Film Diary: Gladiator (Ridley Scott, 2000)

This is by way of complete contrast to The Seventh Seal. If Bergman's fable was a spoonful of caviare then Gladiator is a veritable Mississippi Mud Pie of a film - the pleasure it provides isn't a symphony of flavours and textures to be savoured and thought about and remembered, it's about sheer overindulgence and you don't care too much where the choclate beans came from or that the cream came from a can

And that's the thing. Gladiator is immensely enjoyable in its way, but it works by a constant bombardment of the senses. It's full of things that work like sugar and give you a rush of energy and leave you feeling full and having a good time, But a few hours later you feel strangely empty. There's not much story there that hasn't been told many times before. After all, in less tha two hundred years Rome had had Caligula, Nero and Domitian. The emperor Commodus is a bit of an also-ran as bad emperors go!

Having said that, Russell Crowe is bloody marvellous. Good company for those venerable hell-raisers Richard Harris and Oliver Reed who also shine in minor roles. Joaquin Phoenix's Commodus kept on inviting unfavourable comparisons with John Hurt's camply sinister Caligula from the BBCs I, Claudius (though that was a very different kind of drama). I can't remember who played Lucilla, such was her impact. It was a very macho film, after all, and it cried out for a Katharine Hepburn, a Bette Davis or a Rita Hayworth to cut through all that testosterone.

It was about spectacle, after all, which is why it was twice as long as it needed to be, and why it opens with an extended, confusing and rather pointless battle scene presumambly to get the adrenaline pumping. There was once a chap called Shakespeare, you know, who wrote a play called Macbeth. He, like Ridley Scott opened with a glorious victory in battle against the odds by a general. Only he conveyed it, not with pyrotechnic wizardry, but with one wounded soldier reporting to his ageing king. That's all you need.

It's interesting that I saw this in the weekend that saw the death of J K Galbraith. Galbraith recognised that a capitalist society has a problem. It needs an educated population to keep generating new commodities for people to consume in order to keep. But it also needs to keep the same population from thinking too hard about what it is being pressured into consuming. The answer is to numb the senses by pummelling them into submission and not allowing the individual either the time or the space to think critically. That's what Gladiator, along with most contemporary culture, is doing and as such it is a fine symbol of our time.

Running with Rosie

After Sunday's debacle I sought advice fron the denizens of the Runners World web forums. This afternoon I put into effect what I had learned.

I started at my usual point on the corkscrew bridge. And then I went really slowly. Like, shuffling at not much more than walking pace (actually doing something like 13-minute miles). And I plodded on like that for thirty minutes, and then stopped. Well, I didn't stop, I just walked the rest of the way home.

It was very comfortable. Not once did I feel puffed, although I was breathing hard by the end. Nor did I feel at any point that I really needed to stop. From the point where today's 30 minutes came to a natural end it took me six-and-a-half minutes to walk to the place where last Friday's 30 minutes took me to. I felt I was well within my capacity and could co on.

But I also feel cheated. Worse, I feel I cheated myself. I copped out, I didn't test myself. I was found wanting. But maybe that's the paradigm for my life in general. And maybe, just maybe, this is the right way to go to build up to greater things.

Our Own Dear Royals

Years ago I used to quite like football. Now it mostly leaves me cold. Ever since the Premiership came in, the spirit has gone out of the game. It's part pf the entertainment industry now, more to do with selling replica kit in Sichuan than with community pride.

Still, I've felt a glow of pride for Reading FC, winning what is laughably described as the 'Championship' these days. I much prefer to call it Football League Division Two! Still, it means that Reading will be playing in the the top division next year, and the sense of pride about the town is palpable. Yesterday's parade, which I didn't actually see but I did see the periphery of it, was quite an event.

Even though I''m leaving Reading soon, and feel little affection for the place, I'm happy to have been here when it happened, to enjoy this last shout of community pride in football. Next year they may have lost their soul, but this year I still get a warm glow from someting that isn't quite lost yet.

(Photo by BBC Radio Berkshire)