Prior to the advent of the Euro, I lived in the Netherlands and then Belgium. I clearly recall how the money looked: the Dutch Guilder was always emblazoned on beautiful banknotes, each denomination a magnificent manifestation of national probity and pride. My mind’s eye is particularly drawn to the 50 guilder note, notable for featuring a bright yellow sunflower. I also thought the Belgian Franc was a particularly noble currency; the 500 franc note remains my favourite piece of numismatic art as it bears the portrait of Rene Magritte and contains a tribute to his work. I wish I had kept one; I would have tucked it safely in my wallet along with my Hong Kong dollar and Jersey pound notes as a souvenir of my travels.

When I lived there, Belgium and the Netherlands were both in the process of preparing for the Euro. I recall the widespread enthusiasm; in both Amsterdam and Antwerp, dual pricing crept in, even though the new money hadn’t yet arrived. If I remember correctly, some stores had signs posted in their windows stating proudly that they were ready for the change. The mood was bullish: why, with a single currency, it would become much easier for the Belgians, the Dutch, the French, the Germans and the Italians to trade. Pricing would be transparent; it would remove the problems associated with currency fluctuations and arbitrage. Yes, some admitted, it wouldn’t be all a bed of roses: without being able to devalue, one of the key strategies Mediterranean economies had used hitherto to regain competitiveness would be lost to them. But never mind, after the adjustment, we’ll all be as rich as Germans, they thought; the Euro was seen as a magic elixir which would cure the sins of inflation, mismanagement, low productivity and corruption. The markets breathed in the same heady atmosphere: they loaned money to Greece at similar rates as they did to the Germans.

As we all now know, this optimism was misplaced. The books were cooked. A new currency wasn’t accompanied by a renewed sense of responsibility. The Germans became more competitive because their efficient economy was hitched to a keenly priced currency; however Italy, Spain, Greece and Portugal all found that it’s easier to use German money than it is to emulate the German economic model. People believed ridiculous things like the housing market in Dublin would always go up: a fatal assumption. And now we are on the edge of the precipice, waiting until June 17th and the second Greek election, hoping that some sort of resolution will take place: will we see Greek banknotes, bearing the likeness of King Philip of Macedonia, once more? Or will Greece swallow ever more bitter medicine? What price will we pay for having been so optimistic? Will this lead to the collapse of economies? Governments? Whole societies?

I am a curmudgeon; I am often accused by people near and dear to me of being “too grumpy”. “Cheer up,” I’m told. “Always look on the bright side of life,” is a cliché and a song I’m familiar with; the sentiment pervades so far that the anthem has made it to the football terraces across the land, and sometimes it’s even deployed at funerals. “Don’t worry, be happy”, Bobby McFerrin tells us. A popular logo featuring a yellow smiling face advises us to “Have a Nice Day”. In contrast, Oscar the Grouch on “Sesame Street” is shown to be an unpleasant character, who invites visitors to “scram”. To be grumpy is to invite opprobrium, to be called a “killjoy” or “buzz killer”. However I recall a saying a teacher once told me: “The difference between an optimist and a pessimist is that the pessimist is better informed.” Had there been more analysis of the downside risks associated with the Euro, if people had thought about the bad as well as the good that would flow from it, perhaps we wouldn’t be in the current crisis. Pessimistic people are vital in order to ensure that a valid analysis of the hazards takes place: otherwise people have a tendency to float off on clouds of fancy and fantasy which lead them to eventual disaster.

Despite Athens burning, today is yet another day in which optimism is going to take hold; Facebook’s shares will make their stock market début. The company’s current value is estimated at $104 billion. This makes sense from a certain point of view: one of the key problems facing manufacturers and retailers is how to effectively market themselves. At the moment, their approaches are far too haphazard: one can more or less assume that someone watching “Top Gear” on the Dave channel may be interested in car-related products, but what about those who watch murder mysteries? Or people who read a daily newspaper? Market research can help, but it is like throwing a bucket of water over a large crowd, hoping that one or two people will get particularly soaked. Facebook, in contrast, has a vast amount of data about individuals: their age, location, education, profession, family size, relationship status. Theoretically, an advertiser looking to sell, say, a family sized car, could ring up Facebook and target their marketing much more effectively. This could be immensely valuable, furthermore, it might spell the end of advertising as we know it.

On the other hand, what is Facebook’s purpose? When it was founded, it was merely thought of as a means of communication for old friends to keep in touch; this ethos has filtered down to those who use it. So, when someone is utilising Facebook, they are unlikely to be in the same frame of mind as they would be when they go shopping. Google is successful because it catches users at a point at which they are searching for something; the liklihood of finding someone who is in “shopping mode” is much greater. If Facebook and Google found a way to work together, then that might be a fantastic business prospect, a world beater. But $104 billion? On its own? Really?

I have only heard very limited and muted concerns of this type, tucked discreetly away in the middle of early morning business programmes. Rather like with the Euro, traders are already minting Facebook share certificates in their mind, and if the markets are to be believed, these shares are worth much more than their weight in gold. We’ve been here before not just with the Euro but also with dot com bubbles and property bubbles and belief that Enron shares were worth more than sheets of Kleenex. We go through this again and again and again and the sceptics and curmudgeons are told: “Don’t worry, be happy.” “Always look on the bright side of life.” and “Have a nice day.” One wonders when the Nouriel Roubinis and Vince Cables of this world will get a look in before the disaster ensues. How many more lives and nations have to be ruined before we start looking at matters with clear eyes?

We may be at a point at which such focus will come; however, I suggest that it will be temporary. Nothing lasts forever, not even bad times. Some new technology will arrive or some new market will be tapped: perhaps the recent plans to gather valuable minerals from asteroids will be a prelude to the next big thing. The engine of optimism will whirr to life again. At first, confidence will be hesitant, and the grouches and grumps will still have a say in discussions; but knowing people and their downside risks, there will come a point that the dissenters will be ignored as optimism creates its own unstoppable momentum towards its doom. It’s then we will truly need to be worried and prepare for the inevitable crash. And then after that, still no one will sing, “Always look on the dark side of life.”

My weekday commute takes me through Armley, which lies to the west of Leeds city centre. For the past several weeks, a large billboard which generally advertises a pets and aquarium store has been obscured by a poster which stated the following: “Golf is a Passport for a Dirty Weekend Away with the Lads, Wake Up Girls, a Naive Wife”. The sign bore the mysterious initials “TUD”. Today, this sign was replaced by another one, also signed off by “TUD”, which showed some blurry photos of restrooms supposedly taken by Heathrow Airport’s security cameras. The legend on this sign states, “Did you really think Heathrow Airport don’t have cameras here?”

It’s important to state at once that these are fakes. The “golf” sign has made an appearance in other parts of the country, the Heathrow sign utilises precisely the same photos as ones which were used for a similar “Dublin Airport” sign which appeared in Ireland. The mysterious “TUD” is apparently an Irish artist; he has previously challenged people with other signs to “Honk if You Secretly Wear Women’s Underwear” and stated a celebrity named Alexa Chung is a goddess. TUD apparently stands for “The Ugly Duckling”. If this artist has a manifesto, it comes from a one line statement on his or her blog, “I do solemnly swear to fulfill my new years resolution, to cause divilment, general mayhem, be the thorn in the side and foam pie in the face of all those deserving”. Personally, I wonder what Ms. Chung did to merit this attention.

