Goodbye, Thursday Next

I felt a little bereft after finishing Dark Reading Matter, the last Thursday Next adventure (as clearly stated on the cover). Which is daft, because it is all of fourteen years ago we got the last instalment in this series, The Woman Who Died a Lot. During that time, I managed just fine with rereading the previous Thursday novels. Only... this really is the end, isn't it?

I am happy to report to other Thursday fans that Dark Reading Matter is full of Ffordian zest and creativity. In The Woman Who Died a Lot, and even in the previous book in the series One of Our Thursdays is Missing, I thought I discerned some fatigue on the part of the author towards the fictional world he's created. Perhaps there's a reason One of Our Thursdays is narrated by the written Thursday, not the "real" one – it's as if Fforde didn't have a lot more to say about his heroine's life. In Dark Reading Matter, the fact that this is Thursday's last outing adds a certain sparkle to things. Although we still don't learn anything new about Thursday as a character. Fforde plainly loves her, but their association is over now.

This isn't the best book in the series in my opinion, but neither is it the worst. Having said that, which Thursday books you prefer is very much down to personal taste. My favourite things about the Thursday Next series are the BookWorld and the way Thursday interacts with various famous fictional characters. Favourite scenes from previous novels include the quick-thinking heroine getting out of a scrape in Kafka's The Trial, attending a rage therapy session in Wuthering Heights (together with a cheesed-off Miss Havisham who against her will has to protect Heathcliff from being assassinated) or secretly saving a sheepdog in an Enid Blyton yarn. 

Other readers, I believe, are more interested in the parallel reality of Thursday's "real world", with its quirky world-building details, than the bookish stuff. They probably prefer The Woman Who Died to One of Our Thursdays (the latter is set almost entirely in the BookWorld), while for me it's the opposite. I resent the lack of BookWorld in The Woman Who Died, and besides I think the whole smiting plot is a bit off. I may also be the only Thursday Next fan out there who's not wild about book number four, Something Rotten (limited BookWorld, Hamlet doesn't add much, and my are those Neanderthals annoying). 

Dark Reading Matter has an acceptable BookWorld ratio and plenty of meta jokes. Maybe even too many. If the novel has a problem, it's not a lack of ideas, but rather a surplus of them. There are a lot of sprawling subplots stitched together, sometimes haphazardly. That said, this is something of a Ffordian feature. I tend to enjoy his novels more when rereading them than the first time around. When you want to know how things will turn out, all the side quests can be frustrating, as they slow down the plot momentum not a little. On the other hand, when you're already assured everything will be fine you can appreciate their charm.    

I'm not sure I particularly approve of the notion of Thursday becoming self-aware and realising that she, too, is a fictional character. It makes the whole book-series-within-a-book-series situation, which was the setup for First Among Sequels and One of Our Thursdays, even more complicated (unsurprisingly, the written Thursday doesn't show up in this novel, as that would have been a metafictional labyrinth too far). However, as this idea is so important to the whole way the novel is constructed – what with Thursday frantically having to make use of various well-known plot devices in order to save her own existence and that of her world yet again – it's something you just have to swallow.

You can pick plenty of holes in the various plots. What was the payoff of the whole Reality Distortion Field thing, in the end? Did the "redacted donkey" really have to be in the book at all, especially as he's not even allowed to act like himself "for copyright reasons"? Isn't the Hades plotline surprisingly underwhelming? Why are the villains making such weird alliances, and isn't the main antagonist rather a pale figure (although with impressively menacing skills at his disposal)? I may have resented that the late lamented Goliath goon Jack Schitt didn't get a redemption arc in The Woman Who Died a Lot (come on, don't tell me the previous two novels didn't set it up?), but Dark Reading Matter could have done with some of his unapologetic cynicisms.

At the same time, most plot elements I have nit-picks about have their saving graces. I thought that Fforde was too emphatically harsh on writers of novels featuring angsty affluent Londoners (what have these writers ever done to him, except perhaps win awards he should have got?), but I loved the characters Jocasta and Barnaby, who try to warn off Thursday from meddling in BookWorld business while simultaneously arguing for the health benefits of hummus. I wasn't very invested in the subplot of the rundown Shakespearean theme park and its unlikely new draw, but the way its conclusion closes out Thursday's story is comedy gold.

Dark Reading Matter isn't perfect, but it isn't tired, and that's the main thing. This is not the book to start with for newbies, but Thursday Next fans should definitely not pass up on her last hurrah.

When reality TV plays nice – The Great British Bake-Off

The very last Thursday Next novel has arrived, and will in all likelihood be the juicy subject of my next blog post. Meanwhile, erm...

Yes, there is such a thing as less demanding TV than cosy crime, and the last couple of weeks I've been hooked on it. It's The Great British Bake-Off. Not even the latest series with Nigella, mind you, but seasons from way back which are airing on Swedish TV4 (approximately the equivalent to Britain's ITV) and BBC Nordic. My addiction reminds me of a Masterchef phase (mostly the Professionals version) I went through a couple of years back. Work has been intermittently energy-draining, and when you're stressed, even engaging in the airiest of fictional dramas can be a bit much. Now, for Bake-Off, you need no energy at all.

What's the appeal, though, for someone like me who can't bake for toffee (my cooking isn't great either)? Well, for one thing, I like eating, and Bake-Off heavily features tasty-looking desserts of different kinds. In this respect, it draws you in more than Masterchef, where the dishes could get a bit too fancy sometimes. Moreover, even the bakes that are too full of ingredients I don't much care for (why is everyone so fond of pistachios?) look an absolute treat.

The bakes are the big draw – all those astonishing "show-stoppers" – but admittedly not the only one. I'm fascinated by the social challenges the format puts its contestants through as well. Unlike reality shows like Big Brother, which (reputedly) are focused on making contestants behave badly for the sake of "good TV", the goal of Bake-Off (and to some extent Masterchef) is to create a cosy atmosphere where the contestants are as nice as possible. Mostly, they rise to the challenge, and their social skills impress me almost as much as their baking.

The underlying formula for Bake-Off is similar to the one I remember from various (probably ancient) Masterchef episodes. We have The Stern Judge, preferably male and good-looking in a silver-fox kind of way (in Bake-Off, Paul Hollywood). Then there is The Comparatively Nice Judge, preferably female, not always as easy to please as one might think (Mary Berry, then Prue Leith in the Bake-Off episodes I've seen). I can't remember the names of the judges in Masterchef Professionals, but I do remember a deceptively nice-looking male chef who was an absolute savage. Believe it or not, Hollywood is a pussycat in comparison. 

Along with the judges, we have the Comic Relief in the form of two presenters with no particular knowledge of baking/cooking. Their job is to lark about with the contestants and put them at their ease, with varying degrees of success. These presenters are probably household names in Britain, but I wouldn't know them from Adam. I quite like the vibe of the latest pair I've seen take on the role in Bake-Off, jolly Alison and Goth Noel who's actually a softie. That said, I'm not sure I'd find their antics de-stressing myself.

Through all these trials, the bakers have to keep their temper and show good sportsmanship. The ideal Bake-Off contestant is sweetly happy in victory – though not overdoing the wide-eyed "what, little old me?" humility – and gracious and stoic in defeat. Masterchef often featured the contestants who had to leave the show looking crushed and talking about how "gutted" they were. Bake-Off, wisely, tries to play this aspect down. The ousted bakers smile bravely, admit that they had a bad week and that it was a fair cop, and turn up in the final episode to cheer on the remaining trio. "No tears on Bake-Off", one contestant reminded herself when she got a bit emotional. Though it would be inhuman to follow this rule completely, she had the right idea.

Moreover, as viewers we want the bakers to get on, and they seem to do their very best in that regard, in spite of a process that appears to favour a selection of contestants as eclectic as possible (considering they all have to be great at baking as well). Every sign of camaraderie or generosity towards the other bakers is counted by this viewer as a point in a contestant's favour, and surely not just by me. 

It's a relief to see that the hopeful bakers seem to know what is required of them by way of friendly behaviour. When you're on telly in a programme designed to be feel-good viewing, the cliché about participating being more important than winning is actually true. Forget fierce competitive spirit (what Swedes call vinnarskalle, "winner's noggin"). Even if you were to win the whole competition, no-one will remember you fondly if you're arrogant or a grouch.

It could be argued that programmes like Bake-Off can take as much of a psychological toll on those involved in it as shows like Big Brother, where at least the contestants don't have to act hypocritically decently if they're not up to it. For my part, I prefer to see cosy competitions like Bake-Off as a triumph for niceness – which may be the naïve, consensus-loving Swedish part of me talking. Fika, anyone?

Why is Ludwig so enjoyable?

I always underestimate how much travel takes out of you, as I tend to forget how much time and energy is needed for preparations beforehand and settling back into old routines afterwards. Of course, the travelling itself is worth it, but I can't claim that I return from it well-rested.

Which is my excuse for being late with my blogging. Even now, I need to find a suitably lightweight blog subject. Like cosy crime. Fortunately, Swedish Television has decided to air a generous number of comforting British crime shows as an autumn pick-me-up for us dog-tired Swedes. Somewhat unexpectedly, the second series of Ludwig is the one I've had the most time for this far.

Now, don't get me wrong, I really liked the first series of Ludwig as well. Only, one would have thought that I'd care even more for a show like Bookish, where the viewer actually has a sporting chance of solving the mystery, or Marble Hall Murders, where I've read the book (a great read for a long train ride). I had a good time with both these shows. I was a bit surprised by the description of Knecht Ruprecht as an ultra-scary Krampus-like figure in Bookish – surely not? – and I have notes concerning the unnecessary changes to the plot of Marble Hall Murders (Why Corfu? Why "The Tiny People"? Why isn't Julia stout?), never mind that it's the author himself who's made them. But these are merely quibbles, when there's slick storytelling and the cream of British actordom to enjoy in both series.

