måndag 29 augusti 2011

Go on, Eden - give "The Hour" what for

Now, don't get me wrong. I always enjoy ogling Julian Rhind-Tutt, and even when he's saddled with oversized Fifties glasses and a script full of cheap put-downs he's still very cute. I'm starting to wonder, though, if even Julian is reason enough to go on watching "The Hour".

I feel a little bad about panning "The Hour", as obviously a lot of effort has gone into it. The production values are lavish and it has a dream cast - Anton Lesser in one of his clever-and-vaguely-sinister roles, Burn Gorman who was such a brilliant Guppy in "Bleak House" excuding menace as a spy-cum-hit man (be warned, though, he's killed off in episode three), Anna Chancellor having little to do but bang on about Suez but doing it with bags of style as always, and Romola Garai in one of the leads. But after having seen episode two and three (I missed the first one, though I don't feel as sorry about that as when I first discovered it) I'm unimpressed and a bit mystified by the polite but lukewarm reviews, where the reviewers don't seem to know why they haven't warmed to the series as much as they had expected. Well, here's a thought: could it be because the characterisation is clichéd, the dialogue clunks, and the dramatic set-ups don't ring true?

In episode three Bel (Romola), the glamorous producer and Freddie, the intrepid journalist, are invited to a house party by Marnie, the vapid society wife of Hector, the decent but dim news anchorman. (See what I mean about the clichés?) Which of the following things do you think happen?

1. Intrepid journalist and glamorous producer make fun of the hostess and the rooms' décor.

2. Overbearing politician (that's Julian) turns out to be a bad shot.

3. Intrepid journalist turns out to be able to handle a gun, which prompts the comment from the overbearing politician that his father must have been a poacher. (Oh, did I mention that Freddie is of humble origin and chippy about it?)

4. Intrepid journalist poses some "provoking" questions about Suez to the overbearing politician over dinner, to which the overbearing politician has no answer whatsoever, although they're on school magazine level. Whereupon the host and hostess try to change the subject while the glamorous producer backs up the journalist, urging the politician to convey the journalist's words of wisdom to Eden before he loses the country's support.

5. Glamorous producer feels grateful that the hostess has thoughtfully arranged for her guests to play Sardines, as it's a great way of breaking the ice and a darned sight more fun than to stand around making small talk.

The answer is: all of the things above happen. Except the last one, obviously. The producer practically rolls her eyes over having to play Sardines, and the smitten anchorman - the host, remember, husband of vapid hostess - backs her up in her complaints. Oh, how shallow and pointless these upper-class house parties are, to be sure. Nothing for serious people with blinding insights about what canal-pinchers might find insulting or about how public morale may be affected by seeing a "frail" PM on the telly.

As a bon bourgeois - or bonne bourgeoise, to be precise - I can well imagine posh house parties as being awful, especially for the uninitiated. But I expect a drama for grown-ups to offer more subtle satire than the juvenile stuff that was served up here. Digs at toffs who play Sardines - I mean, really?

I don't think the Suez crisis context is doing the series any favours either. We're supposed to side with Bel's truth-loving journalist crew, headed by Freddie, against the Big Bad Government who wants them to toe the line. Except criticising the government over Suez doesn't seem that heart-stoppingly courageous to me, more like kicking a man when he's down. I'm no Eden expert, but I wouldn't have thought he'd be Scary Tyrant material somehow. Let's hope I'm wrong, and that he bursts on the scene - preferably cackling decrepitely like the Emperor in Star Wars and flanked by Angus McCain (aka overbearing politician aka Julian) in a Darth Vader cloak - and closes the "The Hour" down.

söndag 21 augusti 2011

Reality bites - that's one of the reasons we need fiction

Reading a more-than-usual trashy Regency Romance and watching "Consuming Passion" - a drama about the founding the publishing company Mills and Boon and how its output affects the lives of two women, in the seventies and the noughties respectively - reminded me about the debate that raged this summer about the potential harmfulness of romantic fiction. Some responsible body or other had primly pointed out that the couples in Mills and Boon novels rarely use condoms, and their passion-ridden romances gave the reader the notion that there is no need to "work at" a relationship. This led to 1) unwanted pregnancies 2) women giving up on relationships far too early. Fiction - that is popular, wish-fulfilment fiction - is bad for you.

Yes, really. Again. This kind of argument has gone on at least since "Don Quijote", and I don't believe the wake-up-and-smell-the-coffee-lobby has gained an inch of ground in all that time. Some readers and writers rise to the bait - as they did this time - and defend the novels under attack with a great deal of indignation. Others just ignore the furore and get along with reading exactly what they like, not caring what anyone thinks. And so wish-fulfilment fiction survives quite comfortably.

