The opening quote is not from this movie. It's from The Big Chill, where Michael is explaining to his People Magazine editor over the phone that he's got a good story line. His editor, obviously, thinks not. There will always be people who lose hope, in any generation, in any country.

Mahalo, Elliot, for the recommendation. This is a very good movie. I don't know how they found Thomas Turgoose, but he is wonderful as the damaged son who searches for meaning after his father's death. He is one who is saved by a choice for goodness at the end. This is a very dark portrait of England's youth, and of course the title of the film comes from the impassioned speech for hatred delivered under the guise of nationalism. I love the way Shakespeare's St. Crispin Day speech from Henry V is used to color the actual anti-nationalism of these thugs.

Another lost generation . . . I'm optimistic enough to say that Turgoose's character is not alone in making the choice for tolerance and non-violence. If the odds of that happening in real-world England were the same as in the world of this movie, England would be in a shambles by now. It's definitely not. Many more, like my niece and nephew and their chums in London, have made the choice for love, for peace, for tolerance -- for hope. Yes, there will always be people who have lost hope, but there will always be many more who choose not to do so. This is England.

The word "reality" gets thrown around like crazy these days, so much so with TV shows, that when I hear the word reality, at most, I can only think of cheesy production values, horribly mundane BS, and cruddy over the top "acting." This film, friends, defines reality; it's what reality is all about.

I see it's nominated for an Oscar this year. If this doesn't win, I . . . well, to stop short, I wouldn't be surprised actually. The Academy . . . But I don't think there will ever be many more impressive documentaries made. Ever. And to think. I was in NYC in the summer of '74. I just missed this by a month, live and in person. Gotta add this to my Top 100 right away.

With this last, in terms of written chronology, Claire Bloom as Katherine of Aragon, John Stride as Henry VIII, and Barbara Kellerman(n) as Anne Boleyn (Bullen), together with an astonishing performance by Timothy West as Cardinal Wolsey, all control enough of the major scenes to make this one of the best, although one of the earliest BBC produced plays (1979).

This has been an amazing three-month viewing adventure reconfirming that, for me, Shakespeare is indeed the greatest writer of all time.

This BBC production, like all their others, is at least all right, but the Prospero I envision, although he may have some age and wear on him, still burns with an inner intensity that will radiate forth in the famous, perhaps the most famous of all Shakespeare's speeches: The farewell to art:

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,

And ye that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him

When he comes back; you demi-puppets that

By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,

Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice

To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,

Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd

The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,

And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault

Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder

Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak

With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory

Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up

The pine and cedar: graves at my command

Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth

By my so potent art. But this rough magic

I here abjure, and, when I have required

Some heavenly music, which even now I do,

To work mine end upon their senses that

This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I'll drown my book.

He's like a general contractor overseeing the construction project of my house-life, with me up on the scaffold, counting on him to steady it while I build to higher heights. I look down suddenly, and wouldn't you know it: Instead of supporting the scaffold, he's lighting his pipe. I notice nothing but the dark bowl of that pipe. Vertigo sets in. The bowl expands before me, a black and bottomless pit. Is this the abyss. The scaffold rumbles and begins to shake apart. Derrida puffs thoughtfully at his pipe. I fall headlong into blackness . . . Nah, just kidding.

Jacques Derrida was cutting-edge influential back when I was in school, and he continues to be taught widely in college classes right now. And it's not just philosophy courses, either. Walk into a college bookstore and stroll the aisles. You can see him being taught in English, history, political science, education classes -- and on and on. An amazing man and an interesting portrait. His comments on biography/autobiography will be with me for a while.

At times, the personality that comes across in this film reminds me of the personality displayed by Bob Dylan when he was constantly being hounded to "explain" himself, early on in his career. His take on "forgiveness" tied my brain in knots. But that's Derrida. He's one of the great contemporary game players, one of the best tie-your-brain-in-knots thinkers worth the torture of grappling with.

Note: If you dig into Derrida, remember that he evolves, just like Dylan. He was no spring chicken, either, when he passed away, so like Bob, he'd been evolving for many years.