In search of mythology and ravens: a trip to the Tower

Merlina

Connections, connections; links and connections. Back in November, The Other Half and I spent a few days on the Normandy coast, in Deauville.

Last year’s health-based fun and games had rather left us in need of clean air. But during our stay – the first time either of us have been to that part of the world – we visited Caen.

And there, we saw both the remains of the castle built by William of Normandy and the place where the remains of his remains are said to be buried after originally being disrupted and tossed around a little in 1562, during the French Wars of Religion. This grave now holds a single remaining thigh bone.

For Brits, William is better known as The Conqueror: 1066 and all that.

So it was intriguing to see how differently the French see him (heroically – certainly in that part of the world), as opposed to our rather more conflicted view.

But just over a week ago, with The Other Half away for work and time on my hands, I decided to head back into William territory and to the Tower of London, the iconic fort he founded in 1066.

Crows atop the trees

I haven’t visited since – oh, 1971, on the eve of my family’s departure for Mossley after living for three years in west London.

I remember the Bloody Tower, the crowds and my sister (three years younger) crying so much that we left quickly.

A return – rather longer – visit has been in my mind for some time. But in the event, it was spurred less by the William connection than my growing love affair with Norse mythology and not least, Huginn and Muninn.

Those, for any readers not in the know, are Odin’s ravens. Huginn represents memory and Muninn, thought. The All-Father sent them out to fly around the world each day, yet dreaded that they would not return.

Some scholars speculate that this is an idea of fear of not being able to come out of a shamanistic trace. But for a modern reader, it could also suggest someone afraid of losing their memory and capacity to think in age.

Morning sun over the Tower of London

A god fearing Alzheimer’s or dementia. That is a rather poetic idea: in other words, this is a god who is more than a touch human; not perfect; flawed.

As I really get into reading the Norse myths, that’s one of things I love about them.

The gods are human – and are certainly not the supposedly perfect (and boring) gods of the monotheistic big three from the deserts of the Middle East.

And so it was that, on that Saturday morning, I peeved the cats by getting up early and heading out toward the Thames.

Passing first through a nearby park, it was almost eerily quiet. Rows of crows topped the naked trees, chorusing a cawed greeting that echoed across the grass.

Get inside as early as possible

For a moment, as though on the periphery on my senses, I could almost feel the German woods again.

A short journey on the newish overground train to Whitechapel and then a further two stops on the District line brought me to Tower Hill.

There was a chill to the air and the late winter sun was battling through the clouds as it climbed above the Tower itself – a building that seems squat by comparison with the glass and steel that girds it – as in so much of the capital these days – on three sides, with the Thames flowing past on the fourth.

HMS Belfast is to the left on the far bank, with Tower Bridge just a little to the right.

I was early. Too early, indeed, even for the ticket office. A hot chocolate in one of the surrounding buildings warmed me through, before I started a queue at one of the ticket booths.

A few moments later, I ducked past a gathering of grockles and, after a quick bag check, found myself heading through the gates.

Traiters' Gate

There was hardly anyone around: if you want to feel atmosphere within these walls, then early in the day is when to find it, when it’s still enough so that can almost hear the old stones breathe.

With only a limited idea of which way to head, I turned toward the Bloody Tower’s entrance before being halted in my steps by a deep, throaty call from just beyond a wall nearby.

The ravens were calling.

Backtracking, I made a quick left, then another – to find myself at the foot of the grass that slopes down from the White Tower, facing these magnificent, mythological birds in their smart, new homes (by Llowarch Llowarch Architects and just nominated for the RIBA London regional architecture awards 2016). 

According to some sources, ‘most’ people refer to a group of ravens as a ‘flock’, which is rather unpoetic of them, given that the alternative collective nouns are ‘unkindness’ and ‘conspiracy’.

Armour inside the White Tower

Incidentally, their smaller, park-living corvid cousins are sometimes referred to as a ‘murder of crows’.

It’s a small conspiracy at the Tower: the nation-preserving six, plus two reserves, for safety’s sake.

It was nine, but Somerset-born Porsha died in late January, at the tender (for a raven) age of eight.

It’s indicative of the esteem and affection in which the ravens are held that they are buried within the Tower’s walls.

In the early days of WWII, with Hitler having taken an early lead, two of the Tower’s ravens had to be put to sleep after being badly injured in a bombing raid. It brought the number to just four.

There are those who have speculated that this accounts for Britain’s loss of empire in the years following the war.

All this seems to have stemmed from Charles II’s time when, after complaints from the royal astronomer that a rather larger unkindness of ravens was disrupting the royal stargazing, the king decided that six would be kept and the astronomer royal banished to Greenwich.

White Tower, grey day

They can fly, but since some of their feathers get a regular trim (akin to a haircut), they don’t go far – although a couple of years ago, one did make it as far as Greenwich!

