One commonplace I'm guilty of spouting a lot, especially in spring and summer, is "autumn has its uses, because then you're not tempted to go out and you get things done" (not that I'm ever tempted to go out a great deal). All right, you do get quite a bit done workwise, but apart from that? This autumn, ambitions have been decidedly low on the home front. "Go on", my non-better self urges me, "you're a grown woman. Why shouldn't you have a cup of cocoa if you want to?" (Though maybe better selves are not the issue here. Why should I consider it immoral to drink too much cocoa, when I'm the only one who suffers if my jeans get too tight?) Book-wise, too, I have consistently gone for the cup of cocoa novel equivalent.
First, I've worked my way through the back catalogue of Kate Saunders - though saving Night Shall Overtake Us because it takes place during World War One, of which I'm currently rather sick. The Marrying Game, Lily-Josephine and Bachelor Boys all proved gripping page turners, though sadly no more sexy villain sightings were forthcoming (with the exception of a quite nice villain surrogate in The Marrying Game who unfortunately doesn't feature as much as I would have liked). Next, I gave Kate Morton another try - some years ago, I gave up on The Forgotten Garden because I couldn't see how anything could lighten up its gloomy premise. This time round I tried The Secret Keeper. It's not such high quality escapism as Kate Saunders, but it was still an enjoyable read with nice twists and a satisfying conclusion. Morton seems fond of plots where old mysteries are solved several decades after the events took place. The upside of this is you get a historic setting to some of the action; the downside is that some characters have to wait an awfully long time to have old ghosts laid to rest.
Now, I've fallen far enough to resort to chick lit, with no on-travel excuse whatsoever. More fool me - Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella is proving to be one of the more stressful Shopaholic books. When it comes to Becky, the Shopaholic franchise's heroine, I don't mind her shopaholicism that much, but I have a hard time with the pathological lying which puts her in all kinds of unnecessary scrapes. Sometimes, her frantic scrambling to iron out various swindles while owning up to as little as possible calls to mind some chick-lit version of The Way We Live Now.
As for TV, I emergency-ordered the first part of the new Doctor Who series recently - I needed another fictional universe to snuggle up in in order to dampen my Downton worries, and my worthy ambition to wait until the whole series was available fell flat (honestly, part two isn't even available for pre-order yet!). It's still great, though the two-part episodes this far haven't come up with any tidier solutions than the shorter adventures. The added time is mostly taken up with potentially character-explaining chatting - but with dialogue of this calibre, who's complaining? I was particularly pleased to see Missy again, as cheerfully over-the-top wicked as ever. When Clara asks sceptically if she's supposed to think Missy's turned good now, she treats the question with the contempt it deserves. "No, I've not turned good", she sighs very Scottishly, killing off a random passer-by just to prove her point.
I know villains who are capable of reform are the best - of course I do - but there is something therapeutic with the Missy approach now and again. The problem with a villain redeemed is the good guys get to have it all their own way. And gracious me, they can be a smug, sanctimonious lot, in great need of having their certainties shaken up a bit. Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular, mind...
onsdag 18 november 2015
torsdag 5 november 2015
The Cardinal's man
In spite of having read both Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies and enjoyed them (though I was shocked by Thomas Cromwell's behaviour in the latter), I didn't expect to think much of the TV dramatisation of the novels, called simply Wolf Hall. True, most of the reviews were very favourable indeed, but in a somewhat off-putting way. They made it sound impossibly worthy and high-brow, and thus implied the reviewers' contempt for more easy-going, middlebrow costume-drama fare. At length, I started watching the series and did, at first, get irritated by its high-browness. Yet it has grown on me. I've watched four of six episodes now, and am feeling increasingly positive. Admittedly, a certain long-night's-journey-into-day Downton plot line (I bloody well hope there'll be some daylight at the end of it, anyway) may have made me feel especially sympathetic to Cromwell's "I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you" mindset. If there ever was a time when I could be led to believe that lopping a group of people's heads off just because they vilified someone you care about in a play was anything else than bananas, this is that time.
