Full of enthusiasm and vim, I resolve to write something about Alan Bennett and the film adaptation of his play The History Boys, recently seen on the BBC iPlayer. On my way from the armchair to the place where my Chromebook lives, I am as usual overcome by an overpowering drowsiness. I therefore elect to make myself a cup of coffee before getting down to the task of posting this entry. But still feeling overwhelmingly tired, I decide to check whether I have written about Bennett before (anything rather than the impossible task of committing my thoughts to the screen). As a matter of fact I have, and find myself astonished by the brilliance of my prose. Was I really capable of such quality writing only 11 years ago? I find it hard to believe.
Apart from being near contemporaries (Bennett is 10 years older than me) and beset by shyness, we have precious little in common: I am lumbered with a second-class brain and beset by congenital laziness, whereas Bennett is owner of a rare intelligence; my roots are in East Anglia, Bennett's in Yorkshire; I belong to the impoverished Catholic middle class, Bennett to the working class. Bennett is gay, while I am straight, though a fat lot of good that has done me.
Yet I find it impossible to read, listen to or watch anything by Bennett, not to experience the thrill of recognition.
All I know is the film adaptation of The History Boys, one of the best films about teaching I know. And the scene with “Drummer Hodge” is the best moment of poetry in film I know.
ReplyDeleteDo you know much about Alan Bennett, Michael?
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