Red Joan (2019) ****

Sophie Cookson

In 1999, the scientific researcher Melita Norwood was unmasked as a Soviet spy. She was interviewed by a barrage of media in the front garden of her suburban home, but as she was so elderly and frail the government decided not to put her on trial. That rather odd little tale, sad in its own way, was the basis for Jenny Rooney’s 2013 novel Red Joan, which was later turned into a feature film by director Trevor Nunn (available via Netflix). Fictional Joan has a more glamorous pedigree than Melita, having studied natural sciences (physics) at Cambridge University, where she gets involved with student activists campaigning for aid for Republican Spain. Some of these are Communists, with links to the Soviet Union. They take her along to propaganda film shows, but she resists joining up to the Party. Later she is drafted into hush-hush work on the atomic bomb but she is so horrified by the reality of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that she starts feeding the Russians with classified information. Fast forward to the time when she is in her eighties and she is identified as a spy by MI5 — and undergoes the same impromptu press conference as Melita Norwood did.

Judi Dench

The film was widely panned when it went on general release last year, but I beg to differ. It stands or falls on the quality of the actor playing the lead character and both young Joan (Sophie Cookson) and old Joan (Judi Dench) convincingly convey the woman’s strengths and weaknesses. Young Joan is bedazzled by Cambridge and the glamorous but ultimately dangerous friends she makes there, while old Joan is distinctly baffled by the arrival of Special Branch officers at her door. After undergoing several hours of (non-violent) interrogation, which cause her to collapse, she robustly defends her past actions, declaring that the mutually assured destruction by which both sides in the Cold War acted as a deterrent against further use of the bomb had meant that it was never used again. Some critics felt that Judi Dench was underused in the film but I believe both she and Trevor Nunn judged things just right. The film portrays the conflicted, principled but perhaps misguided actions of its central character with affecting simplicity — all a far cry from the normally sensational fictional portrayal of the world of espionage.

Monsoon ****

David Tran and Henry Golding

Disconnection from one’s past can be an unsettling experience. Re-establishing the link even more so. In his mid-30s, Kit (Henry Golding) returns to the Saigon (never referred to as Ho Chi Minh City) that he left aged six with his parents and brother as boat people, fleeing the unpleasant likelihood of a Communist re-education camp. They reached Hong Kong, from which they gained asylum in Britain — chosen because his mother thought the Queen looked nice. Like many who fled Vietnam after the 1975 reunification, the parents never wished to return, refused to talk about the past and ensured that their children grew up British, to the extent that Kit speaks only rudimentary Vietnamese. But now both parents are dead and Kit has brought with him his mother’s ashes. His brother will arrive soon with those of their father. As the parents expressed no desire to return to their homeland the brothers’ action is less an act of filial piety so much as an opportunity for them to discover their roots.

Parker Sawyers and Henry Golding

For Kit, who has only hazy memories of the Saigon of his childhood, this is a difficult experience and his meetings with a close childhood friend, Lee (David Tran, in very fine form) are strained, the contrast of their financial position and experiences of the intervening three decades glaringly obvious. Kit finds it infinitely easier to relate to a black American fashion designer, Lewis (Parker Sawyers), with whom he has linked up via a gay dating site. It transpires that Lewis is also in Vietnam for very personal reasons; his father served in the War and later committed suicide. Kit takes the train up to Hanoi to find the place where his parents were born, but feels more like a tourist than a son of the soil. This tale is gently told in Hong Khaou’s wistful feature film Monsoon (available via BBC iPlayer for the next four weeks). Being Cambodian-British himself, the director understands the strains and nuances of deracination. Henry Golding, too, persuasively conveys the ambiguity of his search for the past and how to come to terms with it.

