You see, there’s a scene in that movie that tormented me, that kept me up at night, and that lately has had me interrogating a wide variety of seemingly devoted, and certainly well-compensated, filmmaking professionals. That’s because the bird in Charlie’s Angels is, I believe, the wrongest bird in the history of cinema—and one of the weirdest and most inexplicable flubs in any movie I can remember. It is elaborately, even ornately wrong. It has haunted not just me but, as I’d later learn, the birding community at large for almost a quarter of a century.
So, naturally, being an all-in sort of person, I embarked upon a wild-goose chase to investigate how and why this monstrosity took flight. I talked to script doctors and scoured legal statutes. I interviewed leading ornithological experts and electronically analyzed birdcalls, all to figure out who laid this giant egg. It took nearly a year. But eventually, I discovered why hundreds of people with a budget of nearly $100 million failed to accurately portray a single bird. The answer was most fowl.
The fact is, though, that no language has yet proved eternal. Subjects of the Roman or Egyptian empires might once have assumed that their languages would last for ever, like their hegemony, but they were wrong. Latin and Egyptian were eventually transformed into languages that would have been unintelligible to Augustus or Ramses the Great. “English could of course die, just as Egyptian died,” says linguist Martin Haspelmath, of the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany. The more interesting questions are: when and how?
But lost places that catch our collective interest are often ones that can’t be found at all. Sometimes these are places where people lose themselves never to be seen again, where the unexplained keeps occurring and we’re left to make some kind of sense of it. Places lost to time, lost to sailors and explorers, lost to living memory.
Is comedy a deflection or a pragmatic approach to getting on with things in a world of misunderstanding and confusion? Certainly, Slags culminates in a confrontation that is more chaotic than climactic. But this is an undeniably fun read, the levity often lifted by an underlying sense of sympathy, affection and tenderness. Unsworth is riotous, rewarding company.
That’s All I Know is an utterly engaging tale of unendurable sadness and quiet desperation and of how we live with the decisions we make.
Goh has succeeded in writing a compelling narrative about the history of citrus. There are details that might have been glossed over, but only for the sake of creating a compelling narrative. She’s braided in her own story too, with her memoir providing the roots the citrus needs to flourish. Foreign Fruit unpeels the interwoven story of the orange and empire while raising questions of authenticity, otherness, and identity.
This book is an ingenious solution to the problem of biography in an age of global celebrity, where identity seems much less stable, a jumble of ever-changing projections and imaginings. It is hard to know what White himself makes of the continuing obsession with his subject. Dianaworld is a kaleidoscopic place, stuffed full with contradictory perspectives. But perhaps that is appropriate for a life that ultimately seemed so mercurial and slippery, so un-pin-down-able. As one visitor to Althorp comments at the end of a rather lacklustre tour of Diana’s childhood home, “Is there nothing else Diana? Is that it?”