Power, Corruption & Lies

Hands up anybody who was surprised by last week’s outburst from FIFA vice-president Jack Warner, when he described England’s bid to stage the 2018 World Cup as “lightweight”. Probably only the gullible suits in the Football Association, who foolishly believed that sucking up to the old despot would somehow guarantee his support in the bid process.

Those with longer memories will recall that in June 2008 the FA sanctioned a meaningless friendly against Trinidad & Tobago, forcing the England team to fly half way round the world after a long, tiring season, in order to further line Warner’s bulging pockets with cash, sorry, to celebrate the anniversary of the local Football Federation.

"If looks could kill"

To be fair to the FA, their groveling strategy of pimping out the national team did appear to be paying dividends for a while. After Warner had once again profited from the beautiful game with his tried-and-trusted strategy of selling tickets at vastly inflated prices and had enjoyed his photo opportunity with the England captain, David Beckham, he duly made some nice noises about England’s proposal after the FA asked him to “clarify” his position:

The time has come. The fact is they invented this sport. They last held the World Cup 42 years ago. That is almost two to three generations. There are guys in England who have never seen a World Cup on English soil.

This conversion to “Union Jack” represented a remarkable turnaround from his previous stance, when he had asserted:

England invented the sport but has never made any impact on world football. England is an irritant. Nobody in Europe likes England.

As they say, a leopard never changes its spots and Jack Warner has a history of alleged corruption as long as his considerable career with FIFA, having been frequently accused of taking advantage of his position for financial gain.

"Show me the money"

During the 2006 World Cup, Warner worked his connections at FIFA to ensure that his family controlled Trinidad & Tobago’s allocation of tickets, which they then sold to ordinary fans at vastly inflated prices. Independent auditors Ernst & Young estimated that Warner’s family made a profit of at least $1 million from this operation. Secret minutes from FIFA’s Executive Committee revealed that Warner’s son, Daryan, was ordered to pay a $1 million fine to charity “to compensate for the profits it had made through the resale of 2006 FIFA World Cup tickets”. Despite numerous reminders from FIFA, apparently only $250,000 has ever been paid, which, by an incredible coincidence, is exactly the same amount as FIFA’s annual grant to the Trinidad & Tobago Football Federation.

This is not the first time Warner was accused of acting like a sordid ticket tout, as the Daily Mail had pointed the finger at him for making $350,000 from a similar scalping operation at the 2002 World Cup.

"One day, son, all of this will be yours"

Also at the 2006 World Cup Warner trousered even more cash from his own players, the Soca Warriors. The self-appointed “special adviser” had brokered a deal with the Football Federation, whereby the players would receive 50% of the proceeds from their participation in Germany. In a now familiar move, Warner’s other son, Daryll, was placed in charge of the company looking after sponsors’ contributions. After the tournament, Warner claimed that once expenses had been deducted from the revenue of TT$ 18 million, a pool of only TT$ 350,000 remained. However, he had employed the most creative accounting imaginable, estimating expenses for “lost” receipts, deducting a third of the money “to prepare Trinidad for the 2010 World Cup”, “forgetting” to include money contributed by the government and including revenue from sponsors which appeared to be significantly lower than their press releases claimed.

When the case was brought to independent arbitration, the Trinidad & Tobago government revealed that the Federation had received over TT$ 173 million, nearly ten times Warner’s estimate, and the players were awarded everything they claimed. To date, Warner’s response has been restricted to banning the players from representing their country. He has not paid them a single cent on the grounds that the decision was “nullified” after it had been leaked to the Trinidad Guardian (whose editor has written two glowing biographies of a certain Jack Warner). The players’ lawyer lamented:

This is a sporting and financial scandal, which the major football authorities are ignoring. Jack Warner, a FIFA vice-president and president of CONCACAF, is involved up to his neck, yet nothing is done about it. He has shown by banning the players that he cares nothing about Caribbean football and their golden generation, only his own financial well-being.

When Trinidad staged FIFA’s Under-17 championship in 2001, FIFA (well, actually Jack Warner) described it as “the best run and most successful world event ever”. In terms of boosting his own Family Fortunes, you can say that again. Ignoring any conflicts of interest, Warner, in his role as chairman of the organising committee, had a say in allocating the construction contracts to build four stadia and also owned the exclusive television rights. His travel agency handled the flight tickets for teams and officials and some teams stayed at hotels where he had an interest. Of course, his sons also got in on the act: the catering contract was awarded to Daryan, while Daryll was granted a $2 million contract for video screens in hotel lobbies. How do you spell “nepotism”?

"Let me tell you"

Nearer to home, Scottish Football Association President John McBeth claimed that Warner asked for the cheque for the $75,000 match fee from a friendly match between Scotland and Trinidad & Tobago to be made out to him personally, rather than his Football Federation. When McBeth refused, Warner approached several other members of the SFA with the same request.

Given his kleptomaniac tendencies and oft-documented involvement in questionable practices, there is a delicious irony in Warner’s recent criticism of cheating on the football pitch and his approval for the use of sin bins for divers in next year’s World Cup Finals. When you’re in a glass house, don’t throw stones.

