The Cyprus Problem - The True Villains

Cyprus a tiny island whose population amounts to less than 1 million has caught the European headlines since announcing over the weekend a staggering tax on peoples wealth, the Cypriot population and those affected by the obscene proposals have been broadcast to all major news channels, bewildered and angry people shout "Oxi" at local bank branches, "no".  Can we really blame them?  Wouldn't you be just as outraged?  I know I certainly would - but let us not forget the political rhetoric of the last few years since the banking crisis.  Certainly in London and in most of Europe indeed most of the West the call has gone out to tax the wealthy with Robin Hood style taxes as propagated by leading 'economic intellectuals' such as Bill Nighy.
Cyprus is feeling the effects of a natural extension of this leftist dogma that has seeped its way into mainstream politics, which has lead to the introduction of a wealth tax, which still to most rational minded people is obscene. In turn it leads to an examination of the definition of wealth.  Wealth is a relative term, what we are now discovering in today's climate anyone lucky enough to have savings is by definition better off than most and in turn, wealthy - however modest the deposits they hold.  It can never be equitable to punish so severely the hard work expended to find the resources to put money away, money that has already been subjected to the tax process.  The deal the EU offers is draconian compared with its liberal and lax approach to the other embattled economies of the Eurozone.  Russia remains a player and Cyprus needs to utilise her, to negotiate the best possible deal which for all intents and purposes seems to be the cause of the delay in enforcing this package.  

This tax is in my opinion tantamount to theft, as it taxes moneys already accumulated and already subjected to the proper tax system, such as income taxes, vat, corporation tax etc, by enacting it Cyprus and the EU will have crossed a Rubicon - and if crossed we are all in danger of suffering the same fate.  Cyprus is a guinea pig, if an audacious money grab like this works on a small scale with little resistance it will be tried elsewhere, in larger economies, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Ireland, France the UK, indeed Angela Merkel felt the need to tell the German people that savings in Germany were safe, make no mistake this blatant theft will be mimicked wherever possible.  Also it is important to reflect that the promise made by the EU that savings up to 100,000 Euros would have their safety guaranteed is also now null and void.  It was the powerhouse of the EU - the Commission who posited this plan and they who will ultimately break the relationship between rulers and ruled.

The term banker in the last 3-4 years has come to denote a certain type of villain they have been more vilified even than the worst types of criminal.   Indeed much of the literature surrounding this EU dictated Cypriot wealth tax in the blogosphere use the term "Bankster" (Banker and Gangster combined) and it is they who have somewhat missed the prevalent point.  Banks operate in the environment governments allow them to, the banks that are now toxic would have failed years ago had politicians not decided to bail them out with taxpayer guarantees, the banking crisis is a result of political failings.  So tax the banks, tax everyone who works at banks, tax everything the banks have got...except the only thing banks do have is our hard earned money, which I think generally speaking people would rather wasn't tampered with any more than it is.  Governments across Europe and the technocrats and autocrats that manage the EU have become corporatist in their outlook, picking winners, subsiding where required and bailing out failed governments and private sector entities to cover up their own mess, they have begun to realise that they need to approach matters differently and have decided to make Cyprus a lab rat.  It is the politicians who deserve your wrath and where anger should be directed, to the many Presidents and Prime Ministers of Europe, both elected and unelected as the case may be - to the European Elite a clear message must be sent - to the likes of Borosso and Van Rompuy indeed to the less than useless Baroness Ashton for they must understand that so long as they are unelected they should have no given right to dictate economic policy.  Not only are they dangerously dictatorial they are by no means benign.

If Cyprus is to rejuvenate herself she needs to unshackle herself from the Euro decouple and devalue - the same for Greece, and all other Southern Mediterranean countries lest they become vassals of Northern Europe and their ability to self govern extinguished. European Elections are on the horizon - use your vote wisely.

Will the Lambs Stop Screaming?

A cause for celebration.  This blog has had over 1000 unique readers.  Outstanding, I appreciate that it is an eclectic blog and that is primarily because I am an electric sort who takes an interest in a great many things, at the same time I have tried to make it as easy going as possible and as such most of the posts have been about cultural items both old and new, this post will combine both.

