Rugby and cricket are easily available, and of course I can get golf and baseball on tap locally – but I haven’t yet got the hang of the strange Robocop ritual they call football on this side of the Atlantic, and basketball leaves me cold.
The California lifestyle definitely hasn’t disappointed. Forget the exchange rate, great bonus though that is: the cost of living versus average incomes is much lower, so the standard of living is higher. It really is more laidback than frantic, frenetic, crowded, jostling London. I can get an echo of big-city claustrophobia if I drive the ten miles into downtown LA, but even then it’s nothing like London. People drive all over the road, changing their mind at the last second, so you really do have to expect the unexpected.
And Hollywood is on the doorstep. Billy Connolly, Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Chris Rock and Supergrass are among the many top-line acts that regularly appear just a short drive away. And there’s always that Beckham chap trying to teach the locals soccer.
Downsides: bureaucracy and job barriers. America may be the land of the free, but that small minority of the population that enjoys running Homeland Security, the Internal Revenue Service or City Hall do go completely to the other extreme. The form-filling can be staggering.
On the job front, the internet is hitting print media jobs sooner and harder than in Britain. The editorial staffs of the leading daily newspapers are huge by the standards of the UK nationals, so there is plenty of fat to trim and they are not hiring.
And I have recently discovered that, despite the internet, I do miss British newspapers: my son arrived with a weekend’s worth in his suitcase and I instantly devoured them.
US personal finance is of course quite different from the UK version because the law is different and, unlike in Britain, it varies from state to state. The writing approach is very different too: much more deferential to advertisers, and usually softer than marshmallow.
So I have concentrated my US freelance writing on covering business and the stock market, which is an international language and was my trade before I became Indy PF Editor in 2001. But, after 18 months, much of my work still stems from London. Consequently my writing style hasn’t had much chance to become Americanised.
In any case an English accent goes down well, thanks to the likes of Simon Cowell’s domination of American Idol, though they do find Beckham’s squeaky tones a little puzzling.
I regularly get Californians saying ‘I just LOVE your accent’ and then being astounded when I tell them that they too have an accent. Rubbing it in, I point out that in fact they have a very good English accent – it’s just that it’s the English of 300 years ago!
It can be tough to be understood in shops and restaurants, though. This is partly a language problem, but it is also a matter of cadence. I have lost count of the number of ways English-speaking Starbucks baristas mishear ‘Bill’ when they want to scribble my name on a cup - I find the answer is to bark the name at them, in caps and italics. They look a little startled, but at least I get the coffee I want.
However, I still have trouble making myself say tomAYto or banannna. Talking of which, I miss the rich flavours of English tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries and other fruit. The food here is virtually taste-free by comparison.
The reason is of course that crops here are parched by 300-plus days’ sunshine a year. The dry season has just started and will run virtually uninterrupted until October. We do get lashing rain and howling wind, mainly when the weather gods divert a storm intended for Canada. But spare your sympathy.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Bill Kay tells the Truth about Diana's Death
Like singers and actors, there is a layer of journalists who achieve fame in their own country but are hardly even heard of elsewhere. Correct me if I'm wrong, but among the Brits in this category is Kate Adie, BBC foreign correspondent par excellence. She is bound to have appeared on foreign television, but each country trusts its own foreign reporters and is never sure of those from other countries, even if they have the BBC objectivity guarantee stamped on their foreheads.
I met Adie today, swinging through LA on a tour of the west coast and Hawaii. She is as tough-as-boots in the long tradition of America's Martha Gelhorn and another great Brit I was lucky enough to meet year ago, Clare Hollingworth.
Hollingworth (long retired, now age 98 and living in her beloved Hong Kong) and Adie are as detached and matter of fact as good journalists should be, especially when reporting historic events of huge emotional pull, but they have very different styles. Hollingworth was a print journalist in an era when newspapers like the one she wrote for - the Daily Telegraph - insisted on a much more formal style, no dumbing down. Indeed, the Telegraph in those days read like a long Ministry of Defence or Foreign Office memo, even when EW Swanton was writing about cricket (in fact he was the most pompous of the lot, but that's another story).