In the past, Jack has occasionally played the racism card, and, to be fair, he can speak on this subject with some authority, having been captured on camera screaming, “No foreigner, particularly a white foreigner, will come to my country and harass me”, when the BBC dared to question some of his actions. Perhaps a reminder of FIFA’s Ethics Code is in order: “Racism has no place in football. FIFA is deploying all the means at its disposal to eliminate this form of discrimination” – except when it applies to a member of its own Executive Committee obviously.

"Where's my goody bag?"

As the late, great Alan Clark once admitted in the witness box, Warner has also sometimes been "economical with the actualité". in 2006 he instructed his lawyer to write to the BBC, claiming that investigative reporter Andrew Jennings had hit him in the mouth with his hand microphone at an airport in Trinidad. A few weeks later, millions of Panorama viewers saw that Jennings didn’t have a hand microphone, but was wearing a clip microphone on his shirt collar. Furthermore, Warner didn’t suffer a blow from anyone. In fact, it was Warner doing the punching. Unsurprisingly, Warner never did risk any legal action.

Having been a member of FIFA’s Executive Committee since 1983 and the President of CONCACAF (the Confederation of North, Central American and Caribbean Association Football) since 1990, Jack Warner is one of the most powerful men in world football. He is a close ally of FIFA President Sepp Blatter, controlling 35 of the 207 votes at FIFA’s congress. In 2003, Warner boomed:

I have told Mr. Blatter that whenever he is running for election, do not come to campaign in CONCACAF. He doesn’t have to. Don’t waste his time. CONCACAF has 35 votes. He gets 35.

"33, 34, that's 35 votes"

Is that the agreement? Blatter gets the FIFA presidency for life; FIFA turns a blind eye to Jack’s disreputable activities. When Warner’s involvement in the World Cup tickets scandal was brought before FIFA’s Executive Committee, his great buddy Sepp did little more than rap his knuckles:

The committee expressed its disapproval … drawing attention to the fact that Mr. Warner should be more cautious and prudent. That is all there is to say in relation to this affair and we now consider the case closed.

Apparently, there was no evidence that Warner had infringed FIFA rules, as “the person who did the re-selling is not subject to the FIFA jurisdiction, because it is the son of Jack Warner”. Oh, that’s alright then. This is clearly not a case for FIFA’s much-trumpeted Ethics Committee, lead by our very own Lord Coe. Warner’s treatment was in stark contrast to fellow Executive Committee member Ismail Bhamjee, who was ordered to resign after selling twelve 2006 World Cup tickets at three times their face value. By coincidence, Bhamjee had been due to vacate his position at the end of that year in any case, having failed to win re-election.

"Meet El Presidente"

Returning to the 2018 World Cup bid, I don’t really care if England gets the tournament, but Warner’s criticism is laughable. Speaking at the Leaders in Football conference, he harrumphed:

England cannot count on our vote for the World Cup. It is time to wake up. I am saying that if you don't get your act together you will lose. You have no divine right to host the World Cup. I was in Rio last week and my colleagues were talking about Spain, Russia and USA. Not many talk about England. You had it in 1966, is it your turn to have it now?

He went on to suggest that the FA should make better use of David Beckham and even the Queen in their campaign. We already know how much Jack loves schmoozing with the great and good after his recent trip to Washington to meet President Obama. This is also the man who demanded that Nelson Mandela flew to Zurich to meet him on the eve of the vote for the 2006 World Cup, even though Mandela’s doctors said that it might kill him. Everyone should kiss his ring. After all, he’s Jack Warner. This encouragement to “start galloping” is yet another volte face from the very same man who had previously advised the FA not to act like a colonial power, but to remain humble and not to get in people’s faces.

"This time next year, we'll be millionaires"

At the same conference Jack noted that some bid committees gave each attendee a free goody bag:

I came here and was shocked that I got a bag for Australia at the entrance. Why isn’t there a bag for England? People are looking at these things and asking themselves questions.

Are they really? Or are they just saying spend more money to entertain and impress us before the vote? I’ve got a couple of suggestions for you: (1) keep your big mouth shut to maintain a semblance of independence and impartiality; (2) judge each bid purely on its merits. The criteria used should include boring details like the quality of the football grounds, the infrastructure and other facilities. The truth is that England could host a World Cup tomorrow, like a number of other major European nations, but England last hosted the World Cup in 1966, while others have staged it much more recently (Germany 2006 and 1974, France 1998, Italy 1990, Spain 1982).

"Jack in the box"

So why has Jack now decided to put the boot in? Past history would indicate that it’s his subtle plea to “show me the money”. His wealth may have suffered in the credit crunch, so it must be time to replenish the coffers. He knows that the more he slates the English, the more he will get from them. Don’t be surprised if you hear the announcement of a money-spinning friendly at the new Wembley featuring Trinidad & Tobago in the near future. Or maybe some sort of investment in “youth development” in the Caribbean. Or even English support for any campaign by Trinidad & Tobago to host the 2018 Commonwealth Games. In fact, anything where Jack can see the Dollar signs.

There may be an even more Machiavellian undertone to Jack’s comments, as he starts chipping away at the bids he does not favour. Is the fix in? Has FIFA already decided who will get the richest prize in world football? This might just be the beginning of a “killing me softly” campaign that will let the English down gently. Looking at the candidates, would it really surprise anyone if the tournament were awarded to President Obama (sorry, USA) or Prime Minister Putin (sorry, Russia)? We shall see.

