Cortez the killer

My son and I went to see the Moctezuma - yes, Moctezuma - exhibition at the British Museum today. It was fascinating. It still seems utterly incredible that Cortes and 500 men could take over a whole country and destroy the Aztec culture but they did. A display comparing the Aztec weapon of choice - what looks like a wooden chopping board with flint teeth - and Spanish armour and weapons (which included muskets) did not really explain it. It's a sad and complicated story and the exhibition left us both wanting to know more.

The artifacts are amazing. The exhibition was not too busy so we were able to have a good clear, long look at things. The bas relief carving was great. I've always loved the Aztec sense of design - the way they fill the space. The look of the Eagle and Jaguar warriors is amazing too.

Of course, I have also always - like all boys - been fascinated by the human sacrifice aspect of Aztec culture: the ripping out of human hearts to feed the sun. Death is a massive presence throughout, with stone skulls at every turn. The exhibition was full of reference to this act - drawings and sculptures, knives for removing hearts, elaborately carved stone vessels for holding hearts.

Turquoise and gold are the overwhelming colours of the show - but blood red is the colour that really dominates.

After the exhibition we had lunch and then wandered down to Soho for a haircut and then to Covent Garden. We went in the Tintin shop in Floral street and my son ogled the lovely but horribly expensive collection of cars and figures. Then we went a couple of doors down and I ogled the clothes in Paul Smith. We agreed that if he could not spend £50 on a a model of Tintin and Captain Haddock riding camels, then I could not really justify spending £30 on some stripy socks for my iPod.

Must be Santa

My son and I watched a Top of the Pops Christmas special on BBC iPlayer. It was a collection of Christmas song ranging from the sublime (A Fairy Tale of New York) to the rest. Actually that's unfair. Slade and Wizzard's Christmas songs have almost taken on the mantle of secular carols, as much part of the British Christmas as turkey and the winter vomiting bug.

The other gem was mad old Robert Zimmerman's video for Must Be Santa from his rather surprising Christmas album. As Mark Radcliffe pointed out in the commentary, the famously tangle-haired Bob seems to have received hair-straighteners for Christmas.

I am an unashamed fan of Dylan and I love the fact that he is determined not to be his own tribute band. If you see him as a dour and humourless old curmudgeon - then this is the video for you.

A lukewarm chiller

I was looking forward to the BBC's adaptation of Henry James' The Turn of the Screw. After all, costume drama is a strength of the BBC. But I was disappointed. And I can't have been the only one. It apparently gathered 4.8 million viewers eager for a chill at Christmas.

I had been a little concerned when I read that the setting for the book had been moved from the 1890s to the 1920s. The story seemed so fixed in that buttoned-up world of Victorian England, that the shift seemed counter-productive. Most of the atmosphere of the book rests on that claustrophobic, repressed, straight-laced backdrop.

The reason for the move seemed to be about giving a kind of spurious added dimension to Quint's behaviour - that the house was devoid of men (because of the war), and to allow for the addition on a wholly unnecessary madhouse scene at the beginning and end. The subtlety of James was obviously considered to confusing for the likes of us. Much better for the governess to be unequivocally sex-starved and for Quint to be a serial rapist. It's clearer innit?

But I would have forgiven them such clunky devices if they provided us with even one single solitary scary moment. But no. They had clearly watched The Others but learned nothing about how to induce a chill. It's like they expended all their effort on the additions and forgot it was meant to be creepy. The ghosts even had a ghostly glow around them like something from a 1960s children's TV programme - so that we knew they were ghosts. And inevitably we had to see Quint having sex. We have to be shown everything now because we are too stupid to have things alluded to.

It made me quite cross. Not just because I write chillers myself and am naturally a bit of ghost story geek, but because the BBC used to do so much better with so much less. The production values of The Turn of the Screw were far higher than their adaptation of Dickens' The Signalman, say, from the 70s and yet The Signalman was far, far better. 4.8 million viewers hungry for a good-old fashioned ghost story at Christmas. Maybe next year.