I suspect themore analytical Hollingworth would not have come across as larger-than-life on screen as Adie did - retired from the front line since 2003, now aged 62, but presenting the long-running From Our Own Correspondent from whichever hotel bedroom she happens to be in each week. I don't mean to suggest that she has a succession of sexual partners, just that she travels around a lot, but she has never married and her private life is well guarded. There was a rather odd chap hanging around in the background today, though, wearing a formal shirt with jeans, who had his eyes closed during much of Adie's talk, as if he had heard it many times before.
Adie comes across as very solid, very British, very reliable and no doubt knew exactly what to do when she was dropped into a war zone. There is always a story behind people whose accents don't match their hometown, and Adie comes from Sunderland yet speaks with an accent which the Observer newspaper described in 2001 as "half marchioness, half staff sergeant". It gives her not just a schoolmarmish but a full-blown headmistress air, especially in combination with her stocky appearance and sensible hair and frock.
She has four operational rules:
1. See things for yourself whenever possible, because 'I know, I saw it' is far more convincing than 'so and so told me'. It's a rough and ready business, so approach strangers carefully on a story because you are not going to get the red carpet treatment.
2. Talk to those who are there. Use Your own eyes to gather evidence and check what you are told. People lie to you and everyone likes to claim victory.
3. Verify the facts by asking people questions individually. There will always be missing pieces but you get the major parts of the story.
4. You tell everyone as fast as possible. Being second is rotten but you've got to get it right first time.
As an example of this, she told us about reporting the crash which killed Princess Diana in 1997.
'I was in the tunnel where the crash occurred about five hours after it happened,' she recalled, 'and I was shown around by one of the chief French investigators. He pointed out the damage to the car and the tunnel and said it was clear that the car had been travelling at a very high speed, far higher than the tunnel could cope with. Then we went to the Ritz hotel a few hours later and the barman at the Paris Ritz said Henri Paul, the driver, was "drunk as a skunk". Yet it has taken ten years to establish these facts, against the opposition of Mohammed Fayed.' Note she did not use the 'Al Fayed' form which the man tries to insist on. That is an aristocratic designation in Egypt, like von in Germany, and old hands are scrupulous about insisting that Fayed was not entitled to it.
Adie's explanation of her career was that it 'just happened', and she 'just happened' to be sent to London by the BBC. That contradicts the views of school and BBC contemporaries, who claim she was highly ambitious and determined to reach the goals she set. That is certainly the impression she gives, regarding her career as a long contest in which she could either be a winner or loser, and she was hell-bent on becoming a winner. But then, if she didn't have that attitude she would probably have been killed by now in some sandy shell-hole. However, I don't think she will take easily to retirement, or anything like it.
But, by her own analysis, Adie may be stepping back from the front line at the right time. She shares the growing view that the audiences for TV news, as for newspapers, are declining, mainly because the young are not picking up the habit.
However, Adie has a slightly different explanation from most. She believes people are becoming less interested in news because, in developed countries at any rate, there is less threat or risk of invasion. In other words, many people followed world news out of self-interest, in case they might be directly affected. Fear was a big motivator. But, despite terrorism, people are more relaxed since the end of the Cold War. There is, for the time being at least, little chance of an Orwellian test of strength between superpowers.
I think Adie is being too simplistic. Voting numbers are falling drastically in the US and UK, and that is not purely out of fear. Standards of education and cynicism about politicians play big parts too, and if you are not interested in voting you have less reason to keep up to date with the decisions of those you might or might not be voting for.
I wonder, though, if Adie's point is valid, whether TV, newspaper and internet news audiences will revive as China gets into its stride? This is blog for another day, but my hunch is that once China has become established as an economic giant it will want to flex military muscle. World wars have not been abolished.
I met Adie today, swinging through LA on a tour of the west coast and Hawaii. She is as tough-as-boots in the long tradition of America's Martha Gelhorn and another great Brit I was lucky enough to meet year ago, Clare Hollingworth.