"Don't mention any backhanders"

The conventional wisdom is that Warner must be “looked after” if England are to win the 2018 World Cup bid, which is why the FA is so terrified of offending the sleazy money-grabber. He can shoot his mouth off all day long, safe in the knowledge that nobody associated with the campaign dare make the slightest criticism of his absurd behaviour for fear of the votes he holds. However, the FA would do well to remember the old saying that if you dine with the devil, you should bring a long spoon. It’s a pity that those involved cannot say publicly what they must think in private about this unprincipled buffoon. Even the normally acidic UK media rarely go further than calling him “controversial”, instead of telling him to “Jack it in”.

In an ideal world, they would surely love to follow Roy Keane’s example of a few years ago. After Warner condemned the then Sunderland manager for refusing to release Dwight Yorke for a Trinidad match, even though Keane claimed that Yorke had retired from international football, the Irishman told Warner that he was a clown, vowing to have nothing more to do with him, “If he’s vice-president of FIFA, God help everybody”.

Having to suck up to the likes of Warner seems to be the price you have to pay to host a World Cup. Greedy, dishonest “presidents” like him are the reason why it is not worth getting involved in this humiliating, squalid process. To paraphrase his classy response to a Panorama reporter, Jack Warner can go fuck himself.

Love Bites

With the popularity of the teen movie Twilight and the cult TV series True Blood, vampires are one again in fashion, but at this stage in the game you would not expect to discover a truly original film in this genre, as just about every conceivable aspect of the vampire myth has been explored and exploited in the many years since Nosferatu first bared his fangs. However, last year a Swedish horror film came along that mined the legend for all sorts of insinuating variations and challenging new themes.

Although undeniably a scary movie, it could be argued that the vampire element in Let The Right One In is actually a sub-plot of the true story, which describes the unfolding relationship between a bullied 12 year-old called Oskar and his new best friend, tough girl Eli. Indeed, John Ajvide Lindqvist, the writer of the screenplay and the bestselling novel on which it was based, explained his idea “as an attempt to portray the area that I grew up in, and not as a vampire story”. One of the pleasures of Let The Right One In is that it takes a while to reveal what sort of film it is, that is to say, a mesmerising exploration of loneliness and alienation via a masterful transformation of the vampire movie into an innovative, touching, heartwarming story about friendship and love.

"The first cut is the deepest"

Yes, there are many horrifying, bloody moments, but the focus is on the harrowing coming-of-age of the isolated pre-teens. Theirs is an urgent friendship, conveying all the awkwardness and pain of growing up with a convincing naturalism, but it’s also under-stated in a way that demonstrates a great observation of how children behave on the brink of adolescence. There are elements of a blossoming boy-meets-girl romance, but these are tentative, thus avoiding any hint of a melodramatic love affair.

Oskar is a shy, studious boy living with his divorced mother in the depressing Stockholm suburbs. A loner, regularly tormented by his classmates, he spends his evenings stabbing a tree with a knife, imagining revenge, “Squeal like a pig. So, scream!” One night, he meets a kindred spirit, Eli, a pale, androgynous girl his own age and they bond over a Rubik’s Cube (this is the early 80s, after all). Together, Oskar and Eli form a union against the world with Eli encouraging Oskar to stand up to his aggressors, which he later does in an unforgettable escalation of violence. Slowly, but surely, Oskar realises that Eli is different from other girls:

Oskar: Are you a vampire?

Eli: I live off blood ... yes.

Oskar: Are you ... dead?

Eli: No. Can't you tell?

Rather than being frightened, Oskar is actually more intrigued, his desire for the friendship of someone his own age over-riding the fact that Eli is cold to the touch. She transforms his life – teaching him to defend himself, piercing his solitude – and there’s no turning back.

"Yes, I'm a big fan of Cubism"

Kåre Hedebrant, with his blond hair and translucent skin, is a fascinating choice to play Oskar, and he makes the character seem remote, withdrawn and a little creepy. Cursed with an unfortunate page-boy haircut and a permanently runny nose, he is a magnet for the school bullies and it is hard not to feel sorry for him. Even though Eli is a vampire, Oskar is at that age when he calmly accepts astonishing facts. Instinctively, he knows enough to leave certain questions well alone.

Eli, played by Lina Leandersson, is the (undead) girl next door, exhibiting all the signs of a classical vampire: never venturing out in daylight, leaving buildings without having to use the stairs and strangely impervious to the cold (even for a Scandinavian). However, this is one bloodsucker that will attract your sympathies. Although consumed by a desperate craving, she resembles a hunted animal, stricken with a terrible disease that means she has to kill other people and drink their blood to survive. This necessity makes her a breath of fresh air, even if she occasionally gives off the faint scent of a decaying corpse. Although recognizably a child, Eli’s dark, straggly hair and haunted appearance express all the loneliness of her condition and make her look as old as time itself. Indeed, Leandersson’s voice was over-dubbed with a less feminine one to provide the incongruity of a 200 year-old vampire in a young girl’s body – and make her all the more menacing.

