måndag 30 augusti 2010

Wonderful Wolsey

I think I may have discovered something - a piece of good advice if you're thinking of writing a novel where you mean to defend a much-maligned historical or fictional character. Don't tell it from his or her point of view: tell it from the point of view of someone close to him or her.

I'm reading "Wolf Hall" and yes, it is seriously good. I knew Hilary Mantel could spin a yarn because I read "A Place Of Greater Safety" a great many years ago (although I must admit, French Revolution fanatic that I was, that I skipped some of the back-story and zoomed in around 1789). At first I was incensed because the author off-handedly slated my favourite revolutionary: "Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes." Ironically, this is probably exactly what Maximilien Robespierre (though Max seems an unlikely nickname for him, like a flamboyant theatre agent or sci-fi baddie) did think. Still, I mean to say, what. Mantel didn't have to sound as if she agreed with him. This aberration of taste put me in a bad mood, and yet I grudgingly had to admit that "A Place Of Greater Safety" was a good read. If you're interested in the French Revolution, go ahead and read it, but bear in mind that the characterisation can be quite cynical. Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, the revolution's golden couple, as manipulative monsters? Babette Duplay a nymphomaniac? Surely not. Robespierre, whether or not he is a Max, is spot on, though.

Anyway, back to "Wolf Hall" and the art of saving someone's reputation at one remove. The novel is narrated from Thomas Cromwell's point of view, but it's not he (so far) who comes out of it best. Mantel's Cromwell is admirably able, but he's more bulldog than wolf. Sometimes he can be funny - as when he's sparring with Anne Boleyn - but a great deal of the time he's quite dour. I rather miss the popular image of Cromwell the villain - but then I would. Cromwell's master Cardinal Wolsey, on the other hand, is delightful. When seeing Wolsey's portrait in The National Portrait Gallery, I have asked myself how they could have the face to engage Sam Neill to play this man. Now I understand. Ah, the charm, the wit, and somewhere beneath it all, underlying kindness too! When it comes to Wolsey, Mantel has won me over completely. Let's see if she can do the same for her hero in time - there's more than half the book to go.

Elsewhere, there is not the same cynicism as in "A Place Of Greater Safety". The characterisation seems mellower. Of course, the sainted More is depicted as thoroughly nasty beneath his surface geniality. But then he was, wasn't he?

lördag 21 augusti 2010

Aye, 'tis a muddle all right

Well now that's done and I'm glad it's over. I've finally read "Hard Times", which means I can lay claim to having read all of Dickens's novels, all his Christmas books and a fair share of his short fiction. The reason I waited so long with "Hard Times" was that I was warned against it, and suspected myself that, judging by the subject matter, I wouldn't like it. And I didn't, but now at least I can rubbish it knowing what I'm talking about.

Although I love Dickens and would rather read something mediocre by his standards than most modern authors' best efforts, I'm the first to admit that he isn't perfect. This is part of the fun: liking and disliking different part of Dickens's works can lead to very lively discussions among Dickens fans. For my part, I don't think that social satire, for which he is so lauded by high-minded intellectuals, is really his forte. What makes it bearable is how he uses human drama to illustrate diverse social ills. It is the fates of Rick and Ada and poor miss Flite (and Gridley if you feel more charitable towards him than I do) which make the description of Chancery interesting in "Bleak House", although Dickens does not have a single constructive idea as to how civil law cases should be handled instead. The Circumlocution Office is a pretty lame satire of a government department, but the Barnacles are instantly recognisable as types (as an administrator, I recognise and have occasionally myself used Barnacle strategies - pompous condescension, blustering defensiveness and friendly unhelpfulness - against hostile clients/customers). As to how a department should be run, Dickens has no more clue than William Dorrit would have. He is the Concerned Citizen who, if he didn't write books about his concerns, would write letters to the Times about them. He may shine a light on a particular problem, but that's all he does: for solutions you have to go elsewhere.

I was rather interested to see what a socially concerned, non-socialist observer like Dickens would make of industrial relations, but "Hard Times" leaves me little wiser. What is it he wants? Less smoke? Safer working conditions? More green spaces in the town? A less aggressive tone from factory owners when faced with complaints from their workers or from government officials? Something like that, I suppose, and it sounds fair enough, but it hardly adds up to a Grand Vision. You can't shake the feeling, either, that his observations are those of an outsider, an appalled Londoner on a flying visit who finds industrial towns aesthetically unappealing in their smokiness and sameness, although this may not be the main concern of the people who actually live there.