While “TUD”‘s signs are not particularly clever and his repertoire doesn’t improve with repetition, there is nevertheless something to be learned from these billboards. Shame seems no longer to be shame unless it occurs publicly; the fictional vindictive wife in Armley’s narrative blasts her husband to pieces by exposing his frailties to the world. The storyline also implies that the husband feels no guilt unless his sins are open to the public. Furthermore, his conscience needs to be prodded by the presentation of photographic evidence. This story is in perfect keeping with our era; we are presently living in Bart Simpson world in which morality disappears in the quiet, and if caught, the first recourse is to say, “I didn’t do it. You didn’t see me do it. You can’t prove anything.”

Those with a more classical sense of right and wrong may believe that scruples are not dependent on scrutiny: they are there even when no one observes. I don’t speak out of any sense of moral superiority; I am just as much a sinner as anyone else, and I have done some things in my life of which I’m not proud. But the public exposure of my faults is not the only method to provoke my shame, it is the disgrace that comes from having done wrong and been wrong, to have indulged selfishness as opposed to remaining true to principle.

One of the most disturbing aspects of the Parliamentary expenses scandal was the fact that regret, reticence and repentance didn’t arise until the public’s gaze was fixed upon the MPs’ avarice. A refrain was often heard, “we followed the rules”; but adherence to guidelines is one thing, the morality of dipping into the public purse for say, the price of a duck house or even a lemon is quite another. The public reacted strongly to these allegations perhaps because the thought was, “Have they no shame?” Had they no idea that it is simply wrong to do such things, even if one can successfully get away with it?

But this lack of self-control in government may just reflect society’s present predispositions. Earlier this year, I took a weekend trip to Barcelona; there was a long bus ride back from Barcelona Sants train station to the aiport, and three Englishmen were the last to pile on prior to departure. They appeared to be genuinely the worse for wear: unshaven, unkempt, they looked like they hadn’t slept since prior to coming to Spain. One of them had crumpled banknotes in his hand to pay the bus fare and carried his passport in his teeth. There was a problem: the bus was full to bursting. The driver was reticent about taking them given that they would have to stand in the well next to the door. One of the Englishmen, in a sweat stained grey t-shirt, and red-faced from a combination of too much booze and sunshine, shouted in a slurred voice that he had to get back to his wife. I wondered what his other half would make of him; his friend lay down in the aisle and promptly fell into an alcohol induced sleep. Their weekend may or may not have been a dirty one, but it certainly was reckless. There were many tourists like them falling in and out of restaurants and bars on the streets of Barcelona, singing with voices that weren’t designed for the task and downing beer after beer until oblivion or obliviousness overtook them. The sole concern of those on the bus, however, was probably having to explain it all, not from having conducted themselves like drunken fools. True morality should kick in before the first pint glass is hoisted in anger or the initial stirrings of illicit flirtation begin to rustle or the introductory expense claim is filled out inaccurately. TUD’s works are effective only if there is someone out there who has to worry about having gone on a dirty golf weekend; the state of shame is so poor, in my opinion, that I even considered the possibility that the sign was a prelude for advertising. I reckoned that a travel company could use the following slogan, “For a weekend you’ll always remember and forever regret”, and then there would be packages for Ibiza or Malaga in the offing.

I assume that TUD will continue to push “foam pies into the face of the deserving” with other billboards in other parts of the country. I suspect the effect will be limited thanks to Google; the fakery is more than just a fact, it’s a known fact. Nevertheless, the ugly truths that TUD cackhandedly exposes remain. As I write this, a husband somewhere is perhaps perusing Ryanair and plotting a weekend flight from responsibility to Spain. An MP perhaps is looking at a spreadsheet and may be considering what to put on expenses. The businessman may be pricing up his company’s products and wondering what extortionate margin may be added. The stay at home wife may look longingly at a neighbour and feel the slight ache of desire, its indulgence offering temporary liberation from the humdrum. Shame should kick in, bring back thoughts of others: the spouse who would be disappointed, the customers who would be ripped off and had the misery of difficult times intensified, the constituents who would be appalled. What’s worrisome is the frequency with which this consideration is likely to be engaged, if at all; it’s a sign of the times.

See larger image Mormons [DVD] [Region 1] [US Import] [NTSC] (DVD) New From: £10.91 In Stock Used from: £66.01 In Stock Release date July 17, 2007.

Last Saturday, PBS ran a documentary about the Mormons. Lasting in excess of 270 minutes, it detailed the history of the faith and its long struggle to fit in with the rest of America. One of the historians appearing on the programme remarked on how peculiar this epic may seem on the surface: after all, he stated, Mormons were exclusively white at the beginning and mainly Anglo-Saxon. Furthermore, Mormons tended to be hard working and community minded. Nevertheless, their history is one of being shifted onwards by communities and states which rejected them until they landed in Utah.

I don’t share the Mormon faith; personally, I think it’s wildly ahistorical to suggest that Jesus Christ ever set foot in America. However, we all go through life believing in things which are difficult to prove or are in fact absolute fiction: if you’re an athiest, you may want to reach into your wallet at this point and look at what banknotes you possess. The fiction you believe in is inscribed on the money: the central bank issuing the pounds or dollars promises to pay the bearer on demand a particular sum. But a particular sum of what? Actually, it’s nothing: the only value it has lay in belief. Our society simply couldn’t function without items like this, i.e. that which cannot be proven or fulfilled.

Even so, Joseph Smith struck me as an odd sort of prophet. For example, upon arriving with his flock in Nauvoo, Illinois, he apparently more or less established a Mormon government. He took it upon himself to become a general and even ran for President. To an outside observer, this doesn’t look like St. Paul’s dictum which suggests “Not me, but Christ in me be magnified”. But then again, Constantine the Great and the Byzantine Emperors which followed him tried to associate themselves with the Apostles, and Islam’s early years were punctuated by a crisis of authority, so perhaps such an interweaving between political and religious power is not all that far-fetched. It’s not appropriate, however, in a nation that prides itself on separation of church and state; deviating from this deeply held principle earned Smith and the Mormons the opprobrium of their neighbours.

Also, I found the whole business of being a Mormon missionary rather disquieting; the documentary showed two very earnest young men speaking to people on the streets of an unidentified city. There was nothing particularly nasty about it, it was just intrusive; the rhythms of the city and its inhabitants turned staccato as they interrupted. The young men were polite and respectful, but they possessed a certitude which was unnerving. Faith in many respects is a personal journey; surely the Almighty possesses the ability to speak to us all on an individual level? Was it really necessary to go up to random individuals and talk at them? I can recall occasions when I’ve been walking along a similar city street, my thoughts weaving together into a story or a poem and then having the delicate fabric torn asunder by such intrusions. Yes, I love God, but among the gifts he granted was my ability to think: surely I praise Him better by doing that rather than fending off his supposed messengers.

Beyond this, an interview with the South African born artist Trevor Southey was disturbing. You cannot be homosexual and Mormon, and Southey did his best not to be the former so he could continue to be the latter. He married and had children. This was not a sustainable situation; he eventually divorced and his wife had him excommunicated. The pain in Southey’s eyes was evident as he stated that he wanted a religion that was going to accept him as he was constituted, be that as it may outside Mormon norms.

I didn’t care for Mormon excommunication. The documentary explained how deviation from doctrine basically slammed shut the door of heaven on a number of scholars; what struck me as particularly odd was an interview with one researcher who said that the people excommunicating her shook her hand afterwards.

Finally, I was upset by the historical racism in Mormon doctrine. Up until 1978, people of colour were not entitled to receive the Priesthood in the Mormon faith. The change in policy seems to have come rather late in the day.