Jamaica the Land We Love

Of all the Commonwealth islands in the West Indies, Jamaica is the most varied and vibrant. The scenery ranges from the misty Blue Mountains to the beaches of Montego Bay and the waterfall at Ocho Rios. Small wonder that several British writers found sanctuary there, notably Noël Coward and Ian Fleming. But for me what really makes Jamaica special is the people and the way they live their lives, often edgy, with great personal style and graced with an unmistakable rhythm to their language, even when they are not speaking patois. And then there is the music, the reggae — and Rastafarianism. So much in a population of just three million. After the Second World War, the Windrush generation brought the tastes and sounds of Jamaican life to Britain. But to get the real flavour you need to visit the island itself. Some who do enter into a cultural love affair, which is clearly what happened to Katerina Budinova, whose book Jamaica the Land We LOVE (Austin Macauley) is a celebration of the country’s nature, culture and local people.

Taking its title from the Jamaican national anthem, the book is a collection of more than 700 colour photos that conjure up the rich diversity of the Jamaican environment and human condition. Uncaptioned, the pictures by Budinova’s “brother”, the Montego-based photographer, Michal Šott, form a cohesive ensemble. I particularly liked the unposed glimpses of people (predominantly men) going about their daily business as farmers and fishermen, street vendors and cooks. The book is divided thematically into sections, but the pictures are not captioned, which is a pity. I would have preferred a more extensive introduction, outlining how Katerina Budinova fell for Jamaica and what is especially important for her. But one can just surrender to the often quirky images and if one has already visited Jamaica, sink happily into nostalgia.

Mosul *****

A fresh-faced Kurdish rookie policeman (Adam Bessa) and an older colleague are facing death at the hands of ISIS/Daesh in the ruins of the city of Mosul when an Iraqi SWAT team almost accidentally rescues them. The young policeman, just 21 and only two months into his job, is deeply suspicious of his rather wild-looking rescuers but agrees to go along with them. It soon becomes obvious in Matthew Michael Carnahan’s action movie, Mosul (not to be confused with a 2019 documentary film with the same title), that this band of men in their battered Humvees has gone rogue, avoiding other government forces. They are on a mission, but won’t tell the “pretty boy”, as he is called by them at one moment, what that mission is. So after a while he stops asking and just goes with the flow. The current becomes increasingly violent as the unit stumbles into various dangerous situations. They take no prisoners and do not blanche as despatching enemy fighters with knives, if necessary. Their own numbers are whittled down as the casualties in men and vehicles mount, but still they press on. In one almost surreal encounter, they come across a unit led by an Iranian revolutionary guard and barter cartons of cigarettes for more ammunition. The man holding everything together is a handsome middle-aged officer (Suhail Dabbach) whom the others follow without question, until he starts to question himself. Along the way, civilians — especially children — watch the SWAT team’s staggered progress through eyes glazed over by weariness and indifference. Eventually, in a kind of epiphany, the purpose of the mission is revealed and the bloodied young policeman commits himself totally.

Suhail Dabbach

The storyline is based on true events, which gives Mosul added impact, and no expense has been spared to make the action and the surroundings as authentic as possible. Drone footage of the ruins of the once-beautiful city of Mosul in 2017-2018 powerfully sets the scene, though in fact most of the film was shot on location in Morocco. The sets are totally convincing. So too are the characters, to whom one develops considerable affection despite some of the terrible acts they commit. Suhail Dabbach (one of the few Iraqis in the cast) really commands attention and respect. One can see how men would follow him anywhere. The rest of the actors are from different countries across the MENA region, all speaking Arabic — in the local dialect — which is translated into English in the subtitles. Unlike most Iraq war films, there are no Americans or other Western characters. This is an intimately Iraqi story and all the more powerful for it. The violence is not gratuitous, though it is sometimes extreme, and it conditions the young policeman as he morphs persuasively from fresh-faced novice to battle-scarred SWAT member. Watching the film lets one accompany him on that journey and finally to see the light of humanity through the fog of war.

