The mystique of the drop-top – is there more to it than the stuff of simple fun and day dreams? You’ve seen it in films thanks to American pop culture, and then carried through to the next generations by doting father’s on their dreamy eyed son’s, the allure of the red convertible is still very much a modern 20th century phenomenon. Since its birth it has become a symbol for a lifestyle, a desire for freedom – rolling down a coastal road with the top down, the envy of any and all who gaze upon the scarlet vision. But, to be honest though, I’ve never been one for it… I was always more interested in the fact that it was a fad – fascinated by other peoples fascination. Kind of like the Lamborghini Countach – more spaceship than car (that was of course the designer’s inspiration, to make the car’s driving experience more ‘stratospheric’ – or so goes the taglines). It didn’t really interest me; it was too over the top, too vulgar – like a car that didn’t belong anywhere… So one day when my Dad, uncle and I happened to be paging through a supercar catalog I mentioned that I didn’t really care for it. That certainly raised their eyebrows, but they seemed rather impressed by my explanation. But, back to the famed and more commercially acceptable red convertible. I think I didn’t care for it because it seemed so clichéd (though I didn’t know what the word clichéd meant at the time), but I couldn’t explain that one, so I kept quiet about my reservations. The idea of the drop-top red coupe never appealed to me (surprising perhaps for someone who loves cars). Abve: The 1988 Lamborghini Countach - designed under the inspiration of man's space travel exploits of the era. Above: The quintessential red convertible - the 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB 4 - the Legend. My Encounter: I was still a boy, and one Saturday morning my Dad attended a meeting with a pastor at church – now this church is very old, still standing today, and every generation of family had attended it at some point – Calvary Santuary. My Dad practically grew up in it, dragged along by my grandmother; my parents first met each other in it… so it’s pretty old. For some reason I tagged along with my Dad that morning. Whilst the meeting ensued, I took a stroll around the old grounds, which included the auxiliary hall (which used to be the original church hall until the renovations, the adjoining caretakers house, and the separated out buildings for the church offices, shed and garage. I hoped to maybe find a tree worth climbing (these were after all tall oak trees). But as I wondered, strolling over the loose gravel and dead leaves, my eye caught something just around the next corner, something red. Parked in the church’s car port stood two old cars; one a beat up, but probably still running, old beige VW van – the types fancied by the flower power generation (it even matched the color of the wall behind it), and then there was this other thing. It was small. The tyres were all flat and it was half covered by an old tarp that had seen better days. I pulled back the cover and took a look inside. The soft top roof was missing, affording me an unobstructed view of the tan colored interior. I glanced around over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, and then I turned the ‘T’ shaped door handle and pulled. Surprisingly the door hinges didn’t creak. I hesitated before climbing inside, just staring at the dirty leather seat. After dusting off a twig and some dead leaves as well as, well, dust, I slowly lowered myself into the driver’s seat. It was comfortable without being comfortable. I placed my hands on the wooden steering wheel and took a breath, instinctively looking at the ignition. I then started a half-hearted search for a key, any key, but found only more wind swept dead leaves under the seats. And so I sat there, soaking in the moment, allowing my imagination to run, and indulging in a quick fanciful daydream. Before long I was out the car again, inspecting her, running my hands over the smooth but dusty lines. I found myself at the rear and pulled back the tarp all the way. I opened the boot lid and located the missing roof. The tan colored roof – matching the interior - was jumbled up, probably broken, so I left it there, after a brief debate with myself about the difficulties of wrestling with a retractable roof without assistance or any prior practical knowledge of the mechanism. After closing the boot, careful not to attract attention, I stared at the name in raised letters just over where the license plate was meant to be. Two of the silver letters were broken, the first and the last, but I could still make out the name… “T-R-I-U-M-P-H”. I’d never heard of this name before, and for a ten year old boy, this little titbit of a revelation, was like a secret that no else was privy to. It was just me and her, in all her redness. But, there was one secret I still wanted to discover, but for this secret, I need to take you back a few years. When I was about seven, my father bestowed upon me a very serious duty. Every morning before school, my job was to warm up the car. I’d unlock and roll up the garage door, pop the bonnet and check the oil and water levels, and start the ignition, holding the accelerator down and keeping the engine humming at 2000 rpm for about 30 seconds. This, as the rising sun stared at me in the rear-view mirror through the gaping garage door. This little procedure would be a sort of