After I switched off the television, I couldn’t help but think of Mitt Romney. I don’t think it would be useful or even particularly American to question his religion; however, as we’ve discovered, the interests, character and morals of the President do inform his decision making. Bush believed in his own righteousness, and that God was his co-pilot. We have seen the results of his being too certain: violence, death, destruction, destitution. President Obama has been quieter and has been much more willing to embrace doubt: as his position on marriage equality has shown, his thinking evolves rather than is set in stone. If Bush carried the sword of the crusader, President Obama walks alongside the Apostle Thomas, who first questioned the Resurrection, and indeed refused to believe it until he saw Christ’s wounds. For example, I understand that President Obama wasn’t keen on the slogan “Yes, we can” at first; this may have been due to the simplicity of this message being incongruous with a complex world. But just perhaps Thomas was tugging at his elbow. Does Romney want to emulate the example of this less celebrated apostle or does he adorn the general’s uniform and the unabashed certainty of Joseph Smith?

Certainly, Mitt Romney’s positions have changed over time, but these shifts seem more to do with securing advantage rather than an exploration of Thomasian doubts. But we want a Thomas in the office, the one who is sceptical at first glance, checks his facts, but once he is secure in knowledge, carries on to quiet achievement. Thomas is reputed to have covered a greater area than any other apostle, including Syria, Persia and India; he was the only one to preach outside the Roman Empire. In 52 AD, he landed in what today is Kerala, South India and established “Seven and a Half” churches. Even there, Thomas remained doubtful: according to a 3rd century scripture called “The Acts of Thomas”, Christ commanded him in a dream to take his mission to two kings in India, one in the north, the other in the south. Thomas refused and God had to arrange circumstances by which he fulfilled his charge, gathering many converts in the process. Yet Thomas barely gets a look in at any Sunday School; the Syriac “Acts of Thomas” are not part of accepted scripture in most Christian churches. Not for him high praise or grandeur, just the occasional work of art and some quiet rememberance. Who would want to follow Thomas? Who in the pursuit of high office and the exaltation of self that implies would want to emulate his example? Who wants to suggest that doubt is a virtue, and that being too certain implies fatal hubris? In both America and on this side of the Atlantic, we are plagued with people in leadership positions who tell us that there is no alternative and that it’s their way or the highway. But one can follow Thomas and sail in a different direction, remain with faith and yet sit alongside doubt. This embrace of uncertainty could be called prudent in a world that seems more full of data than it is imbued with wisdom. It may or may not sit well alongisde Romney’s Mormonism; quite frankly, I’m not sure.

The first episode of Michael Palin’s “Ripping Yarns” began with a quote from G. K. Chesterton: “The follies of men’s youth are in retrospect glorious compared to the follies of old age.” I didn’t expect to think of this when I bought my tickets to see “American Pie: Reunion”. I thought I’d get a dose of comedy and it would be ridiculous and awkward. I also had the passing fear that it would be an absolute stinker. After all, I thought, it could be a teenage comedy that lacked teenagers. But a statement about youth and old age and the follies that befall both? That seemed unlikely.

I’d seen the original film, I hadn’t seen the intervening ones. I had heard the basics about the plot of the sequels: essentially the awkward teenager of the first film, Jim (Jason Biggs) married the girl who took his virginity, Michelle (Alyson Hannigan). I presumed some talk of an orgiastic Band Camp, the ravishing of baked goods and the character Stiffler (Seann William Scott) acting like a presumptuous fool were consistent themes throughout the series. I probably would have left it at that; my other half persuaded me that this latest offering was worth a look.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked by how much the actors have aged; with the exception of Jason Biggs, these formerly teen stars have very visibly matured. For example, I almost didn’t recognise Mena Suvari, who returns as Heather; I had to look at her several times to be sure it was the same actress. In line with the actors ageing, their characters have also picked up adult responsibilities: Jim and Michelle have a 2 year old son. Kevin (Thomas Ian Nicholas) is a stay-at-home architect. Oz (Chris Klein) works as a successful sportscaster, albeit his career is interspersed with an embarrassing episode on a celebrity dance competition. Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas) is still sophisticated if somewhat mysterious, but his years have caught up with his persona. Their problems have matured as well: for example, Jim and Michelle have difficulty keeping the spark in their marriage, Jim seeks solace from the internet. Only Stiffler still firmly holds onto the follies of youth: while he works merely as a dogsbody in the office of an investment firm, he still is as sexist, inebriated and crude as he was in 1999.

The real star of the film, however, may be the irrepressible and ageless Eugene Levy, who returns to play Jim’s dad, Noah. He continues as both a source of advice and far too much information. In this episode, Noah has been a widower for three years. Yet, he is reluctant to return to the dating game.

A high school reunion provides the context for all these characters to meet again. Almost as soon as Jim unloads the car in front of his childhood home, he is reminded of the pleasures to be had in youthful follies: his young neighbour Kara (Ali Cobrin), whom he babysat when he was a teenager, has turned into a voluptuous young woman who evidently desires him. Stiffler tempts his friends with endless shots of hard liquor and engages in pranks more suited to someone half his age. Oz finds his teenage love for Heather still smoulders in his heart and ponders the mistakes he’s made, in particular, dating a hedonistic model. Finch shows up on a motorcycle, presenting himself as far more daring than his prosaic reality would suggest. Yet they are adults now, and apart from Stiffler, they have accepted this as part of life’s natural progression: they realise the blossom of their youth has faded, and this only becomes more evident when they see teenagers at the same places to which they used to go. There is a wistfulness in their discovery that their horizons have narrowed; there is even comedic value. For example, Jim, as a responsible adult, tries to get a very drunk Kara back to her home and family; in the process she gets in every manner of position to incriminate him despite his complete and often baffled innocence. Nevertheless, all these characters apart from Stiffler have grown: Stiffler’s stunted development is shown to be a road to nowhere. It is perhaps this aspect, most of all, that makes the film work. If the original was all about the humour inherent in the awkwardness of growing up, this one refuses to keep drawing its laughs from the same source.

Additionally, credit can be given to Eugene Levy’s portion of the film; his character could use more than a bit of folly, a rush of fresh air in a life which is shown to have become musty and stale. He finds it in getting his eyebrows plucked (a scene which is comedy gold), trying on a variety of unsuccessful outfits, getting wildly drunk and acquiring a surprising new girlfriend.

This film doesn’t succeed on every level; Michelle’s outrage at Jim’s antics seems overblown, especially since she’s known since 1999 that he’s a well meaning if accident prone goofball. Less is perhaps made of the fact that Jim is a father than could have been done; his little boy mimicking some of his behaviours and words was perhaps a missed comic opportunity. The teenagers are uniformly attractive, as if they’d walked out of lingerie and sportswear catalogues: the main characters remark that the young women are “sluttier” than they used to be, perhaps a nod to the fact that the original film presented adolescents as not necessarily being at all attractive. Too much effort may have been made in including all the characters from the original: for example, this film bothered to include two minor ones (two boys who repeatedly shouted “MILF” at a portrait of Stiffler’s mother) which I’d completely forgotten. I didn’t need to know that the pages of Jim’s teenage pornographic magazine collection were stuck together. A cameo by the still extremely alluring Rebecca de Mornay was much too contrived and obvious. Michelle and Jim’s reconciliation in a high school band room was as silly as much as it was touching.

Nevertheless, I liked this film; I enjoyed it much more than the first in the series. Whereas I had to put my hand over my eyes at times while watching the original, in this instance, I laughed far more than I cringed. I cheered on Eugene Levy’s Noah, I wanted Jim and Michelle to find a way forward; I wanted a happy ending, in a figurative sense, for them all. Unexpectedly, given the story’s roots in an unrestrained portrayal of adolescence, the films have grown up; I suggest that by abandoning the follies of youth, and showing the joys, irritations, happiness and sorrows of maturity, they’ve become much better.