Hollingworth (long retired, now age 98 and living in her beloved Hong Kong) and Adie are as detached and matter of fact as good journalists should be, especially when reporting historic events of huge emotional pull, but they have very different styles. Hollingworth was a print journalist in an era when newspapers like the one she wrote for - the Daily Telegraph - insisted on a much more formal style, no dumbing down. Indeed, the Telegraph in those days read like a long Ministry of Defence or Foreign Office memo, even when EW Swanton was writing about cricket (in fact he was the most pompous of the lot, but that's another story).
I suspect themore analytical Hollingworth would not have come across as larger-than-life on screen as Adie did - retired from the front line since 2003, now aged 62, but presenting the long-running From Our Own Correspondent from whichever hotel bedroom she happens to be in each week. I don't mean to suggest that she has a succession of sexual partners, just that she travels around a lot, but she has never married and her private life is well guarded. There was a rather odd chap hanging around in the background today, though, wearing a formal shirt with jeans, who had his eyes closed during much of Adie's talk, as if he had heard it many times before.
Adie comes across as very solid, very British, very reliable and no doubt knew exactly what to do when she was dropped into a war zone. There is always a story behind people whose accents don't match their hometown, and Adie comes from Sunderland yet speaks with an accent which the Observer newspaper described in 2001 as "half marchioness, half staff sergeant". It gives her not just a schoolmarmish but a full-blown headmistress air, especially in combination with her stocky appearance and sensible hair and frock.
She has four operational rules:
1. See things for yourself whenever possible, because 'I know, I saw it' is far more convincing than 'so and so told me'. It's a rough and ready business, so approach strangers carefully on a story because you are not going to get the red carpet treatment.
2. Talk to those who are there. Use Your own eyes to gather evidence and check what you are told. People lie to you and everyone likes to claim victory.
3. Verify the facts by asking people questions individually. There will always be missing pieces but you get the major parts of the story.
4. You tell everyone as fast as possible. Being second is rotten but you've got to get it right first time.
As an example of this, she told us about reporting the crash which killed Princess Diana in 1997.
'I was in the tunnel where the crash occurred about five hours after it happened,' she recalled, 'and I was shown around by one of the chief French investigators. He pointed out the damage to the car and the tunnel and said it was clear that the car had been travelling at a very high speed, far higher than the tunnel could cope with. Then we went to the Ritz hotel a few hours later and the barman at the Paris Ritz said Henri Paul, the driver, was "drunk as a skunk". Yet it has taken ten years to establish these facts, against the opposition of Mohammed Fayed.' Note she did not use the 'Al Fayed' form which the man tries to insist on. That is an aristocratic designation in Egypt, like von in Germany, and old hands are scrupulous about insisting that Fayed was not entitled to it.
Adie's explanation of her career was that it 'just happened', and she 'just happened' to be sent to London by the BBC. That contradicts the views of school and BBC contemporaries, who claim she was highly ambitious and determined to reach the goals she set. That is certainly the impression she gives, regarding her career as a long contest in which she could either be a winner or loser, and she was hell-bent on becoming a winner. But then, if she didn't have that attitude she would probably have been killed by now in some sandy shell-hole. However, I don't think she will take easily to retirement, or anything like it.
But, by her own analysis, Adie may be stepping back from the front line at the right time. She shares the growing view that the audiences for TV news, as for newspapers, are declining, mainly because the young are not picking up the habit.
However, Adie has a slightly different explanation from most. She believes people are becoming less interested in news because, in developed countries at any rate, there is less threat or risk of invasion. In other words, many people followed world news out of self-interest, in case they might be directly affected. Fear was a big motivator. But, despite terrorism, people are more relaxed since the end of the Cold War. There is, for the time being at least, little chance of an Orwellian test of strength between superpowers.
I think Adie is being too simplistic. Voting numbers are falling drastically in the US and UK, and that is not purely out of fear. Standards of education and cynicism about politicians play big parts too, and if you are not interested in voting you have less reason to keep up to date with the decisions of those you might or might not be voting for.
