No Country For Old Men

This film has been on my To Do list for months. The Coen brothers directed Fargo, an all-time personal favourite – but NCFOM stars the incredible Javier Bardem of The Sea Inside, The Dancer Upstairs and perhaps other The-Noun-Presposition films, so I was extra-excited. Then I had to calm myself because obviously being extra-excited is to invite anti-climax. Sadly I didn’t calm sufficiently.

It was visually stunning. The direction, the cinematography were faultless. The acting was fantastic: subtle, funny, believable. Javier was sinister. Tommy Lee Jones finally managed to redeem himself after The Fugitive, something I never believed possible. And I was pathetically proud of the awesome Kelly Macdonald who actually made me want to boast about my Glaswegian heritage.

But the plot let the side down: despite so many superb contingent parts, the story didn’t manage to justify the film. It wasn’t merely its bleakness: I know enough about life not to expect a satisfying beginning, middle and end, but this pointed to being a thriller and then singularly failed to thrill. Still, no regrets. Even despite the criminal lack of legroom at Islington’s Screen on the Green, for better or worse, it had to be seen.

Mohsin Hamid, The Reluctant Fundamentalist

Hardback books annoy me. They’re bulky in my bag and overpriced. Worse, The Reluctant Fundamentalist is more accurately a novella and thus feels like an even worse rip-off, but I’m discussing it at a book club next week and it’s not yet out in paperback so a purchase was unavoidable.

Enough preamble: TRF is the Booker-nominated story of Changez, a young Pakistani guy who goes to the USA for university, lands a top job in NYC and then struggles to come to terms with the changes in his life following 9/11. There’s also a bleak love interest to add breadth. It’s an interesting story and I’m glad I read it but the premise of the first person narrative spoken to a little-known third party really, really grated; it felt laboured and pointless and entirely devalued the result. In fact, the whole thing seemed somewhat clunky, like a recipe where the individual elements haven’t blended as intended – well-thought out, good in principle, but ultimately indigestible. I’m not saying I could do better, and I know that my novel’s attempts at plot devices would be as glaring as they come, but when it comes to recommending this book, I’m fundamentally reluctant.

I Am Legend

“Will is such a letdown,” observed Luke as we left the cinema, capturing the mood perfectly. Willard Smith III seems immensely likeable. In interviews he is polite, generous with his laughs and pleasingly humble. He clearly has a great eye for the popular but has also managed to make more serious movies. Yet somehow, his films always disappoint – and I Am Legend was no exception. It started off well, tension was built, the deserted Big Apple post-virus was impressive and believable. But all too soon, the promising beginning was ruined by a) schmaltz, b) faux-spirituality in the shape of a quasi-lecture on the continuing relevance of Bob Marley and c) gratuitous displays of religion. There was no conceivable need for most of the plot, motivation was at rock bottom and don’t even get me started on the impossible logistics behind Will’s basement laboratory. Unexpectedly, the CGI graphics were also very poor – the lions in the opening sequence were about as convincing as a repeat offender and the zombie-types looked pre-Jurassic Park. Big thumbs up go to the Alsatian who played an Alsatian with absolute conviction, but other than that I’d recommend a change of the title’s final word to ‘inadequate’.

Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

I was suspicious about this book in the extreme: the cover looks religious and the only recommendation on the front is from Oprah. However, its virtues had been sung by two disparate sources and I felt I should humour them.

The Power of Now tells us that the future and the past are an illusion (an old-hat concept to a self-help addict such as myself); apparently the only way for us to be happy is to live in the present and surrender to the now. This is the kind of new age stuff that my father, Dan Brown’s biggest fan, would consider a criminal waste of paper and ink. I did slightly struggle during the more intense passages but there is no doubt that I could see the book’s relevance to my own existence. I’m not someone who thinks about the past too much but I have spent many years of my life (sadly no exaggeration) creating expectations that are then dashed and fears that are then realised. The cloying spirituality will deter many but after I acclimatised, I found The Power of Now profoundly insightful and I’m happier for having finished it. If you’re open-minded enough, it’s required reading.

Le Coq D'Argent, 1 Poultry

To my knowledge, I’ve never been to a Conran restaurant. This is odd because I live in London, developed a bizarre addiction to Habitat at a tender age and love eating in restaurants almost more than anything else on the planet. Sunbathing’s high on the list but going to a restaurant with a tan is surely the pinnacle of existence. Pallid, nonetheless I eagerly awaited my team’s Christmas lunch at the Coq D’Argent, a Conran eaterie in the heart of the City.

And it was lovely. Good service (despite some inter-staff bitching), delicious food (I had an excellent pigeon salad, rack of lamb and a chocolate fondant), wonderful wine and, since my bosses were paying, I didn’t have to be concerned about l’addition. But would I pay to go back there in my own time? Certainly not. Yes, it was packed – but it was soulless; delicious – but unimaginative; nice – but not special.

I don’t blame Sir Terrance – he certainly has the popular touch and the place was heaving – but for the money it wasn’t exceptional enough; my strongest memory is not the food but a fantastic game of Shag, Marry or Cliff. Could do better.

Isabel Losada, Men!

For the past few months I have become obsessed with self-help. I am single, thirty, moving into my first home, independent, self-sufficient – and this seems to be precisely the right time to address my inner core. But I can’t deny that one day, I will want to spend some time with a man. And I can’t pretend not to have noticed that very few men tickle my fancy. When I read the introduction to Men!, I agreed with the author’s assertion that almost everyone knows a ton of gorgeous, funny, wonderful single women but barely any available, presentable, dateable men. Eventually, Losada explains why: it seems to us like there are less dateable men than dateable women because there actually are less dateable men than dateable women. And too many potentially dateable men stay in miserable relationships for the wrong reasons. The only place our author found one she could bear was in Egypt, which wasn’t particularly heartening. Still, at least I’m not a freak for finding it hard to meet Mr Right – and I would have enjoyed the book if I could’ve stopped myself being jealous that it was she who was writing it and not me.