An old friend recently informed of the up coming "Hannibal" TV series.  At first I was reserved.  Having been a big fan of the Thomas Harris literature surrounding the Lithuanian cannibal from a disturbingly young age I've always felt in a way that translations don't always do the works justice, with the exception of The Silence of the Lambs.  Hannibal was a let down, the psychological edginess present in Lambs was sacrificed, excuse the pun, in favour of the grotesque and the ridiculous wasting a fantastic cast, Oldman, Moore, Giannini, Liotta and of course Hopkins himself.   Red Dragon was an improvement but by that time the whole premise of the Hopkins era adaptation had begun to feel tired, and the less said about Manhunter the better.  Adaptations of Harris' work have had a somewhat up and down ride from the lofty heights of Lambs to the betrayal of content and deletion of so many characters in Hannibal, or the overall poor film that was Hannibal Rising, though I personally can't help but feel that that was because the source literature simply wasn't as sublime as its predecessors. 

Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, moving away from this adaptation is a bold, but smart move.

The trailer for the new series holds a great deal of promise however, it looks bold, the cast is fantastic, Mads Mikkelsen seems an inspired choice for the deranged doctor, and the supporting cast would all be at home on Hollywoods A-List.  By delivering via a TV serial rather than a film this project should be able to deliver the detail, intrigue and character development that made Lambs the classic it is, while indulging the bloodthirsty among us with scenes we hope of an extreme graphic nature.  It will be interesting to see how on script the story will be as it seems from the advertisements that it will follow the Red Dragon novel.  Will see a lot more background to Lecter and Will Graham?  One hopes so because it seemed to me it was an undeveloped relationship in both Red Dragon and Manhunter so as to suit the limits of a film.  A TV series solves that problem.

Oh yes and before I forget to mention yet another lead role in an US TV series for an English actor Hugh Dancy.  The invasion continues and lets hope his Will Graham will have us all gripped on the edge of our seats for another taste of cannibalistic fun and games.

Hannibal Trailer

A House Well Built

Huge congratulations to Netflix for making what I think is arguably the best adapted transatlantic television show yet.  Forget "The Office," and a whole host of hit reality TV Shows, "House of Cards" is an amazing example of a show well translated.  Its a show that combines all the power struggles, posturing and intrigue of the Soprano's with the high brow content of the original series in a way that doesn't alienate the common man - I include myself in that category.  The on-line content providers have done outstandingly well with the cast, the script, and in creating a gritty and realistic plot full of scheming and conniving acts that made the British adaptation so successful.  The fact that it has been produced by an online-streaming firm opens up all sorts of questions as to the future of the industry and where things are headed, but this series has been done so well that frankly If this is a mark of things to come its a welcome change.

Series 2 is currently being filmed.

Kevin Spacey brings a real and odd likeability to Underwood who is essentially a villain, we want to see him succeed, just so the plot can unfurl and more and more of the unwitting victims become ensnared and enslaved to his biding.  Spacey really does give the character a lot of depth and his depiction of the Machiavellian Francis Underwood is a joy to watch.

The British version had a similar giant in Ian Richardson who was also sublime as Urquhart, both he and Spacey are Shakespearean actors and these are the kinds of roles where it really shows.  However the casts in each series are not so comparable.  The people at Netflix really put in the extra mile to weave together a cast that performed well individually and together Spacey is well complimented by accomplice and lover Kate Mara and on screen wife Robin Wright, whereas the British version was somewhat let down by actors in roles that were either to big for them to play or were poorly written.  The British version was very much a one man band, that's not to say it wasn't a great one man show but too many scenes were far to camp or overplayed or indeed unconvincingly played such as the balcony scene in the last episode, whereas the Netflix version really does feel gritty and real, each character has been well thought out and the approach to taking a life is much more plausible and just as sinister.

One need only compare the interesting and tragic "Peter Russo" (Corey Stoll) with his equivalent in the British series the hard on his luck Irishman "Roger O'Neil" (Miles Anderson), to see the jump above the re-imagining has made.   Russo's story is one people are able to access he has been given the background and exposure that O'Neil never had, and Underwood's actions are all at once horrific but at the same time startlingly easy to understand.