Second Lockdown Has Been Worse

For me, it was with a great sense of relief that London was confirmed to be in Tier 2 when the current England-wide lockdown ends next week. Though I am used to working mainly from home nonetheless I miss the camaraderie of meeting up with chums at my Clubs, or even just being able to go to the local Costa for a capuccino and cake. Or to browse in a shop other than the local supermarket. A take-away coffee or meal is no proper substitute, especially as it is too cold to sit outside now, even when there is sun. The current lockdown is only four weeks rather than the nearly four months first time round, yet I have found it much more demoralising. That is partly because of the weather; an unusually mild spring meant it was a joy to walk in the woods behind the house each afternoon to watch the different flowers emerge. And I could sit in the tiny front garden to watch the world go by — and chat to some people as they went past. Not now.

But it isn’t all about the temperatures. During the first lockdown I felt I was taking part in a big national effort to try to bring the virus under control, even if the government did start this too late. But the second lockdown that began as a second wave of COVID-19 really took hold brought with it a sense of disappointment bordering on despair and a worry that we will all go through a cycle of periodic lockdowns over the winter until an effective vaccine is rolled out across the whole country. Opening everything up for five days at Christmas strikes me as a recipe for a fresh clampdown almost immediately afterwards. Finally, there is the matter of travel, or more accurately non-travel. As someone used to regular, stimulating trips abroad, usually for work, it has been painful to have all of them evaporate, with no indication of when things might get back more to normal. I know I should be thankful that I am not in a part of the country that will be in Tier 3 from next Wednesday, but perhaps it would help all our collective mental well-being if we admitted that, frankly, second lockdown has been shit.

Mangrove *****

Notting Hill march

The Mangrove restaurant in All Saints Road, London W11, was a Notting Hill institution for two decades from 1968, serving Caribbean curries and acting as a meeting place for the local West Indian community, white radicals, artists and musicians. Its Trinidadian proprietor, Frank Crichlow, tried to keep the place drug-free, but that didn’t stop the police from raiding it, harassing the customers and smashing up property. Anti-black racism was a prominent feature of mainstream society 50 years ago and the local police station housed notoriously prejudiced bigots. Things came to a head in 1970, when nine people, including Crichlow, were charged with the new and serious offences of riot and afray following a protest march in the area which was directly confronted by the police. The trial at the Old Bailey lasted 55 days, a key player being the young barrister Ian Macdonald (later QC), who was a member of the Campaign against Racial Discrimination. Two of the accused decided to mount their own defence, notably Darcus Howe, who had studied law (and later became a significant cultural commentator). Despite the attempt by the police to sway the jury’s views with fabricated evidence all of the defendants were found not guilty of riot and afray. It was a landmark case that really highlighted just how serious the issue of racial hatred inside the Metropolitan Police was.

Trial at the Old Bailey

It’s a great story of a successful human rights campaign and Steve McQueen does it proud in his film Mangrove (available via BBC iPlayer). The scene is well set as the restaurant opens in the run-down neighbourhood where the Westway flyover is in the process of being built. Some viewers might think the nastiness of some of the white policemen must be exaggerated, but they weren’t called pigs for nothing. However, the bulk of the film takes place in and around the court room, where the atmosphere is gripping. Alex Jennings is splendid as the rather stuffy, old school judge, who clearly finds the passionate behaviour of the black defendants distasteful, yet is determined that justice will prevail. Jack Lowden portrays Ian Macdonald as an eager legal puppy determined to gets as much pleasure out of the case as possible as well as victory. Shaun Parkes captures the hesitancy of Frank Crichlow, who never wanted his restaurant to be a cause celebre, while Malachi Kirby is suitably angry and determined as Darcus Howe. Llewella Gideon puts in a delicious cameo performance as the roly-poly cook at the restaurant, who is ever ready to dance but also to kick and scream when the coppers manhandle her. All in all, this is a most engaging and powerful movie that is a fitting tribute to those who stood up for their rights.

