PKD!

It was PKD weekend in the O'Leary household, that's Philip K. Dick, author of some of the most challenging science fiction ever written, to you. Watching an Arena documentary, "Philip K Dick - A Day in the Afterlife", and the fan-produced "The Gospel According to Philip K. Dick", was my effort at reviving fond memories of this author's work. Both documentaries took a talking heads style approach to the usual events (the break-in to Dick's home in 1972, his visions of God in 1974, his 8000 page 'Exegesis') with the usual sci-fi writers (Tim Powers, Robert Anton Wilson) trotted out to give their view on his sanity. "The Gospel According to Philip K. Dick" was particularly annoying, with a dreadful animated device introducing its key sections. A little more of a focus on the work would have been better. As it was, I learnt nothing new and was only moderately entertained. Poor.
I also listened to a reading of his not so sci-fi story, "Of Withered Apples". I remembered being set ill at ease when I first read it, and hearing it had a similar effect. Set in New England (Dick lived his life in California), it was very much his attempt at a Shirley Jackson style horror story (with just a pinch of Lovecraft), and not bad an attempt at that.

Moon

Moon - Where No One Can Hear You Sigh


It's here! It's finally opened! No, not 'Potter'. 'Moon'! I've been waiting for this for quite a while since the first whispers started. A taste of all things past (bits of '2001: A Space Odyssey', 'Solaris', 'Silent Running', etc.) with a twist, or so they said. All the quiet hype (!) has been helped immeasureably by the fact that you can't really tell too much about the plot without giving stuff away. So I had a sneaking worry I might be disappointed. I wasn't.
Sam Rockwell plays a man working on the dark side of the moon (where else?), running a mining operation upon which most of the world's energy demands depends. After three years, his contract, with Lunar Industries, is coming to its close, and that's just as well, as the isolation is getting to him. That's really all you need to know except that all those previous film references - everything from the aforementioned classics to Sean Connery vehicles like 'Outland' - play their parts in what is ultimately a simple tale. Yes, it's fun spotting that bit and that bit, but the film has to say something for itself too. Thankfully Duncan Jones, director, is as interested in questions of humanity as he is in constructing a neat little story, and ultimately this is what raises the film above the average.
I can't help but point out that "Moon"'s ideas are not original and are just as integral to far older films (and books). How it deals with them isn't too original either, certainly not for anyone familiar with the works of Philip K. Dick. In fact, there are probably several directions that the film could have taken that would have added far deeper resonances. Still it is a joy to have a movie that doesn't tell the audience everything at once, that instead allows the audience the opportunity to think while they are being entertained. As it is there are at least two major plot points that are not explicitly explained (though again anyone familiar with 'Blade Runner' will have the answer to at least one of them). And if you really wanted to be picky you could dispute the whole premise.
I don't have the heart to be picky. On top of everything else, it looks, sounds and breathes perfectly. The model work (little or no CGI here) cries out to be loved, the lunarscapes somehow looking as fresh as they've ever done. For such an airless environment, composer Clint Mansell ('Requiem for a Dream') delivers an appropriately minimalist score. And then Sam Rockwell, who was pretty (let's be generous) 'average' in "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" (as Zaphod Beeblebrox), is exceptional here. He has a pretty tough job to pull off; besides being onscreen almost the whole time, the demands of the storyline require some nuanced acting (you'll know what I mean if you see it). He delivers.
'Moon' is no heavyweight; it isn't an epic masterpiece a la 'Solaris' (Tarkovsky's version, not Soderbergh's). And just in case you haven't been reading, we have seen a lot of this done before. However, to bring it all together and lovingly wrap it up in a satisfying narrative for our delectation, is like a love letter to the cinema-going public. Having had Hollywood flush its toilets on to our eyes for so long, such consideration is a surprise. I for one was touched.