The US show has also tastefully transplanted specific scenes that further examine the difference between the two leads such as the euthanizing of the dog, watching both Richardson and Spacey in these situations as both Urquhart and Underwood respectively show how much change can be made by an actor to the same act.  Richardson was a great deal weaker showing us his vulnerability whereas Spacey demonstrates exactly how menacing and cold blooded he really is even when breaking the 4th wall, cold to the core one might say.  Both men however are experts in the art of convincing themselves of the morality and mercy of their acts, creating for themselves god-like pedestals, which in both cases works brilliantly.    

However that does not mean to say that the original House of Cards was without merit, it has dated yes, and it is a one man show but it is a very good one.  Both actors bring different qualities to their characters. Urquhart's aristocratic charms are compared with the on the surface likeability of Underwood's self-made-man of the people, both however are brilliant at showing their teeth revealing the shark in each man.  It will be interesting to see if the Netflix adaptation follows the same pattern as the British in that the following series  are renamed to correspond with the literature or whether, as with other adaptations such as Game of Thrones, no such change occurs.  Either way the story is riveting and I cannot wait to see if Zoe Barnes has her "Mattie Storin" moment.   I just hope its more convincing.

Ian Richardson as Urquhart 

Spacey as Underwood

Music of a forgotten time...

Apologies for the delay in posts - my schedule for a change has been a busy one that has not afforded me a great deal of spare time to indulge myself in my writing.  Recently I have been approached and signed by a recording company to create two original songs - and it has inspired me to write this.

For those of you who don't know I am a music geek - a man stuck in the wrong era - I have spent the week walking the streets of Bethnal Green and the surrounding area humming, whistling, singing and probably annoying and or disturbing people on their daily routines with the sounds of a singer most people will not have heard of, but some may recognise, I speak of Matt Monro.

Some brief background - he was born and lived very close by to my locale in East London, and gained a reputation as a singing bus driver before international stardom came knocking.  His voice was truly unique and his style was truly classy.  He is, in my opinion, an under rated and somewhat unsung voice of British music.  I as an aspiring singer/songwriter very much influenced by the style of Matt Monro and I dedicate this post to him, and hope I too can emulate his successes, though I appreciate the market for this particular genre of music may have dwindled in the last few decades I am sure there are those who miss it.

So - whilst I don't drive a bus - I have worked at a train station - and not to compare myself to the late great Matt Monro but I do enjoy travelling the world singing and bringing enjoyment to the masses - so if anybody out there has a vast fortune they are willing to throw my way to aid this endeavor  please feel free to, if on the over hand you care to indulge me and listen to my version of a Matt Monro classic - feel free!

Matt Monro - We're Gonna Change the World

and for any of you interested here is me singing a Matt Monro standard Bornfree at the tender age of 17.

Enjoy.

Le Miserables - Average at best

Its not a great film, its not a good film, Le Miserables was pathetically average in every sense of the word.  I am not particularly a fan of the sung-through film nor musicals but I thought given the acclaim and hype there must be something worth seeing here...there really wasn't.

When making a musical the first thing the casting team should probably find out is whether or not the leads can sing - Russell Crow's Javert may as well have been played by Shane Macgowan - lets be plane there were no stand out singers in this entire adventure - Crow was just the most noticeably bad given his characters screen time.  Some critics such as Adam Lambert have suggested that instead of using live vocal they should have studio recorded.  That is one suggestion I have a better one - why not cast actors who can sing?  Surely that is the answer?  That way it doesn't sound bad and it doesn't sound fake.  Too simple I'm sure

Asides the dreadful karaoke-at-best singing the acting was all together competent with nobody really standing out in the dramatic sense.  Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter proved a fun duo on screen and Cohen's Fagen-esque portrayal of the Land Lord was highly amusing.  That rather brings me to point - Le Miserables was supposed to be tragic yet I didn't shed a tear for any of the characters, in the whole film it seemed very few people actually died.  This a film set in the backdrop of one of the most horrid periods of French history with rife starvation, disease, revolution and yet we see little in the way of pain or death asides Hathaway's.  The whole production felt contrived and manipulative prompting the viewer to cry at the appropriate time - except that's not how these things work, it has to be a natural connection with the characters which just didn't exist, perhaps the medium is the problem and not the content, this may well be a film that is better seen on stage rather than the cinema.  If you want to see somebody suffering and feel a connection to the character you would be hard pressed to find something better than this chap:

Les Miserables turned out to be The Mundane (which google translate reliable informs me is Les Banales in french).  I'd find it hard to believe that it will stand the test of time with the other great film musicals - Sound of Music, Oliver, Singing in the Rain or in fact any of the great tear jerkers. 