See larger image The Iron Lady - Double Play (Blu-ray + DVD) (Blu-ray) Director: Phyllida Lloyd Starring: Meryl Streep, Jim Broadbent, Olivia Colman, Alexandra Roach, Anthony Head Rating: Suitable for 12 years and over List Price: £24.99 GBP New From: £7.74 In Stock Used from: £5.99 In Stock Release date April 30, 2012.

Generally speaking, I only write reviews for films and books which I’ve enjoyed. Part of it comes from being a writer: I’m loathe to criticise others’ artistic endeavours given that I work so hard on my own. The other reason is that it’s all too easy to succumb to the pleasures of writing negatively: there is a cathartic effect associated with venting one’s spleen. Praise without delving into sycophancy is a fine art, and difficult to master; it’s more of a challenge.

However, I will have to make an exception in the case of “The Iron Lady”, as it’s a film that is perceived to be exceptional, and indeed bears the laurel of Meryl Streep’s Academy Award, yet is barely touching mediocre. In this instance, it’s justified to take a feather duster and swipe away the cobwebs of spin and marketing.

When I bought this Blu-ray, I was under the impression that I was going to get something like a definitive portrait of Lady Thatcher. I didn’t expect fidelity to every last factual detail, however, I believed that a well made film could distill her essence in a way that a history book simply couldn’t. I thought that through carefully crafted scenes, the audience would gain a new perspective on what drove her, what made her so lacking in empathy and so unrelentingly ambitious. She did change the face of Britain: here in the North, it’s relatively easy to find the broken pieces of once mighty industry, the edifices shattered by the policies that her government pursued. I don’t have to drive far to find abandoned coal pits, and communities still lingering in a blighted afterlife in which people are pushed to get off benefit and work, but don’t have any work to do. These consequences were widely foreseen; why did she do what she did? What drove her? What made it impossible for her to relent? Who is she?

The film only achieves something near an explanation in two places: first, we are shown an episode in young Margaret’s life while she and her family are hiding from German bombs. As they cower in an improvised shelter, her father asks if the butter has been covered; as he’s a shopkeeper, this is more than an idle query. Young Margaret rushes back into the house, defying the blitz in progress, to ensure that the butter is protected. Her father’s extreme parsimony and her fear of paternal disappointment evidently being stronger than her concern about meeting death are telling clues.

The second time in which fidelity to her character is achieved is while the aged, senile Lady Thatcher is receiving a medical exam. The doctor asks her how she feels. She responds with a blistering soliloquy about the modern emphasis on feelings and her lack of interest in such things. Rather, she states, she is much more intrigued by what people think. At that moment, I thought Ms. Streep had earned her Academy Award: her performance rang absolutely true.

The rest of the film, however, is a disappointment. As the makers say in the Special Features portion of the disc, they tried to stay away from political statements apart from a comment on the indignities of old age. Lady Thatcher is shown as a shrivelled, doddery old woman who isn’t at all recognisable on the streets, nor when she shops for a pint of milk and a copy of the Times. This is difficult to believe, as she remains one of the most photographed women ever to have lived. To be sure, the elderly are less visible, but that much?

Worse, the narrative takes place in the context of her dementia: memories are triggered by, say, the presence of a statuette of soldiers sitting on an end table. Perceiving this causes her to re-live the entire Falklands War, or rather, just a precis. The reminisces come as a near-incoherent flood, at best there is a procession, but little cause and effect. We are told the facts, but one of the most involving forms of narration is not to tell, but show. It would have been better, for example, for Mrs. Thatcher to have seen the poll tax rioters on television, and to be gripped by a moment of visible doubt, then right herself. No words need have been said, but it would have been a much more powerful representation of her character: it would have revealed something that is not shown in this film, an altogether human inconsistency. Without such qualities, we have no real thread of continuity from the shy, quite vulnerable young Margaret, to the steely mature one.

Jim Broadbent, a fine actor, is wasted. The Denis Thatcher of this film is almost a cardboard cutout of the man, precisely what he was portrayed as by the press: an amiable, if somewhat inebriated, fellow who had a touch of the buffoon about him. For example, after the bomb in Brighton goes off, he is, rather oddly, left holding his shoes. Surely there must have been more to him than this comic figure in order to appeal to someone of Lady Thatcher’s intellect and ambition; I recall reading in one of her books that she said of him, “What a man.” An elaboration of what brought on such an admiring phrase would have been apropos. Or was this statement a sop to someone weak and pliable? The film doesn’t say. Rather, we have a few cliched images of Young Denis and Young Margaret holding hands as they attend a performance of “The King and I” and the opera. When Denis proposes, young Margaret rather oddly and uncharacteristically bursts into tears.

The overall effect of the film is disappointingly paltry: it is like having cinema popcorn as a meal. There is a crunch, a flavour, but the substance is little more than air. In the special features, the makers of the film confess that Lady Thatcher is difficult to know, and hence Denis is there as the only person who truly understands her, even though the film is set after his death. But without understanding her, then it’s difficult to see how Denis’ place in her life could be accurately portrayed; Denis can’t act as a catalyst, he is far too inert. Now, the shades of night are falling on Lady Thatcher’s memory and she is receding into the shadows. I had hoped that “The Iron Lady” would cast some light on someone so consequential to our present time; I also hoped that it might show she failed in many instances by her own yardstick, e.g., I don’t believe she wanted people to get themselves deep into debt due to consumerism – this didn’t happen. More the pity: given this failure, we may never truly understand her, and thus the events whose repercussions are still all too felt in the present will also remain something of a mystery.

The Queen’s Speech was long on pomp, short on circumstance. I’ve listened to a fair few of them since I arrived in Britain over 20 years ago, but I don’t recall one quite like this. The Queen is a consummate professional, and she usually reads out these speeches without any trace of emotion. Her words are deliberate, her tone is steady. However, this year I thought I heard a difference: it sounded to me as if she was bored. The programme she outlined was singularly unambitious: we’ll attend to the economy, it stated. Well, given that this is at the forefront of everyone’s mind, this item was no particular surprise. It said, we’ll do House of Lords reform, if we can: meaning, if the Coalition partners and Labour can stop bickering over it. We’ll improve the lives of children: and here I was thinking that they would publically state they’d take away their pocket money and teddy bears. We’ll reform the banks: hopefully, but given how hand in glove the Conservatives have been with financiers and how in thrall to money they remain, good luck with that. Apart from this, it was small ball, small beer, a shrunken, shrivelled agenda which will achieve, at best, incremental change.

Indeed it was so unambitious that crucially important items were put into “draft bills”, which mean they are “incomplete proposals to be finalised later”: among these were pressing issues like care for the elderly and regulation of the water industry. Given that people are being reduced to penury in order to maintain their well being in their dotage and that the water companies are so feckless that they want to maintain a hosepipe ban after the wettest April in many years, you would think that a bit of urgent action was required. However, this government can’t even bring itself to enshrine in law its commitment to giving .7% of GDP to the poorest countries; it says it will do it in practice, as Caroline Spelman, the Environment Secretary, was at pains to point out on Radio 4′s PM Programme yesterday, but there is an altogether Prufrockian standard being upheld by its inability to set the matter in stone. After all, “in a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

Taken as a whole, the Queen’s Speech was a series of clichés mixed with platitudes, a soporific to the sensibilities of an intelligent electorate; after 60 years on the throne and having dealt with the likes of Winston Churchill, Clement Attlee and Harold Wilson, it was no wonder that Her Majesty was unenthusiastic. Her current ministers, in contrast to Ernest Bevin, Roy Jenkins and Harold Macmillan are a singularly uninspiring bunch: they cower before television cameras rather than stand in defiance of what might be said about them. Manny Shinwell, the famous Labour Minister of Fuel and Power responsible for nationalising the coal industry, once challenged his critics to come down to the mines and help dig; it’s difficult to imagine anyone other than Vince Cable throwing down the gauntlet with such flair. The men in government now are altogether smaller, greyer and worse, they preen.

