An Inspector Calls
Regular readers of this blog will know that I am an admirer of the work of English author J. B. Priestley, though it is only fair to say that my work is not inspired by his; rather I have always been interested both in time and the human condition and so was drawn to his work – which is widely concerned with both these things – by my own tastes.
My enthusiasm for his writing was, as far as I remember, first ignited by the 1981 BBC adaptation of his play An Inspector Calls – now his most famous work – and those of us who live in the UK had the chance to see this for the first time in many years on BBC4 this week. (It is now available to watch on BBC iPlayer).
In my opinion, this is the best available adaptation of the play. Not only are the cast excellent, particularly the inscrutable Bernard Hepton and the formidable Margaret Tyzack, but it is a superlative demonstration of the old multi-camera studio television, an art form that is deader than silent cinema or opera by telephone.
Most importantly, it is an opportunity to experience the power of the original play in unadulterated form. And it seems to me that Priestley could hardly have made his message clearer, despite the obfuscation added by recent directors: all people are connected by their shared human condition, and if we fail to recognise this connection and the mutual care and responsibility that arises from it, only suffering can ensue.
When the inspector refers to this directly towards the end of the play, and says, “that the time will soon come when, if men will not learn that lesson, then they’ll be taught it in blood and fire and anguish,” it may seem to refer to the two world wars that were to follow the period in which the play is set, but I believe it to have a more general significance. In fact, ‘blood and fire and anguish,’ could be regarded as a description of the current situation of many on the planet now, and of the future that millions of others have to look forward to.
Integrity
Despite this, the most powerful impression that I received from rewatching this programme this week was the dichotomy between the message of Priestley’s work and how he conducted his private life. I recently read Priestley at Kissing Tree House by Rosalie Batten, a memoir of his last years by his personal secretary. I was struck even more forcefully by the low wages, long hours and short holidays he offered to his valued assistant when I once more heard his own words criticising the treatment of Eva Smith in the play.
Irreconcilable personal and private lives have not been uncommon, and one can easily think of examples from art, literature, social campaigning, politics and religion in recent history, but they are no longer acceptable. I have written in a previous post of the generality and importance of love, and I now pair that with integrity, as the two things we can most usefully and beneficially strive for in our lives.
Integrity is not about perfection – always getting things right according to some rule or standard – or indeed about rules or standards, right or wrong, morality or the law. It is a kind of honesty with oneself, and is a process to be embraced rather than an end to be sought. It does not mean that we always do the right thing, or even know what is the right thing to do – for which of us is perfect in that sense? – only that we can cultivate the understanding to see where we are, the honesty to acknowledge that to ourselves, and the intention to do a little better next time.
It involves love, for to do this one must have the courage to face what is in one’s heart and mind with love not judgement. It is the only way to nurture oneself to a better place. And that is a place where we have only one face for public and private, for work and leisure; if we were sticks of seaside rock, when you sliced us up the same message would run all the way through.
This does not invalidate the message of An Inspector Calls. Far from it; I believe that mutual love, care and respect form the only way forward for us, and the only way to the lasting alleviation of human suffering. What it does mean is that there is no battle between the individual and the collective, because when we develop the courage to view ourselves with love and honesty and to cultivate those qualities within, we begin to live with an integrity that cannot but have care and respect for others; our love, care and respect become indivisible.
On a lighter note
I was delighted to come across this quotation this week:
‘Even at her most solitary, a cook in the kitchen is surrounded by generations of cooks past, the advice and menus of cooks present, the wisdom of cookbook writers.’
Readers of this blog, and of my novel Ghost Train, will know that I like food! (I’m not sure if I truly like cooking, or whether I just cook because I love food and it’s generally the only way I can get something good to eat). I’m also quite a solitary person, and in particular don’t have any close friends nearby who cook, or who have an interest in food other than eating it.
But I do have imaginary kitchen friends to chat to while cooking, and they are exactly the people Laurie Colwin describes, including my late mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and Aunty Dorothea, Fanny Cradock, Madhur Jaffrey and Nigella Lawson, some friends who live at a distance, and various other authors and people whose work I engage with.
I was so glad to find that in this at least, I was not alone. I must buy Laurie Colwin’s book and then perhaps she will join me in the kitchen too.
The featured image is April Still Life, by Emily Tellwright, 2023.
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