“ A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life........." (Goethe)

In the new film “The Choral”, Ralph Fiennes, who plays the lead part of the choirmaster in Alan Bennett's Great War tale, tells the little provincial Yorkshire choir he leads that “ A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul". These words by the great 18th century German writer and polymath Johann Wolfgang von Goethe were fitting for this beautifully observed, wonderfully acted and sympathetically told story. Full of gentle Yorkshire humour, irony and at times touching sorrow it is every bit a work of art as the things that Goethe was describing.

As I sat in the darkness of the Broadway cinema in Nottingham, entranced by the story, the images and the acting it crossed my mind that Herr Goethe would have got short shrift in England in 2025 where places like Nottingham University (shame on you Nottingham) are closing down their music studies courses, and successive governments of all persuasions appear to take great pleasure in squeezing music and other arts subjects out of the school curriculum in favour “hard” subjects: science, maths and business courses with only one aim – namely making money, for the individual, big business, or the country - or preferably all three. We live in an increasingly Philistine world. “The Choral” is a timely reminder of the importance of the “arts” in everyday life - whether it be classical music, heavy metal, a Rembrandt portrait, a Henry Moore sculpture, ballet, line dancing or any other art form; they, and other "arts", are what make life worth living and worth fighting for and without them life would be barren indeed. Every few months I get, as an ex-student, a “begging letter” from Nottingham University asking for my financial support – make a donation or set up a Direct Debit to support students at the University. I did this for many years; I felt it was right and proper – but no more. I read the glossy brochure explaining why I should dig deep the day after the news broke that the University would be cutting its music courses and was reminded of Winston Churchill’s words in 1950. Churchill was in favour of a huge expansion of university education, he knew that the country needed a highly skilled and talented workforce. But he had an important caveat, saying: “The first duty of the university is to teach wisdom, not a trade; character, not technicalities. We want a lot of engineers in the modern world, but we do not want a world of engineers.” Quite: when a university (or a school or any other educational establishment or government) decide that “the arts” are not important enough to fund and develop then I know with absolute certainty that there is something terribly wrong with both our institutions and our society. In short, Beethoven's mighty Choral Symphony, Bach's B Minor Mass, a Caravaggio or Vermeer painting, a performance of King Lear, the ballet The Nutcracker, a Shakespeare's Sonnet, Betjeman's verse or John Donne's love poems and a thousand other works of art are things I would die to protect and preserve, go into battle for. But the attraction of the accountant's ledger, the financial "glories" of the City of London, Silicon Valley or the fate of the Jaguar Rover car plant to name but four leave me cold. They are necessary evils but not things to love or fight for; they might sustain us physically, even put food in our bellies, but they do not nourish us spiritually, emotionally, or mentally; they are not food for our souls.

But back to the film. Pat and I were at the cinema for 11.30 – the film beginning at 1.15pm so just time to eat a delicious lunch in the Broadway Cafe (plus a free cup of tea and 10% off thrown in because today was the weekly “silver screen” showing). “Silver Screen” is a once a week afternoon at Broadway when one can get a cheap seat (£7.00!) plus all the little “extras” – the name says it all, the theatre was filled with oldies silver haired like us!

“The Choral” tells the tale of a provincial Yorkshire choral society in 1916. The town, like all others at the time had lost many of its menfolk, who had gone off to France to fight in the Great War so the choir numbers were dwindling. Even the choirmaster had joined up and they had to find someone else to take on the role. It is a bitter sweet tale as the choir rehearse and eventually perform Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius" whilst individually and collectively they face up to the realities of 1916 war time England: telegrams informing wives and mothers of the death of their loved ones, anti-German feeling, propaganda, local rivalries (social, emotional and political), deeply held convictions which to our modern eyes might seem old fashioned but in those days were only too real and important. As always with Alan Bennett it is filled with beautifully observed human moments, droll Yorkshire humour and acutely observed political and social commentary. It is Bennett at his best. The last words spoken in the film are arrow like and classic Alan Bennett. In those last few moments we see a train leaving the station filled with newly enlisted young men going off to France and being waved off by their loved ones. Someone shouts “Don’t worry lads, you’ll be home by Christmas’ (if ever there can be a more fatuous, sad and wrong forecast surely it is that?). And as the train pulls out one of the tale’s main characters, Mr Duxbury who owns the mill where all the town folk work and whose money keeps the choir going shakes his head sadly. His own son had gone off to war in 1914 and didn’t return and Mr Duxbury reflects, wryly and angrily, that when his son Arnold went off to France, and the war was “new” there were brass bands, a bishop, and the Lord Mayor on the platform to send the young men off. But today, three years into the war, there were no brass bands, no Lord Mayor and ”even the bloody curate didn’t turn up.” And the train disappears into the distance, three young choir members leaning out of the window waving to their loved ones, leaving us to ponder if they will return. The greatest of the Great War poets, Wilfred Owen, would have understood Mr Duxbury's words and all that they conveyed both spoken and unspoken; it was what Owen termed so sorrowfully and eloquently "the pity of war". And that was why the film is more than just a nice story, it deals with the important things of life: death, life, love, regret, hate, fear, joy, sorrow, honour, truth, lies, hopes, dreams, goodness, and all the other things that separate mankind from the animal kingdom and make us human.

But for me there were other little touches that made it all so real and poignant: Bennett’s beautiful use of language, all with a Yorkshire accent – this was 1916 Yorkshire Shakespeare - it was a joy as was the acting. This was the cream of the English theatre at the top of their game, doing something that brash, shallow, Hollywood could never equal; it could never reach the emotional depths in the manner that Bennet and this wonderful cast does. And one point out of many that chimed and brought a small tear to my eye was when the choirmaster visited the local convalescent home where wounded soldiers were patients. He was trying to enlist men with good voices for the choir and as he walked into the ward the men where all wearing their “blues” – the blue uniforms that wounded men had to wear when they were recovering to show that they were not deserters. I have photographs of my grandad and great uncle wearing their blues in 1916 when they were injured on the Somme. It was a poignant moment and very touching detail.

If you get the chance to see “The Choral” take the opportunity. As always with Alan Bennett it’s a jolly good story to simply sit back and enjoy, but its more, much more. It’s about people and what is important to make us what we are as human beings. It should be made compulsory viewing in the ivory towers of Nottingham University, in every other Philistine university senior common room, and in the corridors of power in London. And, I would add, Goethe's great words and Wilfred Owen's biting critique of war and those who would make war in his poem "Dulce et Decorum est" should be inscribed on the wall of every classroom, university and public building in the country.