I stood watching them for some time. After an attempt to sketch them – difficult at best and made harder by the cold – I nipped into the nearby ‘ravens shop’, where I discovered that there was no certainty that they would be let out and, if they were, it was likely to be around lunch – some time off.

Looking back at the cages, one suddenly appeared to be empty – for a moment, I wondered whether a large crow was one of the ravens (as did the shop staff) – before one of the shop staff suggested that, if two had been let out, they’d be likely to be up around the ‘coloured cannon’ or on Tower Green.

Off I sped, but to no avail. At which juncture, I decided to have a look around the White Tower, which was engaging enough, as it holds part of the Royal Armouries collection.

Coming out, I was contemplating heading off when I noticed a very large black bird hopping around on the grass slope. Back off around to Tower Green, I arrived in time to see a very big black bird perched on the edge of a bin, rooting around inside.

Merlina rooting (note trimmed feathers)

The bench next to the bin was empty. I sat down quietly, as near to the bin as possible, and got the camera ready.

This, I learned later via the Ravenmaster on Twitter, was Merlina (born in South Wales in 2005).

She rooted for a while until she pulled out a piece of banana, placed it on top of the bin and scrutinised it carefully, before picking it up again, hopping down and taking it to a small pond on the grass behind.

There, she dropped it in the water, twiddled it around a bit with her beak and then retrieved it – doubtless in an effort to assess when that had rendered the banana edible.

'What do you mean this isn't meat?'

Hopping the short distance to Tower Green itself and the site of the scaffold, she hopped around the back of another bench where a young couple were munching crisps, with me in stealthy pursuit.

As I was standing at the side of the bench, she hopped up suddenly onto the arm, sending the crisp-crunching female into paroxysms of squealing terror.

The girl ran – then ran back to grab her rucksack. Her boyfriend went with her.

In the meantime, I – having not run – was snapping away. And as though to reward me for not being a squealer, Merlina stayed on the back of the bench for quite a few moments, allowing me the opportunity to snap some wonderful shots at close quarters.

'She ran away quickly enough ...'

After she’d had enough and hopped off, I – grinning like a loon by this stage – went to take a remarkably crowd-free glance at the crown jewels. They’re quite surreal, to be honest, and I found myself musing that they looked like something out of a theatrical production.

But then again, that’s precisely what they are.

It was an enjoyable and educative visit. But you can keep the bling – I’ll take Merlina and the gang over them any day.

• To follow the Ravenmaster on Twitter, go to @ravenmaster1.

Dead funny, smart-ass fun as Deadpool comes to town

For sheer sassy, smart-assy fun, it’s hard to imagine that anything is going to beat Deadpool – this year at least.

The latest big-screen outing for a Marvel character, Deadpool originally appeared in comic form in 1991, starting out as a supervillain before morphing into an anti-hero.

His big-screen debut arrived in the 2009 film, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, when Ryan Reynolds wielded the katanas for the first time.

But the ‘Merc with a Mouth’ has now got his own movie, and it’s a cracking piece of entertainment.

After small-time and essentially good-hearted mercenary Wade Wilson is diagnosed with multiple cancers, he’s offered the chance of a cure – a cure that will also bestow on him incredible powers.

Unfortunately, there turns out to be a rather unexpected side effect and, after christening himself Deadpool, Wilson sets off to exact revenge on those who put him into that position.

There’s no shortage of violence – but unlike many comic book stories, the violence here has consequences.

In that sense, together with the humour, it’s reminiscent of Tarantino. But what we also get here is the breaking of the fourth wall, as Deadpool speaks directly to the audience throughout the film.

The character is amoral, bisexual, camp, gobby, violent and a Wham! fan, with a self-awareness and fuck-this attitude that reminds me of Hellboy.

Indeed, the Wham! thing brought to mind Hellboy and Abe Sapien’s drunken duet of Barry Manilow’s Can’t Smile Without You in Hellboy II.

The jokes come thick and fast – the excellent script from Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick never lets the pace drop – and the action sequences are top notch.

Returning as the eponymous antihero, Reynolds is superb, while Ed Skrein makes a strong – British, of course! – villain, Ajax.

However much you might expect this to be very much a bloke film, there’s a love story that could broaden the audience, and four very strong female characters in Morena Baccarin as Deadpool’s girlfriend Vanessa; Gina Carano as Angel, a superhuman, mutated member of Ajax’s team; Brianna Hildebrand as teenage X-Men trainee Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Leslie Uggams as Blind Al, a sassy elderly woman with a penchant for cocaine who is Deadpool’s roommate.

And while he cannot actually claim the credit for creating the character of Deadpool, X-Men co-creator and Marvel’s answer to the All Father and the Godfather combined (if you were to believe his own hype), Stan Lee manages to shoehorn himself into a brief cameo.

