This CLASH BY NIGHT is a British "B" picture from 1964. And by "B" I really mean "W", or possibly "Y".

I didn't get much out of it except enjoying greatly the above shot, from right at the beginning. The guy in the foreground has just lost a heap of money on a dog race. The guy on the right is Stanley Meadows, playing a gangster here just as he did in Cammell and Roeg's seminal PERFORMANCE six years later. And he's equally impressive here -- a cool, crisp, naturally frightening actor who was terribly underused by British cinema. Plus he looks great in motorcycle goggles (his cunning disguise).

And I loved this shot -- Peter Sallis (Wallace from WALLACE AND GROMIT) in the role of halfwitted lunatic "Victor Lush", threatens everybody with a lit match in a paraffin-soaked barn.

That's basically the plot -- a coach full of of prisoners and their guards are imprisoned in said barn while a gang boss makes his getaway. Since all the jailbirds are required to do is sit put until dawn, there's not much suspense - -except that it's Guy Fawkes' Night and fireworks are flying hither and yon.

The transporter full of hardened stereotypes put me in mind of CON AIR, and made me wonder if there's another variation to be pulled on this appealing set-up. Apart from that, the film boasts an appearance by what appears to be future cheesemeister Ray Austen (VIRGIN WITCH) as the world's most inept sexual predator. "My husband will be home shortly," says Jennifer Jayne, whereupon he rips her blouse and is promptly socked to death by the returning hubby. Which is all just by way of illustrating that our appallingly stiff middle-class hero is AN INNOCENT MAN UNJUSTLY CONVICTED. Which turns out to have no bearing on anything, really.

CLASH BY NIGHT has an ability to just barely hold the attention by delivering unnecessary flashbacks, improbable coincidences, pathetic cop-outs and other narrative blunders at a rapid-fire pace. If it were any better it wouldn't really be any fun. Sadly, the only major character who DOESN'T get a flashback is the religious zealot who's been arrested for "trying to take brotherly love a bit too far." Even in the wake of VICTIM (1961) this film didn't feel able to go any deeper into THAT. Given the portrayal of Sallis' character -- is he insane? Is he mentally handicapped? Do they know there's a difference? -- it's unlikely the results would have been terribly illuminating.

Oh, and there's some quite fun X-rated cursing, or "pervasive language" as the MPAA would say. The actors can barely conceal their glee at being allowed to say big grown-up words like "bastard". My Dad once told me that he and his friends used to read Mickey Spillane "for the swearing", so they'd have dug this.

I've been thinking a lot about Englishness too.  Just how is an intelligent person (I flatter myself) supposed to talk about being English in a positive way without sounding like Nick Griffin.  I remember that NME article on Morrissey from the 90's ('Flying the Flag or Flirting with Disaster?') which pretty much knackered his stuttering career for ten years.  Morrissey defenders point out that just a few years later Noel Gallagher was playing his Union Jack guitar and getting lauded for it, but then Oasis have never written anything inflammatory like 'Bengali in Platforms' or 'The National Front Disco' or played with skinhead imagery either, have they?  Interestingly, when I saw Morrissey play last month he did his usual costume changes opting for a black shirt for just one song- 'The National Front Disco'.  A sure sign that he feels vindicated.  I digress, I think.

So, where are my thoughts leading me?  Why am I thinking about this?  And what are my conclusions?  I've recently read Orwell's 'The Lion and the Unicorn' (http://www.orwell.ru/library/essays/lion/english/) and was struck by the following phrase:

In left-wing circles it is always felt that there is something slightly disgraceful in being an Englishman and that it is a duty to snigger at every English institution, from horse racing to suet puddings. It is a strange fact, but it is unquestionably true that almost any English intellectual would feel more ashamed of standing to attention during 'God save the King' than of stealing from a poor box.