Luxor ***

In search of past pleasures

A skinny, blonde British doctor approaching 40, Hana (Andrea Riseborough) arrives in the Egyptian city of Luxor and checks into the atmospheric but somewhat dowdy Winter Palace Hotel. She is lackluster, jaded, seemingly introspective, but that does not stop her allowing a handsome but crass tourist in the hotel bar to chat her up on the first evening and take her back to his room, from which she creeps out in the middle of the night. But it soon becomes clear that Hana is on a quest, a journey of remembrance to reclaim the enthusiasm she had for Luxor and the ancient temples and tombs on the other side of the Nile when she was there years before. Perhaps to regain enthusiasm for life. Some locals recognise her, but the only time she smiles warmly is when she is near children. Then she runs into the dashing Egyptologist, Sultan (Karim Saleh), with whom she had had an affair during her previous stay and gently he coaxes her into rekindling their passion. By this stage we have learnt that Hana has been working as a doctor on the Syria-Jordan border and that she has witnessed terrible things. In effect, she is suffering from PTSD, which explains her odd behaviour, most vividly expressed in an embarrassingly drunken dance in the Winter Palace bar. Until one realises that, however, she is really quite annoyingly detached. I think it would have been more effective if director Zeina Durra had included at least one flashback to Syria to help explain Hana’s condition. There are one or two odd scenes, notably a dream sequence in which four little girls in white dresses are seen skipping through one of the temples. In contrast, there are snatches of documentary-style reality, such as Hana and Sultan’s meeting with the real-life archaeology professor, Salima Ikram. There are some beautiful shots of antiquities and of the little ferries that criss-cross the Nile. Yet the film left me disappointed, as I felt it would have been so much more impactful if the reasons for Hana’s withdrawn nature had been made more evident.

Citizens of Everywhere

At the Conservative Party conference in October 2016, in the wake of the EU Referendum, the then Prime Minister, Theresa May, spoke derisively of “citizens of nowhere” — people who had unpatriotically abandoned their native attachment to Britain in favour of a European or even global identity. It is one of the few phrases for which Mrs May is likely to be remembered, and I doubt whether history will look on it kindly. Like Brexit, it represented a giant step backwards, away from internationalism and the values at the heart of the European project. For many Remainers, the intervening four years have been painful and even some arch-Brexiteers have, where possible, applied for a passport of an EU member state, having realised that they had curtailed their own freedom of movement. The Johnson government — personified in the smirking Home Secretary, Priti Patel — now trumpets with pride the fact that it has ended freedom of movement. As British exceptionalists, they could not bear the idea that any European had the automatic right to come to Britain if they wished. And for lots of their voters in Brexit Britain, free access to the Continent was never a high priority.

Living in Paris

For the Paris-based British journalist, Peter Gumbel, Brexit has made him feel like an orphan, abandoned by the Britain that he thought he knew. That sense of alienation is all the more acute because his Jewish grandparents had fled Germany shortly before the War, having their citizenship and most of their property stripped from them in the process. The family assimilated into the British way of life. But as Gumbel recounts in his rather moving short book, Citizens of Everywhere: Searching for Identity in the Age of Brexit (Haus, £7.99), the atmosphere around Brexit prompted him to claim the German citizenship that he was entitled to as a descendant of Jews whose citizenship had been removed. Moreover, he had come to understand that whereas Britain had been the open nation fighting against Nazi Germany, today’s Germany better represents the ideals and values previously cherished by Britain. Reconnecting with the German part of his identity actually started when he was younger, learning the language and then reveling in its literature, not least writers like Thomas Mann and Stefan Zweig who went into exile to get away from the Third Reich. As a foreign correspondent for much of his life, Peter Gumbel also experienced some of the great events of the late 20th Century, including the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of Communism in the Soviet Union — positive trends against which Brexit has established an unwelcome counteraction. By analysing both his particular personal circumstances and wider aspects of identity, the author has provided an eloquent and thought-provoking thesis that will resonate with many Brits who feel equally alienated by Brexit. As a Citizen of Everywhere, he is far from being alone.