Oskar: Are you really twelve?

Eli: Yes. It's just I've been twelve for a very long time.

"Just hanging around"

Oskar and Eli are clearly mirror images of each other, like two sides of the same coin. Dark, strong and brave, Eli is everything that the blond, fragile Oskar is not. However, it is a voyage of discovery for the two protagonists, as they realise that they are outsiders equally struggling to survive in an oppressive world, both thirsting for blood: he fantasises about stabbing his tormentors, while she needs the red stuff to stay alive.

Oskar: Who are you?

Eli: I'm like you.

Oskar: What do you mean?

Eli: What are you staring at? Well? Are you looking at me? So, scream! Squeal! Those were the first words I heard you say.

Oskar: I don't kill people.

Eli: No, but you'd like to, if you could. To get revenge. Right?

Oskar: Yes.

Eli: Oskar, I do it because I have to.

It becomes apparent that they need each other, as each offers what the other one lacks: he gets the strength to face down his bullies, while she gains acceptance. What they have in common is more important than what sets them apart and the reality that they share is that they are both achingly alone.

"How do we sleep when our beds are burning?"

In one of the movie’s principal ironies, Eli is the only person who treats Oskar with anything resembling humanity, so much so that Oskar thinks it’s time to go steady:

Oskar: Will you be my girlfriend?

Eli: Oskar, I’m not a girl.

It’s a heartbreaking moment, but shows that Oskar is unwilling to forsake Eli, even when he knows that she is a vampire, as he is aware of the tragic implications of her plight. She, in turn, comes to his aid when he needs it most in the extraordinary final confrontation. The central story is about accepting love when it comes to you, even if it comes from the strangest places. Young love is complicated, especially if you fall for a vampire, but when the options are limited, you allow anyone into your life. However, the film’s title sounds an alarm and there is a disquieting ambiguity over whether Eli’s motives for befriending Oskar are of a darker nature, possibly grooming him as the replacement for Håkan, her old protector, who has become increasingly ineffective at providing her with the blood she needs. Will Eli be a girlfriend “to die for” in more senses than one?

"Wall of silence"

The two young actors deliver astonishingly powerful performances in these emotionally draining roles, managing to combine the deeply moving innocence of childhood with a strange kind of grown-up weariness. Amid the ice-cold landscape, there is such warmth in their gauche, unconventional relationship that we care more for them than they appear to care about themselves. Hedebrand infects Oskar with a quiet vulnerability, even as he slowly regains his self respect, while Leandersson manages to convey a timeless resignation in her blank expression.

In contrast to the children’s evolving worldliness, the adults are portrayed as being generally useless, so that Oskar and Eli are forced to grow up quickly and take matters into their own hands. Oskar’s parents are divorced and pay him only as much attention as they can fit into their busy schedules. Eli’s “guardian” attempts to find victims to provide blood for his charge, but he is staggeringly incompetent and slow, picking the most unsuitable locations, forcing Eli to stake out (see what I did there?) her own targets. Then, there is the town’s collection of sad alcoholics, who do not allow the growing list of bodies to impinge upon their drab lives, until one actually witnesses a murder from his balcony – though they’re not above mocking themselves, “Thank you again for another evening steeped in merriment and friendship”.

"Once bitten, twice shy"

The sexual aspect of vampire mythology has been deliberately downplayed, given the extreme youth of the main characters. For this reason, Eli’s adult helper, Håkan, who is a paedophile in the novel, becomes a submissive acolyte in the movie, as this theme would have distracted from the story of the two young soulmates. The film also handles the issue of Eli’s gender more ambiguously than the book, which presents her/him as a boy castrated by a sadistic nobleman. In the film, we are offered a glimpse of a suggestive scar, when Eli changes into a dress and, of course, she does inform Oskar that she’s not a girl. However, I still think that the best interpretation is to consider Eli a female, as this works best for her relationship with Oskar in the movie.

Directed by Tomas Alfredson, the story unravels with subtlety and restraint, allowing the violent moments to speak for themselves rather than artificially boosting them with cinematic trickery and sound effects. Paced with the meticulous deliberation of a killer stalking his prey, Alfredson’s unhurried, matter-of-fact style draws the viewer into the film, allowing you to learn about Eli exactly as Oskar does. He infuses the film with a low key, unsentimental naturalism that produces maximum believability. The dialogue is sparse, though every spoken word feels important, and characters communicate just as much through occasional glances and meaningful stares.

"Bully for you"

There are some truly memorable scenes, especially the jaw-dropping finale in a swimming pool when Oskar’s bullies come to an untimely end, with their demise uniquely witnessed from his underwater perspective. When Oskar suggests to Eli that they should cement their relationship with a blood bond, he cuts his hand, provoking Eli to savagely lap up the spilt blood from her floor. We freeze in anticipation of what she might do to him, but she is able to hold back just enough to beg Oskar to leave. Further evidence of Eli’s vampire abilities comes with a spectacular, rapid ascent up the side of a building, followed by Oskar’s puzzlement when she leaves his room through the window. Supporting our heroes are numerous offbeat characters, including a woman bitten by Eli who bursts into flames when sunlight streams through her blinds in the morning; a bully who bursts into tears every time he attacks Oskar; and a neighbour who lives in a cramped apartment over-run by cats.