And that's me.  I came across the piece during the course of my ruminations on England and Englishness and it clarified why I was considering these things.  On some subconscious level I seem to have realised that my unconscious acceptance that overt patriotism was- at best- something that unthinking automatons indulged in, actually identified me as an unthinking automaton.  And so, I decided to stop denying my Englishness.  In fact, I went a stage further and told my close friends that I was going to actively embrace my Englishness and reject my (pretty tenuous, to be honest) Italian heritage.  I sent the following e-mail informing them, with typically English pageantry, of the change:

If you think of England you think of sporting ineptitude.  You think of pomposity mixed with civility and impeccable manners, of an overwhelming predilection for tea and strange preoccupation with the weather.  You think of limitless fury at the Americanisation of our culture, of irreverence, of social awkwardness.  You think of haughtiness, of tolerance, of class-based hatred and emotional stuntedness, of binge-drinking and sexual inhibition.  You think of stoicism and a stiff upper lip, of newspapers read back to front and of a scrupulous attention to the minutiae of tradition.

Think of England and you think of thwarted ambition and broken dreams.  You think of a hapless flappability that masks the Dunkirk spirit.  You may even think of a sport where rain stops play which was invented by a country where it always rains.  You think of the pomp and the circumstance and of the filth and the fury, of Shakespeare, of Dickens and of Roger Hargreaves.

Think of England and you think of me.

Students of the psychology of change- depending upon which psychologist they follow- will tell you that the stages by which a person comes to terms with change are denial, resistance, exploration and commitment.  The terminology changes but the pattern remains pretty constant.  And I guess that it's pretty obvious that I'm at the exploration stage in considering my attitude to my Englishness- have I mentioned that Englishness isn't recognised as a word by Microsoft yet?  What can it mean?  There's clearly something about being English that makes me feel proud, and it is equally clear that there are aspects with which I'm uncomfortable in the extreme.  And it's also clear that the things which I like (prime examples being Ealing comedies and Punk Rock) belong in the past whilst the things that I dislike (the right-wing media and Elizabeth Duke) are contemporary.

So is it not that most English of pastimes- nostalgia for a non-existant age- that I'm engaging in, rather exploring my attitude to patriotism?  Probably.  After all, what is patriotism but loyalty to a lump of rock?  I've no loyalty to the monarchy- the opposite is true.  I despise many of the things that Englishness represents, the hypocrisy and the overbearing reverence.  The opinions that- according to many polls- a vast proportion of my country hold are abhorrent to me.  I don't want to be associated with the "Ingerlund, Ingerlund" mob who represent us abroad with distinction.  Perhaps the question shouldn't centre around an exploration of my attitude to my nationality at all.  After all, isn't this simply a kind of intellectual or behavioural snobbery?  And how do I feel about that prospect when snobbery is something that I detest?

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England

There has been a groundswell of opinion in recent years that we should 'reclaim the flag' from the fascists.  Laudable sentiments indeed but, in practice, it has been an abject failure.  As far as I can see, one or two people attempted to do so by flying a St George's cross from their car or on their lapel- more than that during football tournaments or if Tim Henman makes it to the quarter finals of Wimbledon.  In practice, this that has simply broken the 'flag-flying taboo' which existed before.  In many areas, houses now fly a Union Jack or St George's cross all year round and I've no faith in the possibility that this is done as a welcoming, inclusive gesture.  So how can the flag be reclaimed?  Should we redesign it (though not with the guys who redesigned British Airways' tail-fin all those years ago, obviously)?  Should we just leave it to the fascists?  I mean, what is a flag really?  Something to raise during ceremonial occasions, something to represent a people, something to rally behind, something to die for, something to burn?  Better surely to fix the nation than its pennant.  In any case, the Union flag is a much nicer flag- but that represents something very different.

And so my thoughts turn from my own peculiar new habits which, lets face it, revolve around me trying to surround myself with the paraphernalia of a time that looks like a lot of fun in 'Passport to Pimlico' to the rise of the right wing and how can we combat it?  How very un-English; I'm supposed to make light of serious issues, what on earth am I thinking of taking something so frivolous so seriously?