Wolf Hall the series may be slow-burning, but it has a great deal going for it. For one, it is superlatively acted. I spent the starting credits cooing "Ooh, is he in it? And she?" - there's an awful lot of acting talent involved. Mark Rylance lives up to the hype as Cromwell himself, and has more charm than the Cromwell of the novels. When he smiles, you feel that he is sharing a dry joke with the person he's speaking to, which must leave them feeling flattered. His expressive face registers other emotions, such as cardinal-induced blues or ill-disguised dislike of the self-righteous More (a convincing Anton Lesser, enjoying himself), just as easily. Damian Lewis is puppyish enough as Henry VIII to make it believable that Cromwell should underestimate his tyrannic streak. The willowy Claire Foy is a perfect fit for the role of spiteful Anne Boleyn, and it takes something to be the perfect Anne and the perfect Little Dorrit. Bernard Hill is a joy as the unapologetically brutal Norfolk (admittedly, he has some of the best lines). I could go on.
Also, the dialogue is snappy and the adaptation is skillful. It has at its focus Cromwell's filial affection for Cardinal Wolsey (a suitably disarming Jonathan Pryce), which was one of his most humanising traits in Mantel's novels. This almost makes sense of the twists and turns of Cromwell's career. While Wolsey is alive, he protects the Cardinal's interests and works to get him back in favour with the King. When Wolsey dies, Cromwell tries to protect his memory instead, and is incensed when it is defiled by Anne's gang of young bucks. He is set on avenging his old employer, settling scores with whoever has sneered at him or caused him a moment's discomfort - though with a few notable exceptions, as I will soon return to. Wolf Hall the novel focused a great deal more on Cromwell's Protestant sympathies as a motivating factor; however, in Bring Out The Bodies, Cromwell readily dispensed with these sympathies and allied himself with Catholic nobles against the reform-friendly Anne. Perhaps it is wise, then, for the series not to make too great a claim for Cromwell's reformatory zeal and concentrate on the Wolsey plot line instead. It makes for some great human drama, too: you feel the Cardinal's ghost is standing between Anne and Cromwell at every opportunity, even when they have a shared interest. In one scene, they both stand at a window gloating over More's resignation as Lord Chancellor, and Anne, in a rare gesture of sympathy, puts her hand over Cromwell's. But he's wearing the Cardinal's ring, and as the person largely responsible for his downfall she - and we, the viewers - sense without being told that she and Cromwell can never really be friends.
There are weaknesses with the Wolsey storyline, though, and they're not the adaptation's fault, as they exist in the novels as well. As I've pointed out before, who is the main guilty party in Wolsey's destruction? Why, the King himself, the very same man that Cromwell serves so dutifully. And what about the Dukes Norfolk and Suffolk: were they not worse enemies of Wolsey than an ungrateful lute player or some courtiers making asses of themselves in an (admittedly nasty) play? It seems Cromwell is not too keen to try his mettle against the most powerful men in the land, however anti-Wolsey they may have been. I suppose one may argue that a fierce but openly fought battle is more easy to forgive than small, unnecessary slights and betrayals. Nevertheless, Cromwell's loyalty to the King's cause - which in time will lead to his own fall from grace and execution - is hard to make sense of in the circumstances, especially as - vengenance apart - you never really discover what he wants to use his power for.
The adaptation has some weaknesses of its own as well, like the already-mentioned high-browness, as evidenced by the historically accurate dim light, the renaissancy music and the meaningful pauses that litter the conversation (I'm a sworn enemy to meaningful silences in film and on TV: they may work on stage, but on screen they merely slow up the pace). But at least it earns its chops as quality drama. Too often nowadays you get lush hooey like The Tudors, which takes itself far more seriously than it deserves and consequently often manages to fall between the chairs of ambitious drama and light entertainment (Reign, of which I've seen two episodes, is another example of this genre: so po-faced it's surpisingly boring, in spite of the glamorous sets and bed-hopping). Wolf Hall, at least, is the real deal - though maybe not ideal for after-gym watching.