The film realistically depicts an early 80s Stockholm suburbia that is unremittingly hostile, complete with Cold War tensions over the discovery of a Russian submarine in Swedish waters (and I should know, for I lived there during this period). It captures the desolate, snowy landscape so well that you can really feel the cold. There is a remarkable stillness to many of the film’s indelible images, so that the exterior looks almost frozen. Everything is bathed in the chilly glare of grayish sunlight reflecting on the snow with this muted colour palette only occasionally lifted by splashes of red. Most of the violent scenes are shot in the distance, which somehow only serves to make them more disturbing. In contrast, Alfredson’s camera lingers on the midnight snowflakes that fall on the children’s hands, as their fingers gently intertwine for the first time.

"Blondes have more fun?"

The soundscape also helps establish the captivating mood. Eschewing Hollywood’s standard reliance on blood-curdling special effects and dramatic music to announce a murder, the audacious sound design focuses on the intimate: the morse code tapped on the walls of the children’s adjoining bedrooms; Oskar’s wintry breaths; and blood slowly dripping into a plastic funnel. It’s as if the thick snow deadens the sound with the first few moments of the film virtually silent. The musical score sounds hopeful and romantic, in contrast to the horrific events taking place, and was described by the Ain’t It Cool News website as “scrupulously weaving together strains of bone-chillingly cold horror with the encompassing warmth of newly acquired love”.

Like all the best horror movies, it takes vampire mythology very seriously, though don’t expect overwrought conventions like crosses, garlic, trembling bosoms or bloody fangs here. As the title, from a song by professional miserabilist Morrissey, implies, a vampire can only enter a home if invited, and one of the key questions posed by the film is what happens if you don’t invite a vampire in, but they cross the threshold anyway? In this case, Eli slowly begins to bleed from her eyes, ears and every pore, as she comes to the aid of Oskar. Yet, this is far from a gore fest with the sporadic moments of bloodshed making them all the more startling. Although not a truly frightening film, it belongs to the school of movies that are genuinely unsettling in their ambiguity, like Don’t Look Now and The Shining.

"There will be blood"

You can imagine the marketing men flinching at the prospect of funding a movie with no specific target market, but thankfully the writers had the courage of their convictions, producing a gripping reshaping of the vampire myth and a fiercely intelligent arthouse movie. Let The Right One In is a remarkably moving evocation of the loneliness and terrors of childhood; a truly original and inspirational film that pumps new blood into a well-trodden genre.

Monkey Business

William Boyd could justifiably claim to be the greatest British living novelist, but he is strangely unfashionable compared to his contemporaries, such as Martin Amis and Ian McEwan, possibly because he wields his intellectual power so lightly, both in prose and life. Incredibly self-effacing for someone so talented, he possesses few of the attributes normally associated with major literary figures, but he may well be the writer of his generation most likely to be remembered.

Admittedly, he is a difficult writer to classify with a prolific body of work including eleven novels, three collections of short stories and numerous screenplays. He is a comic writer, but not exclusively so; he is a satirist, but not on a grand scale; he is a historical novelist, but only up to a point. Three of his novels have adopted the format of a life story (the memoir The New Confessions, the journal Any Human Heart and Nat Tate: An American Artist, a fake biography that conned the pretentious New York art scene).

"Don't call me scarf-face"

Perhaps most significantly, he is a British writer, but he has strong roots in Africa. Indeed, he was born in Accra, attending schools in Ghana and Nigeria. The African connection links Boyd with an earlier generation of British writers who had directly experienced that continent, so it is no surprise that Evelyn Waugh and Graham Greene are often cited as his influences. Boyd made good use of his “memories of an amazing time in an amazing place” when writing about his experiences there in his early, darkly comic novels A Good Man In Africa and An Ice Cream War.

Boyd repeated the trick of producing an excellent story (largely) set in Africa with Brazzaville Beach, in which primate researcher Hope Clearwater makes a shocking discovery about the devastating cruelties of apes and humans alike. The young ecologist is alone, far from her family in England, as she contemplates the extraordinary events that left her washed up like driftwood on, you guessed it, Brazzaville Beach. Here, she must come to terms with the perplexing and troubling circumstances of her past and the only chance she has of moving forward is to grasp some hard and elusive truths: about marriage and madness, about the greed and savagery of the scientific community and, most of all, about what compels seemingly affectionate creatures to kill for pleasure alone.

"Books Etc"

This is a novel that can be enjoyed on many levels: vividly created characters, a sense of time and place, a gripping multi-layered plot and thought-provoking ideas, including scientific and philosophical theories. On one level, the intellectual narrative is rich and intricate, but on another it remains accessible to all readers as pure entertainment, because it slips by like a good, old-fashioned adventure story. Boyd is a truly accomplished storyteller, so the juxtaposition of Hope’s observations of the chimps with life in the camp, war in the emerging nation, the cut-throat world of academic research and her personal history make for a compelling read. It’s a book containing many challenging notions, but the author never forgets to entertain. His prose is rich and evocative, as can be seen in the book’s first sentence:

I never really warmed to Clovis – he was far too stupid to inspire real affection – but he always claimed a corner of my heart, largely, I supposed, because of the way he instinctively and unconsciously cupped his genitals whenever he was alarmed or nervous.