It's interesting that it is mostly "trashy" fiction that is targeted whenever the "books aren't like real life" debate gets going. It's not as if classic quality fiction is always that big on hard-headed reality. If anyone's fiction has given me unrealistic expectations of life, it's that of Dickens rather than Regency Romance authors (whose heroes I can do without - honestly, what's with the growling?). Which brings me to one of the reasons for the defensive stance of those (like me) who get upset every time someone trots out the old "fiction is bad for you because it distorts your view on reality" line. It's because, in a way, it's perfectly true. I have yet to meet a Dickensian lawyer, but to say I'd given up hope of ever encountering one would be telling a lie. Of course I'm not going to be pleased when someone says: "You're never ever going to meet the kind of man you think you fancy because he only exists in books. In fact, nice but boring chaps are the real princes, so stop being such a goose and grab one, if you can."

Feeling stung is not the only reason to resist the killjoys, though. I believe that they have honestly mixed up cause and effect. Wish-fulfilment wouldn't stop if all fiction except the most dreary were banned. Whoppingly high expectations are part of life in any case. People buy lottery tickets although they are unlikely to win; they book seaside holidays although it's unlikely to be warm and sunny; they send their manuscripts to publishers although they're unlikely to be read; they embark on a career of acting although they're unlikely to make any money worth speaking of, let alone make Hollywood or the Royal Shakespeare Company. Fiction may encourage rose-tinted daydreams, and make them feel more real, but it is not the root cause of them. Human nature is.

And isn't this just as well? One question the critics of wish-fulfilment fantasies don't seem to have thought much about is: and the alternative would be...? "Consuming passion" was nicely even-handed about the effect of high-blown romance on everyday life. In one plot strand, we see how a poor woman makes a fool of herself because she can't separate her fantasies about a dishy but, as it turns out, thoroughly boorish doctor from the real thing. She does become a succesful author for Mills and Boon, though. In another plot strand, a sophicticated Eng.Lit. lecturer giving a course at a university initially resists her attraction for one of her students because it too Mills-and-Boony for words - only to give in eventually because, what the heck, this is what she wants, Mills-and-Boony or not. The scenes between the Eng.Lit. lecturer and her toxically boring partner were almost scary. Whether her romance with the student had a future or not, surely she was right to ditch this plonker? If getting carried away by your dreams can be a recipe for unhappiness, I'd say "making do" with something or someone you don't really want is even more so.

lördag 13 augusti 2011

Harry Potter and chessboard psychology

So, why does anyone become a death eater? Is it because they feel excluded from the "we" that is society? Are they smarting under a perceived sense of injustice? Are they laid low by the inhuman lack of subsidies for funny haircuts? Or could it be that they are simply total bastards?

There are times – like when you have overdosed on the local paper’s milksoppy explanations of the world’s ills (forget personal responsibility; it’s all society’s fault apparently) – when watching a fantasy film like the last Harry Potter gives you a certain satisfaction. The world is neatly divided into good guys and bad guys. The Evil Figurehead is plain vile and would have been a problem even if the government had banned snake-keeping, running around noseless, mentioning offensive words like "mudblood" in public and other Evil Figurehead practises. And as for his Cackling Hordes, they are… well… Cackling Hordes. End of story.

In the long run, though, I’m not that fond of the fantasy universe with its Dark Side and Good Side. Partly, it’s the cod mythology dimension I don’t like. What was C.S. Lewis thinking? Aslan’s a lion, that’s the cool thing about him (the only cool thing, in fact – he’s rather pompous). He’s not the Messiah, just as little as the Doctor is, not to mention Harry. We’ve already got one of those. The main drawback from a villain-lover’s perspective, however, is that great villains are not pure evil. And the Evil Figurehead has to be just that, which precludes him from any sympathy we might feel. As for his minions, they are tainted by the fact that they work for him. What kind of schmuck would actually want to promote a Reign of Darkness and Horror? Give over.

But this is a genre failing, and not something to criticise the Harry Potter films specifically for. Actually, there is some nuancing in the shape of double-agent Snape who’s not wild about Harry, but who is still prepared to Do The Right Thing when required. As for the Malfoys, they just clear out before the final showdown, clearly thinking that discretion is the finer part of valour. Ironically, the only one with any gumption seems to be the mum, and she’s not going to let her scrumptious boys lose their necks for Voldemort.