A Fate Worse than Hollywood

David Ambrose has enjoyed half a century of success as a proficient and prolific writer of novels, plays, screenplays and TV scripts — all a far cry from his grey childhood in a working-class home in the village of Brindle in Chorley, Lancs. He begins his volume of memoirs, A Fate Worse than Hollywood (Zuleika Books, £25), with recollections of growing up in a cottage largely without books but mercifully with a radio that opened his infant mind to the world of entertainment as he sat listening to it under the stairs. He was fortunate to have an inspirational teacher at secondary school in Blackburn who recognised his talent as a story-teller and encouraged him to aim high. He got a place at Merton College, Oxford, to read Law and the college dramatic society gave him a platform to put on his own plays. By the time he moved on to London — having carefully ditched his Lancashire accent for smart BBC English — he realised that the Bar maybe wasn’t for him. He took the plunge into trying to earn a living as a writer, sleeping on friends’ floors or shacking up with understanding girlfriends. Even when low on funds he was meanwhile developing a taste for good food, fine wine and cigars.

Back at school in Blackburn

Talent, persistence and luck enabled him to make his way, especially in television and cinema. Despite the title of his book, only the last few chapters are actually about life in Tinseltown. For me, far more interesting are his earlier accounts of working in England, Italy and Romania. It was while in Ceaușescu’s Romania that he got to know Orson Welles, who became a significant friend and mentor. Later, when Ambrose was fulfilling commissions intermittently in the United States, Kirk Douglas would unexpectedly enter his orbit. The third figure who stands out strongly is Dirk Bogarde. The author retains an affectionate admiration for all three, while being aware of their shortcomings and eccentricities. He is a sharp observer of other people’s foibles and egos, their drinking problems and marriage breakdowns. Inevitably, the memoir is littered with the names of stars of stage and screen, some with little more than walk-on parts, but the narrative escapes being an extended gossip column because of the central thread of David Ambrose’s own career progression and growing self-awareness, spiced with many funny stories and self-deprecating analyses. The result is therefore illuminating as well as entertaining.

The Crown’s Triumphant Return *****

I loved the first two seasons of The Crown, not least because of Claire Foy’s sympathetic rendering of the young Queen. The historical context of some mainly peaceful examples of decolonisation such as Ghana was particularly engaging, too. But the third season was more problematic. Though Olivia Colman is one of my favourite actors, I felt her rendition of the monarch (presumably at the director’s request) too cold, too aloof, actually anti-pathetic. And elements of the plot were too far-fetched. I know faction straddles a precarious line between reality and make believe, but there were moments when I felt such-and-such could not have happened and so-and-so would never have said that. So I awaited the fourth season with a certain degree of trepidation. It starts with a bang — the assassination of Lord “Dickie” Mountbatten (Charles Dance) on a boat off the Mullaghmore coast in Ireland — reminding one of the horrors of IRA terrorism. This is one of the first challenges that the new Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher (Gillian Anderson) has to address, along with her all-male Cabinet.

Anderson has been made-up and voice-coached to be a credible impersonation of the Iron Lady, though her hollow cheeks and stress lines are more typical of a later Thatcher than the newly-elected Prime Minister. But she captures the style and has an amiable foil in her husband Denis (Stephen Boxer), who does rather resemble the original. Geoffrey Howe (Paul Jesson) and Bernard Ingham (Kevin McNally) are very realistic look-alikes, though the real Sir Bernard has railed against what he sees as a distortion of the facts for mass entertainment. The real revelation, however, is Emma Corrin as Princess Diana. Not long out of drama school, Corrin captures the vulnerability of the teenager who suddenly finds herself endorsed by The Firm to be a suitable bride for Prince Charles (Josh O’Connor). She mimics some of Diana’s mannerisms to a T, including the half shy, half resentful, look of an injured faun. The production has been lavishly funded, which has resulted in a luscious spectacle. Rarely have the Scottish Highlands around Balmoral looked so wonderful. Of course one can criticise certain departures from historical reality, but the pace and thrust of the story are beautifully controlled and the dysfunctional Royal Family are portrayed with affectionate candour, warts and all.