Clovis, of course, is a chimpanzee ...

Brazzaville Beach consists of three separate narratives, though they are really three episodes of one story – the life of Hope Clearwater. The first describes her former marriage to John Clearwater, a brilliant, but psychologically unstable mathematician, whose failure to make progress in his academic research gradually drives him mad. The second strain, taking up the bulk of the novel, features an older Hope working as an anthropologist in an African national park called Grosso Arvore, where she immerses herself in her research in the hope (geddit?) that this will afford her the emotional distance needed to heal the wounds of her shattered personal life. Unfortunately, her discovery of the violent nature of the chimpanzees that she is observing brings her into conflict with her employer, Eugene Mallabar, whose own work paints a far more peaceful picture, plunging Hope into another crisis which threatens not just her professional career, but her life. Flickering in the background is a long-running civil war, which also impacts Hope, as she is captured by the guerilla leader, Dr. Amilcar. During the third section, Hope reflects on the events of her life while recovering in a beach house on Brazzaville Beach, examining the complex circumstances that brought her there for evidence of her own innocence or guilt.

"Winner of Clive James lookalike contest"

The threads on Hope’s failed marriage and her chimpanzee research both centre on the quest for knowledge and the mania that can result from its pursuit. Indeed, the book’s introduction contains a quote from Socrates, “The unexamined life is not worth living”, and the book tackles some of the core questions of Man’s existence. Hope explains the thrill of seeking scientific advancement:

In her work she was achieving something irrefutably concrete. However recondite, however parochial, she was adding a few grains of sand to that vast hill that was the sum of human knowledge.

It takes the charismatic Dr. Amilcar to warn Hope of the dangers of academic obsession, which has already sent her husband mad, as his glimpses of mathematical truth became ever more hard to pin down:

The pursuit of knowledge is the road to hell. You think that if you know everything you can escape from the world.

The book conveys a very clear message about the harsher and more sinister side to Man’s character, drawing several strong parallels between the chimpanzees’ violent behaviour and the conflicts surrounding Hope. Most obviously, this refers to the massive egos, petty jealousies and underlying tensions within the scientific team, but there are also allusions to the civil war taking place in the African country. At the same time, it reveals that the apes’ society is more human-like than anyone had previously suspected, as the usually gentle chimps engage in organised aggression, deliberate cruelty and other remarkably human acts. They even resort to cannibalism and you could argue that Hope herself is subjected to “academic cannibalism”, as her discoveries are stolen by the senior professor. Unlike many other books, in no way does this one attempt to romanticise animals, partly based on the assistance received from Jane Goodall, the famed primate researcher, but possibly also mindful of Tennyson’s description of Nature as “red in tooth and claw”. Similarly, when the thin veneer of civilisation is stripped away in the jungle, it is clear that Man has to accept that he does indeed possess a dark heart.

"A well-known vigneron and sometime author"

The book is filled with mathematical and scientific metaphors, attempting to match John Clearwater’s chaos theory research to the vagaries, indeed the chaos, of Hope’s own life:

The if clauses would go backward through my life toward the day of my birth, tracing my personal route through the forking paths of happen-stance and whim, my selections, willed and unwilled, from the spread deck of infinite alternatives and chances that the world and time offered.

Of course, Robert Frost expressed this just as eloquently:

Two roads diverged in a yellow road, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Each chapter begins with a passage printed in italics dealing with her husband’s groundbreaking work in a way that relates to the narrative, e.g. turbulence theory as Hope’s marriage becomes more, er, turbulent; catastrophe theory as it disintegrates. Although the book includes much esoteric science, the complex details are very well explained (“like a considerate host showing a guest around his house”, according to the New York Times) and it is fascinating to see how accurately these manage to convey people’s emotions.

"Off the top of my head"

Much of the book’s power comes from the clever intertwining of the different narrative strands. This is a challenging structure, yet both stories complement each other. In fact, the effect is to increase the considerable suspense of both tales, as thematic echoes are created between them. The mental collapse of Hope’s husband finds numerous parallels in the breakdown of relationships between the two rival groups of chimps. Boyd weaves the material together in captivating fashion partly through his usual impeccable research, but manly from his gift of pure storytelling.

Another literary device Boyd uses to distinguish the narratives is to alternate between different perspectives and tenses. Hope’s time in Africa is written in the present tense from the first person perspective, so you can slip into her mind and listen to her thoughts. On the other hand, the account of her marriage is written in the past tense in the third person, as if she were a stranger, emphasising how far removed from the past she wants to be.

"Buoyed by his success?"

In many ways, Hope makes a good feminist character: determined, but not pushy; intelligent, but no pseud; often conflicted about what the best course of action is; and sometimes mistaken. Her struggle for respect, both in her professional field and her personal life, lies at the heart of her deeds. She is a very realistic character: strong, while most of the men are weak and flawed. Although she does not really know what she wants, she defines herself by what she does not want: an ordinary, dull and dependent life. Boyd is one male author who is able to convincingly write from the point of view of a woman, having also included a memorable female character in The Blue Afternoon.

