On Brighton Rock and the film industry

I despise the film industry.

I read Graham Greene's Brighton Rock the other week. It was evocative of the couple of times I've been to Brighton – both times were vastly romantic, exciting, gloriously sunny, and I fell head over heels in love with Brighton's architecture, history and welcoming laid-backness. Before Brighton my favourite place was Cromer. I found I love Brighton for the same reasons I love Cromer, but moar. I love cities. I love the sea. Brighton is the only city by the sea I've been to, and it's a-maze-ing.

So Brighton Rock had me bawling throughout the first chapter, for two reasons. Firstly, I'm a sensitive soul who enjoys weeping to fictitious misery because it's much more fun and pleasantly indulgent to weep at a misery that's not your own. I fell a bit in love with Fred Hale, as he desperately tried to find someone to cling to to protect him from Pinkie's gang. His growing desperation and panic touched my heart.

Secondly, Greene's descriptions of Brighton took me right back there. I felt like I'd been in every pub, every restaurant, every bit of promenade Hale is forced to visit as he ambles towards his death. The descriptions of the West Pier – a small obsession of mine (I have a framed picture of it burning down in my living room) – made me ache and sob with nostalgia.

Anyway, these two reasons have made me want to see either one of the two Brighton Rock films, the first made in 1947, the second in 2010. Well, I'd rather actually go to Brighton, but until both Scott and I have a long weekend off and surplus money, that's not going to happen.

So I've been eagerly scouring IMDb and Youtube for bits of background scenery, and have concluded I must see one or the other of the films. So far, the 1947 version is looking like the safer bet. I have it on good authority that it's 'supposed to be brilliant', and from looking at Youtube clips, I can see that it probably is. Besides, I've got a better chance of West Pier pr0n, seeing as it had burned down by 2010.

However, of the two clips I watched, both were untrue to the book. I know it's petty of me, and they can get away with it in the name of 'artistic licence' and answering questions posed by the book, but it still makes me fume. I don't know why this is. Even to me it's obvious that, as the book does not explicitly tell you how Hale died, the film should maybe show him dying; and as Rose never heard the message Pinkie left for her in the book, perhaps she should in the film (sorry for any spoilers). It just seems to me to be in flagrant disregard of the book, sticking two fingers up to Greene's back as if he didn't know what he was doing when he wrote it. Even though Greene helped to write the screenplay.

The 2010 version is even worse. Although the Guardian hailed it 'a masterpiece', and I admit the opening shot of the pier in the trailer made me swoon, the year in which the story is set has changed from late 1930s to, er, 1964. Purely, it would seem, so they could weave in some mods and rockers appeal. One synopsis I read described Pinkie as “top mod and gangster Pinkie Brown.” Another called him a “razor-wielding disadvantaged teenager with a religious death wish.” Ok, he's known to wield a razor. He's a teenager, technically. He's Catholic (although I wouldn't describe him as religious per se). I wouldn't say he has a death wish. I know I'm being very pedantic, because this synopsis was probably written by someone who's seen the film once and got bored halfway through, but can't you see – that's why I hate the film industry. Casually destroying everything I hold dear (literature, Brighton) through its own half-arsed laziness.
I love some films. Some films I think are beyond amazing. V for Vendetta. Kill Bill. 300. Hot Fuzz. But do you see a pattern there? My favourite films are either based on graphic novels – in which case the storyboard is already bloody drawn for them – or are not based on a book at all. And that is an incredibly rare thing these days.

On Dahl's chickens

The same year that I was born, one of the greatest writers who has ever lived died. His name was Roald Dahl. His brilliance was his seemingly effortless talent for writing for children.

It's funny how it's only when you grow up and read children's books again – and maybe have a go at writing one yourself – that you realise how difficult it is to write for the young. You can't swear, or make reference to things they wouldn't understand, and you absolutely mustn't be boring. A vivid imagination is also essential.

Dahl's skills went much deeper than this, though, because his books also appeal to adults and I would urge any adult at all to read them (they're nice and easy, with lots of pictures!). I bought a boxset of Dahl books in the January sales and am rapidly working my way through them. They make me laugh heartily. Perhaps I have the sense of humour of a child, but hopefully it's Dahl's magic making me laugh. For example, the BFG sitting down on top of a chest of drawers, which in turn was perched on top of a piano, and gleefully exclaiming: “What a phizz-whizzing flushbunking seat! I is going to be bug as a snug in a rug up here,” had me giggling like a schoolgirl.