Ludwig, however, brought a satisfaction all of its own, which is hard to explain seeing as there's a minimal chance for the audience to work out each episode's murder mystery. Instead, you sit back and watch puzzle master John Taylor aka Ludwig be brilliant as he solves murders, now as himself rather than masquerading as his absentee twin brother James. The mysteries have a classic puzzle element, and though it doesn't always play as decisive a role in the solving of the crime as we're led to believe, there is no way we as viewers can crack the case with the information we are given.

This makes Ludwig a more unusual crime series than it at first appears. It doesn't really invite us to do any detecting of our own, which ought to damage the show but strangely doesn't. There's something relaxing about simply watching a character being clever rather than trying to be clever yourself – it's a bit like those Sherlockian deductions which are there simply to make you marvel (and not think too hard about ways in which they cheat). I've always scoffed at the assumption that whodunnits are satisfying because everything is tied up neatly, as opposed to the often messy reality of crime fighting. But in Ludwig's case it might actually be true. I love watching John tie a case up in a pretty bow and be successful at work in spite of his social ineptness.

That doesn't mean the show is perfect. Secondary characters like the new Detective Constables are often thinly sketched, the overarching mystery of James's disappearance grows ever more outlandish (a murdering local politician? Really?), and the second series takes no time to remind us of what actually happened in series one which aired about a year ago. A "previously on" would have been appreciated (maybe there was one which we Swedish viewers missed?). 

Nevertheless, the hook of the overarching plot still holds: we want James to be found and his disappearance to be explained, but at the same time we don't want John to have to give up his place as part of a loving family. David Mitchell is funnier than in the first series, but he also sells the poignancy of his reply when James's wife Lucy asks him why he doesn't believe James simply ran away because he was tired of his life: "Because it's so nice."            

I'm up for series three, though I suspect they can't spin out the James mystery for more than three series. And I wonder if they can possibly find a non-preposterous conclusion to the "murderous local bigwig" plot.

Agents of Shield: some much-needed love for the middle manager

When I recently finished my rewatch of Agents of Shield, which I first watched a couple of years ago, I felt quite melancholic. This TV series, which first started to air well before the Disney Plus era (though it's not that old: it's roughly contemporary with Once Upon A Time), might actually be the best Marvel series out there. Granted, I've not seen more than one episode of the acclaimed Daredevil, which seems a little too gritty for me. But I would argue that Agents of Shield trumps most of the Disney Plus TV series at least – and I'm a big defender of Marvel's Disney Plus series.

For one, Agents of Shield has the classic American TV series format of 22-23 episodes per season, with a mid-season finale (where one storyline is often wrapped up in favour of a new one). The last two seasons had "only" 13 episodes each, but that was still plenty. As a European, I'm not used to such generously long seasons: a series/season of ten or so episodes (although they are mostly longer than a typical American-style episode) is considered a lot. Consequently, I was more attuned to the Disney Plus format of six to eight episodes where each episode had to carry a lot of weight than I suspect many Yanks were. Even so, I understood their hankering after the "good old days" of multi-episode TV series.

There is much to be said for the Agents of Shield format. You don't have to be overawed by every episode, or even every storyline. Something you like better will be along in a minute. Meanwhile, you can enjoy the quips and interactions of your favourite characters, whose individual story arcs get plenty of time to develop.

Because that's another thing Agents of Shield has going for it: really engaging characters, who constitute a strong ensemble cast. I know I've expanded on the importance of a likeable ensemble of characters before somewhere, though I can't find the post now. Anyway, Agents of Shield is a good example of ensemble-driven storytelling done right. True, Phil Coulson's select team of agents do need some time to set out their stall in season one, but they soon grow on you, and later additions to the team also work really well, which is important in a long-running series such as this. The likeability of the characters does have one drawback: you are seriously disappointed when an agent has to leave the team, for whatever reason. I'm still a bit peeved about a character death in season two which just seemed unnecessary.

The series is also really rewatchable, as I've now found out. Some storylines were anxiety-inducing the first time around (somber season five is still my least favourite, I think), so knowing roughly how everything plays out helps, though I had forgotten some of the plot twists. I could also acknowledge that certain turns of events that seemed to come out of nowhere first time around actually did make sense upon rewatching (That Twist in season one). Moreover, the dialogue is consistently witty. Comfort viewing at its finest.

Lastly, there is Phil Coulson himself, the leader of the special Shield team whose fates we follow. Coulson is supposed to be dead: in the first Avengers film, we saw him skewered by Loki. So how come he's still around? That's the mystery to be solved in the first season, but the main thing for the viewer is that he's there. Though he climbs in the ranks of (an admittedly shattered) Shield, and his boss Nick Fury goes underground never to be seen in the series after a few guest appearances in season one, Coulson strikes me as the ideal middle manager: gently smiling, full of self-deprecating humour, genuinely concerned for his team, tough and focused when he needs to be. The team members hype him up quite a bit as the series goes on, and it's a credit to the writing – and Clark Gregg's acting – that you totally buy into the hype as a viewer.

In Sweden, "middle manager" has become something of a term of abuse, which I can't help feel is unfair. There are shades of the Medieval argument "it's not the King's fault, it's his wretched tax collectors" about it. Many of the tough day-to-day decisions in an organisation have to be taken by the sorely tried middle management, while their lofty bosses "focus on the big picture". I don't usually have anything against said lofty bosses, mind you. Still, it's nice to see someone like Phil Coulson earn some love for the seconds-in-command out there.

From the swashbuckling to the depressing – some recently read historical novels

It's time for a book-related post, but it's hard to find a common thread tying it together. I think I'll have to go with the historical novel theme, rather than some (actually very entertaining) "family therapy chick-lit" which I've also read recently.

Back to my summer holidays, then, when I read Antonia Hodgson's A Death at Fountains Abbey and The Silver Collar in quick succession. As they take place in the 18th century (more unfamiliar territory for me than the Victorian age), and some serious issues play a part in the stories (the aftermath of the South Sea Bubble and slavery respectively), they kind of count as ambitious reads for me. And yet, they shouldn't, as they are so insanely readable. I had just started Fountains Abbey at the start of a six-day trip to London; by the time of the return flight, I had already finished both it and Silver Collar and had to resort to aforementioned family therapy chick-lit for the return flight.

Hodgson is an author who has clearly done a formidable amount of research, but she wears her learning lightly. There is never a sense of local colour added just to show that she has done her homework: everything feeds into the plot and characterisation. Thomas Hawkins, Hodgson's unruly hero – I'd call him hero rather than anti-hero, as for all his supposed roguishness he has a strong core of decency – is really likeable, and so is the woman he loves fondly and faithfully, the fiery Kitty (who loves him just as much in return). The setup reminds me a bit of Lindsey Davis's Falco novels, before I went off them: the down-on-his-luck protagonist and his lady figuring out mysteries together and making the reader root for them and wish they'd finally tie the knot properly.

I started this book series with book two, The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins which I also loved, about a year ago. Now I've purchased book one, The Devil in the Marshalsea, and look forward to reading it eventually. I should have read it before Confession, but was put off by the title: now, however, I'm reassured that there is nothing very infernal about Samuel Fleet whose nickname is in the title. However fierce to others, he is remembered by Thomas and Kitty with great warmth. So couldn't his fellow crooks have called him "the ogre of the Marshalsea" or something?

One thing Hodgson's novels do not have, though, is antagonists worthy of a villain-lover's sympathy. The main villains are horrible, enough for a Game of Thrones baddie to say "hold up" a couple of times. But it works plot-wise, and instead sympathy is shown to other shady characters, such as the unhappy fraudster in Fountains Abbey who in an inferior novel would only be an object of moral censure.

Feeling well disposed to historical novels, I started Emma Donoghue's Frog Music: I had read and liked her novel The Sealed Letter, about a fascinating Victorian divorce case, and knew that the writing would be good. And so it was, but goodness, how depressing! The cover and the blurb were, I would argue, intentionally misleading. The cover showed the torso of a woman in a bright dress carrying a pair of fancy boots, and the blurb spoke of "a compelling story of intrigue and murder" involving "three former stars of the Parisian circus", and hinted at some relationship-centred chamber piece ("When an eccentric outsider joins their little circle, secrets unravel, changing everything").

Not with one word is it mentioned that the main reason for the protagonist Blanche's ("an exotic dancer at the House of Mirrors") falling-out with her appalling lover Arthur and his equally ghastly chum Ernest is her and Arthur's singularly unlovely baby. Blanche belatedly rescues the baby from a "baby farm" and then cares for him, mostly out of guilt at first although she eventually starts to love the kid. Arthur and Ernest are miffed. The "eccentric stranger" Jenny Bonnet is only a part of it.

Donoghue is rather too good at describing discomfort, and I trudged through the descriptions of the heat- and smallpox-ridden San Francisco of 1876 and Blanche's tribulations with little enjoyment. Blanche's wearisome child-minding is only the start of it: then, things get worse, as she keeps failing to collect money that is hers and losing what she has. It's all well-written, just decidedly not my cup of tea. There is hope towards the end, but it's precious long in coming. I can't blame myself for sinking into chick-lit and very satisfying fairy-tale-themed fantasy (which I may return to in a later post) after I was finished.

A wicked Snow Queen? Fine by me

It's my second week back at work, and I can't say I feel particularly sprightly. But speculating on the Mouse's future plans usually perks me up, so let's do that.

