Harry Potter and chessboard psychology

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

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

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

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

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

An old sci-fi chestnut one can do without

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good musical but less good sequel

When last in London, I saw the musical "Love Never Dies" and was surprised at just how enjoyable it was. The score was tuneful - the title number was a bit like a damp firework, true, but there were plenty of other cracking numbers, and the incidental music worked well, too, though I thought I could detect a strain of melody or two borrowed from "The Woman in White". The performances were first class. The set was impressive, though I wouldn't have minded a little less projections and a little more hands-on Coney Island props - come on, a real roundabout and ferris wheel would have killed you? I've seen the lyrics criticised, but I didn't think them that bad, really: compared with the ones in "The Woman in White", they're razor-sharp. The pace is good: forget the quip "paint never dries", the action never flags (maybe because of a reworking of the musical some months back). As for the story, it works as a melodrama in its own right.

Yep, there's a "but" coming on. Here it is. BUT what "Love Never Dies" doesn't manage is to work as a credible sequel to "The Phantom of the Opera". There are too many things that just don't fit, and this is presumably what's enraged "phans" the world over and made them hate the show, great tunes notwithstanding. This is a bit hard on Lloyd Webber, as "Phantom" was his baby, and you'd have thought if anyone had deserved to come up with a sequel to it without being punished by fans of the original show it would be him. However, always bearing in mind that there are probably those that would have hated any sequel to "Phantom", however brilliant, Lloyd Webber does commit a few howlers story-wise which even non-phanatics have a hard time to accept.

Rule number one when creating a sequel is, surely, to respect the original. It doesn't mean that the characters must be preserved as if in pickle jars and not develop the slightest little bit in the sequel: I've seen some gruesome examples of "character congealitis" in for instance Pride and Prejudice sequels, where Mrs Bennet is relentlessly silly, Mr Bennet relentlessly sarcastic, Mary always bookish, Kitty always skittish etc. until you're heartily tired of all of them. On the basis of avoiding scenarios like these, I suppose it's defendable to imagine the sweet, sensible, non-envious Meg Giry as having turned into a hard-bitten, slightly unbalanced showgirl who is rather less keen to cede the limelight to Christine than she used to be. After all, it's been ten years! But respect for the original does mean getting the events and the relationships on which the sequel is based right. Where a sequel goes is its own affair (almost - I'll come back to that), but it shouldn't cheat when it comes to the starting point of the story.

This is what "Love Never Dies" manages to do. The problem starts with the obviously mendacious title (I'm a romantic, but really - it's hardly unheard of for love to die, and with a vengeance too). What "love" are we talking about here? Apparently the love between the singer Christine and the Phantom. We're meant to take on board not only that Christine's marriage to the dashing viscount Raoul has failed, but that she has been pining for the Phantom all along, and that she actually spent a night of passion with him - the day before her wedding, no less. Now, ten years later, she has a son, Gustave, who she is convinced is the Phantom's. (How can she know, though? Night before her wedding, remember? So the kid is musical and likes weird things - well, he is the son of a singer, and he's a ten-year-old boy!) It hasn't stopped her from passing Gustave off as the viscount's son and heir, naturally. And so, we are supposed to wait in suspense and hope that Christine will be reunited with her "real" love and Gustave with his "real" father.

Hang on, though. This is how I remember Christine's and the Phantom's story from the original. He comes into her life as her mentor and tutor, passing himself off as "the angel of music" whom her dying father promised would always be with her. This relationship is not romantic, not in Christine's eyes at least. Then Raoul appears and the Phantom gets increasingly possessive and nasty - hence the chandelier incident, by which time Christine has twigged that her tutor's not very angelic at all. The drama winds up with the Phantom taking Raoul hostage and threatening to string him up (he's already casually murdered an opera employee this way) if Christine doesn't agree to spend her life with him. Christine agrees and kisses him. I can't quite recall what happens next, whether the Phantom gives up Christine voluntarily or is forced to, but I believe the former. Anyway he vanishes and Christine is free to marry Raoul.

Very handsome I'm sure to decide not to blackmail a girl into becoming your singing puppet for the rest of her life after all. Still, it's hardly Romeo and Juliet. What the Phantom feels for Christine is an unhealthy obsession, specifically concentrated on her voice. What Christine feels for the Phantom is a mixture of pity, fascination and blank terror. Yet in "Love Never Dies", the premise is that all that kept them apart in the first place was his disfigurement. Well, no, it wasn't quite that easy, was it?

The second thing a sequel should avoid is to mess up a happy ending. This doesn't mean being so slavish towards the original that the sequel becomes nothing more than a drawn-out extension of the happy ending we've already been served. (Again, many P&P sequels are guilty as charged.) There have to be new crises and new dramas, but they should be resolved in a way that is in keeping with the original's intent. Obviously Christine and Raoul were well suited and were heading for a happily ever after - that's what the sugary duet "All I Ask of You" was all about. Why ruin it?

Still, if you don't care that much about "Love Never Dies" making sense as a sequel, I'd recommend you to see it if you're in London before it closes at the end of August. But be warned, there is hardly a character in it at the end that wasn't better off at the end of "Phantom" - and that includes the Phantom himself.

A delicate balance

A few weeks back, the author and critic Philip Hensher wrote a very readable article on villains, regretting the fact that the age of the charismatic villain in the mould of Shakespeare’s Richard III (have I mentioned that he has nothing to do with the historical Richard? I have? Let’s move on then) seems to be past. They just don’t make’em like that any more. Hensher, who has read a great deal more modern fiction than I am ever likely to, has a theory about why authors of today seldom deliver on the villain front. They are simply too fond of seeing everything from everybody’s point of view: instead of condemning a potetial villain’s behaviour, they want to understand him. “What is needed in imaginative writing, perhaps, is a little less sympathy and a little more judgement” is Hensher’s conclusion.

It is always cheering to read the reflections of another villain lover – and a Dickens fan, too – and in my view, Hensher’s on to something. The “bad guy” in a novel often thrives on the appalled reactions of other characters, and occasionally of the narrator (though I find wry distance more fitting in the latter case). Needless to say, for a baddie, being called “villain” or ”scoundrel” is only gratifying, as are comparisons with predatory or otherwise sinister animals such as wolves, tigers, vultures and sharks. Accusations of coldness, heartlessness and ruthlessness also look good on a dastardly CV. Talleyrand is supposed to have said about his political rival Fouché that he had “a heart of diamond, a stomach of iron and an eye without tears”. This is the kind of glowing review that a villain – and his groupies – would appreciate. Conversely, it is possible to hug a villain to death by showing too much sympathy for him (or her – I’m not denying the existence of wonderful villainesses, though I confess I’m more interested in the male of the species). If a baddie is too obviously endorsed by the author, you get at best a high-prestige villain, like Count Fosco and Long John Silver , whom many people will like but who do not create the same illicit thrill as Shakespeare’s Richard III. At worst, you end up with a failure, albeit often an interesting one: either the author can’t bear to let his/her darling go through with the wicked deeds required for the plot, so the potential baddie turns out to be a bit of a wet, or he goes through with his plans, in which case the author’s soppiness unsettles us – is he/she saying that murder, theft, horrible vengeance etc. are OK now?

On the other hand, you can overdo the ostracising of a baddie. I do think a good villain deserves his/her day in court. That’s why Dickensian villains are of such superior quality (mostly): you see where they come from, while realising that through their own bitterness and wrong-headedness they have ended up in the wrong place. And there is one drawback of heaping abuse on your villain: if he turns out to be a cracker, those doing the heaping will look a bit stupid. How popular will a hero or heroine be who is continually sniffy about a character that many readers see as the most interesting in the whole book?

A balance is needed, I think, between sympathy and judgement. A villain should ideally have a case (though admittedly there are those charistmatic enough to do without one) but not one good enough to excuse his actions. As for the scarcity of great modern villains, could the decline of epic narratives such as the Victorian novel have something to do with it? A villain thrives on drama: slightly dreary descriptions of the small disappointments of everyday life, which seem to be popular among modern authors, aren’t really a good setting for colourful characters, wicked or not.

Stolen Thunder

I didn’t expect to approve of the sequel of “Upstairs Downstairs” much, but surprisingly, it wasn’t bad at all. I say surprisingly because the reception of the show when it was aired seems to have been lukewarm – the reviews weren’t very complimentary, and there never was a series made after the “Christmas specials”. It turns out, though, that this drama had potential.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect, and it took a while before you became involved with the characters, but the same thing could be said for the original series. The first episode of the original “Upstairs Downstairs”, “On Trial”, was in fact pretty hard on the characters, especially the downstairs ones: Mrs Bridges and Mr Hudson were at their autocratic worst, and even Rose was spiteful and envious towards the new maid Sarah. Lady Marjorie didn’t come out of it all that well either: in fact, we never learn what Sarah’s real name is. Sarah is a name Lady Marjorie dreams up because she finds the (admittedly fake) French name the new maid goes under too fanciful for a servant. The problem with the sequel, on the other hand, was less that the initial characterisation had to be softened and nuanced than that the new arrivals seemed a little drab compared to the original crew. There was a definite turning-point, though, when the always excellent Eileen Atkins sailed in as the eccentric Lady Holland. Downstairs, the butler Pritchard – mindful of downstairs etiquette in spite of having worked his whole life on cruisers and much more sweet-natured than Hudson – was a welcome addition.

So why were the Christmas special episodes the last we saw of the new “Upstairs Downstairs”? The Thirties setting is a bit uncongenial for this kind of domestic drama, as its harsh political realities can have a tendency to invade the story too much. As it happens, I think “Upstairs Downstairs” handled the balance between the personal and the political pretty well. The storyline involving Jewish refugee Rachel, who becomes a maid at Eaton Place, is a tad Winds-of-War-ish, but it was pretty plucky to include a chauffeur who was a convinced Fascist – not because he was some poison-drooling, two-headed monster but because he was suckered into it by Mosley’s flowery rhetoric (not that different in substance from the kind of guff that would appeal to the Cosy Red Chauffeur in “Downton Abbey”). The depiction of von Ribbentrop, not as a shambolic “Pimpernel Smith” kind of Nazi but as a plausible, urbane ladykiller, also gave one a sense of the dangers that the civilised world was really up against.

What really killed “Upstairs Downstairs” make two is quite simply the existence of “Downton Abbey”. The “Abbey” has the advantage of more upstairs characters, and though the second season will probably have its fair share of what’s-it-all-in-aid-of-scenes in the trenches of WWI, it can stear well clear of the earnest predictability of the typical WWII drama. However, quality-wise, “Downton Abbey” is not that superior to “Upstairs Downstairs”. It’s just that the town ain’t big enough for two dramas with such a similar set-up (in spite of being set at different times and in the country and London respectively), and “Downton Abbey” got there first.

Past the point of no return

The problem with giving a book a good try before shelving it is you might come so far you don’t feel there’s any point in giving it up, even though you’re not convinced by it. I’ve reached this stage with "Labyrinth", which I will keep on reading until the end, grumbling all the way. It’s a bit unfair that the novel should put me in such a grumpy mood. It’s got some things going for it, like the pace, the plotting and… well, that’s it, really. It is action-packed, which means reading it is not great a hardship. But I find no joy in the characterisation, the descriptive passages (to be fair, few authors have the knack of making those gripping) or the language.

A common complaint when it comes to characters in novels is that they are depicted in black and white, but I’ve realised there are different ways of doing black-and-white-characterisation. An author who doesn’t bother with nuances can never hope to be the new Dostoyevsky, but all-good characters can still be engaging, and all-bad characters can still be fun. In "Labyrinth", though, the goodies are colourless – the medieval version of the heroine, Alaïs, is especially annoying – and the baddies are not so much stock characters as a set of traits generally associated with a particular stock character: they fill their function in the plot, but with little relish. The Bitch – both in the medieval and the modern part of the tale – has a little more going for her, as this is a stock character which it is hard to ruin completely. But just look at the Outwardly Civilised Brute. He has a record of sexual assault and domestic violence which has been hushed up as he’s from an influential family; his interrogation methods are unsophisticated to say the least; and in his office he has a photograph of himself shaking hands with Jean-Marie Le Pen, the erstwhile leader of the Front National. Oh, and he gives generous donations to the Jesuits. Boo. Hiss.

The Jesuit detail illustrates another problem I have with the book. I understand that the author wants us to side with the religious movement who called themselves Bon Chrétiens, and who are referred to in modern days as Cathars. But maybe she’s trying to hard – anyway, I in my contrary mood failed to warm to them. Yes, it seems harsh that they should be branded as "heretics", and yes, it’s nice that they embrace the notion that we will all be saved and go to Heaven eventually. But their beliefs as described in "Labyrinth" are so well attuned to modern sensibilities they set my teeth on edge. They are perfectly pally with Jews and Saracens, for instance, but openly scornful of Catholics. I’m not above a little papist-bashing myself sometimes, but don’t they deserve some credit for recognising the same Redeemer? Why shut them out of the cosy ecumenical fellowship? At one point, Alaïs sulks because she has to attend a service at – oh horror – a proper Cathedral, with a crucifix in it to which she takes exception. Can one blame the Pope for being a teensy bit peeved with these people?

Anyway, enough praise for our friends in Rome: I can see they blotted their copybook rather in medieval times with all their crusading. It might be consistent to persecute Cathars and Jews and Saracens, but it’s not particularly admirable. Let’s not forget, though, that the Catholics of the thirteenth century did not believe in universal salvation. It is easier to be tolerant when you are not convinced that those of a different religious persuasion are damning themselves in their own fashion.

The good old days of historical drama

It's strange, when it comes to period dramas from the Seventies and Eighties, that dramas based on historical lives age better than literary adaptations. It's not that the dialogue flows more easily. It often sounds a little stilted - especially when an attempt has been made to capture the language of the age - and exposition-heavy. There are no pace-making cuts or original camera angles: like the literary adaptations of the time, the historical dramas have a certain whiff of filmed theatre. But as filmed theatre, it somehow works better. The exchanges may not be realistic by any standards, but someone has put some thought into them, and they have been conceived as a TV play from the start. When you have a wonderful novel as a source, it is perhaps easier to think that its words will do all the work for you. It doesn't work that way: I've become more and more aware that a good deal of work needs to be done for a great novel to become good TV. Novels and drama are different genres, and filming even the best actors parroting as many of the novel's words as you can cram in is not the way to do it justice.

Examples of surprisingly good older historical dramas are the excellent "Elizabeth R", which in my view knocks spots off the more recent Elizabethan biodramas I've seen (the one with Helen Mirren and the first Cate Blanchett film); a sweetly partisan TV series about Disraeli; "Edward VII" (which made me feel sorry for the Kaiser - I'm not sure that was intentional) and "Will Shakespeare", a series from as early as 1978 which I have recently watched.

"Will Shakespeare" is very much a case in point here. You could never guess the scriptwriter was John Mortimer of Rumpole fame. The only resemblance I could find with the Rumpole stories is a certain bitter-sweetness: like the crusty barrister, Shakespeare does not have a very easy life, and yet you are somehow not too depressed by his setbacks. Language-wise, though, this is cod-Shakespearean throughout, but thought-provoking enough to get away with it. It's nice to see Tim Curry in a serious part. No flashing of the famous wolfish grin here: poor Will didn't have much to smile about. Nicholas Clay as the dashing Earl of Southampton steals the show rather, though. It was quite hard to imagine him as the golden young man of Shakespeare's sonnets. Unlike poor Marlowe's potentially murderous squeeze in the first episode - continuing the poisonous-youth trend quite nicely - there was nothing even faintly androgynous about Southampton. Nature clearly meant him to be a man from the start.

I was going on to making a point about authors' lives rarely being as thrilling as their work, and dramas about them having to make the best of what they got in different ways. That is why a biodrama of Shakespeare must needs have a golden young man and Dark Lady in it, though there may not have been any such persons outside Shakespeare's imagination at all. I think I'll leave that argument for another day, though, and wrap up instead with another strange thing. How come, when recent literary adaptations are mostly - though not always - more sure-footed that the old ones, that recent historical drama is often so underwhelming? Think of "The Tudors", or (if it qualifies as historical at all, which is doubtful) "Desperate Romantics". Sorry, but a lot of bed-hopping does not a thrilling drama make. You have to invest something in the characterisation. As with Cromwell in "The Tudors", Ruskin in "Desperate Romantics" is saved by a sterling acting performance. Tom Hollander's Ruskin may not know much about what he likes, but he knows about Art - this is definitely the man you would hire to buy an art collection for you. More's the pity that actors playing interesting historical characters don't get more to work with: instead they have to make do with quite clumsy scripts, which will as likely as not shove their guy/woman aside contemptously because he/she won't bed-hop. Some things really were better in the old days.