I was watching a video early one morning. My headphones were not charged up, so I viewed it with the volume low, automated subtitles on. These subtitles are always a bit approximate, shall we say. In this particular video the guy announced he was about to play on the organ the hymn Now Thank We All Our God. The automated subtitles translated it as - Now Frank We All Are God.
I've had my second monthly check up at Norfolk & Norwich Hospital. I'm consistently impressed with the staff, for their kindness, genuine helpfulness and good nature. I appear to be doing rather well, and definitely on the upward mend. I've been given a cautious go ahead to re-start swimming. Though I'll be on go slow initially. I need to find for myself how best to pitch the pace. I just hope I don't end up swimming perpetually halfway up the arse of the genteel person in front of me.
After the Hospital we dived into Norwich, had lunch at Wagamama, and shopped. Hubby for yarn for two projects he was planning. I went to a favourite bookshop, The Book Hive which is quite special. Its the sort of bookshop that excites you the moment you enter. And even if you had no idea what you wanted to buy, you'll instantly find interesting books, none of which you knew much about previous to crossing its threshold. My haul this time was four books, but boy it could have been more - A book by storyteller and mythologist Martin Shaw entitled Courting The Wild Twin, a collection of essays by Ursula K Le Guin called Space Crones, a compilation of short stories by Banana Yosimoto with the intriguing title of Deep End Memories, and a novel by Yoko Okawa - The Memory Police.
North Norfolk is, as you can imagine, not overly endowed with bookshops. Sheringham has WHSmith, The Works and a remainder shop that stocks mostly military history, stuff about The Nazi's and for light relief jigsaws. The only decent bookshop is the bookshop in Holt, run by the inestimable Pam and Keith. They are happy to order any book I want, and often do, their stock is generally mainstream. A lot of that doesn't float my boat. It's a good bookshop, the only one that could make such a claim on the entire North Norfolk coast, so I support it when I can. But The Book Hive, well, that's on another level entirely.
We have been watching a few Hitchcock movies recently. This began with Rear Window, a tightly conceived movie with James Stewart playing an invalided photographer who develops an interest in what's going on in his apartment complex, only to suspect one of them has commited a murder. Stewart, probably the most underrated actor of his generation, shows off his brilliance in this and all his Hitchcock movies.
Psycho, though more renowned , particularly for its shower scene and Hermman soundtrack, has worn less well. It's script gets increasingly clunky and melodramatic as the movie progresses. Concluding with a psychologist giving you a blow by blow explanation of Norman Bates's psychology that is pretty crass. This is the very opposite of 'show not tell'. Not my favourite Hitchcock, though hugely influential if you think about all the subsequent slasher movies that owe a debt to Psycho. Though that's perhaps not a legacy to brag about.
Interestingly Micheal Powell's film Peeping Tom, came out the same year as Psycho. But unlike the Hitchcock film, caused huge controversy. Despite sharing similar themes. I would say Peeping Tom is the better film of the two. Its a movie about sexualised voyeurism and how a film making is complicit in that. Its something, as cinema goers, we can vicariously get a kick out of viewing. Similar to Psycho the central murderer is messed up by the twisted relationship he had with a parent. But the background psychology is handled far better.
So Peeping Tom provoked a massive backlash. The film was removed from distribution, and Powell's career came to an abrupt end. Until the 70's when Martin Scorcese's enthusiasm for it kick started a reappraisal. There is something in the way Powell has constructed the film that is disquieting and raw. Hitchcock seems to merely indulge in the fetishism of murdering the feminine, and the psychology at the end is there to make it all appear understandable and hence safe to view. Powell doesn't shy away from making you feel complicit through watching how the murderer murders, which is why it's uncomfortable to watch, and people at the time felt somewhat repulsed.
On the way back from Norwich in the car, we passed a small row of local shops. One of the units was now empty, though it had once been a yarn and sewing shop. One can't help but think the shop doomed itself from the moment it chose its name... Hab - A - Go.
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