At the latest D23 event, the audience got to see the first short trailer for Frozen III. (Roman numerals seem to be the norm when it comes to Frozen sequels, something I'm only now picking up on.) My first reaction when I heard that Disney Animation was going to do a Frozen III – and eventually even a Frozen IV – was a groaning "Really?". I wasn't too impressed by Frozen II: yes, the animation was lovely, but the plot was thin and the originally charming characters had started to grate somewhat. Consequently, I did not think Frozen had much left to offer as a franchise. However, after the D23 trailer (how much am I allowed to know about it? I'm assuming a lot as theories based on it have been plentiful on YouTube) I'm starting to wonder if I was wrong.

Look, if Disney has to do sequels, the world of Frozen may actually be one which can be mined for another movie or three, especially if the studio is heading in the direction it seems they are. For one, it appears they are steering away from the dreary Nature vs Civilisation storyline touched upon in Frozen II. The threat in Frozen III looks set to be not some long-dead Arendelle king who screwed over the noble tribe of the Northuldra, but good old magic, as wielded by a wicked counterpart to Elsa. 

And that's the next bit of good news: it seems we're getting a front-and-centre all-out dramatic villainess in the classic Disney mould, and frankly it's been a while since. It's like the animators at Disney brought out their old sketches of Elsa, back when she was supposed to be evil (and a more faithful adaptation of H C Andersen's Snow Queen), and thought: "hang on – these are too good to simply throw away". I'm all in favour of actually getting a villainous Snow Queen, especially seeing as the previous two Frozen films have had precious little to do with Andersen's tale. Personally, I would have preferred a foxy male winter-themed villain (where I come from, Jack Frost is not some mischievous teenager as depicted in Dreamworks' Rise of the Guardians  – only saying), but I'll settle for the razzle-dazzle of a Disney villainess.

There are causes for concern, however. On the hero side of things, the Frozen III trailer only features the original team of five: Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, Sven the reindeer and Olaf the snowman. It is telling that not one of the characters of Frozen II was considered important enough to be allowed to join the group. Also, Anna snaps at Kristoff, and this just before they are about to get married (or possibly directly afterwards). Anna and Kristoff's relationship has felt off ever since Frozen II, and if I'm going to be invested in it at all she needs to stop walking all over him. 

As for Olaf, who was fun in the original Frozen and the "Olaf presents" shorts on Disney Plus, he started to get on my nerves in Frozen II. As far as I'm concerned, this character has overstayed his welcome, and I'm afraid giving him a snowwoman love interest will result in him having too high a profile in the new film. It's a cute callback to Frozen II to call her Samantha, though.

Speaking of love interests, I'm not getting my hopes up when it comes to Elsa ever finding love. Here, the well-meaning speculations of the fandom may have hampered her chances. When Elsa was not paired off in Frozen (because she had other things to worry about), some fans started to theorise that she might be lesbian and clamour for a "girlfriend for Elsa". In Frozen II, Elsa's brief interaction with the rather bland Northuldra girl Honeymaren, who was so unimportant to the plot it was easy to suspect that something was left on the cutting-room floor, fuelled further discussions. 

For my part, I can't say I've so far detected any romantic interest on Elsa's side for any character, either male or female. A boyfriend would be as plausible as a girlfriend, in my opinion. But I'm guessing Disney won't introduce a female love interest for Elsa for commercial reasons, nor will they dare to introduce a male love interest for fear of angering the fans who wanted a girlfriend for her. Poor Elsa will have to remain celibate.

The chances of Hans returning and getting a redemption arc are also, let's face it, very slim. But as long as the Frozen films decide to go down the magical mystery route instead of pitting Arendellians against the one-with-nature Northuldra, I'm cautiously optimistic. Scandinavia has a lot of winter-themed folklore and fairy-tales to offer. Maybe the King of the Snowy Mountains, who rejoices when the sun sets for months on end leaving the North in darkness, would be a villain to consider for Frozen IV? Only saying.

Whoa, what are you doing, Jean Grey?

Spider-Man films tend to be the most popular Marvel-related films – partly, I guess, because this is a superhero just about everyone has heard of. You don't have to be a Marvel fan to go to see a Spider-Man flick. For my part, though, being a Marvel fan (or perhaps more correctly an MCU fan) is exactly the reason I saw Spider-Man: Brand New Day at my local cinema, instead of waiting for streaming. I did not want to miss out, though I have to admit Spider-Man is not my favourite superhero franchise.

This has nothing to do with the likeability of Spider-Man himself, quite the opposite. So many Spider-Man films seem intent on giving Peter Parker the worst time possible, and I find it hard to watch. (Life is no picnic for Miles Morales in the Sony Animation flicks either, but he tends not to settle for self-sacrifice so easily.) The serious bits are often well done and in line with the "with great power comes great responsibility" theme (which frankly I'm a little sick of by now), but I prefer not to have to pity the protagonist of a film to this degree. Take Spider-Man 2 from the old run of Spider-Man films directed by Sam Raimi as an example. Interesting character dynamics, superlative villain. But man, Peter's life was a mess.

Life is predictably shitty for Peter this time around as well, but there's hope towards the end. Also, the film never gets too unremittingly dark. While he's still separated from former girlfriend MJ and best friend Ned – who have forgotten his very existence because of an amnesia spell at the end of Spider-Man: No Way Home – Peter is not completely isolated. He has sweet character interactions with his gun-toting reluctant buddy Frank Castle aka the Punisher (I haven't watched any of the Punisher stuff but still enjoyed his role in this film) and the severely maternal NY police chief DeWolff. They only know him as Spider-Man, though, so Peter is still pretty lonely.

We don't spend too much time with the mopey stuff, however. This was one of the most enjoyable Spider-Man flicks I've seen, if not the most enjoyable. The characters are really likeable, the plot is preposterous but fun, the pacing works and the film looks great. I'm certainly glad I went to see it on the big screen. I only have one gripe, but being me it's not a small one, as it concerns the villain.

As has been widely speculated beforehand, the red-headed girl with telepathic abilities who gives Spider-Man so much grief during the first two-thirds (or even three-fourths) of the film turns out to be – ta-daaa – this universe's version of Jean Grey, known in other reiterations as a famous member of the X-Men team and all-round good egg. In the MCU, the X-Men don't exist – yet – and this is supposed to be this particular character's origin story.

Except she is horrible. Not as in badly acted – Sadie Sink does a good job with all the teenage angst – but as in behaving despicably and then being excused because of her heart-tugging motivation. I don't have a good track record when it comes to giving a teenage girl villain a break because "she's just a kid" (hello and goodbye Karli Morgenthau), and I would have thought Mind-Control Girl would have got away too easily even if she'd turned out to be someone else. But seriously, Jean Grey? Is no-one else bothered by this?

True, I haven't read the X-Men comics, but I have watched the original X-Men animated series, its recent follow-up X-Men -97, uncanonical high-school take X-Men: Evolution and all the Fox X-Men films, so I think I have a pretty good handle on the kind of character Jean Grey is supposed to be. In essence, she's a good girl. She and Scott Summers aka Cyclops are the Snow White and Prince Charming of the X-Men team. This means they can come across as a bit of a goody-two-shoes couple, but it also means they can serve as an anchor in an often highly-strung and morally conflicted team. Script-writers seem to love an "evil Jean" storyline, which is probably why the Dark Phoenix story arc has been adapted so many times (we've also had a Jean clone who went dark). But in order for a storyline like that to make sense and have the intended impact, we have to have a sense of what a decent person Jean Grey normally is.

Young girl Jean in Spider-Man: Brand New Day may have a reason for her fury, but if she'd only told Spider-Man all about it – and she has plenty of opportunity – then he could have helped her, and he and others would have been spared plenty of misery. As it is, Jean keeps her reasons for attacking the perpetually shady Department of Damage Control to herself, and in the process invades the minds of countless New Yorkers, among them MJ. She tortures Peter emotionally, has no compunction regarding the innocents whose minds she uses in her quest, and may even cause bloodshed (what happened to the guy who was run over, or the whole portion of the town she possessed when enraged?). Finally, she mends her fences with Spidey, but never apologises or faces up to all that she's done. 

Supremely charismatic villains might get away with a shoddy redemption arc like this, because they're villains. We're not too fussed about them apologising for their crimes – villain-lovers like me like them just the way they are. But a famous heroine, whose moral judgement we'll sooner or later be asked to trust in? What kind of an origin story is this for her? 

Still, what do I know: maybe Jean was a real wild child in the comics until Professor X took care of her education. And it's not as if I like Nice Jean that much. She seems suspiciously OK with letting Wolverine trail after her like a faithful Dobbin, when someone should really tell him to cut his losses and find another girl. 

As a Spider-Man film, Spider-Man: Brand New Day passes with flying colours. I just wish we had got another kind of villain instead of Puzzlingly Nasty Jean (nothing wrong with Obviously Shady DoDC Guy, though).

The parent problem of Disney's Descendants films

I'm perfectly aware that I'm not the target audience for the Descendants franchise. These breezy fairy-tale-meets-high-school-rom-com flicks are aimed at young viewers, specifically teenagers – at a guess, closer to fourteen than nineteen. Nevertheless, I can't help enjoying them. 

The original premise of the films is to let the children of famous Disney villains attend the same high school as the kids of famous heroes and see what happens. For this scenario to come about, the creators had to dream up a land (Auradon) where all the heroes hung out, and The Isle of the Lost to which all the villains had been banished. It did not make a lick of sense, but it was fun and spawned a jaunty trilogy centering on the villain kid quartet Mal, Evie, Carlos and Jay and their hero-kid love interests. Mal especially, played by rising star Dove Cameron, was the heroine (sometimes anti-heroine) of this trilogy.