The Gambler

Lately I have been working on my very own side project as mentioned in my very first post, it has become The Gambler - my very first short story.  Seeing as I am a novice I have decided to publish it as a blog post feel free to read, critique, comment, enjoy, or detest:

The Gambler

by Sean Harry Redmond

He had enjoyed a flutter, ever since he was young.  He’d never had much money to speak of but for some reason, as soon as the money came in, be it from legitimate or illegitimate means there he would be, it fuelled him, gave him vitality, it could also cripple him, but he needed that too, losing was part of the product an integral part of the bargain he struck on an almost daily basis.  He wasn’t educated per se; he had attended school for as long as he could stand it, and left with the minimum his potential afforded him, an achievement that still fell short of the government targets, though such targets are subject to change as they so often do, just like odds.  He never felt that that had disadvantaged him.  But then again he never had any great dreams, stricken by the poverty of ambition perhaps, but not of opportunity, or ability.

  

In all he was contended, so long as he was here.  This chapel of statistics, with its very own paradise, and its very own hell, it had been his personal theatre, it had been the scene of many a triumph and much slaughter, yet each victory and each defeat felt as fresh as the first.   Each moment while at once individual was also fluid, and part of a singular hive.  His memory could recall some of the more impressive or depressing moments, but frankly he had been here so often, and gone about his business with such a frequency, that distinguishing one moment from the next was difficult to say the least, he preferred not to dwell and was loath to reminisce.  There could be no end, and he could not remember the beginning, but he knew that whatever happened today would have happened before, and that whatever would happen in the future, will have happened in days and months passed.  It was a loop that comforted him.  Whilst any 2 given days could be completely different, they would in fact be entirely the same.  This was why he came.  He loved this, he would return to this point eternally, if he could.

Though by admission he was a compulsive perhaps even obsessive gambler he did not himself feel addicted. There was a thin, yet clear distinction.  He could walk away if needs demanded he leave, and often they did.  It was only on very rare occasions that he would actually watch the race, or game he had money on.   He was generally a busy man and so finding something to do was rarely a problem.  He didn’t feel like a junky, didn’t demand he be here, and sure he lost money, but then again he found he didn’t need a great deal in his day to day life, and didn’t have that many people in his life to spend it on.  Gambling quenched a thirst in him, it was the loss of control that he enjoyed, the act of throwing dice in the air and letting them land wherever the universe determined. 

The bookie was a sanctuary, a place to forget, and a place to escape because when an individual relinquishes control, they no longer stress, worry, or panic, at least he didn’t.  He always imagined it as though it were an old saloon, but not the kind with the dancing girls and the mundane and aimless fighting from a Western, more a desolate lonely place, with room only for 3, himself, the bartender, and of course, his beverage of choice – short, and blue, and the guiding hand of fate, it was this potent, yet ever reliable friend that would see him through.  

He handed over his cash and his slip; the cashier gave a familiar smile, “To the boozer?” as if the question need be asked.  “Where else?” came the reply.  “See you tomorrow Johnny?” 

“Hopefully in a few furlongs time,” collecting his coat and arranging his pockets, his soul purged for now he left the bookies.  Walking the length of the high street had become arduous and a test of his mettle.  He did not fit in here anymore. This place had changed since he was young shops had changed hands so many times, faces changed, in this part of London even the language was changing.  It was odd to think that to some people’s eyes he was in fact once part of a change.  Though anyone who did think that was long dead by now, long dead and forgotten.   Johnny was well versed in the background of East London.  Every immigrant population that has become a part of the British nation finds its origins here.  Be they Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Irish, Polish, or French they all started here.  There was an odd sort of pride in that.  It was a shared heritage he identified with.   Though it did not stop him feeling out of place.  That he could not help. 

He didn’t blame the latest in a long line of newcomers for his feelings of loneliness but rather those who had left him.  Most of his generation had found a ‘better life’ in the suburbs though he wondered what that really meant.  Yes they drove lovely cars, and lived in great big houses with fantastic gardens but how could that be what they really wanted?  They must have missed the old place, the laughs, and the booze, the knowledge that you know almost everybody in your block of flats, and the block of flats opposite and the block of flats behind, point being you knew everybody, and everybody knew you.  That familiarity was something he missed. 