Wolf Hall the series may be slow-burning, but it has a great deal going for it. For one, it is superlatively acted. I spent the starting credits cooing "Ooh, is he in it? And she?" - there's an awful lot of acting talent involved. Mark Rylance lives up to the hype as Cromwell himself, and has more charm than the Cromwell of the novels. When he smiles, you feel that he is sharing a dry joke with the person he's speaking to, which must leave them feeling flattered. His expressive face registers other emotions, such as cardinal-induced blues or ill-disguised dislike of the self-righteous More (a convincing Anton Lesser, enjoying himself), just as easily. Damian Lewis is puppyish enough as Henry VIII to make it believable that Cromwell should underestimate his tyrannic streak. The willowy Claire Foy is a perfect fit for the role of spiteful Anne Boleyn, and it takes something to be the perfect Anne and the perfect Little Dorrit. Bernard Hill is a joy as the unapologetically brutal Norfolk (admittedly, he has some of the best lines). I could go on.
Also, the dialogue is snappy and the adaptation is skillful. It has at its focus Cromwell's filial affection for Cardinal Wolsey (a suitably disarming Jonathan Pryce), which was one of his most humanising traits in Mantel's novels. This almost makes sense of the twists and turns of Cromwell's career. While Wolsey is alive, he protects the Cardinal's interests and works to get him back in favour with the King. When Wolsey dies, Cromwell tries to protect his memory instead, and is incensed when it is defiled by Anne's gang of young bucks. He is set on avenging his old employer, settling scores with whoever has sneered at him or caused him a moment's discomfort - though with a few notable exceptions, as I will soon return to. Wolf Hall the novel focused a great deal more on Cromwell's Protestant sympathies as a motivating factor; however, in Bring Out The Bodies, Cromwell readily dispensed with these sympathies and allied himself with Catholic nobles against the reform-friendly Anne. Perhaps it is wise, then, for the series not to make too great a claim for Cromwell's reformatory zeal and concentrate on the Wolsey plot line instead. It makes for some great human drama, too: you feel the Cardinal's ghost is standing between Anne and Cromwell at every opportunity, even when they have a shared interest. In one scene, they both stand at a window gloating over More's resignation as Lord Chancellor, and Anne, in a rare gesture of sympathy, puts her hand over Cromwell's. But he's wearing the Cardinal's ring, and as the person largely responsible for his downfall she - and we, the viewers - sense without being told that she and Cromwell can never really be friends.
There are weaknesses with the Wolsey storyline, though, and they're not the adaptation's fault, as they exist in the novels as well. As I've pointed out before, who is the main guilty party in Wolsey's destruction? Why, the King himself, the very same man that Cromwell serves so dutifully. And what about the Dukes Norfolk and Suffolk: were they not worse enemies of Wolsey than an ungrateful lute player or some courtiers making asses of themselves in an (admittedly nasty) play? It seems Cromwell is not too keen to try his mettle against the most powerful men in the land, however anti-Wolsey they may have been. I suppose one may argue that a fierce but openly fought battle is more easy to forgive than small, unnecessary slights and betrayals. Nevertheless, Cromwell's loyalty to the King's cause - which in time will lead to his own fall from grace and execution - is hard to make sense of in the circumstances, especially as - vengenance apart - you never really discover what he wants to use his power for.
The adaptation has some weaknesses of its own as well, like the already-mentioned high-browness, as evidenced by the historically accurate dim light, the renaissancy music and the meaningful pauses that litter the conversation (I'm a sworn enemy to meaningful silences in film and on TV: they may work on stage, but on screen they merely slow up the pace). But at least it earns its chops as quality drama. Too often nowadays you get lush hooey like The Tudors, which takes itself far more seriously than it deserves and consequently often manages to fall between the chairs of ambitious drama and light entertainment (Reign, of which I've seen two episodes, is another example of this genre: so po-faced it's surpisingly boring, in spite of the glamorous sets and bed-hopping). Wolf Hall, at least, is the real deal - though maybe not ideal for after-gym watching.
onsdag 21 oktober 2015
The long Downton goodbye
"Who has an under-butler these days?"