Valis

I finished (finally) Philip K. Dick's 'Valis' last Sunday. I respect his work too much not to finish one of his books, but it is a tough read. Certainly there is a lot of esoteric Gnostic thought, a lot of hare-brained cosmology, and a lot of the usual Dickian questioning of Reality, but there is so much going on, and so much of it is just plain crazy, that it's hard to get involved. What does surprise though is his own reasonably coherent stance with regard to an event that is generally thought (at least by Dick) to have happened him in real life; his enlightenment in 1974 by an alien/divine power. At least to get a proper appreciation of Dick and this event, reading 'Valis' should be compulsory for all his fans. It also brings together almost everything he deals with in all his fiction prior to this, one of his last novels. I'm just not sure it works.
There are some nice touches to the book though. From a pop reference point of view, despite the similarity of name of fictional rock star, Eric Lampton, to Eric Clapton, my sense from the book is that Eric is more of a Bowie (stars in a sci-fi film, for instance), while his tech music guru, Brent Mini, could only be Brian Eno. Dick's obsession with Linda Ronstadt is a little disquieting, but then I wouldn't know her work. From a craziness point of view, Dick providing narration while featuring as TWO characters (himself and crazed Horselover Fat) is pretty bewildering. But I'm not sure if I am as affectionate to Fat as Dick evidently is, and the treatment of the dying/dead female friends has a nasty whiff of misogyny. Worth a look though, just read "A Scanner Darkly", "Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said" and 'The Man in the High Castle' first.

The Seedling Stars

Of the four stories that make up 'The Seedling Stars', James Blish's 'Surface Tension' is generally regarded as his best. It's certainly original. Following on with the concept of 'Adapted Men', humans genetically altered for alien planets, the story has a seeding ship crashland on a planet almost entirely covered by water. With no hope of survival themselves, and their cargo of colonising zygotes destroyed, the crew attempt to do the job themselves from their own cells. Creating an aquatic based version of humanity goes without saying, but given the ecology they find, the crew decide on a radical step; they make the new humans microscopic!

It is the most successful story in the book. That it is enjoyable goes without saying; there is a certain fascination in the realisation of the recognisably human at home in such a bizarre context. Better yet are the few glimpses of the cosmology the colonists develop; it puts our own amazing predicament in the right light.

There are two writers one can link with Blish in the case of this book. It's quite clear that Blish is trying to follow in the tradition of Olaf Stapledon, a writer whose best work deals with adaptation to alien environments on a truly cosmic scale (Blish even mentions him). Also, in his constant posing of the question of what it means to be human, he prefigures the best work of Philip K. Dick. However, Stapledon's evolutionary extrapolations were cold affairs, any human warmth sucked out into the vast vacuum of the space he conjures up (although 'First and Last Men' is certainly a warmer affair than 'Starmaker'). 'The Seedling Stars', in contrast puts human stories at the heart of its speculations, usually involving the same cast of characters: the Wiseman, the Leader, and the Leader's Mate. Only the last story, 'Watershed', deviates (debatably) from this model. Unfortunately the warmth is usually muddled with the sentimental.

It's this sentimentality that means his exploration of what it means to be human never comes close to the mind-bending, angst-ridden speculations of Dick. Blish has his comforting answer to the Big Question, an old stalwart; it is the human 'spirit' that defines humanity. While this helps in his social agenda of combatting the racial prejudices of the day ('Watershed' explicitly links his 'Adapted Men' theme with racial disharmony), it makes for very cosy reading. Cosy, as opposed to challenging.

Make no mistake, this is high-calibre stuff. Big questions and big ideas wrapped up in big fun. The stories don't always work ('Seeding Programme' has some silly plot points), but if the purpose of sci-fi is to open our minds to new possibilities each one is successful. However, for all the fine writing and interesting concepts, it is still a slightly naive work. Altering humanity is not as simple as altering its form, and in showing the persistence of the so-called 'human spirit', Blish inadvertently demonstrates the conservativism of his vision. Stapledon and Dick could have taught him a thing or two still.