With the tragic death of one of the leads (Cameron Boyce who played Carlos), the franchise ground to a halt for a while. Then it started up again with what seems set to be a new, Wonderland-centred trilogy, where Red, the daughter of the Queen of Hearts, and Chloe, the daughter of Cinderella and her prince, get up to time-travel shenanigans in order to improve the present, and then have to deal with the consequences. Recently, the fifth Descendants film, Descendants: Wicked Wonderland, premiered on Disney Channel and (fortunately for me) Disney Plus.

To sum up, the franchise contains fairy-tale crossovers, (non-snide) Disney references, romances, bouncy hummable tunes and ongoing riffs on the hero-villain dynamic. It's basically five films' (and counting) worth of "you and I are not so different" storylines. Of course I'll keep watching! Heck, age is just a number.

There are problems, though, when a geek like me troubles her decades-too-old brain with the logic of a franchise that's only supposed to be a fun time for high-school kids. I'm not too concerned with the sloppy world building when it comes to timelines, the way the fairy-tale federation of Auradon is run or the morally questionable choice of assembling all villains and their children in a penal colony. Having the parent generation of villains and heroes attend the same magic high school doesn't add up, but I'll let that pass. I don't question the blending of modern times with fairy-tale narratives. What bothers me are all the missing parents. Who are they? Where are they?

It started in the very first Descendants film: while the hero kids mostly had two parents (as a carry-over from the original stories), the villain kids were only introduced as the kids of Maleficent (Mal), the Evil Queen (Evie), Cruella de Vil (Carlos) and Jafar (Jay). Not a peep about who their other parents were. While we eventually (in film number three) learned that Mal's dad is Hades, the rest of the quartet's second parents remain a mystery. It wasn't just the villain spawn either. Fairy Godmother has a daughter called Jane, and Dopey has a son called Doug. Nice to know that Dopey scored, but with whom?

If it had ended there, I could have lived with it, as it's quite fun to speculate and invent head-canons regarding probable pairings. But each film introduced new young protagonists, and almost every time only one of their parents (a famous villain, mostly) was mentioned. That way, the problem has grown exponentially to a point where even a whole film exclusively dedicated to tying up loose parent threads (which we're never going to get anyway) wouldn't be enough. For crying out loud, even Smee has twins. How did that happen?

What makes me mind this quirk of the Descendants films much more than I should is, I think, all the lost storytelling opportunities. I believe someone somewhere claimed that the films were to be considered as Disney canon, but come on, they're clearly not. Which means they could have gone nuts and fan-fictioned away by pairing Disney villains up any old way, which would then enrich the possibilities when it comes to the villains' offspring. The "VKs" (villain kids) would have two sources of villain genes to worry about rather than one. There could be clandestine villain-hero hook-ups, of the romantic or scandalous kind. Who is Jane's dad – is there perhaps a reason Fairy Godmother keeps her on such a tight leash?

Surely the target audience, consisting as it does to a great extent of teenage girls, has to wonder about this too and bemoan the lost opportunities for even more Disney-related "ships"? I'm at a loss to explain this storytelling nonchalance. Maybe, considering the young audience, the creators have chosen to be a bit shy when it comes to procreative matters. We learnt in Descendants 3 that Maleficent and Hades are supposed to have been married when Mal was conceived, although they then split up. Now, I can imagine the Disney versions of Hades and Maleficent having an affair, but married? It's as if the powers that be don't want to sully their viewers' minds too much with contemplations on the possibly irregular relationships which resulted in villain kids such as Evie, Carlos, Jay and many more.

To anyone progressively minded who feels the need to snigger at this and at Maleficent's and Hades's "marriage", I have a question: Who, exactly, is Bow's mother in She-Ra and the Princesses of Power? I'm not disputing that his two dads are super cute and shippable, but someone must have carried Bow for nine months in her womb, no? Sometimes, progressive media have their own problems with the birds and the bees.

An international fan's view on the state of Doctor Who

Argh, why is it so hard to blog during my vacation? Here I sit, rested and content, with oceans of time at my disposal, but will the inspiration come to write that exposé on different kinds of villain-loving (that don't always align with mine)? Will it heck. Therefore, after much deliberation, I will have to go nerdy.

Because if it's one subject that it should be easy to have an opinion on, for a worried fan, it's the current state of Doctor Who. Even the most loyal admirers of the show have been up in arms after the Christmas special that was promised was cancelled – with Russell T Davies commenting defensively that he hadn't written anything of the script anyway, which directly contradicts previous statements from him and others – and BBC has announced that the series has been "put out to tender". 

Since the announcement, commentators have fallen over themselves to explain to us, the ignorant public, that putting a show out to tender does not mean putting it out to pasture. In fact it means the complete opposite, as the show is auctioned off, as it were, to the studio who has the best pitch for it going forward. Shows don't go through this process unless BBC expects it to run for years and years; it wouldn't make sense to invite pitches for a last hurrah. 

If BBC wanted to cancel the show, the commentators suggest, it would have done so outright. Instead, a new studio is needed anyway as Davies and his production company Bad Wolf are leaving the field, so putting the show out to tender makes perfect sense. Moreover, the cancellation of the Christmas special means the process of determining a new, shining future for the show can start sooner. Davies had frankly written himself into a corner by having Ncuti Gatwa regenerate into Billie Piper (whom we know as former Doctor companion and love interest Rose), and a future studio wouldn't want further messy lore on their hands.

All this sounds perfectly plausible as far as it goes. However, Doctor Who fans who have been in the trenches have pointed out that last time the series went off air, the BBC didn't outright cancel it either. The execs may just be trying to let a vocal fanbase down gently. For my part, I'm prepared to buy that the Beeb is acting in good faith and wants the show to continue. But as a foreign Who fan, I have two big concerns: will anyone bid for Doctor Who? And will anyone stream it?

Granted that the BBC wants to find the best studio for Doctor Who. But what good will that be if no studio wants it? The BBC has its own studio, separate from the rest of the organisation, and they've shown interest in Who. But it would look odd if they didn't, and if BBC Studios ends up producing the show, then why put it out to tender in the first place? Putting something up for auction is all very well, but the occasion turns into a disaster if no-one's buying.

The Doctor Who brand isn't strong right now. Whovians who were full of anticipation over Davies's second stint as showrunner have been struggling to defend the RTD 2 run. However much the more positive Who forums have tried to distance themselves from "toxic" fans, they've had to concede that the RTD 2 seasons of the series have overall not been very good. I'm not the only one who has gone from initial unease, to increasing bewilderment, to being close to giving up on the series altogether. To paraphrase Charlotte Brontë, whether it is right or advisable to create things like "Dot and Bubble", I do not know: I scarcely think it is.

What's potentially more dangerous for the series than griping fans – though, lest we forget, we're the ones supposed to be boosting the viewing figures – is the falling-out with Disney Plus. What with the streaming service dropping the series after two seasons and still not airing the spin-off series The War between the Land and the Sea (not that I blame them – it sounds eco-dreary), Doctor Who has been branded, in the eyes of the world, as bad business. Why would a streaming platform such as Netflix want to take on a show that's already failed on Disney Plus?

To a British viewer, this might not be a great cause for concern. YouTube channels such as Who Culture have waxed lyrical about the possibility of Doctor Who going back to its BBC roots of modest budgets and grounded stories and characterisation. But the most important thing about the Disney Plus deal was not the budget, it was the world-wide airing of the series. I don't need big-budget spectacles either, but I want to be able to actually watch the show. 

My foreign blood has been boiling while listening to burbling fantasies about how great it would be if BBC could do the series all in-house and not have to defer to those pesky international streaming services for anything. Yes, I expect it would be great for nostalgic Brits. But what about the rest of us? Do the limeys have any idea of what being an international Who fan was like, before the Disney Plus deal? 

In Sweden, Swedish television aired New Who's first series with Christopher Eccleston. For a while, some series (not the most recent ones) were briefly available on Prime. But apart from that, nothing. I had to wait for the DVDs, and meanwhile have salient plot developments spoiled for me. Some dunce spoiled the plot twist in "Amy's Choice" in a review, a move I have yet to get over. BBC itself put up a video on YouTube with the Sacha Dhawan Master reveal the day after the episode was aired in the UK. Of course, it made its way unbidden into my list of recommended videos because of the algorithm, and there was nothing I could do about it. Christmas specials were released on DVD in the spring, if one was lucky.

The RTD 2 run at least had this to recommend it: I could watch the new episodes the same day they aired if I wanted to. Granted, many of them were bad, but they were available. I don't want to have to go back to buying the DVDs once the whole series has already been aired in the UK, and unless I can be sure that a new incarnation of Doctor Who is better than RTD 2, I'm not sure the investment is actually worth my while.

Everything has its time, and everything ends. Still I cling on to the hope that out of all this upheaval, Doctor Who will rise like a phoenix and be watchable once more. But what will I call this hypothetical new version of the series? I shouldn't have blown the label New New Who on the short-lived Disney Plus era. Surely New New New Who is too much?

Hats off to Pixar: somehow, they pulled off Toy Story 5

There were many reasons why I was sceptical (much like the rest of the world) about the very idea of a Toy Story 5 film. The franchise already had two endings: it was clear both from the way Toy Story 3 and Toy Story 4 ended that they were, at the time, expected to close out the story. That made Toy Story 5 an obvious cash grab from a studio spooked by the modest box office numbers of its films based on original ideas. 

What's more, I've never been sold on the original premise of the Toy Story films. Even at their peak – perhaps especially at their peak – I thought their messaging peculiar, bordering on downright harmful. What does Pixar think it's doing, guilt-tripping kids (and nostalgic adults) for abandoning their toys? When in the future the Toy Story characters enter the public domain (by a process I don't fully understand), a horror film version will not be far off. For example, the notion that toys in storage stay sentient while being packed up in the dark is creepy in the extreme.

But would you know it, the creators of Toy Story 5 made a virtue of necessity. It turned out to be a good, solid Pixar flick, better than a lot of nostalgia bait out there and a lot better than it needed to be to draw the crowds. These past months, I've watched more films on the big screen than I usually do, among them Super Mario Galaxy, The Devil Wears Prada 2 and The Mandalorian and Grogu. I had a good time with all three of them, not least Mandalorian and Grogu (yes, it's like a couple of episodes of the TV show squished together, but I like the TV show). They had one thing in common, though: they weren't big on plot. They were clearly "hey, don't you just want to hang out for a time in this world with these characters?" kind of films.

Toy Story 5 could have settled for the same experience, but Pixar chose to aim higher. Maybe the studio has learned something after traumatising a whole generation with the plight of toys neglected by callous youngsters. In the latest two "cash grab" instalments (let's not deny this is why they were made) the Toy Story franchise has tiptoed away from the toys' more selfish motivations (basically "play with me or I'll diiiieee") and instead focuses on their mission to make their kid happy. 

In Toy Story 4, Woody unselfishly struggled to keep Bonnie's favourite toy Forky at her side; in Toy Story 5, Bonnie's remaining toys are more worried by her lack of friends than by the possibility that she could get tired of playing with them. When she gets an iPad-like device called Lilypad, they do feel threatened ("Extinction! Not again" Rex the dinosaur laments), but mostly they're worried about its effect on Bonnie. Jessie, the clear leader of the toys now that Woody's gone away, sees it as her task to find at least one suitable friend for Bonnie, someone she can really connect with. Lilypad blithely gets Bonnie three "friends" online, but they don't seem to be doing her much good.

The whole "tech vs toys" question that's emphasised in the trailers is actually the least interesting part of the film, at least until the message is nuanced by Jessie's reluctant team-up with another girl's "old-tech" toys ("the AA team") and Lilypad's earnest desire to be of use to Bonnie. The best takeaway message-wise from the film, in my view, was its argument for how playing with actual toys stimulates children's imagination. The sequences where Bonnie's or Blaze's (the other girl's) play-time is animated in a particular, colourful manner are a delight. Toy Story 5 acknowledges that playing a simple game on a device can be fun too, though.

For long-time Toy Story viewers, it's a relief when Jessie's old trauma of being given away by her first owner, Emily, is finally overcome by a moving realisation that she did make a difference to Emily. It leads her to a conclusion I wish the Toy Story films could have articulated long ago. When faced with the possibility of Bonnie outgrowing her, post-epiphany Jessie is chill: what's important is that she was there for Bonnie "when it mattered".

It's not a perfect film by any means: what with a few new toys being added to the roster each film, the Toy Story franchise now has bit player overload. Even when the focus is on the children's happiness rather than the toys', the supposed bond between toy and kid can still come across as a little eerie. When Lilypad suspects she does Bonnie more harm than good, she flings herself in a donation box: sweet or a kamikaze move? There are a lot of subplots going on, neither Buzz nor Woody is in any way essential to the plot, and the whole thing's a bit messy, albeit in a fun way.

For my part, I enjoyed this film more than Toy Story 4, and I especially appreciated how we get to become invested in Bonnie and Blaze and root for them to become friends. It was hard to warm to Bonnie in Toy Story 4: sure, she has no obligation to Woody (he's a toy!), but forgetting about him so soon after Andy gave him to her, and after Andy was so reluctant to let him go, did come across as a bit ungrateful. Here, Bonnie is allowed to be a sweet, if insecure, kid, and you're left hoping that the association with the more confident, quirky Blaze will do her all the good in the world. Another film with Bonnie as the toys' owner would give a certain symmetry to the franchise, which could then be divided into two trilogies. I can hardly believe I'm writing this, but I'm ready for Toy Story 6.             

Wicked Witch variations part 3: Elphaba the disillusioned fangirl (Wicked the musical and films)

I believe that I've somewhere described Wicked as a good musical, but not great as a prequel to The Wizard of Oz. Now that I've actually read the book and reacquainted myself with the movie version, I stand by that. My heart sinks when I see YouTube videos called things like "10 disturbing facts we notice in The Wizard of Oz after seeing Wicked". Please, don't judge the charming classic movie characters by what their alter egos get up to in the musical. Wicked is decidedly not canon – but my, those songs are good.

When I watched the musical in London many years ago now, I didn't have high hopes for it, but I was bowled over when the hit tunes kept coming. Not only were the songs hummable, the lyrics were witty and – towards the end – moving too. Also, the settings were suitably colourful (a far cry from Maguire's dour take on Oz) and, most importantly, the characters were engaging. Well, some of them.

Of the good/redeemable versions of the Wicked Witch I've been discussing, I prefer the stage musical's Elphaba to both Maguire's book version and the rather too goody-two-shoesy Wicked film version. Whereas Maguire's Elphaba was a rebel from the start, and only too glad to have her poor opinion of the Wizard confirmed, the musical's Elphaba is as taken in by the Wizard's glittering reputation as everyone else (and here he actually has a glittering reputation). She may be an outsider, but she wants to belong, and the sweetly optimistic "The Wizard and I", which she sings after having found out that her magic talents might actually make her his right-hand woman in time, is very relatable if you've ever been a fangirl.

She's also impressed by the seductive trappings of Emerald City, which she visits with her by-then best friend Glinda, and at first the meeting with the Wizard goes exactly as she'd dreamed it would. When realisation dawns that he's behind the persecution of talking animals (why is never quite made clear, except with the "everyone needs a common enemy" cliché), it really costs her to give up her dreams (and her friendship with Glinda) to turn against him. It's a compelling character arc, and though it feels rushed when Elphaba turns bad for about five minutes towards the end in order to explain the Dorothy business, it's worth it as it brings us my favourite Wicked song "No Good Deed".

Musical Elphaba, then, is a success. As I mentioned in my previous post, I also like how they handled the Wizard, as someone with enough charm to almost lure Elphaba back to the dark side with his unfeigned enthusiasm over being fêted and openness about not deserving it ("Hey look who's wonderful/some corn-fed hick/who said it might be keen/to build a town of green/and a wonderful road of yellow brick"). Glinda's an enjoyable character too (when she's not annoying). But oh, the rest!

Whereas Maguire at least had the courtesy to read L. Frank Baum's book, I'm pretty sure the creators of Wicked only know the movie version of the Wizard of Oz. It's as if they saw it and said to themselves: "Hey, I wonder what the back stories of the Tinman, and the Scarecrow, and the Lion, and the flying monkeys are?" To which one could reply: "Well, if you read the book, you'd find out most of them." Instead the musical chooses its own path, ignoring not only Baum's novel but to a great extent Maguire's too. Little of what the musical claims about the beloved Oz characters clashes factually with what we're told in the movie version, but psychologically it's all wrong. As any musical producer ought to know, you shouldn't mess with the friends of Dorothy.

The films Wicked and Wicked for Good aren't different enough from the stage musical to merit a separate post. In brief, I found them far too long and padded, but visually appealing, and Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande are a joy to listen to as Elphaba and Glinda (it's not always you get top-notch singing in film versions of musicals). The Chinese Whispers effect continues, though. Whereas the creators of Wicked the stage musical don't seem to have read The Wizard of Oz, the creators of the films don't seem to have much knowledge of the musical's supposed inspiration, Maguire's novel. When scenes are added in order to flesh out the story and maybe fix a plot hole or two, the plot moves further and further away from the book Wicked. 

What's more, the films forget to make Elphaba the least bit wicked, even towards the end. The fact that "No Good Deed" is actually a villain song is ignored. The shadowy Dorothy is referred to merely as a nuisance. This version of Elphaba is never that many steps away from Joan of Arc status, and it gets wearying. At least the love interests are marginally less drippy than in the stage version, and Jeff Goldblum, even when he's phoning it in, is inspired casting for the Wizard.

You may wonder why I haven't yet brought up Zelena, Once Upon A Time's version of the Wicked Witch. Actually, although I think Zelena is a fun character and I like her more than I should considering what she occasionally puts Rumple through, I don't think the Once writers dug very deeply into Oz lore when creating her. It's all very much "something something green skin flying monkeys broom cackling something". But I can definitely imagine her singing "The Wizard and I".

Wicked Witch variations part 2: Elphaba the natural-born rebel (Wicked book version)

Now I've read Wicked by Gregory Maguire, what surprises me the most is not any liberties taken with the source material (primarily Baum's The Wizard of Oz and to some extent the movie version) but how much it differs from the musical Wicked and later film versions of said musical. It's not just the tone, it's the whole thing, plot and characters included. Don't read Wicked if you're a fan of the musical and/or films and are looking to get a fleshed-out version of their story, because this is completely different. One reviewer claimed that basically only the names of their characters are the same, and well... they're not far wrong.

Is the book worth reading for its own sake, then? Yes, I'd say so, albeit hesitantly. Authors aren't normally too pleased when their writing is called "interesting", but this is just that, an interesting novel. I admire Maguire for not going down the easy route when it comes to retelling a story from the villain's point of view. He doesn't make the Wicked Witch (whom he names Elphaba, reputedly after L. Frank Baum) out to be some wronged saint. She is very difficult, and ends up behaving much worse towards Dorothy and Co. – and other characters that get on the wrong side of her – than she needs to. The Wicked Witch isn't so much exonerated as fleshed out as a character, which is (theoretically) the right way to go with these kind of stories.

Also, props to Maguire for doing his homework properly. Unlike (I strongly suspect) the makers of the Wicked musical and films, he has clearly read up on the original Oz novels instead of just watching the movie. Wicked is full of references to the land Baum created, though that's not to say his Oz is much like Baum's version (I think I can safely say as much after having read only one of the original Oz novels). When Maguire brings part of the movie version of events into his novel, it's a conscious choice rather than a result of ignorance. 

For instance, of course Elphaba has to be green-skinned, we'd hardly recognise the Wicked Witch otherwise. She is also two-eyed, for convenience's sake (though there are some oblique references to where the telescopic one-eye idea might have come from), and the Wicked Witch of the East is her sister. I can buy all that, though I don't understand why Maguire cooks up his own back story for the Flying Monkeys (or Winged Monkeys), as they already have one in Baum's The Wizard of Oz. He also keeps the conflating of the two Good Witches of the North and South into one, which is a bit hard on Glinda who (as in the movie, but not the original book) gets to be the one to gift Dorothy the contentious shoes.

To keep to the negative virtues a little longer, we are spared the musical's forced back stories to the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman/Tinman, which were at odds with the original story and saddled Dorothy with the company of a bastard (the Tinman), an ingrate (the Lion) and a double agent (the Scarecrow). Though Dorothy's gang aren't very nicely portrayed in a (rather unnecessary) Prologue scene, they nevertheless keep their original back stories and functions. The Lion's story does have points in common with that of the musical version, but mercifully he doesn't believe has a "grievance to repay" towards someone who has shown him nothing but kindness. 

The love triangles from the musical/musical films are also absent, thankfully. Believe it or not, Fiyero (not a spoiled public-school brat, no) and Boq are actually likeable in the novel, and neither of them courts one girl while yearning for another. Fiyero is never involved with Glinda, and Boq leaves Nessarose (armless rather than in a wheelchair) alone.

So much for what the novel doesn't do, and the pitfalls it avoids. But what kind of story does it tell? Here's where my hesitation comes in. The story is rather oddly constructed into sections with big time jumps in between, while the intervening years' events have to be explained in exposition or flashbacks. The prose is sometimes a bit knotty, especially if you're a non-native speaker. There are questions of a philosophical nature that are, perhaps, given a little too much space at the cost of good old-fashioned storytelling. On the other hand, Maguire takes the time to let his characters talk through political and religious themes which other authors might just have served up to us as black-and-white. For instance, when Elphaba's political activism leans towards terrorism, Fiyero (by then her lover) calls her out on it.

My three main problems with the novel can be summed up as follows: the depiction of Oz, the depiction of the Wizard and, to some extent, the main character herself. Maguire's Oz never feels particularly beguiling or magical. Dorothy's probably far better off in Kansas, quite irrespective of Uncle Henry and Aunt Em. As for the Wizard, of course he's the villain of this version of the story (while Dorothy, you'll be relieved to hear, comes out of it all quite well). I expected that, and indeed the original book gave us little reason to think well of him. But I think Maguire goes too far in casting him as an out-and-out tyrant who doesn't even try to be charming. 

In this instance, I feel the musical and its film versions stole a march on Maguire. Yes, I realise the dire state of Oz and the Wizard's oppression are largely his point, but it's a shame that they're so obvious. In the musical, something bad is happening in Oz and the Wizard is a crook, but it happens under the surface. On a surface level, everything is bright and enticing enough to fool visitors like Dorothy, part of the populace and for a time even Elphaba. As for the Wizard, he is given a dangerous folksy charm. That's far more intriguing than everyone knowing he's a wrong'un.

As for Elphaba, I quite liked her in the section of the novel where she goes to University with Galinda/Glinda (the name change is surprisingly even more poorly explained than in the musical and films). After a while, though, her relentless crankiness started to be wearisome. It's easier to warm to Elphaba in the musical, of whom I'll write more in a future post. Maguire's Elphaba is never disappointed with the Wizard, because she never expected anything good from him. Instead, she takes to the rebel life with gusto – she is more comfortable being against something than for something anyway.

Ultimately, though, she is interesting, as is the novel. But it's not something for girls who enthusiastically dress up as the musical Elphaba for Halloween. Be warned: this Wicked Witch is for adults only.

Wicked Witch variations part 1: The Wizard of Oz, the book and movie

So I had this ambitious idea for a blog post, where I gave an overview of the Chinese whispers that led us from a Wicked Witch of the West who was clearly villainous and not even green (as this exposé on YouTube told me: at this time in my planning I hadn't read the book yet) to the almost aggressively righteous Elphaba in the films Wicked and Wicked: For Good (based on Wicked the musical, but even more Wicked Witch-friendly). I've realised, though, that I have to split this topic into two or more parts, as there's a lot to unpack with all these different Oz versions. For one, Wicked the book, which I'm reading now, is nothing like the musical or the films – but I'll come back to that in a later blog post.

Let's start at the beginning. I didn't grow up with L. Frank Baum's Oz books, and have still only read the first one, The Wizard of Oz. Checking out the original of a much-told story is often a lot of fun, and given blog material, but still I was surprised at how much I enjoyed this children's classic. It was really charming: the characters, though not super complex, were likeable, the writing style beguiling and Oz itself properly intriguing. It's not a book that overstays its welcome, either. It made me curious about the other Oz books, although there are rather a lot of them. I'm not sure I'm curious enough to read them all.

It has to be said, though, that the original Wicked Witch version is not the most memorable one. She's a functional villain, much in the style of, say, the witch in Hansel and Gretel, but she doesn't have that much of a personality. Also, she's not so central to the plot as in the movie, as Dorothy's adventures carry on for a bit after she has defeated the witch before she can finally go home. Here are some things about the original Wicked Witch that may surprise you:

1) She's not green
2) She only has one eye
3) She's not, as far as we know, related to the Wicked Witch of the East
4) She doesn't show up demanding the magic shoes from Dorothy, or indeed show up at all during Dorothy's trek to the Emerald City. It's only when Dorothy and her companions are on their way to kill her that she makes her presence felt (though it's clear she wants those shoes too).

Already, there's something more than a little off about the Wizard's behaviour: he sends a child on an assassination mission, and has no reason to believe the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman (as the original Tinman is called) and the Cowardly Lion will be much help. On the face of it, although we have no reason to doubt the Witch's wickedness, she is at least partly acting in self-defence. Taken all in all, though, although the Wizard's case is not strong, neither is the Wicked Witch's. She is mostly a stock character and an obstacle for Dorothy and Co. to overcome.

The reason the Wicked Witch of the West has become such an iconic villain has to be all down to the movie The Wizard of Oz and how she's depicted there. (I think it's fair to stick with the term movie rather than film: movies don't come more American than The Wizard of Oz.) Margaret Hamilton's portrayal is a delight: here is a villain who relishes her wickedness in true Beagle Boy fashion. Here, we finally get the greenness too, as well as the broom and the cackling. The movie's framing device, where it's implied that Oz was all a dream and the characters Dorothy meets are versions of the people she knows in Kansas, helps to reinforce the Witch's role as a thoroughly bad lot: in the "real world", she's the termagant who wants to put Toto down (though not entirely without reason).

This so-not-in-the-book framing device serves to make the best case yet for the Wizard, too. Whereas in the book it's hard to believe him when he claims he is "a good man, though a bad wizard", it's easier in the movie. This is because his "real world" counterpart is the fortune-teller mountebank who out of kindness tricks Dorothy (who's on the run) to return home to her worried aunt. The Wizard's way of "giving" the Scarecrow, the Tinman and the Lion the characteristics they unknowingly already possess is also cleverer than in the book, although the moral is the same.

And yet... probably without meaning to, the movie manages to strengthen the Wicked Witch's case to some degree. In this version of Oz, the Wicked Witch of the East is her sister, and she has a far better claim to the magic shoes than Dorothy. That Dorothy is hailed for killing the Wicked Witch of the East and readily takes credit for it (although it's hardly her doing that her house happened to fall on the luckless witch) only makes matters worse. 

Like many other heroes and heroines of children's books, Dorothy is dropped down in the middle of a conflict she has no information about, and has to have explained to her by what one can only hope are the good guys. But how good are the Munchkins really? "Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead" is a really creepy song. And the shoe-stealing Glinda (in the book another good witch – Glinda only shows up towards the end there), can she really be trusted?

These slightly-off aspects of Oz – the gleeful celebration of a woman's death, the shoe stealing, the Wizard's assassination mission (admittedly, not as unprovoked in the movie version), the fact that he's a fake – could possibly form the foundations for a revisionist retelling of the story. How well did Gregory Maguire, and later the musical and the films, manage it? That's a subject for another time. Although I have to say, nothing the musical, the films or (so far) the book has served up can really top "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too" for me.

"What if fairy tales are real?" – now with cops

There is a quote from the animated series Phineas and Ferb which is often paraphrased like this: "If I had a nickel for every time [X happened] I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice." I understand why this quote is so popular, because it's genius. I for my part often imagine I can see certain trends in contemporary life, but when I have to come up with examples I can only think of two. Which is too little to positively point at a trend, and yet...

The TV series Grimm, airing 2011-2017 and currently on Amazon Prime where I'm catching up with it, is a typical two-nickel-phenomenon. What's even weirder than that there should be two American TV series airing in the 2010s with a "What if fairy tales are real?" premise, and specifically referencing the Grimm fairy tales before later branching out to all kinds of fantastical stories, is that Grimm and Once Upon A Time should be so different. 

They're both good, though. I actually started watching Grimm when it was on Netflix, but only an episode now and again, as it suffered somewhat from my ongoing Once obsession. However, the solid craft that has gone into making Grimm eventually won me over. It will never cater to my unhealthy fairy-tale villain crushes (well, when I say "crushes" I mean... mostly one) the way Once does, but that doesn't stop it from being extremely watchable. Once I realised this, Grimm had disappeared from Netflix, and I had to buy the DVDs to carry on my watching. Whereupon, shortly afterwards, it appeared again on Amazon.