All right, but I didn't expect brilliant social satire, nor would I (if the truth be told) be that interested in reading a brilliant social satire on industrial England. The problem with "Hard Times" is that Dickens's imprecise rants are not balanced by the human interest you normally find in his novels. I hardly know which character is the more underdeveloped: the dastardly factory owner Bounderby (yes, that's his name!) or the honest, noble and extremely tiresome power-loom weaver Stephen Blackpool. Bounderby is incapable of one kind word or deed, but what's worse, he doesn't have the consolation usually accorded to Evil Capitalist characters, namely that of being brainy. In fact, he's quite impossibly daft: when there's a theft in his bank, he ignores a glaringly obvious suspect; he does not realise when an elegant London gentleman makes a play for his wife under his very nose; his housekeeper runs rings round him. The famous "gold spoon" tirade is woefully unfunny and does not improve on repetition. One of the strongest scenes in the book is when Bounderby's mum proudly defends herself against the charge of being a bad mother, not knowing that it is her "darling boy" who has slandered her in the first place. But the drama and the strength of the writing cannot make up for the fact that the whole situation is improbable in the extreme, for who in his right mind would denounce a loving parent just for the sake of being able to tell a hard-luck story? It is not only heartless, it is also stupid, when an enemy (and Bounderby does not lack enemies) can check up on his background at any time.

I do think though, on reflection, that Stephen is an even worse failure as a character, and a fine illustration of the both gushing and patronising tone Dickens uses when describing the factory workforce. I found myself positively warming to the wicked union representative Slackbridge (Marxists take note: Dickens is not in favour of unions, nor of silver-tongued middle-class socialist agitators) because he is so unlike the dense-seeming noble savages in workman's clothing whom he is haranguing and "leading astray". In particular, he is refreshingly mean to Stephen, who speaks like a not very bright ten-year-old with a speech impediment. If I were a power-loom weaver, I'm not sure I would be thrilled to be represented in a book by this surly, soppy dunce, however good and honest. The obviously well-educated (and yes, I admit I enjoyed that satirical detail) Slackbridge has one advantage over Dickens when it comes to being the workers' friend: he doesn't talk down to his audience.

The other theme of the novel - the attack on soulless education and philosophies that deny the power of feeling and imagination - works a little better, but again it is let down by weak characterisation, at least by Dickensian standards. The fact-obsessed Gradgrind who finally sees the error of his ways is the closest Dickens comes in this book to a well-rounded character, but he is not very engaging, and his supposedly damaged children even less so. Louisa is plain dull - even a cardboard cut-out like Bounderby deserves a better wife than this walking misery - and surely no education in the world would have made a good man of the ungracious Tom. Louisa's would-be seducer Harthouse is a tired Steerforth clone, of the kind we see a little too often in Dickens's novels. His seduction methods are not without interest, but there is not a lot of spark between him and the dismal Louisa. Sissy Jupe makes Pollyanna look like a troubled and brooding soul. My favourite character is Bitzer the teacher's pet turned social climber. I can't deny, though, that he is a minor character without much inner life to speak of: a promising boy ground down in the hard school of Dickens's didacticism. (Trust me, Manchester liberalism does not prescribe putting your mum in the workhouse.) He wins the title of best villain in the book more or less on walkover.

torsdag 12 augusti 2010

Regency romance pitfalls

Lately I have been doing more Amazon-surfing than is strictly good for me. Always on the look-out for more self-indulgence reads, I have been criss-crossing the site following up "if you like Georgette Heyer you'll love..." tips. It's strange, this preference I have for regency romances. I suppose it's chiefly because 1) they are rom-coms 2) they are historical 3) they are not too historical. More specifically, they are virtually free from references to maggotty food, faulty sewage and rotting teeth, plus you are spared all those look-how-learned-I-am earthy descriptions of street-life you are likely to get in books set, say, in the 16th or 17th century, not to mention the Middle Ages. And perchance the language is not too stilted. If there were Victorian romances, I'd rather go for them, but as it is, what interests modern authors about Victorian times is apparently "Victorian London's dark underbelly". Unless Fagin happens to be around, though, I couldn't care less about Victorian London's dark underbelly. Which means Regency romances will have to do.

