If
recent experience is anything to go by, the answer for me, unfortunately,
is yes. As a reader I want to be entertained. That doesn’t mean I have a desire to shun communal responsibility, close my eyes to
the troubles of the world, be they social or political or involve dire
injustice. Writers are supposed to draw our attention to these
things, heighten our awareness of the planet’s troubles, reinforce the notion
that love is blind and sure to leave us heartbroken, or that might is right, or
that taking to a life of crime and drug addiction will result in the most
tragic of consequences.
Yet
there is a difference between changing our
perceptions of the world around us and filling our minds with constant dread. I’m relentlessly bombarded with the darker
side of humanity's existence; in the daily news, in documentaries, in the
newspapers, in films, and In books. I want occasionally to enjoy life; to
watch a play or a film or read a book that lifts my spirits without sending me
scurrying to some dark corner in despair.
In
the 1920s and the depression years that followed, people flocked to the cinema
to see the likes of Harold Lloyd, Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy as a
respite from their troubles. The last thing they wanted was to be confronted
with their problems on a giant screen, yet people like Chaplin were able
to mix humour with pathos; to make people laugh while they reflected
on the more serious issues, such as how we can often misjudge people and jump
to false conclusions (City Lights), how
love and companionship can be found in the most unlikely of situations (The Kid) or how
it’s possible to look tyranny defiantly in the face no matter how grave the
threat (The Great
Dictator). Many films made during the war years, in fact, were designed to
lift people’s spirits and keep them motivated, even in the midst of the most
horrific and frightening of circumstances.
I
recently watched a raft of films, littered with profanities, the majority of stories focusing on corrupt
politicians, sex addicts, a suicidal woman caught in a hopeless love triangle,
a mother driven mad by her psychotic son, two couples arguing non-stop in an
apartment, a wife beaten senseless by her husband and then finding solace with
another violent man, a variety of macho-men wandering around beating people
senseless, and a scientist who creates a synthetic skin for a woman who turns
out to be a former man.
Many
television writers understand that stories often work better at two
levels. Steptoe and Son is a comedy, yet it features two
penniless rag and bone men, one an aged father, the other a son who is
unable to break away and find a life for himself because of his parental ties.
Darlene Hunt’s scripts for The Big C tackle
the serious issue of cancer head on, pulling no punches but always holding out
the hand of hope. And its one-liners hit home whilst making us smile: When
Cathy’s estranged husband asks why she has thrown him out, she puts a hand on her son
and says, ‘I couldn’t cope with looking after two children, so one of you had
to go.’ It’s a funny line but the arrow finds its mark and the situation
resonates with millions of people.
There
is also much to enjoy and celebrate and I’d like to spend some of my time
immersing myself in an imaginative, well-plotted story or unashamedly having a
good laugh. So a big thank-you to Bill Bryson, Sue Townsend, William Goldman,
Woody Allen, Muriel Spark, Galton and Simpson, Tom Sharpe, Nora
Ephron, Charlie Kaufman, Billy Wilder, Douglas Adams, Patrick Campbell, Kingsley Amis, John Sullivan, Mel
Brooks, Neil Simon and David Nicholls for lightening my load and giving me food
for thought whilst ENTERTAINING ME.
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