Nevertheless, one can take some satisfaction from this situation. Look at Greece: their politicians are long on charisma and rhetoric about smashing the banks, smashing the ruling class, crushing, breaking, changing, ripping up. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of renegotiation, they say. However, the result is near anarchy and a credit rating that wouldn’t merit a loan from Wonga.com. Perhaps in an era that’s all too exciting in many respects, being dull and uninspiring is a better option. We may grumble, we may stand in the thin drizzle of disappointment underneath the grey skies of cynicism, but at least we know where we are. There is little room to be disappointed: no one has promised utopia or even a pleasant suburb within commuting distance. Cameron has even begun to parrot Gordon Brown’s phrase from the darkest days of the recession: he said he was taking “tough long term decisions”; shortly after uttering this, the stench of political death followed Brown right into an election night rout. Maybe the biggest glimmer of genuine hope is that a similar fate will befall his Tory successor. Maybe we should just accept that the hour of talent has passed, and that we are in an “X Factor” world, one in which the public chooses the least mediocre among mediocrities.

Or maybe not. If the Queen’s Speech was a profile in timidity, yesterday, President Obama provided starkly contrasting portrait of courage.

The President is taking a massive risk: it’s an election year, after all. In order to secure a second term, he needs to win states like Ohio and Florida, neither of which are necessarily liberal on social issues. In 2008, he won the state of North Carolina; North Carolina has now enshrined a ban on same-sex marriage in its constitution, a proposal that won in excess of 60% of the vote. We can now safely assume he has thrown away this state and its precious electoral tally.

Furthermore, saying anything positive about marriage equality pumps oxygen into the lungs of the conservative movement, which was moribund after a bruising Republican primary. It also sets the evangelical cauldrons to boil and steam and rage; the far right, which was hitherto unconvinced by Romney, will definitely be at the polls this November. Romney now has an issue which he can use to portray Obama as a radical. Any positive statement was incredibly risky, even dangerous; it was also unnecessary. He could have just have easily made soothing noises, said something about the time not being right, and yet maintained the support of his base. However, President Obama had considered the matter, come to a conclusion and took a stand. All hell has already broken loose on American talk radio and in the festering media citadel of Fox News: but Obama apparently decided, “This is right.” Rather than cower before his opponents, he has defied them. He has made himself an altogether more consequential figure because of his willingness to contend with adversity; if he rises above it, his greatness will be secured.

It is difficult to see David Cameron or Ed Miliband being quite so courageous. The bravery they excude is the kind that comes from having a position that is difficult to assail. Miliband may launch effective rhetoric bashing the government, but it is difficult to see what he would do differently: his own ministerial front bench often has problems backing strikes, despite the fact that it was the trade union movement which created the Labour Party in the first place. What would he face down to fix the deficit? Whose interests would he defy? Would he inflame a great opponent, dare them to take him on and then rise above them? I’m not sure; and the wavering of the polls over time suggest that the public isn’t sure either.

As for Cameron, he only faces down opponents that the public picks for him. The public is worried about the deficit; he’ll fix that. Prior to the deficit being an issue, he was “sharing the proceeds of growth”. Does the public want crime to be tackled? Yes, he’ll do that too. Cameron can always be seen leading the charge from the back, and if he’s accused of aimlessness and drift, he’ll blame his coalition partners, as he did in the Daily Mail yesterday, for his timidity. In the meantime, the drizzle of disappointment continues to fall, the country stagnates, progress becomes a word for yesteryear.

We should not accept this. Even in the era of 24 hour news and relentless media coverage and Twitter spewing forth opinions (both informed and otherwise) in a flood, President Obama proves one can be a rock standing tall and proud against the tide. Perhaps if he’s successful, his profile in courage will be accepted as an example to others. Perhaps the circle will turn, and the hour of the inspired will arrive once more.

The Left had much to celebrate over the long weekend: not only was the Conservative Party routed in Britain’s local elections, the triumph of Hollande over Sarkozy in France and the success of socialist and social democratic parties in Greece and Schleswig Holstein suggest that the political tide is turning red. Austerity has been discredited; Hollande has promised to provide hope to all of Europe. Perhaps this political change may lead to genuine change. It is a precious moment, one in which optimism is in the ascendant.

Or is it? I have my doubts; hitherto, where the Left has been in charge, as in Spain, it was booted. Where the right has been in charge, it too has been kicked out, or in the case of the Netherlands, it collapsed in on itself. Hollande’s anti-austerity policies certainly have their attractions, but at the same time, Sarkozy’s inability to do much was probably the main reason he was dispatched. If looked at from this perspective, what is going on looks more like a reaction rather than a genuine shift. The economy throughout Europe is in terrible shape. Unemployment is rife, the politicians seem unable to prescribe any medicine other than astringents, and these cures don’t appear to be working. If one doctor is unable to cure a disease, then it’s natural to turn to another in the hopes that a different course of treatment might achieve something. This is the logic that lay behind the most politically dangerous in period in world history, the 1930′s. In 1928, the Nazi party received less than 3% of the vote. Yet less than 5 years later, the Nazis were in power: there were twists and turns in this journey, but the main motif was that the Social Democrats lacked the ability and the will to sort Germany’s problems. Hitler was a quack, his diagnosis of what ailed Germany was racist nonsense, but people pushed to the edge were more willing to fall off it than to remain where they were. At least dictatorship shielded the German people from having to contemplate messy and complicated truths, let alone deal with them.

We would like to think we’ve learned lessons from history. However, Greece is a case study in how little we remember. Greece shouldn’t be at all susceptible to the charms of any neo-Nazi group: their country was first attacked by the Fascist Italians in October 1940 and subsequently invaded by the Germans in April 1941. It was then occupied by Italy, Germany and Bulgaria. Over 300,000 people in Athens alone starved due to the Axis occupation. Yet, the neo-Nazi Golden Dawn group, whose flags and symbols have an eerie Third Reich feel to them, scored over 7% of the vote in the Greek election and now have 21 MPs. Disturbingly, the contempt that this group has for a free press has already been on display; after the election, their skinhead acolytes demanded that journalists stand at attention for their party leaders prior to a press conference.

Furthermore, Golden Dawn have already talked about putting immigrants into work camps as well as placing landmines on the Turkish border. Their programme is extreme. From the outside, it appears to be mad. However, they learned much from their German predecessors: in a seemingly fatal situation, they provide hope, welfare and defiance. The rich inheritance of Greek history has fallen away, at least for some. Similar impulses lay behind the third place showing for Marine Le Pen in the French Presidential election: give us something, anything, just no more of what is now. Bring back our jobs, our homes and our pride, the electorate say: the pragmatic politicians are reluctant to state with certainty that they can, the unrealistic madmen promise the heavens above. Human beings are more than capable of self-delusion and many succumb. But nevertheless, the hard realities of economic crisis remain, and tearing them asunder means either default or violence. Since the financiers will not countenance the former, the latter may be the result.

I cannot help but recall William Butler Yeats’ prescient words in his poem, “The Second Coming” -

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

And -

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Yeats was writing just after the end of the First World War, a conflict which was referred to as “The Great War” and “The War to End all Wars”. This summation was premature; nevertheless, we thought we had learned something from the horror and bloodshed, which left so many empty chairs at family tables and new graves filled with the bones of the fallen young. Yet a mere 20 years after Yeats set his pen to paper, an even more horrific conflict took place. Human history seems to be forever slouching towards Bethlehem: the rough beasts, thanks to man’s capacity for invention, are ever more horrific on delivery. Crisis is the means of conception; we seem unable to provide a “morning after pill”. Reason has difficulty in triumphing over emotion; we have problems discerning what really ails us and curing the illness.