Now earlier today I had my knuckles rapped for omitting a certain obituary. Okay, Stephen, here it is.

Reflections in a Scanner Darkly

All my bus tripping allowed me to get a lot of reading done and by the time I got to the Naas Road in Dublin, I had read 'Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said', the title coming from a 1600 John Dowland song.

Were it not for some small clumsy sci-fi elements (eg. the Callisto cuddle sponge!) and, more seriously, a needless epilogue, 'Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said' might almost be Philip K. Dick's masterpiece. It tells the story of Jason Taverner, a tv celebrity and singer with the world at his feet, who suddenly, and quite mysteriously, finds himself in a world where he does not exist. It could almost be a sci-fi reworking of Kafka's 'The Trial', with elements of the Book of Job thrown in (although it could be argued that 'The Trial' is a Twentieth Century reworking of Job anyhow). Dick is more restrained than usual in his use of wild ideas, concentrating more on the character of Jason Taverner and the personalities he meets than mindblowing effects. This is not to say the bizarre isn't present, and there are a number of strange scenes left without proper explanation (eg. the skeleton in the bathroom, the attempted murder of Jason), but this is Dick in thoughtful mood. And one of his main preoccupations in this novel is with women.

Dick was married several times and it is tempting to believe that this is an autobiographical survey of the various women in his life. If this is the case, it is not entirely flattering to Dick himself. In it we see a vain man incapable of love encountering many different incarnations of womanhood with a consistent lack of understanding. Genetically engineered to abhor of pain, Taverner is as fanatically enthusiastic about pleasure, and fails to acknowledge anything in between. For all that women feature prominently throughout, Dick could never be a feminist and it is the men in the novel who get the most sympathy. Taverner may be vain, but he has lost everything. Buckman, may be a version of '1984''s O'Brien, and involved in an incestuous relationship with his sister, but he is the most complex, and arguably the most sympathetic, character in the book. Almost all of the female characters on the other hand, with the exception of Alys, who scares Felix Buckman, define themselves in terms of Jason Taverner and sex.

There are many different definitions of love given throughout the novel, as there are many instances of the various forms it may take. Jason is a Six, genetically engineered to always ensure his own survival. If, as 'prunelike' Ruth Rae claims, love is living for another person, Taverner is genetically incapable of loving. His vanity and self serving nature contradict every defintion of love proffered. For instance, he cannot understand Buckman when the police general discusses a parent's love for a child. Love almost always seems to involve pain and Taverner cannot handle pain acting as it does against the survival instinct. However as Ruth Rae also says the survival instinct always loses in the end, we all die, even sixes. There are no truly profound insights here, but what there are have the ring of authenticity, hard won lessons born of experience.

For all the pain of the book, it is often very funny. There is one paragraph in particular that I think warrants a full quotation:
"He trod across the wall-to-wall carpet, which depicted in gold Richard M. Nixon's final ascent into heaven amid joyous singing above the wails of misery below. At the far door he trod on God, who was smiling a lot as He received His Second Only Begotten Son back into His bosom, and pushed open the bedroom door."
It is probably fitting that the carpet is part of the interior design of a paedophile's apartment.

As in many of his books, Dick here gives drugs a metaphysical dimension. What is startling here is the almost plausible explanation he gives for KR-3's effects. Baloney sure, but it is perhaps the first time I have seen narcotics and Kantian metaphysics mixed to such strong effect. Bizarre. Unlike a book like Heinlein's 'The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag', where the novel is so strong, the explanation cannot quite sustain it (though the very last paragraphs are poignant), here the solution to the mystery is so incredible as to force us to look at what has gone before in a transfigured light.