All the characters that surround Hope are beautifully crafted, most evidently her tortured husband who finds inspiration digging ditches in unusual places and her Egyptian lover, a mercenary pilot who flies sorties against rebel army groups. Equally noteworthy are the likeable rebel leader, her enigmatic project leader and his frigid wife and her charming academic advisor. Despite the focus on scientific ideas, there are many humorous moments, such as tiny airplanes powered by horse flies and a rebel army composed of a volleyball team.

"Plenty of grey matter"

Brazzaville Beach is a profound meditation on what makes us human, an extraordinary parable about mankind, which is also an immensely entertaining read – with a bit of chaos theory thrown in for good measure. At one stage, Hope recalls a famous philosopher suggesting that there are three questions that every human should ask himself. These are answered by her husband as follows:

What can I know? Nothing for sure.

What ought I to do? Try not to hurt anyone.

What may I hope for? For the best (but it won’t make any difference).

So, even this fanatical mathematician came to realise that the pursuit of knowledge may be very worthwhile, but it keeps you from what matters most, namely knowing about yourself.

Sound Of The Crowd

Crowded House are surely one of the most contradictory bands in the history of popular music. Every time it looked like they were on the verge of commercial success, they appeared to deliberately shy away from the implications of international stardom. Just after chart success arrived in the UK in the form of “Weather With You” and “Four Seasons In One Day”, frontman Neil Finn’s brother Tim decided to leave the band. A few years later in 1996, Neil himself decided to call it a day when the band were at the height of their success following the release of their greatest hits album “Recurring Dream”. Neil agreed with this accusation:

I am a mass of contradictions. I am always ambitious for the songs, but there was an anxiety attached to celebrity that I recoiled from. I don’t really like being famous. What I like is a song being famous.

With his rich sense of melody, sumptuous harmonies and mysterious yet accessible lyrics, Neil Finn is indeed widely recognised as a truly outstanding songwriter. Finn is from New Zealand and his songs have an edge and non-conformism that comes from being nurtured outside of the American/British musical mainstream. A Crowded House song found the happy medium between sounding instantly approachable, but at the same time being something deeper and more transcendental. Although full of precise, poetic lines, the beautiful lyrics are still ambiguous enough for personal interpretation. As Finn said:

I figure if you leave a series of doors slightly open, then people can go through any one of them. I rely on a process of things dropping into my head from the here and now and then immediately suggesting something in the ethereal world as well. That mixing up of the domestic side of life and greater truths is kind of what fuels the songs.

"Driving in my car"

Their music was permeated with a sense of loss, but simultaneously uplifted by an appreciation of life. Even when a song delivers a poignant or melancholy message, there is always a touch of lightness or humour hidden within another layer. The lyrics may be darkly reflective, but the lightness of the fantastic melodies can still raise your spirits. Some joked that Crowded House were a little bit like the second coming of The Beatles. That’s a bit steep, but the comparison is not completely invalid, when you consider the superb song craft, the satisfying blend of pop with an adventurous sound palette and the barely concealed depth running throughout their work.

There is a sense that their songs and spirit are rooted in everyday struggles. Even the band’s name alludes to the cramped quarters they shared in Los Angeles when making their first album. Before forming Crowded House, Neil Finn and drummer Paul Hester had for many years been striving to make their mark with cult New Zealand band Split Enz, so it was maybe inevitable that their music would reflect this journey.

"Here come the Men in Black"

“Woodface” was the band’s commercial high-water mark, featuring most of their hit singles, but “Together Alone” was their artistic masterpiece, an altogether darker and more atmospheric record. This was an astonishing departure, much more ambitious, exotic and multi-layered. It felt like a windswept coastline compared to the sun-drenched pop of “Woodface” (“Chocolate Cake”, anyone?) Neil once again started to write meaningful, heartfelt songs, which maybe he had been too shy to sing in the presence of his older brother, Tim, who had been such a driving force on the classic pop tunes of “Woodface”. If previous albums could have been accused of being too mannered, “Together Alone” captured Crowded House at their most raw and emotional.

Released in October 1993, “Together Alone” packs quite an eclectic punch. More experimental and musically varied than any of their previous outings, the album explores a multitude of mood and style, ranging from dreamy ballads to powerful balls out rock. Hip dance producer Martin Glover, better known as Youth from Killing Joke, was hired to bring more spontaneity to the recording process with the idea of creating a more organic and less polished sound, resulting in the most complex, adventurous and insightful effort in the band’s discography.

"Black and White Boy"

More distorted, effects-laden guitars than heard before helped the band achieve a heightened sense of ambience and slightly off-centre arrangements imbued a sense of brooding to the whole affair. Densely layered, the melancholy lurking around the edges of much of the band’s material came out of the shadows into the foreground. Like all of the group’s best efforts, ugly scenes are juxtaposed with pretty, enticing guitars to retain an air of looseness, ensuring that the brilliance of Finn’s songwriting is never lost in the mix.

The album was recorded at an isolated beach called Kare Kare on the west coast of New Zealand (“the end of the earth”, as Finn called it) and the primal wonder of the location washes through into the record’s grooves. Finn pays tribute to his native Kiwi homeland from the opening track “Kare Kare” to the anthemic closer “Together Alone”. Obviously named after the beach, “Kare Kare” is a wonderful mood setting song, perfectly capturing the aesthetic mood of the place with melancholic strings and a delay-ridden, high-pitched guitar calling like a whale in the distance, “Sleep by no means comes too soon/In a valley lit by the moon”.

