Gilbey on Film: Season’s greetings

An alternative Christmas film guide.

In a Pavlovian response to Christmas, I find myself in receipt of a copy of the double issue of the Radio Times, even though my entire television viewing this year has dwindled almost to the length of a commercial break. It's all those channels, all that choice – that's the problem.

In response, I bring you today both a practical solution to this profligacy and a way to carve out for yourself a week of film watching that doesn't adhere to what the schedulers would have you believe constitutes seasonal viewing.

Avoid the clichés of Christmas film viewing. Flee from The Great Escape! Say "Goodbye, yellow brick road" to The Wizard of Oz! Beg to differ with the assertion that It's a Wonderful Life! And step into the New Statesman's Alternative Christmas Film Guide . . .

Christmas Eve
Festen (12 midnight, Sky Arts 2)
Dreading that family get-together? Stomach knotted at the thought of all those resentments being dredged up over a banquet of excessively boiled veg? After watching Thomas Vinterberg's Festen, the first Dogme95 film, you can content yourself that at least your clan isn't that screwed up.

Christmas Day
The Remains of the Day (4.25pm, Channel 5)
Carrie (12.10am, Channel 4)
Why has no one thought of pairing these literary adaptations in a double-bill? The repressed passion of Merchant/Ivory's best film, adapted from Kazuo Ishiguro's Booker-winning novel, will sit nicely when followed the same day by the operatic splurge of Brian De Palma's Stephen King-inspired hormones-and-horror tour de force.

Boxing Day
Return to Oz (11.55pm, Sky Family)
The scariest movie screening on television over Christmas, and an abrasive companion piece to the already freaky original. It begins with Dorothy receiving ECT and later features a headless queen flailing around in a chamber full of her own screaming heads. Not sure how on earth this ever got greenlit, but thank goodness it did.

27 December
Dogtoothand Wasp (1.35am, Film4)
More slices of warped family life. Dogtooth is a Greek one-off about parents who have gone to unusual lengths to subdue and control their adult children; it's shot with a crisp, formalist precision that lends its harrowing moments a refrigerated air. Wasp is the Oscar-winning short by Andrea Arnold which inspired her second feature, Fish Tank.

28 December
The Shooting Party (11pm, BBC4)
In between La Règle du jeu and Gosford Park, there was another brilliant "country house" drama, though this one is more often overlooked. James Mason (in his last cinema film), Edward Fox and John Gielgud star. Pour yourself a sherry and watch the upper classes in decay.

29 December
Fahrenheit 451 (3.20pm, Sky Classics)
Not because book-burning will be on your mind after clueless relatives bombard you with celebrity biographies – but because Nicolas Roeg's zinging cinematography is a treat for the eyes. You also get two Julie Christies for your money.

30 December
Primal Fear (11.20pm, TCM)
A friend once pointed out that Richard Gere has two expressions, which can be summarised as: "Where are my keys?" and "Oh, that's where my keys are". Any limitations are put to good effect here in his performance as a blinkered, narcissistic lawyer stumbling upon the case of a lifetime. Excellent support from Laura Linney and Frances McDormand, and with a star-making turn from Edward Norton.

31 December
Fly Away Home (3.10pm, Five)
The writer-director Carroll Ballard made one of the greatest children's movies of all time in 1979 with The Black Stallion. Then he did it again 17 years later in Fly Away Home, about a motherless girl (Anna Paquin) who gets to play mum to orphaned goslings. You might find you have something in your eye by the end.

1 January 2011
Roman Holiday (5.05am)
Whether you're stumbling through the door in the first breath of the New Year, or unable to sleep because you're still up compiling resolutions, there can't be many more inspiring starts to 2011 than the sight of Audrey Hepburn tripping around Rome.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

KEVIN C MOORE
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Notes from a small island: the fraught and colourful history of Sicily

Sicily: Culture and Conquest at the British Museum.

When a gun was fired a hundred metres or so from the Sicilian piazza where we were eating, my reaction was to freeze, fall to my knees, and then run for cover in a colonnade. As I peered back into the square from behind a column, I expected to see a tangle of overturned chairs and china but I watched instead as the freeze-frame melted into normality. I retrieved my shoe from the waiter.

I should not have been surprised by how coolly everyone else handled what I was inclined to call “the situation”. The Sicilians have had 4,000 years in which to perfect the art of coexistence, defusing conflict with what strikes outsiders as inexplicable ease, rendering Sicily one of the most culturally diverse but identifiable places on the planet. Still, having visited “Sicily: Culture and Conquest” at the British Museum, I feel vindicated. There may be no Cosa Nostra in this exhibition, which charts the island’s history from antiquity to the early 13th century, but that doesn’t mean there is no simmering conflict. Like Lawrence Durrell, who described Sicily as “thrown down almost in mid-channel like a concert grand” and as having “a sort of minatory, defensive air”, I felt the tension beneath the bliss that has characterised Sicily for many centuries.

The “barbarians”, wrote the Greek historian Thucydides, moved to Sicily from Iberia (Spain), Troy and Italy before the Phoenicians and Greeks settled there in the 8th century BC – the time of Homer, whose Odyssey provided a useful guide to some of the more threatening features of the landscape. The giant, sea-lying rocks off the east coast were the boulders that the one-eyed Polyphemus hurled at Odysseus’s ship; the phrase “between Scylla and Charybdis” referred to the Strait of Messina that divides Sicily from the mainland; Lake Pergusa, in the centre of the island, was the eerie spot whence Hades snatched Persephone and carried her down to the underworld.