So why that epilogue? It feels very much as if it was tacked on to please a wider audience. Conrad did something similar in 'Nostromo', telescoping into sixty pages many years of his hero's life after spending four hundred pages dealing with a few weeks. He did it again in 'Chance', though in both cases it is to turn a happy ending into a sour one. Dick's epilogue has the opposite effect, but as in Conrad's books, it fails to convince the reader. Indeed in the case of 'Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said', it seems to contradict the implied ending of the rest of the book. If there is anything positive to be said for the epilogue, it is that in reducing what has gone before to a scrutinised segment of the many years later described, it subverts the hyperreal intensity of the story, making mundane what seemed sensational. Again though this fails to convince me.

In the last week or so, 'Next', a purported adaptation of Dick's 'The Golden Man' has been released. I will not be going to it. I have seen enough (trailers, etc.) to know that the heart of the short story has been jettisoned, with the movie appropriating the least interesting aspect of the story. 'The Golden Man' was Dick's antidote to the wildly optimistic vision of evolution that gave rise to superhero tales like those of the X-Men. He instead posited a vision of evolution that could take what might appear to us a backward step in order to move 'forward'. 'Next' takes one of the characteristics of this next stage creature and wraps it up in yet another action thriller.

It is interesting to note how many of Dick's short stories have been adapted into films compared to his novels. Novel wise we have 'Bladerunner' and 'A Scanner Darkly' (and perhaps 'Abre los ojos'), while varying in their faithfulness to the short stories they claim as their bases are 'Next', 'Total Recall', 'Screamers', 'Paycheck', 'Imposter', and 'Minority Report'. Personally I can understand this. Dick's novels are overloaded with ideas, too many for your standard Hollywood fare, and, to be fair, probably too many to make a coherent, dramatic, mainstream narrative. 'Bladerunner' had to excise much of what made the novel interesting, while 'A Scanner Darkly' is hardly a mainstream movie. In contrast his short stories generally take one idea and run with it. Unfortunately being short stories, they rarely provide enough content for a full ninety minutes and Hollywood must pad it out with filler. Often the filler takes the form of a chase; witness 'Paycheck' and 'Imposter', and probably 'Next'. Generally the short stories are not held in as high esteem as the novels, something that I feel is unfair. 'Beyond Lies the Wub', 'We Can Remember It for You Wholesale' and 'On This Dull Earth' are etched in my mind, while the opening from an early short story called 'Stability' (I think) must have inspired the introduction of Sam Lowry in the film, 'Brazil'. Ironically I feel it is the 'lesser' novels, such as 'Eye in the Sky', 'Dr Futurity' and 'The Crack in Space', the potboilers, that would probably make the best Hollywood fare. They could be classy B-movies with just enough eccentricity to appeal to a jaded audience, but with narratives strong enough to carry viewers with them. Sometimes a thought-provoking, intelligent book does not make an engrossing, entertaining movie. Hollywood prospectors should bear this in mind before they go mining Dick's back catalogue.

Back to Reality

Time to get myself back together again.

Recently I got a mail from one of the Brians from the Antarctic trip and in true Irish style we met up last Friday for drinks. O'Neill's of Suffolk Street, I decided, not having been there for years, and so I found myself at the upstairs bar around 7.30. Brian arrived and I suppose neither of us have changed too much in the intervening six months. All change on the domestic front for him though; house gone and renting, broke up with the girlfriend, etc.. In past times Brian did his own world travelling, certainly more than me, and we swapped experiences until around 10 when, aware that a friend of mine, Nigel Place, was playing a gig in Smithfield, I proposed we shift venue. We did, but too late, Nigel was finished, and the bar, Thomas Read's, was empty. I had seen Nigel play a few weeks previously and he is blossoming right now, so it was a pity we missed him. Apparently he plays London in a few weeks so that might give me an excuse to travel to England and see a few people. Without music though, I concentrated on drinking and conversation, giving my reasons why the South Pole will always be a lifetime highlight for me. As you might guess I was truly plastered by the time Nigel offered me a lift home.

It was good to see Brian again though. I think he intends to visit Central America next and I wish him well.