So if Grimm isn't like Once, what is it about? The premise is almost as crazy in its way as Once's. Nick Burkhardt, a handsome, dedicated homicide cop in Portland, Oregon, is told by his dying aunt that he belongs to a family who has hunted different kinds of dangerous creatures, Wesen, for centuries. He's a "Grimm" (yep, in this reality the peaceful story-collecting brothers were monster hunters). Wesen mostly look like normal humans, but a Grimm can see what they are underneath when they are under stress and can't hide their true selves from a trained eye. Nick would probably assume that his aunt had gone barmy, only he has been seeing the oddest things lately... and then someone tries to kill his aunt.

Most of what follows are murder cases with a wesen (I'll go lower-case from now on) component, although there are also overarching story arcs. Nick swiftly learns that his ancestors were way too harsh with their wesen-slashing. In fact, wesens aren't unlike humans: some are good eggs, some are definitely bad news. Nick is lucky enough to early on come across super-good egg Monroe, a clock-mender who also happens to be a wolf-like wesen called Blutbad (yeah... I'll come back to the use of German terms later). 

They strike up a friendship, and Nick learns to use his talents for the good of wesen and non-wesen alike. Only, he has to come up with ways of solving crimes without letting anyone know the clues he gets from seeing suspects and witnesses turn into different kinds of creatures (from cute to downright scary) before his eyes.

It goes without saying that a concept where fairy tales are (partly) explained by the existence of "creatures" isn't as satisfying for a fairy-tale fan as the premise that actual characters such as the Evil Queen exist. Some of the earlier Grimm cases do take their cue from some particular fairy tale, and there's a fairy-tale- or folklore-related quote preceding every episode, which is classy. The show's real strength, though, lies elsewhere. 

While I was still grumbling over the somewhat haphazard way German phrases were used in order to explain various wesen (always pronounced with a short "e" in the series, for some reason) phenomena, I couldn't help appreciating the fun cop banter between Nick, his partner (in the professional sense!) Hank and the cynical Wu, who always brings the sass. The light-hearted police procedural part of the plot has remained strong throughout the seasons I've watched (I'm now at the beginning of season five). It's impressive how many variations the show manages on the wesen theme – sometimes they're perps, sometimes victims, and the dangerous monster isn't always who you think it is. There are plenty of amusing mini-whodunnits along the way.

The overarching storylines are more varied in quality, but are carried along by a cast of likeable protagonists. Nick is a bit of a clean slate at times, but has the core of decency a hero needs. Hank is a great mate, and Wu somewhat of a personal favourite of mine. But the big friendship prize goes to Monroe, who is there for Nick time and time again, through tough cases as well as personal hardships. It's a good thing that Nick saves his life once or twice, because he owes Monroe big time. Also, Monroe and his later girlfriend Rosalee (a Fuchsbau, that is, fox-like wesen) are unbelievably cute together, plus she is also extremely helpful to Nick. Monroe and Rosalee may be the most shippable couple on telly – perhaps even beating Snow and Charming in Once.

When it comes to girlfriends, though, Nick has a harder time of it, which leads me to a storyline the show handles less well. Nick's girlfriend Juliette has to put up with a lot and is actually often very supportive in trying circumstances. Nevertheless, I never really warmed to this particular romance, and judging from various IMDB reviews I wasn't the only one. Perhaps there is a certain imbalance – Nick seems to need Juliette more than she needs him, and although she stands by him through various surreal trials that would have most girls running for the hills she never accepts his marriage proposal. Maybe a certain coolness from the fans led to poor old Juliette being completely shafted in season four, which I still think is unfair. 

If Nick ends up with someone else than Juliette in the end, though, there will honestly be no complaints from me. But the script writers had better not come between Monroe and Rosalee – that would be a shootable-by-crossbow-arrows offence.

Former friends turned enemies – an irresistible trope (at least for me)

Last week was exhausting, which means I'm a bit late with my blogging. Even now, I'm reaching for the easy option blog-wise. Instead of explaining why Pixar's Hoppers is really watchable and not at all the simplistic "Man the Destroyer" fable I had feared (my least favourite cliché or trope, together with "Eat the rich", and "Who are the monsters here"), I'm going to write about Young Sherlock on Prime.

There's no shortage of films or TV projects that want to hitch a ride on the Sherlock train without having much – if anything – to do with the great detective as described by Arthur Conan Doyle. I've mentioned these Holmesian rip-offs a number of times: the Guy Ritchie movies, the Enola Holmes atrocity (I never did watch the second film), The Irregulars on Netflix. Young Sherlock is undoubtedly the same kind of thing. And yet, as with The Irregulars, I ended up enjoying the series on its own terms, even if it is far from "the spirit of the original". 

I'm not going to go into the matter of why Holmes's good name keeps getting exploited again, as it's well-trodden ground. Instead I'll concentrate on another aspect of the series, the irresistible hook that kept me watching even though the banter of the first couple of episodes was pretty tired. In Young Sherlock, we see the future detective teaming up with an Irish Oxford undergraduate called – drum roll – James Moriarty.

Predictable? Yes. Wonderfully inventive? Not really. But it doesn't need to be. I'm a sucker for a story showing how the hero and his arch-enemy used to be friends. It's why I once sat through an enormously long film (which I think was meant as a TV series, something the DVD I rented did not make clear) called Neverland. It's why I've started to watch the TV series Smallville, in spite of having zero investment in the Superman universe (I'm admittedly only two episodes in, but so far Lex is being a great pal to Clark). It's why Master episodes in Doctor Who appeal to me, in spite of The Master being a bit too chaotic a villain for my liking. The friends-turned-enemies trope is "You and I are not so different" and the hero-villain team-up rolled into one, and I love it.

Admittedly, it could be more cleverly done than in Young Sherlock. You have to ask yourself why a Holmes-Moriarty team-up is so appealing when Holmes isn't behaving noticeably like Holmes and Moriarty isn't behaving noticeably like Moriarty. This Sherlock mostly resembles the Guy Ritchie movie version of Sherlock Holmes in his youth, which makes sense as Guy Ritchie directed some of this TV show's episodes as well. Young Moriarty is charming, full or Irish blarney and has some unscrupulousness about him, but there's little hint of a future criminal mastermind at work, or for that matter a future Mathematics Professor. They are less two geniuses trying to think their way to a solution to their problems, and more two boisterous young men who get into scrapes.

There are some hints that these are bright young lads, admittedly, and that they are uniquely on each other's wave length. While we don't get scenes where Sherlock rattles off brilliant deductions, we do see his power of observation, illustrated by time slowing down while he takes in all the details in a scene or a room. Intriguingly, we see Moriarty joining him in these moments, while he follows the same trains of thought. He is the only one who can enter young Sherlock's "mind palace" (to borrow a concept from BBC's Sherlock).

All in all, though, the show's main charm comes not from any impressive detective work on the part of the protagonists, but more from being a ripping yarn. I was a little doubtful during the first episodes, but when the series switches focus to an unsolved mystery from Sherlock's childhood, the plot thickens and becomes more gripping. However, there are no prizes for guessing who the ultimate Big Bad is (not Colin Firth's blunt Empire builder, no), and the motivation of at least one important character remains something of a mystery. 

This is not the kind of show that makes you feel clever for watching it. But if a 19th-century caper involving two bright hotheads, a female Chinese assassin, a former asylum inmate who (naturally) turns out not to be mad at all and the stiff straight man trying to keep some control over the situation sounds fun to you, you could do worse than giving Young Sherlock a watch. After all, Conan Doyle himself appreciated a good adventure story.                      

Ballet Shoes: The first "shoe" book, and the best (probably)

What to do when a book post is due, but you go through your self-indulgence reads much faster than your slightly more ambitious ones? Try to write about the self-indulgence reads, of course – not that that's necessarily easy, especially when it's a classic like Noel Streatfeild's Ballet Shoes (yes, her name is spelled like that: Kathleen in You've Got Mail got it right).

Recently, I tore through Streatfeild books like a maniac, starting with a reread of the Gemma books (sadly out of print) and then moving on to other old favourites. Ballet Shoes was the book that started it all, and the reason a number of Streatfeild books were reissued with shoe-related names like Theatre Shoes (originally Curtain Up), Skating Shoes (aka White Boots) and my favourite marketing tour de force, Travelling Shoes (for Apple Bough). As far as I can make out, this ploy started during Streatfeild's life time, so she must have approved, though I can imagine her being quite sardonic about it.

Anyway, it only makes sense to profit from the goodwill of Ballet Shoes. It is a classic for a reason, and sets the tone for many of Streatfeild's subsequent books that deal with similar themes and, to some extent, characters. Nana in Ballet Shoes is pretty much the same character as Hannah in Curtain Up/Theatre Shoes and Nana in White Boots/Skating Shoes, though they are supposed to be different women, and as late as in the Gemma books Lydia Robinson's single-mindedness when it comes to her dancing is reminiscent of Posy Fossil's.

Ballet Shoes, then, is very much the place to start if you want to try Streatfeild. Rereading it as an adult, I'm gripped by it in the same way as when I first read it (or rather, had it read to me) as a child. Or perhaps not precisely in the same way: you dive into a fictional world more whole-heartedly as a kid, while your adult self can't help being a little more analytical. Not necessarily more critical, mind you, but instead of just accepting the magic you nod and think "that was pretty well thought-out".