Oh, I don't know. An earl who wants to win the annual cricket match? An earl with a butler near retirement who will need to be replaced? An earl with a houseful of secrets, whose under-butler is resentful enough to make trouble for someone simply for calling him a "stupid fool", let alone for sacking him? Most important of all, an earl whose daughter's life has actually been saved by said under-butler? I'm not sure even Alan Sugar would recommend firing in such circumstances.
Does it show that I've been thinking about angry comebacks to this line ever since I first heard about it (it was part of an early trailer shown to the press, apparently)? Now when the first episode of Downton Abbey series six has aired in Sweden and I see the line in its context, what strikes me most is the Earl's apparent insouciance. He airily considers if he should reduce staff, not because of some pressing financial need but because he's keen to show he's not "out of step" with the times (since when?). To cap it all, he rounds off his talk with Carson on the matter with a sweeping remark about not being able to "stop history in its tracks". He might easily have added that the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. At least Burns felt sorry for the mouse.
Don't let this grumble mislead you: I was, on the whole, deeply satisfied with the first Downton episode. Because it's the last series, I feel I've caught the reticence bug and don't want to give too much away. However, I can say that the episode contains truly moving scenes, and that plenty of things happen but without the over-hectic pace of episode one of series five, where you had the feeling that every character had a bit of plot business crammed in so he or she could take a bow for the audience. I don't think I'd be entirely happy either if there was nothing to grumble about (another example: however refreshing it is with a series where bolshie rants aren't considered a good thing, whom Daisy chooses to insult in her spare time is surely her own affair?). I think this series is going to be a corker.
It only made me realise how much I will miss Downton when it ends. I think I've been reasonably sensible about the news that this is the final series, and yes, I still believe this may be the best time to stop. But when will I get this much satisfaction out of a TV series again? Poldark doesn't even begin to compare, in spite of the heartstoppingly lovely George. When all is said and done, the plot-line and characters in Poldark are fairly simple. It's up to sweet Demelza to be the drama's heart, whereas in Downton - with the risk of sounding like Dickens's Mrs Skewton - there's heart everywhere. Fellowes cares about his characters, and it shows.
I will, perhaps, not be able to refrain completely from bellyaching in a faintly spoilerish manner when things go agley later on. But I know that I will not have been the only one who was pleased to see Thomas being nice to the children (George and Marigold: this is important) because 1) see? he's not all bad 2) it makes a redemptive story-arc for him far more likely. When Downton is done, I will most likely never again savour the feeling that my villain-besottedness is shared by thousands. Oh, well, we're not there yet.
Oh, I don't know. An earl who wants to win the annual cricket match? An earl with a butler near retirement who will need to be replaced? An earl with a houseful of secrets, whose under-butler is resentful enough to make trouble for someone simply for calling him a "stupid fool", let alone for sacking him? Most important of all, an earl whose daughter's life has actually been saved by said under-butler? I'm not sure even Alan Sugar would recommend firing in such circumstances.
Does it show that I've been thinking about angry comebacks to this line ever since I first heard about it (it was part of an early trailer shown to the press, apparently)? Now when the first episode of Downton Abbey series six has aired in Sweden and I see the line in its context, what strikes me most is the Earl's apparent insouciance. He airily considers if he should reduce staff, not because of some pressing financial need but because he's keen to show he's not "out of step" with the times (since when?). To cap it all, he rounds off his talk with Carson on the matter with a sweeping remark about not being able to "stop history in its tracks". He might easily have added that the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. At least Burns felt sorry for the mouse.
Don't let this grumble mislead you: I was, on the whole, deeply satisfied with the first Downton episode. Because it's the last series, I feel I've caught the reticence bug and don't want to give too much away. However, I can say that the episode contains truly moving scenes, and that plenty of things happen but without the over-hectic pace of episode one of series five, where you had the feeling that every character had a bit of plot business crammed in so he or she could take a bow for the audience. I don't think I'd be entirely happy either if there was nothing to grumble about (another example: however refreshing it is with a series where bolshie rants aren't considered a good thing, whom Daisy chooses to insult in her spare time is surely her own affair?). I think this series is going to be a corker.
It only made me realise how much I will miss Downton when it ends. I think I've been reasonably sensible about the news that this is the final series, and yes, I still believe this may be the best time to stop. But when will I get this much satisfaction out of a TV series again? Poldark doesn't even begin to compare, in spite of the heartstoppingly lovely George. When all is said and done, the plot-line and characters in Poldark are fairly simple. It's up to sweet Demelza to be the drama's heart, whereas in Downton - with the risk of sounding like Dickens's Mrs Skewton - there's heart everywhere. Fellowes cares about his characters, and it shows.
I will, perhaps, not be able to refrain completely from bellyaching in a faintly spoilerish manner when things go agley later on. But I know that I will not have been the only one who was pleased to see Thomas being nice to the children (George and Marigold: this is important) because 1) see? he's not all bad 2) it makes a redemptive story-arc for him far more likely. When Downton is done, I will most likely never again savour the feeling that my villain-besottedness is shared by thousands. Oh, well, we're not there yet.
onsdag 14 oktober 2015
The modern-day retelling - the hardest classics-poaching genre of them all
As I've already confessed, I have a sneaking fondness for the prequel/sequel/retelling from another angle genres, in short: the "parasite" genres who poach ideas and characters from well-known classical works and put a new spin on them. But they are tricky to get right at the best of times, and lately I've started wondering whether the modern retelling, where a story from a classic novel is transposed to an up-to-date setting, is not the very trickiest. The other alternatives have built-in interest: in a sequel, we get to see familiar characters in new adventures; in a prequel, we get to know more about what makes them tick - plus we get a few new plots; in a retelling from another character's point of view, a new light is shed on the plot of a favourite novel which, at best, opens up a whole new perspective on it (and at worst only makes us angry). But the modern setting - what does it add, exactly? A reminder of the timelessness of the concerns of the original novel, perhaps, but surely something else is needed too: some new insight that highlights something in the original novel that you hadn't thought about before. Alternatively, simple fun can be had with a modern variation on a well-known theme, but it does have to be a variation.
I've come across two modern-day retellings lately on opposite sides of the faithfulness to the original vs free invention spectrum, and both approaches have their drawbacks. "Your rapier is like a bird: if you hold it too tight, it chokes - if you hold it too loosely, it flies." (Was that in Scaramouche? Or just in the Mickey Mouse version?)
To start with the free invention, quite a few nice things can be said about the American series Elementary. It's a good, funny, fairly clever crime series, ideal post-gym watching, and at least one of the protagonists (Watson) is worth rooting for. It is, however, not in any way reminiscent of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes. As in the English Sherlock, the series features a detective called Sherlock Holmes and a Watson - in the American version, a Joan instead of a John. The makers of Sherlock, however, are great Holmes fans, and it shows. Although the crime capers that their Holmes and Watson get up to are freely invented, there are a lot of affectionate references to the original stories. They get Holmes and Watson and what they're about. In Elementary, you have a feeling that the series creators have been inspired exclusively by Sherlock and not by the original stories at all. Elementary's Holmes is rude and antisocial, like Sherlock's Holmes - but unlike Conan Doyle's Holmes. The original Sherlock was arrogant, yes, but he treated witnesses and the like politely, otherwise they would not have told him their stories, omitting no detail however slight. I accept the "sociopathic" trait of Sherlock's Holmes because the series is so close to the spirit of the original in other ways, but Elementary just isn't. It's a crime series about a Englishman without manners who makes a lot of deductions and his likeable female sidekick - but there is no reason why these characters should be called Holmes and Watson.
As for the faithful retelling, I'm in the middle of Val McDermid's modern take on Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. It's pleasant enough, but it just doesn't catch fire. Although the action is relocated from Regency Bath to modern-day Edinburgh during the festival, the characters and the situations they find themselves in are essentially the same. Cat Morland, the modern equivalent to Austen's Catherine, is well caught, and still a very nice girl. But I've already lived through her disappointments, humiliations and occasional triumphs in trying to make the acquaintance of Henry Tilney and his family - while being hindered at every turn by the dreadful Thorpeses - when I read Austen's novel. Every situation in the original seems to have its counterpart here, and it feels too much of a retread. Perhaps something new will be added now that Cat is in Northanger Abbey itself, and maybe Val McDermid's novel will start to dare to take some liberties with Austen's plot. If not, I don't really see the point of retelling the same story from the same point of view and with the same characters, only now with mobiles and Facebook.
I've come across two modern-day retellings lately on opposite sides of the faithfulness to the original vs free invention spectrum, and both approaches have their drawbacks. "Your rapier is like a bird: if you hold it too tight, it chokes - if you hold it too loosely, it flies." (Was that in Scaramouche? Or just in the Mickey Mouse version?)
To start with the free invention, quite a few nice things can be said about the American series Elementary. It's a good, funny, fairly clever crime series, ideal post-gym watching, and at least one of the protagonists (Watson) is worth rooting for. It is, however, not in any way reminiscent of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes. As in the English Sherlock, the series features a detective called Sherlock Holmes and a Watson - in the American version, a Joan instead of a John. The makers of Sherlock, however, are great Holmes fans, and it shows. Although the crime capers that their Holmes and Watson get up to are freely invented, there are a lot of affectionate references to the original stories. They get Holmes and Watson and what they're about. In Elementary, you have a feeling that the series creators have been inspired exclusively by Sherlock and not by the original stories at all. Elementary's Holmes is rude and antisocial, like Sherlock's Holmes - but unlike Conan Doyle's Holmes. The original Sherlock was arrogant, yes, but he treated witnesses and the like politely, otherwise they would not have told him their stories, omitting no detail however slight. I accept the "sociopathic" trait of Sherlock's Holmes because the series is so close to the spirit of the original in other ways, but Elementary just isn't. It's a crime series about a Englishman without manners who makes a lot of deductions and his likeable female sidekick - but there is no reason why these characters should be called Holmes and Watson.
As for the faithful retelling, I'm in the middle of Val McDermid's modern take on Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. It's pleasant enough, but it just doesn't catch fire. Although the action is relocated from Regency Bath to modern-day Edinburgh during the festival, the characters and the situations they find themselves in are essentially the same. Cat Morland, the modern equivalent to Austen's Catherine, is well caught, and still a very nice girl. But I've already lived through her disappointments, humiliations and occasional triumphs in trying to make the acquaintance of Henry Tilney and his family - while being hindered at every turn by the dreadful Thorpeses - when I read Austen's novel. Every situation in the original seems to have its counterpart here, and it feels too much of a retread. Perhaps something new will be added now that Cat is in Northanger Abbey itself, and maybe Val McDermid's novel will start to dare to take some liberties with Austen's plot. If not, I don't really see the point of retelling the same story from the same point of view and with the same characters, only now with mobiles and Facebook.
onsdag 30 september 2015
Wild Young Bohemians - and a villain who scores
I see trees of green, red roses too, I see sexy villains on screen and page, and I think to myself: what a wonderful world. Yes, there's been another villain sighting - and in a book, for the first time in ages. I'm greatly cheered by this experience: apparently, the good old craft of villain-creating hasn't been abandoned altogether, and there are still discoveries to be made out there. For this optimistic new outlook, I give thanks to Kate Saunders and her novel Wild Young Bohemians.
This novel is right up my alley in other ways as well - almost ridiculously so, in that way that makes you feel that perhaps you are part of some well-known market segment after all, and that there actually are books catering specifically to your taste. A group of Oxford students form a society of sorts called, you guessed it, Wild Young Bohemians. As life catches up with them they become considerably less wild and bohemian, but there's still a lot of glamour and romance to be had. One of their number, the pathologically self-centred, beautiful Melissa, has an obsession with Quenville, her old (well, 19th-century) family estate now fallen into ruin, and an unsolved mystery connected with it. I'm a sucker for old family estates, but this time around I was less caught up with the Quenville plot than with the lives and loves of the old Oxford group when they enter the real world. And then, there's the villain hottie, Johnny Ferrars - a delinquent vagabond and consequently rougher than what I'm used to. However, he turns out to be as intelligent and charismatic as any middle-class baddie - not to mention stunning - and gains, in due course, the aspirations necessary to rise in the world. I lapped up the pages as he worked his way through the Oxford contingent in quest of his real goal, Melissa. Here, finally, is a villain whose attractions are acknowledged - there is, in other words, villain sex aplenty.
More than one character (mostly people he's slept with) single out Johnny as evil. I thought that my theme for this blog post would turn out to be the problem of evil - as opposed to mere wickedness in the forms of selfishness, resentment, ruthless ambition, greed and what have you which is completely OK. Evil, as I define it, is doing harm for harm's sake - a seemingly irrational destructiveness. This is where I think I draw the line: a villain-lover like me does her normal run of champions small service if she encourages that sort of thing (I mean, most of my boys just want to get on in the world - is that so wrong?). I've always imagined that I'd be able to detect, and back away from, the smell of sulphur. But there is nothing to say that a truly evil character can't be charming and funny too - and then where are you?
Luckily, it turns out that Johnny isn't as evil as all that - though certainly malevolent enough to make the odd mine-closing or snuffbox-hiding incident appear downright harmless. In fact (as the reader has guessed, but the Oxford group are slow to acknowledge) he's not even the most evil character in the book. He develops a chink in his armour, and might not even be beyond redemption. Relieved as I was not to have fancied a being of unmitigated evil, I confess I was, just in this case, a teensy bit disappointed in a plot development which I'd have loved if it had concerned a less hard-line bad guy. Leader of the pack appeal does not altogether suit a man like Johnny, who's a beagle boy and then some if ever I saw one. All the same, Wild Young Bohemians is a very satisfying read - especially if, like me, you get irritated by the fact that villains tend to get laid far less than is credible, considering their general attractiveness. This is partly their own fault for foolishly falling for the wrong people - but more of that another time (and I suspect that I will have reason to broach the subject sooner than I would like).
This novel is right up my alley in other ways as well - almost ridiculously so, in that way that makes you feel that perhaps you are part of some well-known market segment after all, and that there actually are books catering specifically to your taste. A group of Oxford students form a society of sorts called, you guessed it, Wild Young Bohemians. As life catches up with them they become considerably less wild and bohemian, but there's still a lot of glamour and romance to be had. One of their number, the pathologically self-centred, beautiful Melissa, has an obsession with Quenville, her old (well, 19th-century) family estate now fallen into ruin, and an unsolved mystery connected with it. I'm a sucker for old family estates, but this time around I was less caught up with the Quenville plot than with the lives and loves of the old Oxford group when they enter the real world. And then, there's the villain hottie, Johnny Ferrars - a delinquent vagabond and consequently rougher than what I'm used to. However, he turns out to be as intelligent and charismatic as any middle-class baddie - not to mention stunning - and gains, in due course, the aspirations necessary to rise in the world. I lapped up the pages as he worked his way through the Oxford contingent in quest of his real goal, Melissa. Here, finally, is a villain whose attractions are acknowledged - there is, in other words, villain sex aplenty.
More than one character (mostly people he's slept with) single out Johnny as evil. I thought that my theme for this blog post would turn out to be the problem of evil - as opposed to mere wickedness in the forms of selfishness, resentment, ruthless ambition, greed and what have you which is completely OK. Evil, as I define it, is doing harm for harm's sake - a seemingly irrational destructiveness. This is where I think I draw the line: a villain-lover like me does her normal run of champions small service if she encourages that sort of thing (I mean, most of my boys just want to get on in the world - is that so wrong?). I've always imagined that I'd be able to detect, and back away from, the smell of sulphur. But there is nothing to say that a truly evil character can't be charming and funny too - and then where are you?
