Let's be clear. I'm a big rufty-tufty, barrel-chested man. A sort of belligerent bowling ball, if you will. I worked in financial services, an industry not known for its cuddliness.
Perhaps it's the state of the world, or the effects of semi-retirement, or maybe it's the wisdom of age, but I've gone soft.
I recently finished watching Le Bureau des Legendes, a French drama set in a part of the French Secret Services. It starts as a sort of gritty Slow Horses, and then as the seasons went on, and ratings presumably dropped, every episode was spiced with some gallic nooky. Nothing wrong with that, of course. A splendid watch.
Left without an on-demand series, I decided to check back with "The West Wing", which first aired not in the last decade, but in the last century, millennium, even. Good grief, I'm old.
In case you're young, or were busy between 1999 and 2006, The West Wing follows the goings on around the Oval office of the fictional American Presidency of Josh Bartlett (Martin Sheen). Some of the acting is splendid, but the real star is Aaron Sorkin, a producer and the principal writer of the first four seasons. The dialogue is breathtaking. Funny and whip-smart, but peppered with the occasional poignant moment, as one character or another reveals a fleeting glimpse of loyalty, nobility or humanity. There are delicious "gotchas" when intolerance, nastiness or arrogance is exposed and slammed down. I find myself wanting to punch the air, with a lump in my throat, or even to shed a tear at the end of each episode. There's even some Gilbert and Sullivan, for heaven's sake.
Where did this emotional intelligence and vulnerability come from? I've no clue. I daresay it will pass.
In between sniffing manfully, I imagine how each episode might play out in the Trump administration. That brings on tears of an entirely different type. How long is it until the seat of the Presidency is renamed "The Gold House (Sponsored by Aramco)"? Is it me, or has Donald just off-shored the AI business (which America is good at), while trying to onshore manufacturing (which America is not good at)?
Every Sunday, Mrs L and I await the release of MobLand, a Ronan Bennett (Top Boy, Day of the Jackal) London gangster romp with a series of star directors and actors. Tom Hardy does Tom Hardy stuff with style while Helen Mirren and Pierce Brosnan chomp their way through the scenery (in the best possible way). This brings no tears to my eyes - but does elicit the odd wince as Mr Hardy hands out some efficient and effective violence.
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