calling card for the family, the sign that it was time to get going in the mornings. I may have taken it for granted after a while, but when cruel fate took the car from us; the whole family missed the power and purr of the 2.8 litre straight 6 cylinder engine (The flagship Cressida: my Dad’s dream car since the early 80’s). And so, a part of me instinctively wanted to hear what this little Triumph had to say… but since I was minus a key, all I could do was perhaps take a look at her heart. I walked over to the front and loosened the right side latch. It must be said that the Triumph is a sports car, so the bonnet/hood doesn’t open like normal cars. The simple design meant the whole front end was connected – engine cover and wheel arches – and it opened forward, so the hinges were ahead of the front wheels and not below the windscreen wipers (which were also missing). Before I lifted the bonnet though, I hesitated, for two reasons. 1: was that I was looking around, minding the time, hoping to not get caught whilst thinking of the story I’d conjure to try and explain why I was snooping around someone else’s car. And 2: (most importantly) I was afraid of what I’d find, or not find. I stood motionless, just considering things... Before I could answer some of my questions, I put the latches down and pulled the tarp back over half the car, stealing one last glance at her red loveliness before saying a brief goodbye. In hindsight, considering the relatively decent condition of the bodywork, the engine was probably still there… but I didn’t want to face the possible alternative – that she’d been abandoned and gutted by some heartless man. But like I said, the engine was probably fine, though not running, since Triumph’s are/were not renowned for their stellar reliability. So I left it, with my daydreams untarnished, my encounter still filled with beauty, and mystery. Truth is, as I found out years later, the Triumph is nowhere near a motoring sensation, a mark of automotive genius or even splendid driving experience… the truth is, that it’s kind of the opposite to all that. A paltry 1.3 litre engine producing enough power to muster speeds in excess of 130 kph/81 mph, just about. In fact the advertising posters, back in 1979 when the car was released, highlighted the power unit as, “lively”… its trademark being its namesake, the ‘Spitfire’ exhaust. The thing of it is though, is that none of that really matters. The car made an impression. She’s not the fastest, the prettiest or, to put it bluntly, the best, far from it… but what she is (as most 70’s sports cars go), is beautiful. It took this experience for me to understand the red convertible fascination on a primal level. The fact that this Triumph MK III was red, was of course just fortuitous, but so it was. I may not be a fan of most red convertibles, but I am, forever now, a fan of this car; which by many standards is an average vehicle, but I had a personal encounter, and this car just happened to be red, and it happened to be a convertible. Either way though, I do now, in my own way, understand why the phenomenon can be so captivating, and its growing in me still. It’s more dream than reality, the idea of it… but also its in the little things, quite simply because, it’s not a normal car; it wasn’t built to be mere transportation, it was built with passion and an artful eye, to symbolize fun, vibrancy and freedom. Perhaps revered more for what they aspired to be as appose to what they actually delivered. How’s that for a sales pitch? The weird part though, is that the very first automobiles just after, and all based upon, the horse drawn carriage, were of course… open-top vehicles. - So, the abandoned or neglected car; its even inspired a cable TV show. This car though, the one that found me just as much as I found her, will forever be a treasure, a lonely discovery, made all the more sweeter, because it felt slightly illegal… a mysterious and beautiful red affair. Here’s a look at the convertible through the ages (which may well convert you into a fan, if you weren't one before)… the red convertible, as old as the automobile itself. - Ending off with a couple of the icons, though they're all icons in their own right. [Image Credits: classiccars.com, diecast.com, ayay.co.uk, vintagerides.files.wordpress.com, L29Cord.com, bp.blogspot.com, ReginaAntiqueAuto.ca, mustangattitude.com, motortrend.com, classicandperformancecar.com, remarkablevehicles.com]
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War and crisis, Syria in pictures Some pictures say a thousand words, but then there are others that need no words and say none, because there are none, Because honestly, right now, words are seemingly of little value. They are those things for bickering politicians to throw about aimlessly... What does it say about society or the world when we cannot take care of our children? - it says simply that we cannot be entrusted as custodians of the future... The one one thing that raises my spirits even whilst looking through these depressing photos, is the honest and pure beauty of these children, just being who they are, in all their innocence, no matter their circumstance. Give them a space, protect and provide for them and allow them to just be, and they'll show us the meaning of joy. Without children, the world would be a desperately and hopelessly dark place. Facts:
[Image credits: GettyImages, Aljazeera.com, oxfam.org, huffingtonpost.co.uk] Links:
Story of remoteness, 7. Who will the poet fight for? Poem by David Martinez Romero Who shall fight, if not the poet. Those who do not sing, perhaps? Or maybe those who do not laugh, those who do not dance? No. Not them. But the poet has returned to fight for us, for all of us who feel the tide rising from within, for all of us who make a gift out of happiness and, with balanced patience, retire ourselves always into a hidden palace, into a woman, a landscape, a book. The poet came back in the name of love for the few, at last detached from the eternal hatred that flows too fast, and in the slowness of these words, words reborn into the cup of the New Hope, he shall gently reveal to anyone what is theirs. He will give to each what belongs to each one as he will take away from the void what was never his to have. With the same love that only the afternoon understands in its warm light he will bathe our hands tainted in ash, he will clean our neglected memories, he will grant time to what demands reproduction and needs of the future. The poet came to stay, he came like the sea, like the resting death, valiantly struggling to introduce Poetry into the city, into the lighted night, the last chance for men to exit from between two worlds. He shall fight, he will – he is already fighting –, for those who do not lament the infinite sound of the birds, for those who love without fear, without limit, and shout their love beyond the black corners and the deep moorlands. For the light when slowly softens, for the sheer pleasure of recreating the word, for the sole reason of blurring destinies, for the love and only the love to all that shimmers, for everything that drifts into its own light. And the day will come when everyone knows they live because someone fought for them. The day will come, I can feel it, when no one, not even the stones, are entitled to doubt the meaning of his existence. And all of them will also posses the proper words. >>> For more from David M.R., this poem and many others, including short films and scripts, visit his website HERE. [Image credits: Warrior4ancientzoanphotos.blogspot.com, digitalartgallery.com] Images added simply for symbolism - for the valor and fortitude of the ancient and old times are seemingly no longer required, but there are many ways to fight... The warrior and the poet have always entertained an entwined existence through the ages, and though warriors, as we know and remember them, have long since passed from time, their echoes of strength are felt and heard through the derivative voice and writings of these souls who see beyond the natural, both past, future and present... the soldier dies, but their spirit remains with the poet. Widely acknowledged as Hollywood’s greatest cinematic accomplishment, bringing Middle Earth to film in The Lord of The Rings trilogy and now the lesser (critically) the Hobbit films (based on the book – consisting of only one modest volume). So, why then has the Tolkien Estate, led by J.R.R. Tolkien’s surviving son Christopher (responsible for the streamlining/completing/editing and then publishing of his father’s early work The Silmarillion) turned their back on the film adaptations? This may be old news to some since Le Monde's revelatory interview with Christopher Tolkien was conducted back in 2012, but the implications and sentiments are just as, if not more prevalent now in light of the liberties taken with the Hobbit adaptations currently in big screens. These latest films by Peter Jackson have famously been the most brazen in adapting the source material, the biggest move being to convert the single volume book 'The Hobbit - There and Back Again' into a trilogy of films. But let me first explain my perspective: I write this as someone who hasn’t read any Tolkien book, ever. I can’t even remember the last time I picked one up… the closest I’ve come is reading the synopsis for the recently published (previously unfinished work – then completed and edited by Tolkien’s son Christopher) book ‘Children of Hurin’ (2007) – this may not sound like much because it’s only a synopsis, but I must say, the several page affair read like a short story (as full synopsis’ should) and made for some fascinating stuff. It manages to draw you in enough so that, partnered with your already developed knowledge of Middle Earth, culminates in a very captivating and involved experience… but would I buy/read the book, knowing what I know about it – perhaps, but I’m in no rush. It’s a curious case. That ‘must read-but don’t really want to’ scenarios. This is partly because I’m not a major adventure fantasy fan. Now before you go on about how the books overlap genres and involve a whole lot more than those two elements, I’m fully aware of that, and I’d probably enjoy the books once I got into them. The truth is, I just lack the motivation to do so, my immediate literary interests lie elsewhere, meaning I’m more than content to preoccupy myself with the films (as lazy as this is, mind you). I enjoyed the films and have even seen the latest two Hobbit installments, but I still would not call myself an out and out fan, as in fanatical. Tolkien and his works however, remain a fascinating subject, and the fact that it is so, even for someone who has no immediate will to read said works, is testament to their magnitude, influence and impact on contemporary literature and the media in general. So, now that I’ve mentioned that I enjoyed the films, taking into consideration the