The down-side is there are a number of things that can crop up in a typical Regency romance which really get my goat, namely:

Predictability You would think authors would learn some things from the masters. When I first read "Pride and Prejudice", long before Colin Firth's wet shirt, I had no idea Elizabeth would end up with Darcy and was pleasantly surprised. Not because I liked Darcy overmuch, but because I hadn't expected it. Innocent girl that I was, I hadn't come across the love-starting-as-antagonism-plot before. Now I have, of course. Many, many times. But it was still fresh in Austen's day.

Perhaps this is part of the trouble, that it is hard coming up with plot developments that haven't already been done and that seasoned romance-readers recognise. Apart from the one above, there is the good-dependable-man-proves-better-catch-than-exciting-cad-plot (Austen invented that one, too); the suddenly-realising-you-love-your-best-friend-plot (Austen again, Dickens used it as well: in his case, refreshingly, the chump who saw the light was a man); the couple-who-pretend-to-be-together/are-forced-together-fall-in-love-for-real-plot... You can get good mileage out of these old war horses: especially the last one is hard not to make enjoyable. But the main difficulty is that there is bound to be one Hero, and one Heroine, and once you know who they are the suspense is limited. You know they'll end up together. You know if there are any significant others, they'll be ditched, and if there are any misunderstandings, they'll be straightened out. Is it really that hard to make the pairing off just that little bit more unpredictable? After all, there was a horrible moment (the masters again) where you were actually afraid Jane Eyre would settle for St John, not least because he was cunning enough to seem to take the moral high ground. And who would have guessed Dorothea and Lydgate in "Middlemarch" wouldn't even get close to ending up together?

Rakes What is so attractive about rakes? I don't get it. I'm a villain-lover, all right, but that is because villains can be so intelligent, razor-sharp, wonderfully sarky, able to cut prosy heroes and heroines down-to-size and, well, clever. The villains I admire have attained their position by making an effort when thinking out all their dastardy plots. What does a rake do? He drinks, gambles and is insulting to women rather than flattering them, assuming that he is so irresistible they will fall for him anyway. Which they do, the silly cows, after some desultory "I hate you"s! Which leads me seamlessly to:

Aristos For pity's sake, they're everywhere! Earls, viscounts, dukes, the odd marquis... a Regency romance hero, it seems, positively must have a title. Blame class-consciousness (I'm rather stridently middle-class), blame the Scarlet Pimpernel books (Chauvelin's so cute!), or blame the fact than when I first made acquaintance with Napoleonic France it was by way of Stefan Zweig's "Joseph Fouché", which meant the aristocratic Talleyrand became an enemy for evermore. The fact remains that the more dandyish, the more languid, the more elegantly lazy and indifferent, the more Hessian-booted, tightly-trousered, artfully-cravatted and, as I have touched on before, quizzing-glass-carrying a Regency buck gets, the more I want to string him to the nearest lamp-post. Not that all the nobs are like that, but I would have appreciated the odd tradesman hero.

"Boney"-bashing One has to be realistic. Napoleon the first, Emperor of the French, was not Regency England's most popular man. Even today, the English resist such an obviously good thing as the Metric system because "The Corsican Bandit" implemented it in the rest of Europe (or so I've heard it said). In a typical Regency romance, the hero has fought in Spain and/or at Waterloo and is chummy with "The Duke". Or, ludicrously, he's a spy. And we are supposed to cheer these noodles on in their effort to put the Bourbons back in power?

Sex scenes I thought they were rather sweet at first, but now... Please, no more!

Having said all that, a fun frothy read is a fun frothy read. There are not so many about that you can afford to be picky. I have mentioned Julia Quinn before, and she is the wittiest of the Regency romp authors I've read this far, though not, I suspect, that well-read up on the period. Mary Balogh is another worthy contender for the Georgette Heyer crown if the one novel I've read by her so far is anything to go by - she is not as funny as Quinn, but she can create likeable characters and is probably more of a Regency buff than Quinn. Heyer still reigns supreme when it comes to plots and blissful lack of sex scenes (scenes that are unavoidable in Quinn and Balogh). Let's see, in time, what else I can dredge up from this genre filled with titles like "The Duke's Desire" and "Romping with a Rogue". All right, I made them up, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do exist.