Dahl has written his own personality into each book. You don't just picture his characters when you're reading his books – you picture him too. Personally, I've always imagined he looks a bit like the BFG. I recognise the same love of language and the jumpy excitement in both of them. And I love what Dahl did with words – nooks and crannies became crooks and nannies, while a catasterous disastrophy was never far away. And, of course, “Dahl's chickens” wrote Nicholas Nickelby.

Dahl was obviously a truly kind man and he valued it in other people. He once said: “Kindness is my number one attribute in a human being. I'll put it before any of the things like courage or bravery or generosity or anything else. If you're kind, that's it.”

So if he didn't exactly set out to enrich the lives of the youngsters (and adults) who read his books, he achieved it nonetheless. They are filled with references to great literature, for one thing. The BFG taught himself to read and write from Nicholas Nickelby, which he borrowed from a small boy. If that's not an endorsement from Dahl that this book is not only good, but suitable for children, I don't know what is. Matilda is filled with the titles of books that Matilda has read – classics including plenty of Dickens again, the Brontës, Austen, Kipling, Orwell, Hardy and Steinbeck, to name a few. Surely nothing can encourage a child to read these classics more than a ringing endorsement from the heroine of a book they love? They might even fancy themselves a bit of bookworm, like said heroine.

But to say that Dahl wanted to 'educate' children is surely to use far too stuffy and academic a word for it. It is entirely possible that he didn't, anyway. I didn't know him. But he had a wonderful gift for entertaining them with mischief. He taught kids that adults can lie and steal and be every bit as bad as children, and far from being appalled, the children were delighted – after all, being a little bit bad is a human's failure, not a child's failure, and I'm sure most children would like to know that.

However, there is much to be said for Dahl's sense of morality and the way he conveys it in his books. His best and most honest characters can still dish out the odd light-hearted punishment to those who deserve it. Matilda was particularly adept at this. The BFG couldn't resist blowing that rotsome trogglehumper into the sleeping Fleshlumpeater. George's marvellous medicine put paid to that horrid old witch of a grandma. And Danny and his father were borderline thieves, poaching pheasants from the despicable Mr Hazell's wood. None of this is ever done maliciously though, and the reader is always left with the certain knowledge of who is in the wrong.

So in conclusion: go back to your childhood at once and read Dahl's books again. You'll love it. You can borrow them from me.

A Mole in my life

I'm clearly not going to get any more work done tonight; my bag-on has put paid to that. And if you're reading this Loz, it's too fucking late to go to the pub now anyway, so don't start!

I've just been reading Sue Townsend's True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, and thanks to the bag-on, it's made me all emotional. I have known and loved Adrian Mole since I was nine years old. He has aged quicker than I have, thanks to the fact that he was already 32 when I started reading them, but I've sort of grown up with him. I've watched his vain attempts to put himself across as an enigmatic intellectual, I've seen him get married and divorced a couple of times, father children, work his way through terrible jobs, had the most almighty calamities befall him, develop cancer and become a grandad. I weep for his sense of loss as he grows older and realised he's achieved nothing of what he wanted when he was 13 and three quarters. And he's got me through years and years of my own teenage, 'intellectual' angst. He fuelled my ambition to be a writer. He inspired me to write countless fictional diaries, poetry and even the odd 'opus' of my own, grandiosely calling it all 'manuscripts'. He's kept me awake in bed laughing till the early hours in a way few other men ever have. I cried when Bianca left him, I cried when his Grandma died, I cried as I read through The Prostrate Years – but oh, how I laughed. When he delicately enquired of Nigel what the worst thing about being blind is, and Nigel snapped “I can't fucking see!” in reply, I laughed for whole minutes and woke my sister up.

The most beautiful thing about the way I've read these books is that every time I've re-read the teenage years, as I've got older, wiser and better-read, I've discovered one of Townsend's wily, ironic jokes. After Adrian reads Animal Farm, he innocently writes in his diary: “I cried when Boxer was taken to the vets. From now on I will treat pigs with the contempt they deserve. I am boycotting pork of all kinds.” The entry was lost on me aged nine. Then I grew up, read Animal Farm, learned what the words 'contempt' and 'boycotting' mean, and found it all the more hilarious.

Which is why I'm going to lend the books to my sister, who's 10. She'll love them for their simple style and for Townsend's brutally accurate account of being a teenager – and of course, she'll love them for Adrian himself, who despite it all is one of the most loveable characters in English literature. Then when she grows up she'll know why they're so good for adults too. Read these books please.