"On bass ... Magnum P.I."

The amazingly powerful title track closes the album with an evocative meditation on loneliness and death, “Together alone/Shallow and deep/Holding our breath/Paying death no heed/I'm still your friend/When you are in need/As is once will always be/Earth and sky/Moon and sea”. Utilising a traditional Maori choir and log drummers, the song is a spectacular achievement that crosses cultural boundaries, but above all is a great finale.

There are many other equally emotional, profoundly moving songs that combine to form a sublime collection, a smouldering elegy to a relationship too painful to continue, but too inextricable to fully exorcise. “Private Universe” is a gem, an under-stated epic that may just be the best thing that Neil Finn has ever done. It crackles with strange, shimmering noises and other sonic distortions, creating a disturbing ambience, as we enter Neil’s most personal sanctuary where love is truly all he needs, “I will run for shelter/Endless summer lift the curse/It feels like nothing matters/In our private universe”.

"Hello, Sydney"

Just as emotionally powerful, “Distant Sun” is probably the most accurate, heart-rending description of a man’s view of marriage as you will ever hear, “Easy to forget what you learn/Waiting for the thrill to return/Feeling your desire burn/As you’re drawn to the flame”. What is already a deeply affecting song manages to find an even higher gear, when Finn cries out with all of his heart, “I don’t pretend to know what you want/But I offer love”.

The trance-like “Fingers Of Love” is a worthy heir to the exquisite “Fall At Your Feet” with a wonderfully psychedelic feel, “Can you imagine that/An itch too sensitive to scratch/The light that falls through the cracks/An insect too delicate to catch”. The title of “Nails In My Feet” speaks for itself, but says nothing of the gentle, fresh melody, its extended metaphor (“My life is a house/You crawl through the window/Skip across the floor and into the reception room”) or the seamless passage to its conclusion, “And it brings me relief”.

"A tired Neil Finn"

Several rockier tracks offer a lively contrast to the slower songs and are far more intense than their counterparts on previous albums, leaving the listener in no doubt that commercial objectives are not paramount. The thundering “Black And White Boy” contains the grungiest guitar you could ever want. The song is obviously written about a friend suffering from wild mood swings (“And you're full of the wonder of spring/It's all sweetness and lightness you bring/ But when demons have climbed on your back/You are vicious and quick to attack”), so many believe that it’s about Paul Hester, the band’s drummer, who tragically committed suicide in 2005.

The manic “Locked Out” feels like it’s been influenced by the Madchester sound, as it describes the end of a relationship, “And I know we’re through/But I can’t begin to face up to the truth/And I wait so long for the walls to crack/But I know that I’ll one day have you back”. The creepy “In My Command” owes much to The Beatles’, sitting somewhere between “Revolver” and “Sgt. Pepper”, cleverly alternating a power-pop chorus with hell-raising guitar licks, “I would love/To trouble you in your time of need/Lose your way/It's a pleasure when you're in my command”. Like many Paul Hester compositions, “Skin Feeling” was very popular during live shows, “I'm looking old/I'm feeling young/It's the truth, my child/My second life has just begun”.

"Whispers and Moans"

“Catherine Wheels” with Tim Finn on backing vocals sounded more like earlier Crowded House, probably because another version had been written years before. This is a moody, slower tempo piece, once again about a break-up, “She was always the first to say gone/She's got her Catherine wheels on”. In a similar vein, “Walking On The Spot” is a short, charming song, firmly holding any subversive elements in check, though it has a lyrical grace and charm that fuses a New Zealand feel with a Celtic flavour, “Will we be in our minds when the dawn breaks?/Can we look the milkman in the eye?/The world is somehow different/You have all been changed/Before my very eyes”. Carried along by a buoyantly irresistible acoustic guitar, “Pineapple Head” is a playful romp, but has a stark message, “And if you choose to take that path/I will play you like a shark/And I’ll clutch at your heart/I’ll come flying like a spark to inflame you”.

Multi-instrumentalist Mark Hart had been drafted into the band to replace Tim Finn and his influence becomes clear as you listen to the album with his guitar and keyboards adding a new dimension to the band’s sound. Bassist Nick Seymour was an original member of "The Crowdies", as they were called by their Australian fans, and was also responsible for the album cover artwork, featuring a black background with Jesus Christ and another godlike figure in a red car. No, I don’t know what it means either. However, the band’s best instrument, as always, was Neil Finn’s voice, which carries a real emotional clarity and resonance.

"Don't Dream It's Over"

“Together Alone” was not planned as a goodbye album, but it works well as one. The band was dissolving, but had not yet realised it and this record is a clear link between the poppy sound of Crowded House and the darker, more layered work of Neil Finn’s solo career. Fortunately for us, Neil continues to write some of the most haunting, enduring songs around, sometimes solo, sometimes with brother Tim (The Finn Brothers, would you believe?) and now, over a decade later, even with a reformed Crowded House. As the man said, “Don’t Dream It’s Over”.