understandable compromise that needed to be made – alluding to many scenes, stories and elements left out from the books because they are quite long – in bringing these them to cinema, it did surprise me to learn that Christopher Tolkien (and the entire remaining Tolkien Estate) does not support these well-loved films, which have been so effective in introducing this literature to younger generations. The Lord of the Rings trilogy in particular is an amazing feat, and there is a growing consensus out there that it is Hollywood’s very best offering (more than just as far as adaptations go). Considering the magnitude of production, the logistics and the previous sentiment that such a story was impossible to bring to film (or un-filmable) – they merely proved what is possible with celluloid. [picture credits: stylefavor.com, hdwallpapers.com, walldaz.com] So with such a virtuoso undertaking, lauded by fans and critics alike, why have the Tolkien’s turned their backs? Well, in part its due to the fact that they were largely excluded (by New Line Cinema) from the creative process and could do what they wanted with the films; and Credit to them for not straying from the source material. However, the recent Hobbit trilogy is a greater indictment of the fears the Tolkien’s expressed… since there was only one book – but the studios could not pass up this money spinning opportunity. And then there’s the issue of adding an entire character to the films as well (despite most lauding the decision – it simply highlights deviation, which fuels discontent). By the way, zero of the proceeds of this film trilogy and merchandising go to the Tolkien Estate (in fact they haven’t seen a cent from the LOTR success due to the old and liberal contract signed by Tolkien when he himself was cash strapped). You can read more about it in this interview with Christopher Tolkien, and it’s not sour grapes either. Here’s a man that knows the works like it was his own and who has dedicated his like to completing his father’s work. Hence it’s not surprising that he would be so passionate about the films, but that he would go so far as to label them simply action films. Does this revelation diminish the accomplishment of the films in any way – I don’t think so, but it does add a sad note to the works mainly because its a timeous reminder of the times we live in. As a film critic myself (and a writer), I can only judge the films - and they are a magnificent achievement (but of course film will never be as timeless as the written word). "They eviscerated the book by making it an action movie for young people aged 15 to 25,.. And it seems that The Hobbit will be the same kind of film." That sadness though is not surprising since we are at the business end of things. In a way it illustrates that moment when art and business can coexist to produce something great, but such coexistence will always be temporary, and despite the harmonious amity, sacrifices and compromises need to be made… so not all will be happy, and in this case, its those at the heart of the work in question, those for whom the work means the most. So ultimately if this is Hollywood’s best yet, then it’s come at a cost – a very deep cost – in typical tinsel town fashion. What’s more, and this is strangely often the case, is the vaguely prophetic writings of J.R.R. Tolkien as they apply to his works and his legacy as a whole. Here we are, or corporates at least, nudging and fighting over who receives the material wealth… kind of like the fate of the Ring in his most famous trilogy, and then there’s the case of his family… Who will continue upholding the Tolkien name after Christopher dies – he is an old man now but is the most outspoken about his father's work – and though I’m sure nothing as tragic as his character experience in his stories will befall the Children, or child and grandchildren of Tolkien, the corporate snub and creative cold shoulder is perhaps akin to echoes of those fictional distant tragedies, transformed into those of a different kind, resonating in this money driven world. We may not have the enemies of old, or even of fictional foes like that of Smaug, Morgorth or Sauron, but in the literary sense, in these modern times where good and evil are often hard to distinguish, we are witnessing the battles in the corporate realm, and this is one the Tolkien’s have lost. This is due to the brand that is 'Tolkien' - it is no longer a family name denoting an artist and deeply, vastly imaginative creative genius of an author, it is now a corporate monster - a money making machine, grown beyond humble control and/or opposition. Despite this though, the family retains the moral high ground. It is a position of slight, a faint glimmer of the remaining but eroded artistic moral and ethic - but was this not the same sort of faint glimmer of integrity in a dark world that Frodo faced before his epic quest? The odds are rarely in your favour. Here's the link to the translated Christopher Tolkien interview with Le Monde, via thetolkiensociety.org "My Father's 'Eviscerated' work' - J.R.R. Tolkien's son breaks 40 year silence. You're welcome to share your thoughts on this in the comments... {*** Happy New Year to all, wishing you a blessed 2014. This is going to be a great year! God Bless and thanks for visiting the first post of the new year... Regards Steven. ***} |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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