It is a delight to behold the British Museum’s case full of terracotta figurines of Persephone, Demeter and their priestesses, some of thousands uncovered across Sicily, where the Greeks established the cult of these goddesses. The Phoenicians introduced their
own weather god, Baal Hammon, and the indigenous Sicilians seem to have accepted both, content that they honoured the same thing: the island’s remarkable fecundity.

The early Sicilians were nothing if not grateful for their agriculturally rich landscapes. As early as 2500 BC, they were finding ways to celebrate their vitality, the idea being that if the soil was fertile, so were they. On a stone from this period, intended as a doorway to a tomb, an artist has achieved the near impossible: the most consummate representation of the sexual act. Two spirals, two balls, a passage and something to fill it. The penis is barely worth mentioning. The ovaries are what dominate, swirling and just as huge as the testicles beneath them. We see the woman from both inside and out, poised on two nimble, straddling legs; the man barely figures at all.

Under the Greeks in the 5th century BC, it was a different story. Although many of Sicily’s tyrants were generous patrons of the arts and sciences, theirs was a discernibly more macho culture. The second room of the exhibition is like an ode to their sporting achievements: amid the terracotta busts of ecstatic horses and the vase paintings of wild ponies bolting over mounds (Sicily is exceptionally hilly) are more stately representations of horses drawing chariots. These Greek tyrants – or rather, their charioteers – achieved a remarkable number of victories in the Olympic and Pythian Games. Some of the most splendid and enigmatic poetry from the ancient world was written to celebrate their equestrian triumphs. “Water is best, but gold shines like gleaming fire at night, outstripping the wealth of a great man” – so begins a victory ode for Hiero I of Syracuse.

But what of the tensions? In 415BC, the Athenians responded to rivalries between Segesta and Syracuse by launching the Sic­ilian expedition. It was a disaster. The Athenians who survived were imprisoned and put to work in quarries; many died of disease contracted from the marshland near Syracuse. There is neither the space nor the inclination, in this relatively compact exhibition, to explore the incident in much depth. The clever thing about this show is that it leaves the historical conflicts largely between the lines by focusing on Sicily at its height, first under the Greeks, and then in the 11th century under the Normans – ostensibly “the collage years”, when one culture was interwoven so tightly with another that the seams as good as disappeared. It is up to us to decide how tightly those seams really were sewn.

Much is made of the multiculturalism and religious tolerance of the Normans but even before them we see precedents for fairly seamless relations between many different groups under the 9th-century Arab conquerors. Having shifted Sicily’s capital from Syracuse to Palermo, where it remains to this day, the Arabs lived cheek by jowl with Berbers, Lombards, Jews and Greek-Byzantine Sicilians. Some Christians converted to Islam so that they would be ­exempt from the jizya (a tax imposed on non-Muslims). But the discovery of part of an altar from a 9th-century church, displayed here, suggests that other Christians were able to continue practising their faith. The marble is exquisitely adorned with beady-eyed lions, frolicsome deer and lotus flowers surrounding the tree of life, only this tree is a date palm, introduced to Sicily – together with oranges, spinach and rice – by the Arabs.

Under Roger II, the first Norman king of Sicily, whose father took power from the Arabs, the situation was turned on its head. With the exception of the Palermo mosque (formerly a Byzantine church, and before that a Roman basilica), which had again become a church, mosques remained open, while conversion to Christianity was encouraged. Roger, who was proudly Catholic, looked to Constantinople and Fatimid Egypt, as well as Normandy, for his artistic ideas, adorning his new palace at Palermo and the splendidly named “Room of Roger” with exotic hunting mosaics, Byzantine-style motifs and inscriptions in Arabic script, including a red-and-green porphyry plaque that has travelled to London.

To which one’s immediate reaction is: Roger, what a man. Why aren’t we all doing this? But an appreciation for the arts of the Middle East isn’t the same thing as an understanding of the compatibilities and incompatibilities of religious faith. Nor is necessity the same as desire. Roger’s people – and, in particular, his army – were so religiously and culturally diverse that he had little choice but to make it work. The start of the Norman invasion under his father had incensed a number of Sicily’s Muslims. One poet had even likened Norman Sicily to Adam’s fall. And while Roger impressed many Muslims with his use of Arabic on coins and inscriptions, tensions were brewing outside the court walls between the
island’s various religious quarters. Roger’s death in 1154 marked the beginning of a deterioration in relations that would precipitate under his son and successor, William I, and his grandson William II. Over the following century and a half, Sicily became more or less latinised.

The objects from Norman Sicily that survive – the superb stone carvings and multilingual inscriptions, the robes and richly dressed ceiling designs – tell the story less of an experiment that failed than of beauty that came from necessity. Viewing Sicily against a background of more recent tensions – including Cosa Nostra’s “war” on migrants on an island where net migration remains low – it is perhaps no surprise that the island never lost its “defensive air”. Knowing the fractures out of which Sicily’s defensiveness grew makes this the most interesting thing about it. 

Daisy Dunn’s latest books are Catullus’ Bedspread and The Poems of Catullus (both published by William Collins)

“Sicily” at the British Museum runs until 14 August

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism