A while back, I read and enjoyed Daisy Goodwin's second historical novel, The Fortune Hunter. In many ways it reminded me of her first one, My Last Duchess. It's deftly plotted, taking the reader from one attractive set piece to the next. It has most of the ingredients I look for in an historical novel with a dash of romance - balls, hunts, country-house parties, misbehaving royals and, as a bonus, Austrian-Hungarian officers making out. On the down-side, as in My Last Duchess, I didn't care a great deal for the characters, with the exception of the charming American photographer Caspar Hewes who's always good fun when he appears ("Lady D said you wanted to be alone, so of course I came at once").
The novel centres around a love triangle between Charlotte Baird, an heiress passionately interested in photography, Bay Middleton, a rake passionately interested in hunting and the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, a royal beauty passionately interested in herself. Bay's romance with Charlotte is budding nicely, despite her family's objections: but then he is appointed the hunting pilot of Empress Elisabeth, and unwisely starts an affair with her. Will Charlotte forgive him? Will they get together again? Do we want them to?
It says a lot about Daisy Goodwin's talents as a yarn-spinner that I kept turning the pages while not being particularly fond of either the sneering Charlotte or Bay. With time, as her love deepens, I did begin to feel for Charlotte, but Bay remains a bone-headed fellow with his obsession with horses, hunting and races. You feel that no woman, empress or not, can really compete with his filly. He shows a polite interest in photography for Charlotte's sake, but knows little about it, and she for her part never hunts as her mother was killed in a hunting accident. Even if Bay supposedly isn't after Charlotte's money - the book's title is partly ironic - you wonder if they make such a good couple as all that. As for Empress Elisabeth, nicknamed Sisi, she is vain, attention-seeking and hard to like.
In Georgette Heyer's whodunnit Envious Casca (great title - shame it sort of gives away the plot twist), one character gets on all the other characters' nerves by relating anecdotes from a book on the Empress Elisabeth of Austria. I didn't really understand that storyline - say what you like about Sisi, she's good copy. There are worse topics of conversation than her life. Having said that, the Empress seems to have been the kind of woman who invariably brings out the cat in me. I'm not sure why. She might have been a bit of a moaner, but she had things to moan about: the Austrian court was strict, her mother-in-law Archduchess Sophie was formidable, and the poor girl was only fifteen when she married Emperor Franz Josef, who was smitten with her but also a bit of a dry stick. Nevertheless, my pity keeps itself well within bounds. I have some trouble believing that she'd actually take a lover, because I've somehow come by the opinion that a woman can sometimes be a tiresome, neurotic narcissist (like the Empress), and sometimes a wanton slut, but she is rarely both. I may be completely wrong, though, and my failure to see women of the self-regarding Sisi type as sensual beings may be part and parcel of my general cattiness.
Perhaps it's the "golden cage" aspect of Empress Elisabeth's complaints that makes me unsympathetic. We all have cages to contend with in our lives of one sort or another, and they're rarely golden. Being an Empress is a job like any other, containing elements that are not enjoyable - but I bet there are worse ones. As Elisabeth's sister, the deposed Queen of Naples, says in The Fortune Hunter: "There are worse things in life, Sisi, than being stared at."
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
Downton worries
The fifth series of Downton Abbey has now had its Swedish premiere (last Saturday). While I'm of course buoyed up no end - this is one of the year's highlights for me - I'm not quite as euphoric as after the first episode of series four last year. I'm nervous about series five. Something tells me it will be a nerve-racking affair. Be careful what you wish for, if what you wish for is a worthwhile storyline for your favourite Downton character, because that usually also means trauma.
Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier if I wasn't a villain-lover, and instead fancied heroes like most people. But when it comes to Downton, such a course wouldn't make me safe from anxious moments either. Matthew died. Mr Bates is suspected of murder again, and may actually have done it this time (though I still don't think he did). Branson has taken up with a bolshie school teacher who gets up people's noses - honestly, where's his judgment gone since Sybil died? Let's face it: until the last episode has peacefully concluded, we will have reason enough to worry about most of the characters' chances of a happy ending.
So I might as well worry about Thomas. The reviews I've read of episode one tend to find that the Lady Anstruther plot-line - where Jimmy gets entangled with his old employer who, contrary to my predictions, was all too ready to forgive him for having quitted his post with her - was one of the best things about the episode. I agree, it was juicy, but I'm concerned about the consequences. Will Jimmy really leave now? Is his fragile friendship with Thomas at an end, just as they had reached mutual first-name status? How will this affect Thomas's mood and, importantly, will it make him more inclined to commit the ghastly mistake of squealing on Bates (when he finds out about his suspicious trip to London and the rest, which is surely only a matter of time)? Quite apart from not really wanting Bates to swing - though, innocent or guilty, the silly man brought it on himself - I can foresee the dire effect squealing would have on Thomas. All sympathy with him would be at an end from the other Downton characters; from Downton viewers inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt until now; in fact, from everyone except myself. Oh, to be back in the times of the series three finale, when supporting Thomas was considered fine and dandy for a while.
Oh well, enough manservant-bellyaching. Luckily, there are some points about Downton - however outlandish one's sympathies - about which most viewers can agree. One of these is that poor Lady Edith is being given far too grisly a time. By now, if comments on the series are anything to go by, Fellowes - who seems to prefer icy Lady Mary to her sister - is in something of a minority. He has admitted in interviews to "punishing" Edith for her passiveness, but she isn't really passive. For someone supposedly more conventionally minded than her sisters, she has time and again dared to leave her comfort zone. She learned to drive during wartime, then figured out how she could be most helpful in the Downton convalescent home. She decided to write articles for magazines. She stuck to the man she loved, although he was married (to a madwoman, allegedly), and had an all-too-brief affair with him. She had his baby, and arranged for it to be brought up close to her in defiance of her aunt's advice. How much more actively taking charge of her life will she have to do before Fellowes takes pity on her? Let's hope, when the happy endings are handed out at Downton's conclusion (the end of series six, maybe?), that hers is an especially blissful one.
Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier if I wasn't a villain-lover, and instead fancied heroes like most people. But when it comes to Downton, such a course wouldn't make me safe from anxious moments either. Matthew died. Mr Bates is suspected of murder again, and may actually have done it this time (though I still don't think he did). Branson has taken up with a bolshie school teacher who gets up people's noses - honestly, where's his judgment gone since Sybil died? Let's face it: until the last episode has peacefully concluded, we will have reason enough to worry about most of the characters' chances of a happy ending.
So I might as well worry about Thomas. The reviews I've read of episode one tend to find that the Lady Anstruther plot-line - where Jimmy gets entangled with his old employer who, contrary to my predictions, was all too ready to forgive him for having quitted his post with her - was one of the best things about the episode. I agree, it was juicy, but I'm concerned about the consequences. Will Jimmy really leave now? Is his fragile friendship with Thomas at an end, just as they had reached mutual first-name status? How will this affect Thomas's mood and, importantly, will it make him more inclined to commit the ghastly mistake of squealing on Bates (when he finds out about his suspicious trip to London and the rest, which is surely only a matter of time)? Quite apart from not really wanting Bates to swing - though, innocent or guilty, the silly man brought it on himself - I can foresee the dire effect squealing would have on Thomas. All sympathy with him would be at an end from the other Downton characters; from Downton viewers inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt until now; in fact, from everyone except myself. Oh, to be back in the times of the series three finale, when supporting Thomas was considered fine and dandy for a while.
Oh well, enough manservant-bellyaching. Luckily, there are some points about Downton - however outlandish one's sympathies - about which most viewers can agree. One of these is that poor Lady Edith is being given far too grisly a time. By now, if comments on the series are anything to go by, Fellowes - who seems to prefer icy Lady Mary to her sister - is in something of a minority. He has admitted in interviews to "punishing" Edith for her passiveness, but she isn't really passive. For someone supposedly more conventionally minded than her sisters, she has time and again dared to leave her comfort zone. She learned to drive during wartime, then figured out how she could be most helpful in the Downton convalescent home. She decided to write articles for magazines. She stuck to the man she loved, although he was married (to a madwoman, allegedly), and had an all-too-brief affair with him. She had his baby, and arranged for it to be brought up close to her in defiance of her aunt's advice. How much more actively taking charge of her life will she have to do before Fellowes takes pity on her? Let's hope, when the happy endings are handed out at Downton's conclusion (the end of series six, maybe?), that hers is an especially blissful one.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
The Killing - too noir for this Scandinavian
Bucked up by the success with Unit One, I finally got round to borrowing the acclaimed The Killing, series one, from my local DVD shop. I was convinced that I was hardened enough to try more Scandi noir. Except, oh dear. Grim though its cases often were, Unit One has done nothing to prepare me for the relentless gloom that is The Killing.
It's not, I think, the sheer beastliness of the committed crime, or the protracted suffering the luckless victim - a pretty, clever, sunny teenage girl - went through that proves that little bit too much for me, though it doesn't help. It's the wallowing in the grief of her family. These scenes are convincing and well played, but who wants to watch scenarios like these? For instance, we witness the girl's parents having to tell her small brothers of her death, and later the parents catch a glimpse of the horrible crime-scene pictures, which makes them start to realise just how many traumatic facts the police are keeping from them. The Killing seems to be a crime series made by people who hate the normal crime series-viewing public: we are being punished for our morbid interest in murders. Look, it seems to say, this is what murder is like in real life: it shatters lives.
Except, this isn't real life, is it? It's still fiction. It's a "thriller" made, one supposes, in order to entertain viewers. It's not an instruction video for grief counsellors. I fail to see why glum offerings like these are considered more worthwhile by fastidious critics than golden-agey whodunnits. Why is it more moral to revel in a nasty case like this than in a cleaner bump-on-the-head murder? It's hard not to feel that The Killing indulges bloodlust while simultaneously wagging a finger at it.
In Unit One, a kindly senior police officer has a conversation with a girl he's protecting, and she asks what murderers are like. He answers that in most cases, they're "just like you and me". Only, there is "something not quite right" which makes them cross the line and kill. (As it happens, in this particular case the murderer is a sadistic loon very far from the norm, but never mind.) I don't know if it's true, but as a working hypothesis it works well. I like a really juicy motive in a murder mystery, which makes me wonder if, in the same circumstances, I would be tempted. If the murderer is clearly a psycho, which must be the case in The Killing, then some of the interest of the murder case is lost. There can be no question of someone "just snapping".
That said, I want to know who did it now, so I'll probably watch this series until the end, even though I won't be giving series two and three a go. It's well made - the Danes are clearly good at this sort of stuff. Sarah Lund is a charismatic lead, and I'm mildly interested in what happens to her when her petulant Swedish boyfriend ditches her, which is surely only a question of time (Swedes are rarely good news in Danish series, it seems). Will sparks fly between her and her new Dirty Harryish colleague? Or maybe the smooth politician is, for once, a good guy who's in with a chance?
But there are limits to my interest. If Lund's fate is undecided at the end of the series, I'll not sit through another case as gruelling as this just to know what happens to her. Her sweaters really are nice, though.
It's not, I think, the sheer beastliness of the committed crime, or the protracted suffering the luckless victim - a pretty, clever, sunny teenage girl - went through that proves that little bit too much for me, though it doesn't help. It's the wallowing in the grief of her family. These scenes are convincing and well played, but who wants to watch scenarios like these? For instance, we witness the girl's parents having to tell her small brothers of her death, and later the parents catch a glimpse of the horrible crime-scene pictures, which makes them start to realise just how many traumatic facts the police are keeping from them. The Killing seems to be a crime series made by people who hate the normal crime series-viewing public: we are being punished for our morbid interest in murders. Look, it seems to say, this is what murder is like in real life: it shatters lives.
Except, this isn't real life, is it? It's still fiction. It's a "thriller" made, one supposes, in order to entertain viewers. It's not an instruction video for grief counsellors. I fail to see why glum offerings like these are considered more worthwhile by fastidious critics than golden-agey whodunnits. Why is it more moral to revel in a nasty case like this than in a cleaner bump-on-the-head murder? It's hard not to feel that The Killing indulges bloodlust while simultaneously wagging a finger at it.
In Unit One, a kindly senior police officer has a conversation with a girl he's protecting, and she asks what murderers are like. He answers that in most cases, they're "just like you and me". Only, there is "something not quite right" which makes them cross the line and kill. (As it happens, in this particular case the murderer is a sadistic loon very far from the norm, but never mind.) I don't know if it's true, but as a working hypothesis it works well. I like a really juicy motive in a murder mystery, which makes me wonder if, in the same circumstances, I would be tempted. If the murderer is clearly a psycho, which must be the case in The Killing, then some of the interest of the murder case is lost. There can be no question of someone "just snapping".
That said, I want to know who did it now, so I'll probably watch this series until the end, even though I won't be giving series two and three a go. It's well made - the Danes are clearly good at this sort of stuff. Sarah Lund is a charismatic lead, and I'm mildly interested in what happens to her when her petulant Swedish boyfriend ditches her, which is surely only a question of time (Swedes are rarely good news in Danish series, it seems). Will sparks fly between her and her new Dirty Harryish colleague? Or maybe the smooth politician is, for once, a good guy who's in with a chance?
But there are limits to my interest. If Lund's fate is undecided at the end of the series, I'll not sit through another case as gruelling as this just to know what happens to her. Her sweaters really are nice, though.
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
I fancy a villain, who's played by an actor, who also plays...
Unit One, then, aka Mordkommissionen, aka Rejseholdet. I'm not going to blog at length about this series, as I suspect that not many outside of Scandinavia have seen it, and as it's nearly fifteen years old, even those who know it might not remember it well. However, I see that it's available on English DVD and can highly recommend it. I'm not usually that wild about police procedurals, but this had me hooked - and not only because of the cute coppers.
Unit One can serve as a starting point, though, for some thoughts on a state of mind I'm afflicted by all too often. I call it the "I danced with a man who danced with a girl" syndrome, after the song about the society girl who was in raptures because she'd danced with a man, who danced with a girl, who danced with the Prince of Wales (the future Edward VIII). Briefly, this syndrome entails warming to - or even fancying - characters whom you might not otherwise have noticed, because they happen to be played by the same actor who has succesfully played your favourite character elsewhere. In my case, the favourite character in question is invariably a villain.
Taking the first step towards this odd sort of behaviour is common enough. Here another syndrome comes into play, the Lucky Luke audience syndrome, which I think I've mentioned before. In one Lucky Luke album, a group of players tours the Wild West with a lurid melodrama called The White Knight. The audiences in the small towns they visit always mix up fact and fiction, treating the hero of the play as a hero in real life while cold-shouldering the villain actor ("child-murderers don't get served here", one barman tells him). As it turns out, if I remember rightly, all the players are crooks. The point is, we all know the Lucky Luke audience approach is idiotic and unsophisticated but, however hard you try to tell yourself that a well-played character and his/her actor are completely separate persons, it's difficult to make the distinction completely. I mean, they look the same, they sound the same... I for one, having other tastes than Wild West audiences, always feel more warmly towards an actor after he's made a particularly good job of playing a villain. It can lead to some seriously silly behaviour - as when I watch an interview with an actor gushing "oooh, he's so nice", when my interest in him rests on him playing a character who's not nice. Strangely enough, I want villain actors to be perfect darlings off-stage, and am disappointed if the opposite is in any way hinted (that doesn't happen often: villain actors are for the most part character actors, who know how to behave). Daft as the LLA syndrome is, I think it's OK to indulge in it as long as the effects are benign. When you find that you don't like an able actor just because he/she's played a character you don't approve of, that's when you should rein in and give yourself a talking-to.
While the equating of a character with an actor is fairly widespread, I wonder how many people are crazy enough to take it a step further, like I do, and extend extra sympathy towards other characters played by the same actors who play my villain fancies. This behaviour was particularly marked during my Bulstrode phase, when most characters played by the late Peter Jeffrey (well, he was the definitive Bulstrode) could count on my support. Of course The Grand Turk would have deserved to win in The Adventures of Baron von Münchhausen. What was Emma Peel thinking of, honey-trapping Prendergast? She was asking for a good scare, the cow. As for the lecherous politician Eric in Yes, Minister - well, all I can say is, I understood "the shady lady from Argentina" perfectly.
In the case of Unit One, Thomas la Cour (I know), played by Lars Brygmann, and Allan Fischer, played by Mads Mikkelsen, are very likeable and attractive characters. I don't think I would have been half as interested in them, though, if the actors who play them wouldn't have gone on to play ace villains. Similarly, though Fischer is the funny one, I prefer the squirrel-eyed la Cour, simply because Brygmann played Höxenhaven, who trumps Mikkelsen's Bond villain in the baddie stakes. Yep, it's a bit weird. But translate the situation to heroes, and at least some people might recognise the syndrome. Is it inconceivable that you would watch a film simply because "Matthew" or "Mr Darcy" was in it - and then root for his character?
Unit One can serve as a starting point, though, for some thoughts on a state of mind I'm afflicted by all too often. I call it the "I danced with a man who danced with a girl" syndrome, after the song about the society girl who was in raptures because she'd danced with a man, who danced with a girl, who danced with the Prince of Wales (the future Edward VIII). Briefly, this syndrome entails warming to - or even fancying - characters whom you might not otherwise have noticed, because they happen to be played by the same actor who has succesfully played your favourite character elsewhere. In my case, the favourite character in question is invariably a villain.
Taking the first step towards this odd sort of behaviour is common enough. Here another syndrome comes into play, the Lucky Luke audience syndrome, which I think I've mentioned before. In one Lucky Luke album, a group of players tours the Wild West with a lurid melodrama called The White Knight. The audiences in the small towns they visit always mix up fact and fiction, treating the hero of the play as a hero in real life while cold-shouldering the villain actor ("child-murderers don't get served here", one barman tells him). As it turns out, if I remember rightly, all the players are crooks. The point is, we all know the Lucky Luke audience approach is idiotic and unsophisticated but, however hard you try to tell yourself that a well-played character and his/her actor are completely separate persons, it's difficult to make the distinction completely. I mean, they look the same, they sound the same... I for one, having other tastes than Wild West audiences, always feel more warmly towards an actor after he's made a particularly good job of playing a villain. It can lead to some seriously silly behaviour - as when I watch an interview with an actor gushing "oooh, he's so nice", when my interest in him rests on him playing a character who's not nice. Strangely enough, I want villain actors to be perfect darlings off-stage, and am disappointed if the opposite is in any way hinted (that doesn't happen often: villain actors are for the most part character actors, who know how to behave). Daft as the LLA syndrome is, I think it's OK to indulge in it as long as the effects are benign. When you find that you don't like an able actor just because he/she's played a character you don't approve of, that's when you should rein in and give yourself a talking-to.
While the equating of a character with an actor is fairly widespread, I wonder how many people are crazy enough to take it a step further, like I do, and extend extra sympathy towards other characters played by the same actors who play my villain fancies. This behaviour was particularly marked during my Bulstrode phase, when most characters played by the late Peter Jeffrey (well, he was the definitive Bulstrode) could count on my support. Of course The Grand Turk would have deserved to win in The Adventures of Baron von Münchhausen. What was Emma Peel thinking of, honey-trapping Prendergast? She was asking for a good scare, the cow. As for the lecherous politician Eric in Yes, Minister - well, all I can say is, I understood "the shady lady from Argentina" perfectly.
In the case of Unit One, Thomas la Cour (I know), played by Lars Brygmann, and Allan Fischer, played by Mads Mikkelsen, are very likeable and attractive characters. I don't think I would have been half as interested in them, though, if the actors who play them wouldn't have gone on to play ace villains. Similarly, though Fischer is the funny one, I prefer the squirrel-eyed la Cour, simply because Brygmann played Höxenhaven, who trumps Mikkelsen's Bond villain in the baddie stakes. Yep, it's a bit weird. But translate the situation to heroes, and at least some people might recognise the syndrome. Is it inconceivable that you would watch a film simply because "Matthew" or "Mr Darcy" was in it - and then root for his character?
Monday, 8 September 2014
On a Beauman bender
I'm a bit impressed by my 2013 and 2012 selves. How did I manage to produce 3 blog posts in this, the cruellest month work-wise (or at least one of them)? September is survival month (as is October, for that matter), and that has its effect on TV and book consumption as well. I tend to stick with what I know I like, which means there's not much difference in my reading/TV watching pattern from one week to the next. And that in turn means fewer blogging themes.
This autumn has been extreme, though. TV-wise, I'm completely hooked on a Danish series from 2000 called Rejseholdet in its original language (no, me neither), Mordkommissionen (The Murder Squad) in Swedish and Unit One in English, and I watch little else. More of this at another time, I expect: suffice to say, for now, that it features both Lars "Höx" Brygmann and Mads Mikkelsen, playing - as it happens - perfectly decent coppers. Book-wise, I'm reading through the back catalogue of Sally Beauman. Well, when someone writes a trilogy, it makes sense to read all the books in a row, right?
I have to confess, though it really is her "early work", that I still like Destiny and Dark Angel best. Beauman is a master storyteller, and the epic family saga is the ideal showcase for her. The Language of Love is also a family saga, but it is shorter than the early novels and considerably more melancholy, as the focus of the story is a grim tragedy (far worse than the admittedly bloody end of Shawcross in Dark Angel: honestly, even I, villain-lover that I am, thought he had it coming). The ending, though not suicide-inducing, does not have the same uplift as Destiny's and Dark Angel's either. The Language of Love feels like an attempt by Beauman to move upmarket and show she can do more than just feelgood stuff (not that everything is peaches and cream in the early novels). I must admit I prefer cheaper markets.
The Lovers and Liars trilogy from the 90s, by contrast, feels like a move downmarket compared to Beauman's two first novels. These books are a mixture of romance and thriller, and the genres do not gel a hundred per cent. The first novel, called Lovers and Liars (I wonder who thinks of Beauman's titles? They sound a bit publisher-fabricated) centres on a supposed sex scandal, which is a passably juicy theme, but novel two, Danger Zones, introduces plot-lines about drugs and a disturbed youth who absconds with impressionable adolescent girls - not that fun, in fact. Novel three, Sextet, starts promisingly, though, as it's set in the world of film.
The common denominator in these books, aside from the thrillerish tone, are the protagonists, journalist Genevieve "Gini" Hunter and photographer Pascal Lamartine. These ex-lovers meet up after fifteen years to work on a story in novel one. Does the old love linger? Wanna bet? A complication in the form of features editor Rowland McGuire, who is an almost ludicrous compilation of supposedly attractive male qualities, appears in novel two, where Gini's friend Lindsay also starts to play a larger part in proceedings. Sextet seems to focus more on Lindsay than on Gini so far, which is good news, as Lindsay is the more likeable character. A fashion editor, she is warm, rueful and not as full of her own importance as Gini, Pascal and occasionally Rowland. These three share a belief in journalism - and in Pascal's case, photography - as something that can make the world a better place. I'm not sure I don't find idealistic hacks more of a pain than the cynical just-looking-for-a-good-story ones. The idealists are almost as ready to print dirt about someone, only they will also moralise about their victims in a way the cynics don't. Granted, though, that once in a while an idealist can be made to stay his or her hand when a cynic would push ruthlessly on.
So far, I remain somewhat unconvinced by the trilogy's thriller element - yes, there are exciting scenes, but thriller plots aren't what Beauman does best. The solutions to the mysteries in Lovers and Liars felt a bit throwaway, when you thought you'd get a well-reasoned explanation of various intrigues. At the end, it almost became a conspiracy theory thriller. I prefer Beauman's epic tales - which doesn't mean I don't enjoy the Lovers and Liars trilogy very much. But next time I read a Beauman, I hope it's a family saga - and a not too sad one.
This autumn has been extreme, though. TV-wise, I'm completely hooked on a Danish series from 2000 called Rejseholdet in its original language (no, me neither), Mordkommissionen (The Murder Squad) in Swedish and Unit One in English, and I watch little else. More of this at another time, I expect: suffice to say, for now, that it features both Lars "Höx" Brygmann and Mads Mikkelsen, playing - as it happens - perfectly decent coppers. Book-wise, I'm reading through the back catalogue of Sally Beauman. Well, when someone writes a trilogy, it makes sense to read all the books in a row, right?
I have to confess, though it really is her "early work", that I still like Destiny and Dark Angel best. Beauman is a master storyteller, and the epic family saga is the ideal showcase for her. The Language of Love is also a family saga, but it is shorter than the early novels and considerably more melancholy, as the focus of the story is a grim tragedy (far worse than the admittedly bloody end of Shawcross in Dark Angel: honestly, even I, villain-lover that I am, thought he had it coming). The ending, though not suicide-inducing, does not have the same uplift as Destiny's and Dark Angel's either. The Language of Love feels like an attempt by Beauman to move upmarket and show she can do more than just feelgood stuff (not that everything is peaches and cream in the early novels). I must admit I prefer cheaper markets.
The Lovers and Liars trilogy from the 90s, by contrast, feels like a move downmarket compared to Beauman's two first novels. These books are a mixture of romance and thriller, and the genres do not gel a hundred per cent. The first novel, called Lovers and Liars (I wonder who thinks of Beauman's titles? They sound a bit publisher-fabricated) centres on a supposed sex scandal, which is a passably juicy theme, but novel two, Danger Zones, introduces plot-lines about drugs and a disturbed youth who absconds with impressionable adolescent girls - not that fun, in fact. Novel three, Sextet, starts promisingly, though, as it's set in the world of film.
The common denominator in these books, aside from the thrillerish tone, are the protagonists, journalist Genevieve "Gini" Hunter and photographer Pascal Lamartine. These ex-lovers meet up after fifteen years to work on a story in novel one. Does the old love linger? Wanna bet? A complication in the form of features editor Rowland McGuire, who is an almost ludicrous compilation of supposedly attractive male qualities, appears in novel two, where Gini's friend Lindsay also starts to play a larger part in proceedings. Sextet seems to focus more on Lindsay than on Gini so far, which is good news, as Lindsay is the more likeable character. A fashion editor, she is warm, rueful and not as full of her own importance as Gini, Pascal and occasionally Rowland. These three share a belief in journalism - and in Pascal's case, photography - as something that can make the world a better place. I'm not sure I don't find idealistic hacks more of a pain than the cynical just-looking-for-a-good-story ones. The idealists are almost as ready to print dirt about someone, only they will also moralise about their victims in a way the cynics don't. Granted, though, that once in a while an idealist can be made to stay his or her hand when a cynic would push ruthlessly on.
So far, I remain somewhat unconvinced by the trilogy's thriller element - yes, there are exciting scenes, but thriller plots aren't what Beauman does best. The solutions to the mysteries in Lovers and Liars felt a bit throwaway, when you thought you'd get a well-reasoned explanation of various intrigues. At the end, it almost became a conspiracy theory thriller. I prefer Beauman's epic tales - which doesn't mean I don't enjoy the Lovers and Liars trilogy very much. But next time I read a Beauman, I hope it's a family saga - and a not too sad one.
Tuesday, 26 August 2014
The continuing problems with Christie adaptations
I've previously mentioned that Agatha Christie's books are hard to film. I still hold to that, but at the same time I must admit to having seen enough good adaptations of Christie novels by now to know that it is doable. For years, I've avoided buying Poirot box sets (with David Suchet as the detective), because I've seen some of these films on TV and found them boring. I don't even think I managed to get through Murder in Mesopotamia. However, after stumbling across quite watchable adaptations of Five Little Pigs and The Hollow (the latter on a long plane journey), and as I was curious about how the last Poirot adventure Curtain would be handled, I resolved to give the series another try. I bought the last box set in the series which included Curtain, and was satisfied by the latest films. After that, I've carefully worked my way backwards, assuming that the really sleep-inducing adaptations are among the early Poirots. There are several good films here, but I haven't been convinced by all of them. Whether early or late, the Poirot series remains a mixed bag.
David Suchet is of course as good a Poirot as one could wish for - that the character seems a little shallow sometimes is hardly his fault. But these adaptations have to walk the same tightrope as the latest Miss Marple adaptations: if you stay too close to the books, a plot that works well in a novel can become staid and static on screen; if you depart too much from the book, Christie fans (like me) will ask in disgust why you didn't just pen an episode of Midsomer Murders instead of foisting your own plot and characters unto a Christie story.
I can take rather a lot of tinkering with Christie's plots nowadays as I've seen how inert some faithful adaptations are. So where to draw the line? If the inspiration is a short story or a series of short stories (As in the Marple mystery Greenshaw's Folly and the Poirot film The Labours of Hercules), I'm inclined to be very magnanimous and see the film as something inspired by rather than based on Christie's work. I didn't mind the added twist in The Big Four either, as it was so very Christie-like. The problem starts when there is a perfectly serviceable coherent plot in one of her novels, and the adapter chooses to completely ignore it in favour of some lurid tale of his/her own.
There are some big offenders of this kind in the Miss Marple series. I've mentioned The Secret of Chimney's before; apart from that, Murder is Easy and Why Didn't They Ask Evans are the most glaring examples. The three novels have one thing in common: they're not Miss Marple novels. The insertion of Miss Marple isn't the problem in any of these cases, though. In Murder is Easy, it is perfectly credible that a worried old lady on a train should talk to Miss Marple (rather than a young ex-copper), and there's fun to be hand in Evans when Frankie's dismay at Miss Marple's meddling in her an Bobby's detective game becomes all too clear. No, the problem with Murder is Easy and Why Didn't They Ask Evans is that the films veer spectacularly off course plot-wise.
Admittedly, Murder is Easy is a book which has aged badly. The solid-oak hero and his gold-digging love interest aren't a very attractive couple; I gave a bit of a gasp when it was hinted that Superintendent Battle was actually going to book the entertainingly affected antique dealer Ellsworthy (and not for the silly black masses, I bet); last but not least, I can't be the only one who finds the bare-faced snobbery in the treatment of self-made man Lord Whitfield objectionable. But for all that, the main storyline is neat. There was no reason at all to change it in favour of a melodramatic incest story. Moreover, many of the characters were unrecognisable and some weren't included at all. There was no Ellsworthy, and, even more serious, no Lord Whitfield, though some of his characteristics had been given to Major Horton. Talk about Hamlet without the Prince. As for Why Didn't They Ask Evans, the book's a charming caper, which could very well have been adapted as it was without muddying the waters with a new outlandish back-story for the villains. It's a strange piece: up until Frankie arrives at the Bassington-ffrenches' place, the adaptation is straight-forward enough, then everything changes. A shame, and a good cast wasted.
My rule of thumb to Christie adapters would be: don't change the who, don't change the why and don't change the how. Otherwise, I can allow for quite a lot of jiggering with the plot and adding of characters. Sometimes, when I know a book well, a new twist can even be welcome. I accepted the many changes in the Poirot mystery Cards on The Table like a lamb, though I doubt Christie would have approved of some of them. On the other hand, I thought they went too far in Appointment With Death, where the murder motive is changed, the murderer is unrecognisable and where there is suddenly an accomplice as well, which ruins one of the novel's happy endings.
Much hinges on the quality of the scriptwriting, of course. Nick Dear, who wrote the screenplay to the Amanda Root adaptation of Persuasion and whose play Power I once saw in London and still bore my acquaintances by praising, is a safe bet where Poirot adaptations are concerned, as is Sherlock and Doctor Who veteran Mark "Mycroft" Gatiss. Otherwise, Christie adaptations remain a bit of a gamble. I'll probably be buying more Poirot, though: I can't help wondering how Hickory Dickory Dock turned out.
David Suchet is of course as good a Poirot as one could wish for - that the character seems a little shallow sometimes is hardly his fault. But these adaptations have to walk the same tightrope as the latest Miss Marple adaptations: if you stay too close to the books, a plot that works well in a novel can become staid and static on screen; if you depart too much from the book, Christie fans (like me) will ask in disgust why you didn't just pen an episode of Midsomer Murders instead of foisting your own plot and characters unto a Christie story.
I can take rather a lot of tinkering with Christie's plots nowadays as I've seen how inert some faithful adaptations are. So where to draw the line? If the inspiration is a short story or a series of short stories (As in the Marple mystery Greenshaw's Folly and the Poirot film The Labours of Hercules), I'm inclined to be very magnanimous and see the film as something inspired by rather than based on Christie's work. I didn't mind the added twist in The Big Four either, as it was so very Christie-like. The problem starts when there is a perfectly serviceable coherent plot in one of her novels, and the adapter chooses to completely ignore it in favour of some lurid tale of his/her own.
There are some big offenders of this kind in the Miss Marple series. I've mentioned The Secret of Chimney's before; apart from that, Murder is Easy and Why Didn't They Ask Evans are the most glaring examples. The three novels have one thing in common: they're not Miss Marple novels. The insertion of Miss Marple isn't the problem in any of these cases, though. In Murder is Easy, it is perfectly credible that a worried old lady on a train should talk to Miss Marple (rather than a young ex-copper), and there's fun to be hand in Evans when Frankie's dismay at Miss Marple's meddling in her an Bobby's detective game becomes all too clear. No, the problem with Murder is Easy and Why Didn't They Ask Evans is that the films veer spectacularly off course plot-wise.
Admittedly, Murder is Easy is a book which has aged badly. The solid-oak hero and his gold-digging love interest aren't a very attractive couple; I gave a bit of a gasp when it was hinted that Superintendent Battle was actually going to book the entertainingly affected antique dealer Ellsworthy (and not for the silly black masses, I bet); last but not least, I can't be the only one who finds the bare-faced snobbery in the treatment of self-made man Lord Whitfield objectionable. But for all that, the main storyline is neat. There was no reason at all to change it in favour of a melodramatic incest story. Moreover, many of the characters were unrecognisable and some weren't included at all. There was no Ellsworthy, and, even more serious, no Lord Whitfield, though some of his characteristics had been given to Major Horton. Talk about Hamlet without the Prince. As for Why Didn't They Ask Evans, the book's a charming caper, which could very well have been adapted as it was without muddying the waters with a new outlandish back-story for the villains. It's a strange piece: up until Frankie arrives at the Bassington-ffrenches' place, the adaptation is straight-forward enough, then everything changes. A shame, and a good cast wasted.
My rule of thumb to Christie adapters would be: don't change the who, don't change the why and don't change the how. Otherwise, I can allow for quite a lot of jiggering with the plot and adding of characters. Sometimes, when I know a book well, a new twist can even be welcome. I accepted the many changes in the Poirot mystery Cards on The Table like a lamb, though I doubt Christie would have approved of some of them. On the other hand, I thought they went too far in Appointment With Death, where the murder motive is changed, the murderer is unrecognisable and where there is suddenly an accomplice as well, which ruins one of the novel's happy endings.
Much hinges on the quality of the scriptwriting, of course. Nick Dear, who wrote the screenplay to the Amanda Root adaptation of Persuasion and whose play Power I once saw in London and still bore my acquaintances by praising, is a safe bet where Poirot adaptations are concerned, as is Sherlock and Doctor Who veteran Mark "Mycroft" Gatiss. Otherwise, Christie adaptations remain a bit of a gamble. I'll probably be buying more Poirot, though: I can't help wondering how Hickory Dickory Dock turned out.
Thursday, 14 August 2014
The return of Bridget
Weight: who's counting? Number of tight jeans: approx. 12, number of ultra-synthetic ice-cream lollies eaten so far: 0 (ha!), number of ice-cream lollies will have eaten before bed-time: 2 (bad), number of vaguely Höx-like cute men in Borgen series three: 1, number of vaguely Höx-like cute men with any interest in women whatsoever: 0 (huh).
Right. Must blog about newest Bridget Jones book Mad about The Boy as have not blogged for ages, also as owe duty to readers who have heard about it but been scared off by bad reviews. Must stress readability of book, preferably moving on to philosophical discussion about whether people really change or (like Bridget) stay exactly the same whether thirty-three or fifty-one. Hmmm. Maybe I'll just have one ice cream first.
Yes, Bridget's back, and she's instantly recognisable: same accident-proneness, same staccato diary style (which is v. catching). Many reviewers seemed to think that she was a little too recognisable. After all, the Bridget in Mad About the Boy is fifty-one years old. After so many years, two kids and a traumatising bereavement, shouldn't she have, well, matured a little?
I can see their point to some extent. The story-line where Bridget is writing a modern screenplay adaptation of Hedda Gabler called Wine Leaves in His Hair while not knowing how the play's spelled (she calls it Hedda Gabbler) nor that it was written by Ibsen (she thinks it was Chekhov) is pretty silly. If she knows the plot and the line about wine leaves, it stands to reason that she should know other basic facts - and besides, would her first step before writing a screenplay not be to google the play? Otherwise, though, I'm OK with Bridget's bumblingness. One, I really don't think people change that much: if you're bumbling at thirty-three, chances are you'll still be at it twenty years later, though you might be able to hide it better. Two, the starting point of the Bridget diaries is that they record what she actually does think and feel at a given time, rather than reflecting the more sophisticated version of herself that she would like others to see. Your immediate reaction to Twitter followers (or lack of them), dating problems or school mums who seem too good to be true may well be childish whatever your age. Only, these reactions are usually kept to yourself. Bridget's diaries are completely uncensored, and that's why she can come across as a bit of a dope. You identify with her, while at the same time feeling a bit superior ("well, I'm not quite as ditzy as that at any rate") which makes for a very pleasing reading experience.
I don't think Helen Fielding has lost her sparkle: I wolfed down the novel in just a few days. Once I even read it while breakfasting, instead of the morning papers, which normally never happens (books are simply not designed for breakfast). Fielding's light touch is as enjoyable as ever and yes, with time, this reader - like Bridget - got over the fact that Fielding has killed off Mark Darcy in order to involve Bridget in new dating scenarios. The set-up reminded me a little of the killing-off of Matthew in Downton: although that was due to the defection of Stevens, it has had the same effect on Lady Mary's love life as Mark Darcy's untimely demise (eventually) has on Bridget's. In both cases, killing the poor girls' Mr Right was the only way they'd ever be made to look at another man. I half expected Bridget to see the parallel and mope in consequence (she's a Matthew fan), but no, she seems to have lived through the Christmas special of 2012 unscathed.
There's a welcome return of characters from the other Bridget books, including Daniel Cleaver who, I'm pleased to report, was eventually reconciled to Mark. There are heart-warming references to events and exchanges in the Bridget Jones films: here's one author who's so fine with the film adaptations of her books that she's actually made them part of book Bridget's universe. All right, she had a hand with the screenplays, but even so - that's not an attitude you see every day.
What's not to like? Mad About the Boy is the perfect read if, like me, you're back at work after the holidays and need a pick-me-up in novel form. This is probably the last we see of Bridget, but I hope Fielding comes up with a new beguiling franchise soon. What happened to the (admittedly somewhat too perfect) Olivia Joules?
Right. Must blog about newest Bridget Jones book Mad about The Boy as have not blogged for ages, also as owe duty to readers who have heard about it but been scared off by bad reviews. Must stress readability of book, preferably moving on to philosophical discussion about whether people really change or (like Bridget) stay exactly the same whether thirty-three or fifty-one. Hmmm. Maybe I'll just have one ice cream first.
Yes, Bridget's back, and she's instantly recognisable: same accident-proneness, same staccato diary style (which is v. catching). Many reviewers seemed to think that she was a little too recognisable. After all, the Bridget in Mad About the Boy is fifty-one years old. After so many years, two kids and a traumatising bereavement, shouldn't she have, well, matured a little?
I can see their point to some extent. The story-line where Bridget is writing a modern screenplay adaptation of Hedda Gabler called Wine Leaves in His Hair while not knowing how the play's spelled (she calls it Hedda Gabbler) nor that it was written by Ibsen (she thinks it was Chekhov) is pretty silly. If she knows the plot and the line about wine leaves, it stands to reason that she should know other basic facts - and besides, would her first step before writing a screenplay not be to google the play? Otherwise, though, I'm OK with Bridget's bumblingness. One, I really don't think people change that much: if you're bumbling at thirty-three, chances are you'll still be at it twenty years later, though you might be able to hide it better. Two, the starting point of the Bridget diaries is that they record what she actually does think and feel at a given time, rather than reflecting the more sophisticated version of herself that she would like others to see. Your immediate reaction to Twitter followers (or lack of them), dating problems or school mums who seem too good to be true may well be childish whatever your age. Only, these reactions are usually kept to yourself. Bridget's diaries are completely uncensored, and that's why she can come across as a bit of a dope. You identify with her, while at the same time feeling a bit superior ("well, I'm not quite as ditzy as that at any rate") which makes for a very pleasing reading experience.
I don't think Helen Fielding has lost her sparkle: I wolfed down the novel in just a few days. Once I even read it while breakfasting, instead of the morning papers, which normally never happens (books are simply not designed for breakfast). Fielding's light touch is as enjoyable as ever and yes, with time, this reader - like Bridget - got over the fact that Fielding has killed off Mark Darcy in order to involve Bridget in new dating scenarios. The set-up reminded me a little of the killing-off of Matthew in Downton: although that was due to the defection of Stevens, it has had the same effect on Lady Mary's love life as Mark Darcy's untimely demise (eventually) has on Bridget's. In both cases, killing the poor girls' Mr Right was the only way they'd ever be made to look at another man. I half expected Bridget to see the parallel and mope in consequence (she's a Matthew fan), but no, she seems to have lived through the Christmas special of 2012 unscathed.
There's a welcome return of characters from the other Bridget books, including Daniel Cleaver who, I'm pleased to report, was eventually reconciled to Mark. There are heart-warming references to events and exchanges in the Bridget Jones films: here's one author who's so fine with the film adaptations of her books that she's actually made them part of book Bridget's universe. All right, she had a hand with the screenplays, but even so - that's not an attitude you see every day.
What's not to like? Mad About the Boy is the perfect read if, like me, you're back at work after the holidays and need a pick-me-up in novel form. This is probably the last we see of Bridget, but I hope Fielding comes up with a new beguiling franchise soon. What happened to the (admittedly somewhat too perfect) Olivia Joules?
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