A Robin Hood tax
would be immensely
popular. Let them pay up
The Cafe 2
Myths about Dalgety Bay
We should take seriously
the rise of assorted
cultures of protest
Bruce Gardner
Am I a real doctor?
John Cameron
Two deeply moving
theatrical experiences.
And The Killing, too
Barbara Millar
II
It has been a cultural week. Just days before ‘Men Should Weep’, I was at the theatre in London, seeing ‘War Horse’, a play recommended to me by a friend four years ago. It has triumphed at the National Theatre and on Broadway and is about to go on a world tour – and become a film. It is truly remarkable, this story of Albert, a young Devonshire boy and Joey, his horse, sold by the lad’s father to be used at the front in the first world war. The horse ends up serving on both sides during the war, before finding himself in No Man’s Land, impaled on the cruel barbed wire separating the rival armies.
Albert, desperate to find his horse, enlists, despite his tender years, and embarks on a treacherous journey before the two are reunited. By this time, naturally, I am in floods of tears, utterly engrossed in the fate of the intrepid pair. The last time I needed quite so many tissues in a theatre was at the dying of Joy Gresham, the wife of C S Lewis, played incomparably, heart-breakingly, by Nigel Hawthorne in ‘Shadowlands’.
The story of ‘War Horse’ was written over 25 years ago by former children’s laureate Michael Morpurgo and only came to be staged because a director was looking for a vehicle for some very special puppeteers, the Handspring Puppet Company from South Africa. Three puppeteers steer each of the two main horses, Joey and Topthorne, and they are simply superb. The horses’ ears twitch, their tails swish, their flanks ripple. They eat, they are ridden, they rear: they are cautious, fearless, terrified. They are completely believable, these life-sized puppets, manipulated by the most talented of operators. The actors are wonderful too. ‘War Horse’ is moving beyond measure – and to see it on Armistice Day made it still more so.
III
After enduring several months of withdrawal symptoms, those of us with an incurable addiction to ‘The Killing’ got our fix at last with the first two episodes of ‘The Killing II’ on Saturday. It is another bleak November in Copenhagen: still dark, raining even more heavily, Danish still guttural. But there was a surprising new piece of knitwear. Sarah Lund, whose black and cream Faroese jumper in the first series had its own fan club, was wearing a new red sweater. But fear not. The old one will be making a return appearance quite soon. Apparently, actress Sofie Grabol, who plays Lund, had said: ‘I love that sweater, and I hate it. It’s so strong that it’s almost wearing me. So we had a meeting and I said: "I’m not going to give it to them". But then, after three or four episodes we had another meeting, and I decided okay, I have to get that old sweater back.’
The new series has more action, more pace – the denouement must be revealed after 10 episodes, rather than the 20 in series I – but I hope this isn’t at the expense of hinterland. It really adds something to see the characters out of their work context. And it can also provide clues, of course. At a party when her mother revealed her forthcoming nuptials, Sarah focused on a piece of discarded cellophane from a cassette and, as she stuffed it into her pocket, you just knew that sharp, forensic mind was whirring, computing its relevance. Me, I’d have simply popped it in the bin.
Barbara Millar is a trustee of the Institute of Contemporary Scotland
Next week’s diarist: Katie Grant
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