Something has to give. In the case of Greece, what needs to be done is relatively simple: we need to acknowledge that there is no freedom without the truth, and the truth is Greece needs get out of the Euro, devalue and default. Yes, this won’t be pleasant, but at least this programme provides a direction, rather than continuance in a painful stasis. In the case of France, again, the truth must again be told: if austerity goes too far, too fast, the economy will be crushed and bond traders won’t get paid any returns whatsoever. The bond traders too must realise that any investment involves risk, and that there is no way to guarantee that every cent they put in will be repaid in full. Hence, it’s time for the markets to be told firmly to back off and have policies implemented to that end. In the case of the Euro, it’s necessary to provide a means of escape as well as a mechanism to join. This is all straightforward. However, paranoia about what may happen and the current “pragmatism” about markets and creditors means that this is unlikely to occur: things will continue until they cannot. We are seeing the point of “cannot” in Greece; yet only more pressure is being applied. The Germans, a heavily indebted nation after World War I, of all people, should know where this leads: but they too forget, and don’t want to recognise that what was once unleashed in themselves could be set loose in others.

My understanding is that while Greece still reels from instability, at least the French are basking in their moment of defiance. Crowds apparently poured out onto the steets of Paris after Hollande’s triumph and celebrated. Maybe their optimism is justified; maybe when Hollande meets with Merkel, he will convince her that it is time to change course. Perhaps Greece will be allowed to exit the Euro and thus escape immediate danger, via structured and carefully crafted means. Maybe for once, we will consult the dusty pages of history and heed the wisdom that lay therein. The slouch towards Bethlehem is a choice, not pre-ordained: the rough beasts conceived out of human greed and mendacity need not be born.

As the final results of the 2012 local election were tallied and reported, London was the place to be. I hadn’t planned nor scheduled it this way: it was a mysterious happenstance that meant that just before Boris Johnson’s re-election as Mayor was confirmed, I was making my way back to my hotel in the shadow of the Tower of London. I was arm in arm with my other half; we proceeded slowly, burdened by fatigue from a long journey and devouring a tastily carnivorous if overpriced meal at an American barbeque restaurant. The loving marriage between American Samuel Adams lager and a pint glass perhaps hadn’t helped matters. Sleep had entered my eyes, the compelling gravity inviting me to shut out the world. Everything seemed to be beckoning me to get to my hotel room as quickly as possible, and lay my head down on the crisp white pillows.

We passed by 10 Trinity Square just as a distant clock struck a quarter to midnight: with tall Corinthian columns and a massive bare breasted statue carrying a ship’s wheel which represents maritime commerce, it’s a deeply impressive structure. I found out later that it was the headquarters of the Port of London Authority. It was also the site for the inaugural meeting of the United Nations; it looked like a citadel of global power.

Further along Trinity Square, there was a more modest structure; part of it was in brick, the other in stone: the legend on its sign read “Trinity House”. I knew from my old book of flags that it had been issued its own standard at one point in its history. Its banner wasn’t flying that night, but nevertheless, the building too spoke of importance: The Corporation of Trinity House still has responsibility for lighthouses and provides expert navigation for ships in Northern European waters.

Grand, imposing, historic. However, as we crossed the street on our way back to the hotel, a stench arose, possibly from one of the storm grates. My other half let out a small exclamation of surprise and disgust. We were glad to get past it: it was as if the city itself had terrible flatulence. Not long after, the Mayoral election results were announced and Johnson gave his victory speech. It would be tempting to find a cosmic alignment in these two events, but nevertheless it is just a coincidence. It is less of a stretch to say that something is wrong: yes, London is a big city and a great city. In one day, I went from Bradford to Leeds: the latter has more modern buildings and developments than the former. Then I went from Leeds to London, and the two are worlds apart. London heaves, bustles and there are more opportunities there than in most parts of Britain. Yet it also constantly seems on the edge of bursting, as if it is a balloon with air molecules colliding at an ever faster rate underneath its placid surface. At some point, it’s reasonable to assume that the thin membrane of order must burst.

There are many points which could give way. London’s transport and sewage systems were initially designed and built by 19th century engineers like Joseph Bazalgette. Bazalgette was a genius, but how could foresee the demands of the future, e.g., the home with 2 bathrooms or more, power showers, people dumping moldy takeaway curries down the loo? As of today, the London is home to nearly 8 million people; include the metro area and the numbers rise to 13.8 million. The Olympics will bring hundreds of thousands more to the city: posters on the Underground warn about changes to travel patterns and one poster (humorously, I think) suggested that pole vaulting might be an alternative means of getting around the city. This speaks of a system under enormous strain.

It could be that poverty makes the bubble burst. Last night, my other half and I passed a homeless woman outside Waterloo station. She wore a hoodie, or rather, the remnants of one, and sat on a collection of plastic bags as sort of a mat. She had a pit bull with her, either as just a companion or also for the purposes of personal protection. A light rain was falling; not a pleasant spring shower, but a cold, almost autumnal drizzle. She had gotten to the point where she was barely asking anyone for change; if she did, I didn’t hear her. Beside her was a placard for the Evening Standard, which read “Boris Heads for Victory”.

Generally speaking, I’m reluctant to give money directly to the destitute. Charities, yes, the vendors of “The Big Issue”, absolutely, a food bank run by the church, certainly – but directly to someone on the streets, no. My other half works for a food bank, and personnel there are advised not to give cash, as it may exacerbate people’s problems. Nevertheless, my other half gave her £10. The young woman receiving the cash didn’t say “Thank you” or greedily snatch it up: she looked up with deep, sad eyes. The bags underneath were red; she looked as if she hadn’t slept in a very long while: rather than take the money, she replied with a weak “Are you sure?” My girlfriend insisted, and shed a few tears as we headed off. After all, we had a warm bed and crisp white sheets ahead of us; all that young woman had was the rain and the cold, with her dog as perhaps her only solace.

Because I visit London infrequently, changes are very noticeable to me: for example, passing through the newly refurbished Blackfriars station was probably more of a surprise to me than for people who live in the city. What I noticed most of all, however, was the substantial increase in the numbers of homeless. Again at Waterloo station, I saw an enormous man in a tan jacket dragging two shopping trollies: he was conversing with two sellers of the Big Issue, asking how he could become a vendor. It seemed an unlikely job application: the stench of cheap alcohol from him was overpowering, his words were slurred and disjointed, he wobbled on his feet rather than stood his ground. To make matters more complicated, he was blind. Not too far from there, polished Rolls Royce and Maserati cars are parked serenely near Old Bond Street: surely the tension inherent in this paradox is not sustainable?

Of course, London has shrugged off disaster before. It endured the Great Fire of 1666, German bombs and terrorist attacks; perhaps this teetering on the edge is always going to be part of its character. But there are bad times and better times; I remember when I first moved to London in the late 1980’s. While the Underground was still as ropey, the city felt safer, less tense and less intense. I could be out very late and not feel worried at all. This is not the London of now: perhaps instead of being a world apart from cities like Leeds or my home town of Bradford, it can be called a distillation. London has concentrated most of Britain’s problems into one crucible: inequality, poverty, despair, crumbling infrastructure and leaders which cross the border from ridiculous to dangerous. In his victory speech, while parts of London reeled due to the city’s flatulence, Johnson said to his constituents, “May the Fourth be with you.” It was actually May the fifth by the time he said it. In the shadow of the Tower of London, in times like these, buffoonery is unhelpful. It may be all that we can expect.