Most of my time has been spent like that, meeting up with old friends, catching up on things. Last Wednesday it was the turn of two good college friends of mine, Claire and Liz. Claire had her two sons along, young kids, and before the end of things I was swapping pooh insults with them in the middle of Marks and Sparks. Later, it being Liz's film evening, the two of us went to 'The Painted Veil' (I don't think either of us were in the mood for 'Spiderman 3'). Norton and Watts, who produced the film too, played their parts well and, predictable thought the whole thing was (hateful husband and wife discover they actually love each other in the face of a cholera epidemic), it was pleasantly done with a nice soundtrack and beautiful Chinese visuals. It brought me right back to Yangshuo, with all the limestone hills etc..

That movie was one of the few I have seen on a cinema screen recently. Before I went away I used to see at least three movies a week, sometimes a day, having a yearly ticket for a city multiplex. I have resisted getting a new pass, not being sure if I'll be in this country for the forthcoming year or not. Also my tolerance for cinematic rubbish is not what it once was. And on top of that I have been getting caught up in satellite movie channels and seeing a lot of old classics. For instance, I caught the last hour of 'The Untouchables' this morning, this despite the fact the dvd lies upstairs on my shelf. You just flick through casually and end up wasting an hour. Having said that, that movie is one of De Palma's better moments (and Mamet, for that matter), but what really sets that movie off is Morricone's magisterial score. The horse ride at the Canadian border is a mighty Morricone moment.

And besides all this I have been reading. The glorious new incarnation of Chapters Bookshop on Parnell Street furnished me with several Philip K.Dick books and I have steadily made my way through four of them; 'The Penultimate Truth', 'The Simulacra', 'Now Wait for Last Year', and 'Dr Bloodmoney'. I have tried to read them in chronological order and it is interesting to see the development of his ideas, the recurrence of certain debates (totalitarianism, fascism, the fake and the real) and his growing assurance as a writer. In the first two books, for instance, simulacra, dictators, time travel and deception all figure. They all figure in 'Now Wait for Last Year' too, but this is a far more mature work and broaches a topic that was to become more important in his later work: drugs. Somewhat in the way Dick uses drugs in 'The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch' (and unlike any other writers except maybe Stevenson in 'The Strange Case of Doctor Jeckyl and Mister Hyde' or Machen with his 'The Novel of the White Powder'), in this novel drugs enable a metaphysical change as opposed to a purely mental one.

Each of these books, great fun though they are, are to some extent hampered by the wealth of ideas they contain. There is often just too much going on. 'Dr Bloodmoney' has a lot going on too, but, set in the aftermath of World War Three, there is less emphasis on new technologies, religions or realities, and more stress on character. Dick says himself in his afterword that he is proud of the characters in his novel, and it is a far more mainstream work. However, my old writing teacher, Sheila Barrett, had a similarly themed work called 'Walk in a Lost Landscape', and I couldn't help comparing the two. For all that 'Dr Bloodmoney' tries to ground itself in a somber reality, it is still too fanciful (telekinetic phocomelus, cats with language, a twin living within his sister and conversing with the dead) to accept on all levels. Sheila was a lot more restrained and probably the better for that. Curious to see San Francisco figure as the venue for Dick's post-holocaust tale. As far as I recall it all figures in George Stewart's glorious 'Earth Abides', and I think it figures in 'On the Beach' (though I could be wrong on that one).

Otherwise I have been reading some Roald Dahl and Wells. In the case of Wells, I occasionally read 'Food of the Gods' on my mp3 player. Not one of his better works. Wells was never a great comedian and this attempt at humour keeps me fairly stony faced. I believe there is a horror movie version of this that is a lot more funny, albeit unintentionally so.

Crying Fowle!

But I did get to Dublin eventually. Back nearly two weeks now, I had an initial burst of energy, getting out of bed early and sorting out insurance claims etc.. This enthusiasm, however, has started to flag. Nothing has changed. Unlike Thailand, this is same same, no different. Even the few conversations I have had with my work mates reveal a DCU with all the familiar virtues and flaws.