If you’re looking for philosophy, then Deadpool is probably not going to be the movie for you – although I will point out that slavery in exchange for effective medical treatment could be viewed as a comment on a society where many workers cannot afford to dissent as it’s their boss who pays their medical insurance.

But hey, that’s really not the most important thing here.

First and foremost, this is a thoroughly entertaining romp that sees Marvel itself actually give the entire rather po-faced superhero genre a massive slap. Fab stuff.

Painted gardens prove a peaceful tonic to modern life

Water Lillies (1916-26) Monet

Picasso observed that “art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life,” so what better way to start a weekend than to spend time in a gallery?

And even more than that, how therapeutic would that art be if it was to be about gardens?

The announcement of London’s first art blockbuster of 2016 was met by much muttering that the Royal Academy was merely chasing after the money of a sort of art show dilettante.

There seemed to be a suggestion that Painting the Modern Garden: Monet to Matisse was not quite ‘serious,’ as art goes.

The Wall of the Vegetable Garden, Yerres, Caillebotte

Even the Daily Mail got in on the act with a sneery piece about ‘Monet mania’.

But none of that was going to put off someone who has, in recent years, experienced Damascene moments when it comes to both of those named artists.

So a week ago, after work, The Other Half and I toddled along to Piccadilly.

It must be said that, in terms of the Matisse element of the exhibition, it’s a bit of a disappointment.

Organised in conjunction with the Cleveland Museum of Art, some paintings are being seen in London but not in the States and visa versa.

Woman and Child in a Meadow at Bougival, Morisot

In the US, according to the catalogue (which is rather poorly printed in terms of colour reproduction, by the way), there will be three Matisse’s on view that are not to be found in London.

The two here are not his finest, although Rose Marble Table (1917), on a second look, does generate light, even though, by Matisse’s standards, the background is downright muddy. Bloody geniuses.

But that’s being picky. There are fascinating works here by myriad other painters – some of whom were new or little-known to us – and then there are the works by Monet.

The exhibition opens with two fascinating pairings: first, of flower pictures by Renoir and Monet and then, Renoir’s Monet Painting In His Garden At Argenteuil together with the painting that Monet is shown working on, The Artist’s Garden in Argenteuil (A Corner of the Garden with Dahlias), from 1873.

View of a Garden, Linköping, Johan Fredrick Krouthén

The first duo are highly conventional still life paintings; the second sees both artists moving toward what we recognise today as an Impressionist approach.

The exhibition makes much of the rise of recreational gardening among the growing middle class and its influence on artists, although some painters continued to be inspired by their own preference for rather more traditional vegetable gardening – a group that included Camille Pissarro, who painted his kitchen garden.

And indeed, Gustave Caillebotte did the same, with The Wall of the Vegetable Garden, Yerres (1877) proving a rare pastel work in such exhibitions, and very modern, with its stark geometry.

The Terrace at Méric, Bazille

In making sure that the link between recreational gardening and painting is clear, there are exhibits of seed catalogues, magazines and other gardening materials, plus a rather marvelous film of Monet painting.

There are painters represented from around the world, including the likes of Joaquin Sorolla, with his Spanish courtyard gardens dripping in heat and the cool of shade.

In such terms, Frédéric Bazille’s The Terrace at Méric (1867), though unfinished, reeks of the warmth and light of the south.

The Birch Avenue in the Garden of Wannsee ... Libermann

We have the chance to meet up again with other artists, including Berthe Morisot, whose beautiful Woman and Child in a Meadow at Bougival from 1882 is on display, while there are the joys on a single Manet in Young Women Among Flowers from 1879.

There are several fine works by John Singer Sargent, and then there are the Scandinavians, Karl Nordström, Laurits Tuxen and Peder Krøyer.

For me, Johan Fredrik Krouthén’s View of a Garden, Linköping (1887-88), stood out from these works.

Murnau II, Kandinsky

Light-dappled paths leading through tree-filled gardens are a particularly successful recurring theme – Max Libermann’s The Birch Avenue in the Garden of Wannsee Looking West (1918) is just one excellent example.  

Setting aside the fact that whoever named the next part of the exhibition ‘Avant Gardens’ (hohoho) should be given a serious seeing to (fnar fnar), we then move into an explosion of colour. 

And what is very clear is that the artistic leap forward from red and white borders to riots of colour was made possible, in part at least, by improvements in botanical science. 

Emil Nolde’s canvases of flowers bring extra vivacity to the exhibition, as does Kandinsky’s wonderful Murnau II. 

Munch’s Apple Tree in a Garden (1932-42) is a revelation if one is primarily only familiar with The Scream. 

Rose Marble Table, Matisse

We are even treated to three fascinating small pieces by Klee, while Klimt’s Cottage Garden from 1905-07 is unmistakable and Santiago Rusiñol’s Gardens of Monforte (1917) has wonderful light.