I wonder, though, if Adie's point is valid, whether TV, newspaper and internet news audiences will revive as China gets into its stride? This is blog for another day, but my hunch is that once China has become established as an economic giant it will want to flex military muscle. World wars have not been abolished.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Bill Kay bows to the power of cinema
It is truly amazing that so much money is spent on producing blockbuster films. I know that directors find it hard to resis the lure of playing with a new SFX toy, whatever the cost, as long as it creates a big enough splash on screen. And so we are offered the likes of the Spiderman and Pirates of the Caribbean - revealingly, often described as franchises just like Starbucks or McDonald's.
To the credit of the Academy of Motion Pictures, neither Spiderman nor Pirates have picked up any of the major Oscars. And good stories can also be enhanced by the flash treatment: see the Lord of the Rings trilogy or the Harry Potter series. You can and doubtless will quibble about the merits of the Potter books, thanks to Rowling's "evening class" literary style, but there is plenty of meat in the films and they were worth the money spent on effects and the star rosters.
But amidst all the glitz it is easy to forget that there is nothing to beat a good story, and you don't need to spend much to turn it into a compelling movie.
This was stunningly demonstrated last night at Hollywood's Egyptian Theatre, which has become my favourite. As part of the annual film noir season, last night was devoted to a Peter Lorre double bill - Stranger on the Third Floor and Face Behind the Mask.
Stranger was ponderous, interesting mainly as an historical marker. Face unfortunately gives away half the plot in its title, as the Lorre character initially appears maskless. But you could sense the packed theatre falling silent and giving its full attention to the screen for the last half-hour or so, from the moment Lorre bumps into the blind girl. I won't give away the ending, but most of what occurs before that moment is merely foot-shuffling by comparison. The story is so well balanced that we just don't know what is going to happen, and we are totally involved in the dynamics of the characters and their competing forces.
Apart from sticking a plane in a desert, a device that doesn't cost much in this part of the world, there were no great expenses although Lorre might have been able to demand a fairly hefty fee by this stage, 1941. And the plot does not rely heavily on Lorre's distinctive appearance - a major factor in Stranger on the Third Floor.
Both films are based on what I believe were originally radio plays - it's not clear from IMDB about Stranger, but Face certainly was - and this keeps the emphasis on telling the story. And that is what kept everyone in their seats until the final scene last night.
To the credit of the Academy of Motion Pictures, neither Spiderman nor Pirates have picked up any of the major Oscars. And good stories can also be enhanced by the flash treatment: see the Lord of the Rings trilogy or the Harry Potter series. You can and doubtless will quibble about the merits of the Potter books, thanks to Rowling's "evening class" literary style, but there is plenty of meat in the films and they were worth the money spent on effects and the star rosters.
But amidst all the glitz it is easy to forget that there is nothing to beat a good story, and you don't need to spend much to turn it into a compelling movie.
This was stunningly demonstrated last night at Hollywood's Egyptian Theatre, which has become my favourite. As part of the annual film noir season, last night was devoted to a Peter Lorre double bill - Stranger on the Third Floor and Face Behind the Mask.
Stranger was ponderous, interesting mainly as an historical marker. Face unfortunately gives away half the plot in its title, as the Lorre character initially appears maskless. But you could sense the packed theatre falling silent and giving its full attention to the screen for the last half-hour or so, from the moment Lorre bumps into the blind girl. I won't give away the ending, but most of what occurs before that moment is merely foot-shuffling by comparison. The story is so well balanced that we just don't know what is going to happen, and we are totally involved in the dynamics of the characters and their competing forces.
Apart from sticking a plane in a desert, a device that doesn't cost much in this part of the world, there were no great expenses although Lorre might have been able to demand a fairly hefty fee by this stage, 1941. And the plot does not rely heavily on Lorre's distinctive appearance - a major factor in Stranger on the Third Floor.