Last Sunday I joined Justin, Jules and Killian for a night out on the town. I found out that even I had not changed, enthusiastically chatting up Bulgarian students and passers by on the street, acting as relatively sober adjudicator in fast food altercations, and picking Justin up off the ground. Same same, no different.

Yesterday I took out my machete and cut through the final two hundred pages of John Fowles' 'The Magus'. It frustrated me. Thoroughly infuriating. Not since reading Guy Endore's 'The Werewolf of Paris' (a book which profoundly depressed me), has a piece of fiction altered me mood so dramatically. I felt ready to burn the novel after I was finished. In some ways it reminds me of Matheson's '7 Steps to Midnight', but is infinitely better written and with loftier aims. As I said before, Fowles can write. He has a skill that surpasses most contemporary writers. However, skill is one thing, intention another. I can accept that fiction can have an educational purpose (witness "1984"), but the more I read the more I find moralising by an author intolerable. That was one of my main gripes about the work of Salinger, and, for all that Fowles is a far superior craftsman, it certainly pertains to this novel as well. The lead character, Nicholas Urfe, is painted deliberately as an unsympathetic reprobate, and for most of the novel I sympathesised with those critics who regarded the novel as cold. Urfe is not someone you can easily identify with. Nevertheless, he is recognisably human, unlike his adversaries. To ascribe moral superiority to the forces that torment him is a celebration of sadism and an insult to the reader. To hold Urfe's new self up as an example of chastened maturity, as Fowles evidently intends, to accept his attitude to the other characters of the book as the right approach to take, is a demonstration of authorial smugness I find detestable. I feel that if I ever meet Mr Fowles I will deal him a slap not unlike the one Nicholas deals to Alison, and for pretty similar reasons. I can love his talent, who he is, but despise his intention, what he does with it. I could go on and on about this book, but what few people read this blog, have no doubt precious little interest in my literary opinions, so I'll stop here. Nevertheless, for anyone with eyes, it will be apparent that for a novel to have such a strong effect - negative or positive - it must be a special work, and 'The Magus' is. I tip my hat, however begrudgingly, to you, Mr Fowles.

It was something of a relief to leave the heady heights of Fowles' sermonising and take up Dick's 'The Penultimate Truth'. This is Philip K. Dick from around the time he wrote 'The Man in the High Castle'. The style is simple and clear, the plot full of the invention that characterises Dick at his best. Fresh air.

On the media and culture front, I have also taken to watching 'South Park' on the bus, via my new gadget from Hong Kong. There is an episode where Cartman fools Butters into believing the world has been devastated by an asteroid in order to make him hide out in a bomb shelter for a week. This so that Cartman can take Butters' place with Kyle et al. in going to a Mexican theme restaurant called Castle Bonita. I don't think I have seen such a clever use of B-movie cliches in a parody before. It even managed to give Cartman dimensions we have seen again and again in noir villains, but which still managed to resonate in a new way. Cartman speeding around Castle Bonita while the cops closed in was an unforgettable finale, worthy of a James Cagney or John Garfield. See what I am reduced to.

Chang Mai, Chang Rai and Chang Klong

We had a late departure this morning, so breakfast was leisurely. Most of the day was taken up with driving, though we did have time to stop at Chang Rai for lunch and a snoop around the very new, very white Buddhist temple. Rebecca seemed to think an American had a hand in its construction and it is very different. Completely white with inlaid fragments of mirror, it glitters like the house in 'Dr Zhivago'. In fact that was the first impression that came to mind and very apt considering that the director,David Lean,had a Spanish landscape sprayed white to mimic a Russian winter scene. At the entrance a mass of hands, some with eyes or faces on their palms, reach up from the ground. The visitor crosses a bridge to pass this strange sculptures. Inside it is stranger still with a standard three-fold Buddha on one wall and a bizarre sci-fi infused painting on the other. Still a work in progress, this strange painting combines ancient Asian demons with images of the Twin Towers, 'Star Wars' and 'The Matrix' (Neo stands astride some demon's shoulder). Bizarre.