When I was a child, the lives of the three adopted Fossil girls with their different talents seemed like sheer wish-fulfilment. What I notice as an adult is that these kids work hard. There's precious little leisure in their lives even before they start earning money, at the age of twelve. The genteel poverty also hits home a little more forcefully. As a child, I was apt to groan "what, again?" when new audition frocks were needed; it didn't seem so many chapters ago that Pauline got a new one and everyone had to be ingenious in order to drum up the money. What I'd plain forgotten was that all of poor Petrova's birthday money is spent on those new frocks – and she doesn't even like stage work.

Dare I say it, the three girls seem to work quite a bit harder than their guardian Sylvia aka Garnie who, though very sweet, is rather a passive character. Yes, she runs a boarding house, but she is helped by a cook and maid and (the unpaid) Nana. As for any decision-making, it's up to Nana and the incredibly helpful boarders. I understand better now why Sylvia feels guilty about accepting the girls' money, and why she was saddled with a chest complaint in the TV adaptation of Ballet Shoes, in order to make her more in need of looking after.

Luckily Pauline and Posy Fossil take to acting and dancing respectively and consequently don't mind the hard work. The arrangement is toughest for engine-obsessed Petrova, who doesn't enjoy her time at The Children's Academy for Dancing and Stage Training run by Madame Fidolia one bit. Here, the old childhood magic holds, though, because I still think Madame Fidolia's Academy sounds absolutely wonderful and can't really pity someone for "having" to go there. 

Both in Ballet Shoes and in Curtain Up, the conceit that the child protagonists "have" to enlist at the Academy in order to make money grates a little. Yes, in both cases, two-thirds of the enlisted children soon feel at home, but they're not allowed to join simply because they want to go on the stage. It riled me as a stage-struck child and it riles me still. (I may get back to Curtain Up in the future; I think I could fill half a blog post with ranting about how the clearly talented and imaginative Mark gives up stage life for nonsensical reasons, encouraged by his sister who should know better.)

Is Ballet Shoes Streatfeild's best book? That's debatable: after all, it is her debut book, and in later books her trademark humour and Streatfeildisms are more in evidence (candidly revealing what the characters actually think rather than what they're supposed to think). White Boots is in many ways a more complex story, what with all the intricate plots the grown-up characters think of in order to keep the friendship of Lalla and Harriet intact. However, you can't beat Ballet Shoes when it comes to the atmosphere and set-up: whether in the Academy or in the Fossils' ramshackle home, this is a fictional world you want to spend lots of time in.                    

A fine year for Austen adaptations? Who knows...

I have to confess to feeling pretty tired today, too tired – as it turns out – for any analytical thinking. Even searching reviews of old children's classics are beyond me (I will get to the three best "shoe books" by Noel Streatfeild eventually). But when I have no energy to bellyache over future costume dramas, then all hope is truly lost, so I'll try that.

According to a video I caught on YouTube, 2026 will be a big year for Austen adaptations. The claim was made on the strength of two TV series and one film – one of the TV series is already airing (in Great Britain, if not here in Sweden) and the other two projects are in the pipeline. The simple question to answer, which even I should manage in my knackered state, is: do they look as if they'll be any good?

The Other Bennet Sister: Not really an Austen adaptation, but taking place in the Austen universe, as it were, as it's an adaptation of Janice Hadlow's novel with the same name. I really liked the novel  when I read it a couple of years ago; it made a good case for Mary Bennet without vilifying the other characters. The clips I've seen have looked promising, and the one review I've read so far was very positive indeed. 

There is a risk, of course, that the adaptation will overplay its hand when it comes to decrying the precarious position of Regency women. Not that it wasn't precarious, but I find I'm becoming more and more irritated with period dramas which tut-tut too loudly over the past (and I didn't have much patience with them to begin with). All the same, I'm cautiously looking forward to The Other Bennet Sister.

Pride and Prejudice on Netflix: Netflix doesn't have the best track record when it comes to Austen adaptations. This looks like a more serious attempt than the insane Persuasion from a few years back, though. Weighty actor names have been secured for it: I may be suffering slightly from Olivia Colman fatigue, but there's no denying she's a solid choice for Mrs Bennet, and I can't wait to see Rufus Sewell's Mr Bennet (is Mr Bennet really allowed to be more attractive than the story's love interests?) and Fiona Shaw's Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

What of the central couple, then? Here, I'm more wary. Emma Corrin was a great Princess Diana in The Crown, and made for an amusingly chaotic villain in Deadpool and Wolverine. However, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Corrin got the part of Elizabeth Bennet before announcing themselves to be non-binary. Lizzy Bennet is all woman, and casting an actor in the role who doesn't commit to womanhood is something of an insult to us gals. Corrin could still be good, though.

If you think that's a shallow argument for doubting someone's suitability for a part, then how about this? Jack Lowden, judging from the pictures I've managed to unearth on IMDB, looks nothing like I imagine Mr Darcy. Still, for all I know, he could be a brilliant actor who will carry it off. Also, a spot of hair dye did wonders for Colin Firth, so maybe they'll use the same treatment here? I'm all for ginger men as a rule, but Mr Darcy is... not ginger.

This adaptation of Pride and Prejudice will be worth a watch, even if, as I think we can assume, it won't be able to hold a candle to the BBC version. But as it's a straightforward adaptation of Austen's most beloved book (though I'm more fond of Emma myself), the risk that it'll crash and burn is much higher  than with The Other Bennet Sister.

Sense and Sensibility: Before the aforementioned YouTube video, I had no idea this film was coming out this year, or even existed. For me it's an unknown quantity, which in itself is pretty exciting. The only name I recognised from the cast list was Fiona Shaw, again, in the very different from Lady Catherine role of Mrs Jennings. The casting director hasn't been too lazy but has gone for more unknown names (either that or I'm just hopelessly out of touch), and I respect that.

Now, if there's one thing that's harder to pull off than making a TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that can be mentioned on the same day as the Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth one, it's making a new Sense and Sensibility film when the perfection of the 1995 film exists. All the same, it should be possible to put a slightly different spin on the source material. Sense and Sensibility isn't such a polished product of a novel as Pride and Prejudice, but that can give an adapter a little more leeway.

Not much is known, and much can go wrong, but I'll watch this – as well as the other adaptations, naturally. Be prepared for much bellyaching if they prove to be horrible.

All right, season four of Bridgerton is actually pretty good

Has it come to this? Am I really reduced to blogging about Bridgerton?

As has perhaps become apparent, I'm not the greatest fan of this sumptuous smash hit of a Netflix series. That it should be my kind of thing has only made me more irritated with it when it's fallen short. To be honest, though, my biggest gripe with the show is not the languid pacing (wafer-thin main plots drawn out over eight hour-long episodes per season) or its shallow characterisation but the baleful influence the Bridgerton universe has had on costume dramas as a whole.

From the very first trailer, it was clear: this is Regency England, Jim, but not as we know it. Inexplicably, as it seemed then, the Regency ton was depicted as prettily and modishly diverse. It was as anachronistic as if a Rolls Royce had driven through the streets or the Queen had consulted an iPad to keep track of social events. 

The series later made clear that what we were looking at was an alternative universe, one where George III married a feisty African princess called Charlotte instead of a retiring German princess called Charlotte. Still, the conceit has never quite worked for me. Here's the thing: aristocracy is based on heredity. That's why many, including me, aren't frightfully keen on it. The older the family, according to this kind of thinking, the higher the prestige. The real English Regency élite would not have welcomed foreigners from far-off lands, even if they were high-born in their own countries, into their inner circle without a grumble. Much less would they have allowed the interlopers to supplant local families, at least not without a social upheaval equalling the one taking place in France at the same time. No revolution has shaken the Regency society of Bridgerton, however: the social mores of the ton remain what they've always been.

So what of it, you may ask: can't I give this one series a pass? After all, the premise, far-fetched as it is, has allowed the showcasing of talented actors who would otherwise not have been given the opportunity to try their hands at Regency foppery. And yes, I would be prepared to accept Bridgerton on its own terms, if it hadn't been for the domino effect. The show's success has led to even more wildly unhistorical imitations which don't even bother with the alternative-universe excuse, like the Netflix Persuasion or the episode "Rogue" in Doctor Who. Ideology is trumping common sense when it comes to period dramas; you can even see it in high-prestige projects like the final series of Wolf Hall. This is not exclusively Bridgerton's fault, but it makes its self-congratulating tone hard to bear.

All right then, let's say Bridgerton takes place in a realm entirely separate from any historical reality, a little like the fairy-tale realms of Once Upon A Time. How well does the actual drama work? As mentioned, I have been underwhelmed by previous seasons, but season four was a welcome surprise, and not only because it was an adaptation of sorts of the classic Cinderella story, something I am a sucker for. 

Yerin Ha makes an enchanting romantic lead as Sophie. I was less sure about Luke Thompson's Benedict, but their chemistry carried all before it. The episode where they got to know each other under the watchful eyes of Benedict's old retainers, Mr and Mrs Crabtree, while Benedict recovered from an attack at his "cottage" (a minor mansion), was a delight. Elsewhere, the subplots knitted together better than I'm used to from Bridgerton, and the character moments between the Bridgerton family members actually carried some weight. 

I was particularly pleased to see that Eloise, whom I have wanted to like (as Claudia Jessie is quite winning) but who I must admit has been a bit of a pill in previous seasons, was finally mending her ways after having been called out on her self-absorption by her younger sister Hyacinth. When she reconciled with Cressida, a supposed mean girl (more sinned against than sinning in my opinion) who was brutally shafted in the previous season but who now finally gets her happy ending, I could have cheered.

The season ends with a perfect hook. Throughout the series, a gossip sheet penned by "Lady Whistledown" has been a continuing connective plot thread. We got to know, somewhat too early in the series, who the Lady was, but now someone else has taken over the role, unbeknown to the original writer who has given the sheet up. I find myself quite engaged in the mystery. Bridgerton has won me over: just don't confuse it with history.