Last weekend’s edition of the Financial Times led with three articles about Spain. They catalogued nothing but misery: a quarter of Spaniards are unemployed, the country’s financial position is worsening, Spain’s bonds have been downgraded by two notches, Spain is crying out for help, seemingly into a void. The FT’s attention is justified; Spain is important, Spain matters. If Spain falls prey to the markets, it could take the entire Euro system with it. It’s clear there are not enough reserves, not in Germany, not in the entire solvent portion of the European Union, to save them. A Spanish collapse could lead to a renewed global downturn.

Given this turmoil, it may seem strange that Spain was once viewed as a land of hope and opportunity: the Francoist past had been airbrushed out of recent memory, Spain was a cheap place for British people to retire or merely have a good holiday. Spanish art, design, cuisine were all in vogue. Woody Allen descended upon Barcelona just prior to the advent of the financial crisis in order to make his romantic comedy “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”, starring the versatile Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson. While the relationships in that film were tinged with sadness, regret and even violence, Barcelona itself was painted in warm colours, touched by golden sunlight. It seemed a perfect place for artists and poets, where ridiculous but tragic love affairs could take place and inspiration take wing.

See larger image Vicky Cristina Barcelona [DVD] (DVD) Director: Woody Allen Starring: Penelope Cruz, Scarlet Johansson, Javier Bardem Rating: Suitable for 12 years and over List Price: £17.99 GBP New From: £2.93 In Stock Used from: £0.47 In Stock Release date June 22, 2009.

This Spain, or as the residents of Barcelona would prefer, this Catalonia, still exists. Go to El Jardi, an outdoor restaurant located in the garden of Antiguo Hospital de la Santa Creu. Sip an excellent glass of Estrella Damm beer, or even better a Moritz, brews which put the homogenous concoctions of mega breweries in America and Britain to shame. Order the chorizo, which will arrive nearly sizzling. A gentleman in a black shirt with a trimmed beard and moustache will be along in a little while, carrying a guitar. He’ll hail the restaurant staff as his “amics” and then will make his instrument sing sweetly as the late afternoon slowly fades into night.

The bonhomie infused into the atmosphere at El Jardi didn’t arrive by accident: it came after the city drowned in sorrows. It’s a deserved spot of sunshine following the torrential rain. Barcelona bears the hallmarks of a metropolis that rose high and subsequently crashed into the dust. Great buildings such as Palau Nacional, built for the 1929 International Exhibition, speak of times when Barcleona welcomed the world. The 1992 Olympics was another such occasion: the magnificent Olympic stadium still stands atop Montjuic, it is almost classical in its grandeur on a sunny day. Yet Barcelona has also been a battlefield: it was the last outpost of the Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War. It finally fell to the Nationalists in January 1939 after a bloody battle. I have seen spots of discoloured concrete on buildings along Las Ramblas and wondered if these were patched over bullet holes.

The people of Barcelona in 1992 and 2006 perhaps thought sorrow belonged to the past. After all, they had been fully admitted into the European family, war had been banished, prosperity had arrived. The city could celebrate luminaries like artist Joan Miro and cellist Pablo Casals without fear of being dragged back into the the darkness.

However, there is a second film of Barcelona, perhaps the best movie ever made, which provides a contrasting vision to Vicky Cristina Barcelona: it’s entitled “Biutiful”. It too stars Javier Bardem. The film describes a vastly different city. Indeed, the fact that it is Barcelona and not some dystopian vision is not immediately apparent. Bardem plays a street hustler named Uxbal, who works organising the production of cheap knock-off goods by illegal Chinese migrants and the sale of these items by just as illegal African immigrants. This Barcelona is a city of the dead and dying: Uxbal earns money on the side by conversing with the deceased on behalf of the bereaved, Uxbal himself is plagued by terminal prostate cancer and has very little time to sort affairs out for his two young children. Their mother is mentally unstable, his brother is an incompetent and uncaring petty criminal; he’s on his own. The best that Uxbal can do before he passes is entrust his children and the money he has to the wife of one of his African employees who is about to be deported. Life in this city is on the margins: the poor die unlamented, illegal immigrants are killed in tragic accidents, their bodies are dumped at sea and wash up on a beach, the Africans run in terror from the police.

See larger image Biutiful [DVD] (DVD) Director: Alejandro Gonz�lez I��rritu Starring: Javier Bardem, Maricel �lvarez, Hanaa Bouchaib, Guillermo Estrella Rating: Suitable for 15 years and over List Price: £17.99 GBP New From: £5.24 In Stock Used from: £2.90 In Stock Release date May 16, 2011.

The truth of this film is evident even to the passing tourist. Take a train from Vila Seca to Barcelona: African men carrying faded and beaten up rucksacks or wares covered in black bin liners will get on board and later leave at the tourist spot of Tarragona, intending to hawk their wares. They have come from all over sub-Saharan Africa; I heard one group break into the occasional English phrase like “Not bad, not bad at all”. Others mixed French into their patois.

As “Biutiful” suggests, the Chinese are in Barcelona too: not far from Gaudi’s architectural masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia, is a small restaurant. The decor is dated: red linoleum floors predominate, but the establishment is pristine in its cleanliness. There, I had a coffee, served by a Chinese man. His little daughter, with big bright eyes and pigtails, sat at a corner table, drank orange juice out of a box container and watched cartoons on the restaurant’s television. The establishment was nearly empty. The only other patrons besides myself, my other half and the proprietor’s daughter was an old man in a navy blue beret who leafed slowly through his newspaper, and a young woman who came in and ordered a glass of San Miguel. I wanted to ask the owner if he was disappointed with the choice he had made by coming to Barcelona. Were all the sacrifices he made in order to set up in a new land in vain? China has a future, Spain had a glorious past and an almost future. Now the proprietor was stuck with a good establishment amidst the tattered remnants of an economy.

After I left and walked hand in hand with my other half, it occurred to me that the damage created by real bombs is relatively straightforward to manage: we can see the blasted out buildings, discern the rubble strewn in our path. Once the guns fall silent and the airplanes stop flying overhead, regardless of who brings peace, tranquility does return and there is a chance to sweep up the mess. Barcelona is psychologically better equipped to do this than many cities; the Gran Teatre del Liceu is symbolic of its capacity to rise from the ashes. The theatre burned down in 1861, was damaged by bombs in 1893, and burned down yet again in 1994. Yet parts of the old facade remain, and the gilded letters “Teatre del Liceu” still tower over Las Ramblas with gravitas; this older portion is buttressed by a modern building. Its life and its place in Barcelona’s life goes on.

The damage caused by an economic detonation is far more subtle and much more complicated to clean up. While El Jardi is full of tourists, not far from there are stores going into final liquidation, screaming out in black letters on flourescent yellow signs that every last bit of stock must be sold. A man sleeps on a bit of grass at the harbour end of Las Ramblas: his Levis and brown jacket hint at former prosperity, the holes in both garments and his leathery skin indicate his good fortune’s passing. His face is turned towards the direction pointed to by the statue of Columbus, out to sea. Switch on the television back at the hotel: the queue of unemployed cover their faces as the news cameras film them going into the welfare office. Projects outside Barcelona appear to be abandoned: the station at Vila Seca bears a sign promising redevelopment by the Ministry of Transport, however, the concrete on the platform is broken, unfinished, guarded by a temporary steel fence that looks all too permanent. Graffiti, a scream of protest in paint, is everywhere in Catalonia: two young men assault the walls of Vila Seca’s railway yard with spray cans and are entirely unmolested and unchallenged. In Barcelona itself, the iron shutters which protect stores are also marked: virtually everywhere has at least some squiggle, line or scrawl. The metal sheds outside Barcelona Sants train station bear legends calling for revolution with the crossed out A for anarchy. So much for the gilded dreams of 1992′s “beautiful horizon” or the artistic meanderings of Vicky Cristina: the Barcelona of “Biutiful” seems to be chewing the rest of city up, bit by agonising bit. It is a template for disappointment, despair and perhaps even violence. Spain and Catalonia cry out, Barcelona bleeds, but because the wounds rarely are as striking as the image of a once prosperous man sleeping incongruously on a tiny patch of grass, it is ignored, consigned to warnings on the financial pages.