I think I should take the opportunity now to describe our group. Our tour leader, Charles, is a shaven headed Aussie, once a financial analyst, but who fell in love with this neck of the woods on a charity bike ride through Vietnam and Cambodia. There is Phil and Helen, a married couple of a year. Phil, a project manager for a web company, chucked in his job, when Helen, a project manager in Switzerland (though she is from Newcastle), was made redundant. They decided to get married and travel the world. Then there is Sabrina, an English Asian girl; Rebecca, an English law firm worker; Zooey and Helen, a pair of hotel and catering students, newly finished; Annabel from New Zealand; Sarah, in IT, I believe, from England; Young, a Canadian accounts manager, who was born in Laos, but has never been back (apparently there is bad blood between her family and those still there after the Laos clan stole their house); and Sian, English, but with Welsh family, I think (also some Irish; the Blaineys).

Before leaving Bangkok, I finished the Silverberg novel and, as I suspected, it was the best work of his I have yet read. Not too much to the story, but then it was more character driven and as such was a well-written account of the protagonist, David Selig. Driving today then, I got a good start (I am over halfway through) on the Philip K.Dick novel, 'Time Out of Joint'. Similar in many ways to a lot of his other work, it is also very close in part of its central concept (or I suspect it will be) to 'The Truman Show' (though it predates that movie by 40 years or so). Having said that it also reminds me of a James Garner movie I saw as a kid called '36 Hours' (again I am anticipating the solution to the mystery as nothing has yet been revealed). Great fun though. After a deceptively mundane opening, it really gets you enthralled, with a nice quintet of central characters, and a lovely sense of all is not what it seems. I won't make any huge claims as, despite its many philosphical references, this is no 'A Scanner Darkly'. It is, however, very well crafted and shows up something like Matheson's similarly themed '7 Steps to Midnight' for the sloppy work it is.

Anyhow we are now in Chang Klong. Our hotel, all teak wood flooring and faulty mosquito screens, is right beside the mighty Mekong. And it is mighty. Children play in its waters, while across its breadth, Laos faces us. At the hotel entrance a small chained monkey scampers back and forth pathetically. I swear I saw it licking its own urine experimentally. Poor thing must be so bored. Apart from this little pocket of distress, the sun is golden, the atmosphere is calm, and we are all very happy. And we have a banquet in 2 hours time.

By the way, I just noticed the Oscars are on tomorrow. What are they?

Actually it's good to see 'Little Miss Sunshine' get attention (though best movie, I don't think so, and 'The Queen', fun though it is, is just filler in this category). Come on 'El Laberinto del Fauno' for Best Foreign Film, certainly the best foreign movie and in all honesty probably the best film nominated full stop. It is better than 'The Departed' for instance, which probably should get Best Picture, of those nominated. Best Actor, give it to Forrest Whittaker (even if his really is a supporting role), though it would be good to see Peter O'Toole honoured (I haven't seen 'Venus'). Best Actress, I haven't seen enough to comment really, but Helen Mirren does a great job and deserves it. Best Supporting Actor is tough; I'd love to see Alan Arkin get it (because he's brilliant), but Djimon Hounsou is impressive in 'Blood Diamond'. I suspect Eddie Murphy impresses in 'Dreamgirls' too, while Wahlberg does a standard supporting role creditably (Hounsou in contrast is practically the protagonist of 'Blood Diamond' and is certainly its soul). Best Supporting Actress is another really tough one, though Rinko Kikuchi is as raw as an actress can be in 'Babel'. And for Director? It's not a matter of whether 'The Departed' is his best work or not - it's solid, and the best job of those nominated - but if Scorsese is ignored again, the world will spin out of orbit and into the sun. Do not destroy life as we know it, Academy, give him the bloody Oscar!