But then, as throughout this exhibition, is Monet – taking an extraordinary artistic journey in one lifetime.

And the three vast Water Lillies canvases, from 1915-26, 1916-26 and 1915-26 (left to right as they are hung) are staggering. Now all hanging in different US galleries, they are reunited here, in Europe, for the first time in the best part of a century.

Like the paintings at the Orangerie in Paris, they have the power to evoke a sublime, almost spiritual response. Their apparent simplicity belies their power and their beauty.

So forget the cynics and the snide snobs. Quite simply, time spent contemplating these works is worth the admission price alone.

Painting the Modern Garden: Monet to Matisse is at the Royal Academy in London until 20 April.

Who do you think you're kidding, all you cynics?

It might be a matter of perception, but the new Dad’s Army film seems to be dividing viewers and reviewers along far deeper lines than most film releases.

For many of us over a certain age, Jimmy Perry and David Croft’s series was a highlight of the 1970s TV schedules and deservedly retains the status of national treasure.

Reruns have ensured that it has never dropped out of the public consciousness and continues to gain a new audience, and it has consistently been voted as one of the best examples of British TV and, specifically, sitcoms.

For me, there’s the added little point that my paternal grandfather was seriously myopic (thanks, Grandpop) and thus did his WWII service in the Cornish Home Guard. Decades later, he’d chuckle at the series and note that it was very true to life.

When the film was first announced, I suffered a fit of apoplexy. How could they? The original is sacrosanct and should not be tampered with.

Then I saw the casting. Goodness, the casting of this film is genius. And I started wanting it to be okay.

There were other worries, though. I originally heard that the script was to be written by those responsible for the St Trinian’s reboot, but it turned out to be by Hamish McColl, who previously penned 2014’s utterly delightful Paddington.

After seeing the trailers, I decided to make it another cinema visit and, by coincidence as much as anything, The Other Half and I saw it on the opening day, last week.

There will be no spoilers here, but suffice it to say that the film sags in the second half.

Parade time in Walmington-on-Sea (Bridlington)

However, the idea that it’s rubbish is difficult to grasp. The script is more than mere pastiche. There are innuendos and physical comedy, certainly – both of which existed in the original series and are staples of British comedy – but also layers of far subtler stuff.

It has the thread of class running through it, as did the original series – a subject that is every bit as relevant today.

The catchphrases are used with care. Charlie Mole’s score is clever, with all sorts of subtle references within it both to the original theme and assorted songs from WWII (and even, I thought, James Bond).

The cast is wonderful and don’t make the mistake of trying to impersonate the actors who made their characters famous. Particular mentions will go here to Toby Jones, who is wonderful as Mainwaring, Bill Nighy as Wilson and Michael ‘The Great’ Gambon as Godfrey.

It was also delightful to see the two remaining original cast members appear, including Frank Williams reprising his role as the vicar.

The women in the film are not, as one or two have alleged, shoehorned in in the interests of some sort of political correctness, but are worthy characters in their own right – and for goodness sake, it was hardly as if WWII excluded women.

In a role that could, given the original series, have been awkward, Felicity Montagu makes an admirable Mrs Mainwaring.

I had a worry, about half way through the film, that many of the core characters were making fools of themselves, and that what I couldn’t cope with was it being left in that way.

The denouement, though, is surprisingly tense and solves this question in fine fashion.

This is not, of course, the first Dad’s Army film, but 1971’s effort was not good, suffering from the inability to transfer a small-screen series to the big screen (and the same can be said of other British sit coms).

This is far better.

Mrs Mainwaring leads the women

Nor was I alone in my enjoyment: before the film started, The Other Half whispered that, at just gone 56, he didn’t expect to be one of the youngest members of any audience.

There was a ripple of applause during the film at one catchphrase and another at the end.

I shall assume that these were not, in some way, sarcastic.

Of course, it offers the chance to consider the issue of ‘ownage’ of characters and, indeed, dramatic works.

What this film of Dad’s Army illustrated for me was the quality of the original writing and creation of character. In recent years, I’ve been appalled on occasion when certain remakes have been announced.

But great stories and great characters can have a life of their own: would anyone suggest that there should never have been any film adaptations of Sherlock Holmes after, say, those with Basil Rathbone? Were that the case, we’d never have enjoyed Jeremy Brett. And if it had stopped there, we’d not have Benedict Cumberbatch.

What, in this case, does such a reboot give us?

Well, I think it’s a nice reminder of people who, however daft they could be in certain circumstances, they also did the right thing when the chips were down.

It’s a please, in such cynical times, to see something that is essentially uncynical.

I left the cinema with a broad smile on my face. And while it most certainly not the best film ever made, I cared about the characters once more and certainly wouldn’t object to watching it again.