Both films are based on what I believe were originally radio plays - it's not clear from IMDB about Stranger, but Face certainly was - and this keeps the emphasis on telling the story. And that is what kept everyone in their seats until the final scene last night.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Bill Kay says it really is time to worry
I have purposely avoided using this blog series to peddle my bread and butter material - business, finance and investment. But it's time to break that rule, after going to a conference this week that lifted the lid on just how bad the credit crunch is likely to become - and how long it is likely to last.
In case you want to google it, the conference was called the Distressed Debt West Coast Investor Forum and it was held at the Universal City Hilton on April 1-2. As the name suggests it was about distressed debt - money owed by companies in trouble - and the event was aimed at investors who want to find out how to profit from providing such debt by lending money that may or may not tide over these spluttering businesses.
The speakers were mainly investment banks such as Goldman Sachs and Credit Suisse, as well as lawyers specialising in this area and loan brokers who pull borrowers and lenders together. The investors were largely very wealthy inviduals or their representatives, often worth hundreds of millions of dollars and faced with the perennial problem of where to put all that money to preserve or increase its value. You don't need to shed tears for people in such a predicament. They do like lending, or buying bonds of one sort or another, because it is not as risky as investing in shares. However the safest bonds - US Treasuries or UK gilts - are not paying much interest at the moment. Bonds issued by companies pay more, but there is a risk that they will miss interet payments and may not be able to repay the bonds. So it's a fine calculation as to how these wealthy investors strike the balance between fear and greed, between getting a higher rate of interest or losing their shirt.
I don't want to get too bogged down in the range of choices they face in these tough times. What was most shocking from the point of view of the rest of us was the bankers' and lawyers' confidence that this crisis is going to last not for months but years.
A brief cameo sums up the mood. The after-lunch speaker began his address by saying “I have been asked which (baseball) inning we are in with regard to the credit crisis. I would say we are still in the first…”
A voice in the hall interrupted: “First inning? They’ve only just thrown the first pitch!”
This is in lurid contrast to the guarded words we have been hearing so far from people like Ben Bernanke at the Fed and his UK counterpart, Mervyn King at the Bank of England. Bernanke has at least begun to mention the dreaded word recession, but is still sticking to the prediction that all this nastiness will be over in the summer and the economy will pick up again in the second half of this year as if nothing had happened.
It's even worse if, like me, you read the outpourings of brokers, fund managers and financial advisers. They have been forced to refer to turmoil or difficulties, but only as a buying opportunity so that they can keep their income up.
To some extent they're right. You may not have the contacts or the clout to get into distressed debt, but shares will get very depressed, even in well-run companies, so there will be big profits to be made for those who have spare cash and are brave enough to invest in the next year or so.
But most people aren't in that happy position, which is only a few rungs down from the wealthy fellow wandering what to do with all his money.
As we know, consumer spending has been roaring away as the stores were about to close for ever, and plenty of people have been borrowing like fury to stay in the game. But that is about to stop, so anyone relying on debt to fund their lifestyle is about to suffer a rude shock. It's not so much that interest rates are about to soar - Bernanke has been cutting them in the US for all he's worth - though cut-price deals are coming to an end very rapidly indeed.
No, the real problem is that banks are calling in many of their loans. They don't trust one another, let alone you and me. They also losing billions from loans that are going sour, so they need to pull in as much cash as they can to make up for that.
If you have a loan deal that you are meeting the payments on as scheduled, fine. They won't cut you off. But miss a payment and you could be in big trouble. And as for taking out a fresh loan, forget it unless you have cast-iron collateral.
The broad rule is to pay off your debts as quickly as you can, even if it means living a quieter life. I know that if everyone does this the economy will tank, but that isn't your problem. Just get yourself in healthy shape and be glad you've got a job - if you have, while you have.
This all still takes some getting used to. Less than a year ago, things seemed pretty fine, the odd cloud on the horizon but nothing too ominous. Now, it begins to feel like last autumn was 1929 and we may not start pulling round for another three years or so. That's right. Three years.