I must say, by the way, that Ralph Fiennes does a fine job as Voldemort. His tone of pained regret – as if he were saying "sorry chaps, but this being evil business is what I do" – is oddly convincing. It is a mystery why Fiennes is apparently best not only in villain roles, but in villain roles where there is not a hope that anyone will root for him. He sleepwalked through "Maid in Manhattan", and I have it on hearsay that he was not that electrifying in "The English Patient" either. But give him a monster, as in "Schindler’s List" or the Harry Potter films, and he leaves you shivering in your seat. Why is that nose missing, though? Voldemort looked quite fetching when he was young, judging by the films’ flashbacks: obviously this splitting your soul lark does nothing for your looks. No doubt it is fully explained in the novels.

torsdag 4 augusti 2011

An old sci-fi chestnut one can do without

I've now watched the seven first episodes of the latest "Doctor Who" series, and while it's still very good indeed, some of the magic was missing this time around. Especially the first two-parter was a let-down: there's tricksiness that makes the viewer feel clever, and then there's tricksiness that just makes the viewer feel bewildered. A few loose ends to tie up later in the series are fine, but by now we've got a whole forest of them. I can't shake the impression that Steven Moffat and his crew are hoping that the unanswered questions, like The Silence (an impressive new alien enemy, granted), will be wiped from our memory the moment we stop watching.

I wasn't thrilled about the other two-parter either, and it's about the kind of adventure it represents that I'm going to have a grumble. The Doctor and Co. land in a factory where they are pumping out acid and where humans employ clones made of a gloopy matter they call "The Flesh" to do the dangerous work. These clones have no consciousness of their own, the gutsy female foreman insists, and have to be directed by their real counterparts. Meanwhile a massive solar storm is coming nearer.

Are the gloopy matter and the clones made from it sentient after all? Yes they are. Are the clones, thanks to the solar storm, suddenly able to act of their own accord? Yes they are. Do they rebel against their human counterparts? Yes they do. Is the opportunity to reach an agreement between clones ("gangers") and humans ruined because of one trigger-happy human? Yes it is. And when one of the Doctor's companions is confronted with a heap of half-decomposed gangers in a corridor who have been scrapped but are still alive, does the girl who is with him say: "who are the monsters here?" Yes, she does.

To paraphrase "Spamalot", once (at least!) in every sci-fi film/TV series, there's a story that goes like this. Sci-fi tends to be very preoccupied with the human condition, which is good in a way, but it does mean that some themes are often repeated. The "what's the difference between a highly intelligent robot and a human?" theme. The "don't mess with artifical intelligence because sooner or later it's going to get bolshie" theme. (Fair enough, though it does mean I'm never going to get my Blade Runner-style "pleasure replicant" made in the mould of James Carker.) And then there's this one: the endlessly tiresome "who are the monsters here?" theme, where we oh-so-selfish humans tyrannise some other intelligent life form (aliens, androids, artificial life - take your pick) and get our come-uppance as a result. Variations of this old tale have been used in several Doctor Who episodes, and they are never among my favourites.

What bugs me is that the point of these sci-fi stories seems to be to upbraid us for being human. Why? Last time I looked, sci-fi adventures were written by humans, paid for by humans, directed by humans, acted out by humans, filmed by humans, watched by humans... They are, in fact, an all-human affair. You don't get many dolphins or foxes relaxing in front of the telly and going: "Yep, you're right, those arrogant human bastards deserve a good kicking." I feel the same kind of grumpiness when it comes to the patronising stance towards "muggles" shown in the Harry Potter films (as I've mentioned, I've not read the books). Back here in the real world, we're all "muggles". There's something disagreeable about slagging off your own kind, as if they were nothing to do with you.

The fact that the "who are the monsters?" story is often meant to be seen metaphorically, as a warning against what one could call "inter-species" prejudice, only makes it more irritating. After all, our shared humanity is the strongest argument there is against prejudice. Whenever we take a dislike to some luckless group of people, it is bound to consist of human individuals, not scary clones made of sentient gloop, or ghastly spaghetti-faced Ood, or robots, or apes, or Neanderthals, or anthropomorphized bears (the latter two examples are from Jasper Fforde, who is unfortunately rather big on the whole oppressing-other-species-as-metaphor-for-prejudice-thing). What these "moral" sci-fi (and in Fforde's case, fantasy) stories do is to throw out the concept of the common ground we share as humans: instead, they actually make what fancy theorists call "the Other" into something decidedly Other. How clever is that, really? I mean, doesn't it seem sensible to be a bit wary of, say, giant prawns from outer space?

As for the horribleness of humans: well, yes, when push comes to shove, we put our own species first. Much like any other creature on the planet, then. Obviously I'm not in favour of leaving half-melted, still-living clones on the floor or treating other life forms meanly just because we can. But all philosophical grandstanding aside, the day we lose our basic instinct to protect and further humanity, I'd say we're toast.