As mentioned previously, I’ve been rewatching old episodes of Inspector Morse lately. John Thaw is still excellent, and I’ve discovered a fresh appreciation of Kevin Whately. It’s strange watching TV from the 80s though – the cameras are all fixed and rarely move, not even to pan across a room. The shots are long and slow and don’t cut between multiple angles in a scene. It’s made me realise just how fast-moving the direction is on modern TV and film, probably something to do with our rapidly-decreasing attention spans. That said, there’s something quite relaxing about the wonderfully languid pace of Morse, it’s perfect pre-bed TV, even if the exposition feels a little clunky in places due to the nature of Colin Dexter’s crossword-puzzle plotting. Those lengthy explanations work better in novels than they do on TV.
A horrific realisation smacked me in the face during the latest episode though. I’m midway through Series 2 at the moment, which I originally watched with my parents in 1988 when I was 16. Back then, Inspector Morse seemed a very (grumpy) old man to me… but actually, John Thaw was but a strip of a lad in the grand scheme of things. He was 46. Which means that I am currently five years older than Inspector Morse. This is more than my head can cope with.
Even harder to process is the death of Andy Rourke, aged just 59. I’ve no time for any obituaries that use Rourke’s death as a further excuse to cancel Morrissey; we should be able to respect the glory of The Smiths and all they meant to us without getting dragged into another debate on the latter day crimes of the lead singer. The thing about The Smiths is, they were far more than the sum of their parts. A chemical reaction occurred when Morrissey, Marr, Rourke and Joyce were together, elevating each band member far beyond their individual talents, creating true alchemy. Let's celebrate Rourke's life by remembering the good times...