And when a downturn lasts that long, it affects everyone's outlook. People go into defensive mode and everything slows down. It recently took Japan ten years to get over a slump, but that had much to do with the Japanese people's pessimism and introspection. What we need now is a reserve of optimistic and extraversion. We are about to find out how deep that reserve is.
In case you want to google it, the conference was called the Distressed Debt West Coast Investor Forum and it was held at the Universal City Hilton on April 1-2. As the name suggests it was about distressed debt - money owed by companies in trouble - and the event was aimed at investors who want to find out how to profit from providing such debt by lending money that may or may not tide over these spluttering businesses.
The speakers were mainly investment banks such as Goldman Sachs and Credit Suisse, as well as lawyers specialising in this area and loan brokers who pull borrowers and lenders together. The investors were largely very wealthy inviduals or their representatives, often worth hundreds of millions of dollars and faced with the perennial problem of where to put all that money to preserve or increase its value. You don't need to shed tears for people in such a predicament. They do like lending, or buying bonds of one sort or another, because it is not as risky as investing in shares. However the safest bonds - US Treasuries or UK gilts - are not paying much interest at the moment. Bonds issued by companies pay more, but there is a risk that they will miss interet payments and may not be able to repay the bonds. So it's a fine calculation as to how these wealthy investors strike the balance between fear and greed, between getting a higher rate of interest or losing their shirt.
I don't want to get too bogged down in the range of choices they face in these tough times. What was most shocking from the point of view of the rest of us was the bankers' and lawyers' confidence that this crisis is going to last not for months but years.
A brief cameo sums up the mood. The after-lunch speaker began his address by saying “I have been asked which (baseball) inning we are in with regard to the credit crisis. I would say we are still in the first…”
A voice in the hall interrupted: “First inning? They’ve only just thrown the first pitch!”
This is in lurid contrast to the guarded words we have been hearing so far from people like Ben Bernanke at the Fed and his UK counterpart, Mervyn King at the Bank of England. Bernanke has at least begun to mention the dreaded word recession, but is still sticking to the prediction that all this nastiness will be over in the summer and the economy will pick up again in the second half of this year as if nothing had happened.
It's even worse if, like me, you read the outpourings of brokers, fund managers and financial advisers. They have been forced to refer to turmoil or difficulties, but only as a buying opportunity so that they can keep their income up.
To some extent they're right. You may not have the contacts or the clout to get into distressed debt, but shares will get very depressed, even in well-run companies, so there will be big profits to be made for those who have spare cash and are brave enough to invest in the next year or so.
But most people aren't in that happy position, which is only a few rungs down from the wealthy fellow wandering what to do with all his money.
As we know, consumer spending has been roaring away as the stores were about to close for ever, and plenty of people have been borrowing like fury to stay in the game. But that is about to stop, so anyone relying on debt to fund their lifestyle is about to suffer a rude shock. It's not so much that interest rates are about to soar - Bernanke has been cutting them in the US for all he's worth - though cut-price deals are coming to an end very rapidly indeed.
No, the real problem is that banks are calling in many of their loans. They don't trust one another, let alone you and me. They also losing billions from loans that are going sour, so they need to pull in as much cash as they can to make up for that.
If you have a loan deal that you are meeting the payments on as scheduled, fine. They won't cut you off. But miss a payment and you could be in big trouble. And as for taking out a fresh loan, forget it unless you have cast-iron collateral.
The broad rule is to pay off your debts as quickly as you can, even if it means living a quieter life. I know that if everyone does this the economy will tank, but that isn't your problem. Just get yourself in healthy shape and be glad you've got a job - if you have, while you have.
This all still takes some getting used to. Less than a year ago, things seemed pretty fine, the odd cloud on the horizon but nothing too ominous. Now, it begins to feel like last autumn was 1929 and we may not start pulling round for another three years or so. That's right. Three years.
And when a downturn lasts that long, it affects everyone's outlook. People go into defensive mode and everything slows down. It recently took Japan ten years to get over a slump, but that had much to do with the Japanese people's pessimism and introspection. What we need now is a reserve of optimistic and extraversion. We are about to find out how deep that reserve is.
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