In the meantime, get yourself a copy of The Innocents directed by Jack Clayton and see Deborah Kerr showing how it's done.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year everyone. I hope it's a happy, healthy and successful year for us all (however you personally define 'happiness', 'health' and 'success', of course). It would be nice if people could stop trying to kill anyone who doesn't agree with their world view, but I suppose that would be too much to ask.

We took a walk round Wandlebury Ring in the Gog Magog hills just outside Cambridge. The car park was packed but it was still nice to get out in the fresh air for a while. It was very cold and clear with a low sun that barely reached inside the woods.

We watched the second part of Doctor Who and the rather confused and mawkish farewell from David Tennant. Russel T Davies (who is also leaving) is credited with reviving the fortunes of Doctor Who, and that must be true to a large extent, but it is surely David Tennant who must have played the biggest part (so to speak). I actually think it is the writing (and this last one was a case in point) that most often lets the programme down. The plots bear very little analysis and are often unintentionally hilarious - I loved the idea that The Doctor and The Master seemed to have had these names since birth. We never got to hear what the other Time Lords were called: The Plumber, The Dimwit etc?

It is the acting that saves it. David Tennant managed to add both gravitas and humour to a role that was often very thinly written. The even more cartoonish role of The Master was brought to life by John Simm. He was superb and clearly had a great time making it.

Day of the Triffids

What can I say about the BBC's adaptation of The Day of the Triffids? Eddie Izzard was good in a silly role. Apart from that I can't think of many positives. It had clearly had a fair amount of money thrown at it. It certainly didn't fail through lack of effort or seriousness.

Maybe the fault lies with the book. Don't get me wrong, John Wyndham was one of my favourite writers when I was in my teens and The Day of the Triffids is a good book. But maybe it shows that whilst some things work perfectly well on the page, they don't when realised as moving images.

When I say that it's the fault of the book, I don't mean 'fault' at all. What I mean is that maybe the notion of filming The Day of the Triffids is doomed from the start. It seems a cinematic concept, but it is essentially flawed. Creeping carnivorous plants are a creepy concept in a book, but just plain silly on screen. Dressing the film up like 28 Days Later ( film that based its opening on The Day of the Triffids) did not make any difference. This was a zombie movie without zombies.

Does that mean that the book is flawed? No, I don't think it does. John Wyndham was not writing a screenplay, he was writing a novel. It should not have to work in any other format. What it shows is that the way we imagine when reading is different from the way things are shown in cinema and television (and so it should be). Film is limiting and pedantic. It has to show and depict in a way our imaginations do not (unless they choose to).

Literature is - I think - more tuned in to that way of thinking. It is a direct link from the imagination of the writer to the imagination of the reader.

Footballer's thumb

I have spent far too long playing FIFA 2010 on my son's xbox 360. The game was a Christmas present (to him, not me) and it has been driving me crazy ever since he opened it.

These games all follow the same pattern. We both play the game when it first arrives and we laugh at our incompetence and the weird quirks (in this case the deranged commentary). I go about my normal life. My son plays the game over and over again, gaining an intuitive grasp of all the many button and lever combinations. He becomes unbeatable.

I was sure that this would be different. He could use the buttons better than me, but I could play a tactical game. I could pass the ball. I could bide my time. Football isn't all about running down the pitch and going for goal every time.

We play again. I get thrashed. We play again. I get thrashed again. My thumb hurts. I launch into a long diatribe about the randomness of the whole game play, hinting strongly that the computer is somehow favouring my son. He gets upset. We play again. My son toys with me, using his goalkeeper as a centre forward and passing the ball back and forth in front of my goal before scoring. I sulk. I insist on being someone other than Tottenham just in case their infuriating ability to lose to just about anyone has been factored into the game. I play as Chelsea. I get thrashed.

I refuse to play any more.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas everyone and happy St Stephen's Day. Hope you had a good time yesterday and that you at least got some of the things you wished for.