When he was a young man the local boozers were the places to catch up have fun and live life to its fullest.  Now the pubs that were left had become rescue centre for those left behind, and not the cheap kind.  There was a time when he could walk into any pub within a mile and be assured that he would see a face, not always a good looking one or a friendly one, but at the least recognizable.  He would often find himself mourning the past.  It was impossible not to when so much had gone, and what had replaced it was entirely unimpressive.  It was difficult to find food to eat here now that wasn’t Halal prepared, he was never too sure what that meant, he knew it was a religious preparation and he had never taken religion seriously.  Perhaps he should have, maybe he should have tried to learn more about the people around him, perhaps then he wouldn’t be the proverbial fish up a tree?  It was too late now. 

Suddenly John couldn’t catch his breath, everything stopped, “Honk!” panting and in a semi state of shock he jumped back from the road, “you stupid old git” John could only mumble to himself, death to whatever it was the driver of the car had said.  He had no doubt it was stronger than git.  He stood on the pavement collecting his breath, as he looked down the road where the car had sped off. 

One thirst had been quenched but his other thirst had intensified. The dry green arches that had welcomed him here so many times before had started to wane, and rusted metal had begun to seep through, the rheumatic walls would be here much longer than himself.  The glass was single pained, and the windows dingy.  His first step in and he had already smelt what was not there.  The smell of tobacco – strange how he missed it, he didn’t smoke but he missed the smell a great deal.  Now all that lingered in the air was stale beer and piss it was palpable, wretch worthy.  He much preferred tobacco to that.  That had been the beginning of the end he felt.  It seemed that after the smoking ban the price of his pint had increased year on year, and with every passing year another pub closed.
Bang.

Looking over at the jukebox he remembered that this was one of the ‘infected zones’ a pub where the students and young professionals who had flocked to the relatively cheap parts of London had taken over.  The kind of people who wore sunglasses no matter what the weather was like, where the blokes weren’t blokes at all and spoke “oh so very effeminately”.  They wore jeans that must have constricted blood supply so much that there balls must have blown up from the constant strain.  That probably explained the ladylike way they all spoke.  At least the music they played was familiar, most of the time.  That was part of the reason they flocked to pubs like this.  It was very cool and retro to be here.  An old ska song faded out, and silence overpowered the room as one of the kids by the jukebox fed the machine.

“Bitter Johnnie?” Frank was keen to be busy besides John the toddlers by the jukebox were the only custom. “I’m always bitter” John lied, and did so the only way he knew how, with a smirk on his face that twisted ever so slightly to the right side of his face “ESB, its bloody cold out.”  Reaching into his pockets John pulled out a £5 note and completed his second transaction of the day – though this one gave him no fulfilment.  Sipping his pint and collecting his change all the while staring at the unceasing news coverage of a missing girl.  “Bunch a cunts these journo’s…” It wasn’t a question.  “Probably turn out its one of the parents, they say that half of em are”.  John heard what Frank was saying but didn’t really listen, the words just swept over his as the muted coverage on the television was joined by a song …“Stop your messing around...Better Think of Your Future” 

It was probably time by now.  “You still get teletext on that thing?” Whilst he might not watch the race he wanted to know the winner so he could get back to the bookies, there was a lot on today, Football, Rugby, Horses.  He made a point of backing one thing at a time, any more would divide his attention.  Frank handed him the remote, “You know I can’t fucking make heads or tails of this”.  John grumbled, “Give it ‘ere…what was it horses?”

“Cheltenham.” Inwardly John’s body was pulsating, blood pumping nerves tingling; outwardly he was calm, but his insides were a veritable hive of activity.  “How much you have on it then?”  Straight face John replied “Knicker”.

“Fuck off knicker! I know you well enough to know that a knicker is about the most you’re willing to leave the bookies with,” Frank muttered but John caught the last word “addict!”  One of the youths from the jukebox had snuck up behind John as he turned to Frank and in turn John decided to take issue as eloquently as he could. 

“Frank, you know I object the use of that fucking obscenity, now tell me who won the fucking race or shall be forced to take my custom elsewhere”

“Haha, calm down, fuck sake I can’t read it from here, can you?”  Both men squinted at the screen hanging from the ceiling neither able to decipher what may as well have been Greek.  In the end both gave up. 

