Fear & Loathing in the Cape: A Nightmare on Table Mountain
One of my first cinematic experiences haunts my dreams. It has done since, aged seven, I gazed in wide-eyed wonder at Disney’s meisterwerk, Fantasia. This cutting-edge (made in 1940) feast of animation ends with a haunting rendition of Mussorgsky’s magnificent Night On Bald Mountain over scenes of translucent spirits rising from murky graves to swirl and dance around the Beast that dwells atop the looming crag. This imagery left a lasting impression on my young, malleable psyche, one that’s encouraged my exploration of the dark, macabre corners of our world for over forty years.
Last night another kind of darkness entered the hearts of youngster all across the country. Tuned in to cheer on their heroes in the FIFA World Cup millions were left traumatised by the horrific scenes unfolding in the shadow of Table Mountain. Clueless, formless, rudderless, useless. I cannot convey the depth of ineptitude displayed against a plucky, hard-working Algerian side who looked increasingly surprised at the lack of fight in the lauded opposition. Algeria were unlucky not to win. One can forgive bad luck or even incompetence. What is unforgivable is the apparent lack of cohesive effort. The English players looked pale, frightened rabbits caught in the stadium floodlights. Lampard was anonymous, limp, lacklustre, lost; Rooney inept, ranting and, finally, rabid. Gerrard charged around the pitch like a starving dog let loose in a henhouse, dashing from one opponent to another without effect. By the close of play the screen was filled with close-ups of world-famous megastars shrugging and frowning at one another, dreadful theatrics presumably designed to deflect attention from their own abysmal ‘performance’.
Heart of Darkness, the non-fiction account of the making of Coppola’s brilliant Apocalypse Now tells the tale of the film crew’s descent into madness as they struggled with a monster of a movie in the depths of the Philippines jungle. Mistrust and paranoia ran rife, uncertainty and fear as ubiquitous as malaria. Martin Sheen (Willard) suffered a heart attack; Marlon Brando (Kurtz) swept in with a raft of unreasonable demands, improbably overweight, incoherent and quite possibly off his trolley. The late, great Dennis Hopper was … well, Dennis Hopper. It’s a spine-chilling documentary leaving the viewer wondering how any of them got out alive never mind finished the film. Watching the England players stumbling about in Cape Town last night I couldn’t help but wonder at the parallels. There’s something rotten in the state of Rustenberg. Rooney’s remarks to camera as he left the field, chiding the ‘home’ support for booing the dire fare on offer, were disgusting. He’ll come to rue those words in the coming days and I hope he’s dropped for what could well be Englands’ final humiliation. The much-loathed Vuvuzelas will sound like comedy kazoos if it all goes the shape of the pear against a sharp Slovenia. Divisions are appearing in the camp, the disconnect between the steely Capello and his bemused charges as clear as the night skies above the Hiveld. The players look frightened, unsure of their positions, duties or required method of play. They lack spirit, fight, inspiration or a sense of purpose. We laughed at the French getting hammered by Mexico yet the parallels with that dysfunctional family and our own are sobering. These are teams crammed with ‘stars’, players whose egos are fed by the litany of crass advertisements and endorsements that have so obviously blunted their hunger and desire, guilty of believeing their own PR hyperbole. The curse of that Nike ad has well and truly struck. Ribery looks rubbery, Rooney’s been rubbish. We can only hope that Ronaldo get’s sent off for diving before ripping off his diamond earing in a fabulous fit of pique.
As in movies a stellar cast is not enough. You need a coherent script and a strong director with a vision and the human skills to communicate that vision clearly to each and every player. At this moment the England ‘team’ is lost, adrift on an ocean of hubris. Out of form, out of fight, out of ideas … out of Africa?
The horror ... the horror ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