I repeat: Spain is important, Spain matters. Catalonia’s hour is close to midnight, it proceeds through time rather like Bardem’s Uxbal makes his way through the streets of Barcelona: it survives as best and as long as it can, having a few moments of joy, but finding life for the most part remorselessly bleak. Hearts may be moved to pity; however, it is worth remembering that not long after the Spanish Civil War ended, World War II began. As it was then, Spain now may be a preview of our own future: the sorrows of Catalonia are not necessarily confined to there alone.

Outrage, but no surprise. Jeremy Hunt’s close relationship with Rupert Murdoch’s empire is the subject of widespread disgust, nevertheless, genuine shock is rare. I was once told that each political party specialised in a particular type of scandal: the Conservatives’ corruption usually involved sex, e.g. David Mellor’s spanking activities while wearing Chelsea Football Club gear, and the Labour Party’s usually involved money, e.g. donations by Bernie Ecclestone to preserve Formula One’s exemeption from tobacco advertising regulations. This truism exists, perhaps, because everyone expects Conservatives to be on the take: look at their acolytes, whether dressed in chalk stripe suits or rolled up Armani shirtsleeves. The odour of privilege goes before them, stinking out the sensibilities of anyone who sees the love of money as pernicious. Jeremy Hunt, closely allied to Rupert & Co? Outrageous, disgusting, terrible, it shouldn’t happen: but is anyone really surprised? Without surprise, is it that much of a scandal?

Hunt will probably have to go; it won’t do to have him in place for the Olympics, during which he and his department are supposed to feature prominently. His departure may be a sad loss for the fans of Cockney Rhyming Slang, who hoped that James Naughtie’s botched but sensible introduction on Radio 4 would mean lasting infamy for the hapless Culture Secretary. No doubt Number 10 will push out a series of tiresome press releases and briefings which will lull the gullible or the ideologically motivated, like BBC Political Correspondent Nick Robinson, to say that the storm has passed. Life will go on, at least until the next scandal.

Is that it, though? Or is this a symptom of something more troubling? This may be an opportunity for one to gaze deeply into the soul of the Conservative Party, such as it is. Personally, I find nothing but a void. Hunt’s advocacy for News International points clearly to this soullessness. In fact, I think the question should be raised: is the Conservative Party dead?

I don’t mean that the Conservative Party has ceased to function as an organisation: throughout much of the land, there are the Conservative Assocations, party activists, the Blue Rinse Brigade, hangers on and the up and coming, all keeping the party machine ticking over. It also has plenty of wealthy donors willing to pay for images of badly drawn trees splashed onto glossy brochures. However, I recall a trip to Parliament I made as a student nearly 20 years ago. We were shuffled into a meeting room: I was impressed by the oak panelling, the green leather chairs, the musty odour of old books that seemed to pervade the place. We callow students were addressed by a Conservative MP whose name escapes me: one of the questions from my tutor related to the various ideological divisions within the Tories, in particular regarding how Britain should engage with Europe. The MP told us bluntly that the only principle which held the Conservative Party together was opposition to socialism. This seemed far-fetched at the time: after all, the afterglow of the Thatcher years still burned throughout the land, and regardless of her having to be taken out of office, her ideology was still in the ascendant. But look what happened once Labour stopped being socialist: they dropped Clause 4, the Conservative Party then surrendered itself to the violent passions stoked by membership of the European Union, Major presided over a fractured cabinet, the Tories were smashed in 1997. Some Tories, such as Shaun Woodward, found it relatively easy to walk across the floor and join a new, non-socialist Labour. Without the catalyst of opposition to socialism, the Tories fell apart and wandered through a dark wilderness which seemed to promise nothing but oblivion. Opposition to socialism had turned merely into opposition to the Labour Party: but as the Labour Party had apparently picked up many of Thatcher’s ideas, the Conservative Party was in essence ideologically opposing a reflection of itself: there were degrees of difference, not a particular contrast. No commanding heights of industry were nationalised during the New Labour years; businessmen were just as comfortable with Blair, if not more so, than they were with John Major. The Bank of England was made independent. The City was untouched. Mandelson was intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich. Don’t pay any attention to the inflating credit bubble: let the good times roll.

The saying goes, nature abhors a vacuum. Nevertheless, the Conservatives have hitched themselves to a vacuity, namely David Cameron, who was a public relations man. The ideological battles fought and won, what was left? The Big Society? Yes, that’s it, a slogan which requires the government to do little, but theoretically throws open the doors to self-improvement. My other half used to work in the Civil Service; not long after we met, I asked her the following question: “What do the Tories expect us to do? What are we supposed to be good at?”

She shrugged and replied, “They expect everyone to sort it out for themselves.”

This is as good a summary as any of Cameronism: schooling? Sort it out for yourself; open a free school. Benefits? Sort it out for yourself, there’s a cut on the way. Housing? You’re on your own, move out to somewhere cheaper. Health care? You’ll get choice, namely between Virgin Health and Serco, but it’s up to you.

Say what you will about Mrs. Thatcher, but as Andrew Marr rightly stated in his “History of Modern Britain”, there was a moral agenda behind her policies: she thought that deregulation and free markets would lead to a thrift-oriented, more hardworking mentality taking hold. Instead, it led to free markets running rampant on the back of get rich quick schemes which subsequently came undone to the impoverishment of us all; ask the question, is the nation more or less thrifty as a result of her time in office? Look at how personal debt has exploded for an answer. Are the British people working harder, or just working longer hours? Productivity growth has been a long standing problem although hours have increased. By Thatcher’s own yardstick, her ideology is a failure: but at least she had one. An ideology indicates a desire on behalf of those who craft it and those who believe in it that the world can somehow be made comprehensively better than it is at present. The Conservatives have abandoned ideology, shunned responsibility, soothed the remnants of conscience with drivel about the “Big Society” and now can be said merely a political lobbying group on behalf of the corporations and rich individuals who sponsor them. As a fountainhead of ideology, a defender of a political faith and a purveyor of a comprehensive point of view, it is effectively dead. Or rather, it is a zombie: it wanders in the land of the living, but it has no soul. It only holds power because the Labour Party faced a crisis of renewal: familiarity breeds contempt, mistakes accrue and once they threw in a leader untutored in the arts of public persuasion, the last Government more or less collapsed. Perhaps voters understood this on a subconscious level and chose not to give David Cameron a majority on his own: unfettered by Coalition, unencumbered by a particular programme apart from the naked achievement of gain, how much worse would the scandals be? Would we know about them?

Jeremy Hunt’s removal is almost a given. Even if his name doesn’t make into the lexicon of Cockney Rhyming Slang, he will have a good deal of infamy to live down. I have no doubt that Cameron in the end will present his loss as a burning sacrifice, which will serve as an example to other ministers and indeed act as a catalyst to cleanse the Conservative Party and politics as a whole. No one will truly believe this, but then again, in the dead Conservative Party, belief doesn’t matter: all that is worthwhile is taking the call from Richard Branson or Bernie Ecclestone or Serco or whoever paid to be at the top table, doing their bidding, and carrying on. Not to a bright future, nor towards a land of a free people, rather there is no destination, just continuance.