“What can I do you for?” The youth handed over his empty pint glass and ordered his “Strongbow” as confident as could.

“Couldn’t do me a favour boy could ya?  Read that teletext for me tell me who won the 13:00 at Cheltenham?  Frank give him the handset”

“Yes sir, of course sir is that all you require?” one could taste the sarcasm Frank injected in his words, but to John they left no sting.  This had been their way for decades.

“Just give him the fucking handset” The young man didn’t have time to respond, and immediately got to work finding the right page.  “Did you say 1 o clock?  John nodded. 

Upon hearing the name John was thirsty.  He sipped at his pint, but it did nothing for him.  He quickly thanked the young bespectacled man in the chequered shirt, and left a quarter of his pint in his glass, before telling Frank that he would be back in a while.  It was all very rushed and very quick.  He had to get back fast.  Not because he had won, but because he had to put money on a few more games, a few more horses, there was always something else.  It didn’t matter that he had won £250 and that was what people didn’t understand.  This was the rush he lived for, knowing he was returning to go through the processes again.  His heart fluttered, and his mind traversed what he had read earlier, a collection of form, odds, fixtures, race times, his fingertips tingling.  Saturdays were best for this, so many things to put his money on, he was spoilt for choice and now his mind was dead set.   The pub was long behind him, it was only now he realised that he had forgotten his coat, but he wouldn’t go back for it, it would be there on his return.  He had the receipt, he had his ticket to ride.  His mind raced through the weekend fixtures, “Leyton Orient away defeat, Arsenal home win, Chelsea score draw, West Brom home win…”

He collapsed, clutching his chest, he tried to take air in but his body rejected it, he tried to exhale but there was nothing to be expelled.  Passers-by ignored at first.  They just stared.  His mind was still walking to the bookies.  He was willing his body to get up and go but it just wouldn’t respond as if he were caught in the grip of an ever tightening clamp.  The more he fought the tighter its grip seemed to get. His eyes slowly closed, and opened slower.  Each time they closed he could see it.  The bookmakers, he had to get there.  He would get there.  His eyes opened, he could see more people gathering round, another talking to him, loudly, but he couldn’t make out the words.  The pain in his chest was ever-present, and his breathing laboured.  John’s stiffened arms were no longer his, and they no longer clutched at his heart.  Instead they were starting to weaken, with all the tenacity he could afford he opened his mouth.  At first a raspy gasp escaped but he was sure that he had managed to evacuate the one thing that mattered to him, “Nietzsche’s Ghost”.

There was no prophetic flashback of his life there was no light that he could run towards, none of it.  There was only the horse.  There was only death.  

Morose Mondays Strike Back!

Has it been that long since last we met?  A whole week since my last post - apologies to you all I know you were so eager to read more about me and my interesting musings, but its far more interesting to see how far afield my readers dwell from Angola to China, Japan to Slovenia people have spend their time reading this blog.  With that in mind I shall try to limit the anglocentric form it appears to have taken and attempt an international feel for the blog.   Feel free to subscribe to the blog by clicking what should be a follow button at the top of the page - feel free to share the amusements with your fellow men and women.  

To business - and Morose Mondays - Part 4.

Having an interest in the performing arts I felt it proper to include a related post.  This week I bring you the unfortunate passing of Jean Baptiste Poquelin or Molière as he was better known.  Molière was the comedy giant of his day - approved by Royalty, loved by the masses and frowned upon by the religious establishment  he was a consummate performer.  

Molière- No Laughing Matter?

Poor Molière met his demise in the performance of his play titled 'Le Malade Imaginaire' roughly translated as The Hypochondriac.  The character he played was as the title suggests one who had a overwhelming anxiety regarding ones health, Jean gave the performance of a lifetime.  Coughing so convincingly that it actually brought on a fit of coughing and hemorrhaging.  At first nobody believed that he was dead, rather that his commitment was so immense that this was the intended effect.  Nobody suspected he had become the victim of pulmonary tuberculosis, at least no one could accuse him of being dead pan (geddit?).  There we have it, a renaissance Tommy Cooper - died doing what he did best - inducing laughter and committed to the show until the very end.

His life eventually became the subject of a film Molière 2007, though I can't promise it will be a barrel of laughs...

Until next time you lovely people.