Luckily, it turns out that Johnny isn't as evil as all that - though certainly malevolent enough to make the odd mine-closing or snuffbox-hiding incident appear downright harmless. In fact (as the reader has guessed, but the Oxford group are slow to acknowledge) he's not even the most evil character in the book. He develops a chink in his armour, and might not even be beyond redemption. Relieved as I was not to have fancied a being of unmitigated evil, I confess I was, just in this case, a teensy bit disappointed in a plot development which I'd have loved if it had concerned a less hard-line bad guy. Leader of the pack appeal does not altogether suit a man like Johnny, who's a beagle boy and then some if ever I saw one. All the same, Wild Young Bohemians is a very satisfying read - especially if, like me, you get irritated by the fact that villains tend to get laid far less than is credible, considering their general attractiveness. This is partly their own fault for foolishly falling for the wrong people - but more of that another time (and I suspect that I will have reason to broach the subject sooner than I would like).
onsdag 16 september 2015
The hard sells of Pixar
Ha - at least that's one more New Year's resolution kept. I somehow missed watching Cinderella in the cinema (I caught it later on DVD - sweet, but not essential viewing), but this time around I managed to fit in a cinema visit for Inside Out (and in the original English too), the latest Pixar film. And I think it's their best yet.
I've already confessed my devotion to Disney, or its animation studio at least. My feelings for Pixar, first a partner to and now a part of the Disney empire, are a little less gooey. I admire the Pixar people tremendously: their films are intelligent and masterfully crafted. But I'm seldom so completely taken in by a Pixar film as I am by "pure Disney" products with their extra spoonfuls of sugar. This is because Pixar's films, clever, funny and often moving (the prologue to Up is hyped for a reason) though they are, can sometimes peddle disconcerting messages.
Take the Toy Story trilogy, doing it best to reinforce the needless guilt one feels towards toys one has abandoned. The fears that the films' protagonists show of being replaced, forgotten or thrown away are imaginatively handled - but to what purpose, exactly? Even adults have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that their old beloved toys are not, in fact, alive and do not have feelings to hurt - and films like Toy Story 1-3 aren't helping. I can only hope that kids are more sensible, and not too shaken up by scenarios where a teddy bear lost during an outing and then replaced is so traumatised he turns into a psycho.
Then there's Finding Nemo, where the message is that parents should not be too overprotective towards their children, but should allow them to have adventures. But overprotectiveness isn't such a grievous fault as all that, is it? What's more, it's a sign of love. Is it necessary to guilt-trip loving parents and to hint that they may lose their offsprings' affection if they hold on too hard? And what about The Incredibles? There were critics who raved about this film's "shameless elitism" and found it very refreshing. But it depends on what you mean by elitism, doesn't it? The Incredibles encourages the use of superpowers if you've got them - except in the real world, people don't have superpowers. It doesn't work as a parable to normal talents either: the most talented person in the film is the villain, who attains superpowers through using inventions perfected by hard work and perseverance (and a lot of killing). Yet he and his "fake" superpowers are considered lesser than the "real" superheroes (all right, partly because he puts the teddy bear in the shade when it comes to psychopathic behaviour). This isn't meritocratic elitism - it's aristocratic elitism. If you weren't born a superhero, you shouldn't get ideas above your station.
I remember my amusement when various intellectuals procaimed how much better and more "edgy" the animated film Antz (DreamWorks) was compared to A Bug's Life (Pixar). Well yes, if you think a strong individualistic message is "edgy", then Antz is certainly edgier. But if you're looking for revolutionary fervour, look no further than the oppressed masses of ants in A Bug's Life rising up collectively against the exploitative grasshoppers. I'd have thought this would be right up the street of those commentators who routinely sneer at anything associated with Disney. For myself, though I've seen and enjoyed A Bug's Life often (I've only seen Antz once), I feel a twinge of unease when Flik pronounces with great emphasis that "ants are not meant to serve grasshoppers". Um... what's he implying, exactly?
The message of Inside Out is a characteristically hard sell, but this time I buy it. The film takes place inside the mind of Riley, an eleven-year-old girl, where her feelings see to the day-to-day-running of things under the management of the relentlessly upbeat Joy. The other feelings personalised in Riley's head are Sadness, Disgust, Anger and Fear. Joy can just about see the point of the other feelings, except Sadness. The film sets out to show her - as well as the viewers - that sadness has just as worthwhile a part to play in a person's life as joy.
This is very skilfully done, and the packaging is breathtaking. The different parts of Riley's mind - long-term memory, imagination, abstract thought, dreams, the subconscious "where all the troublemakers end up" etc. - are depicted with all the inventiveness you expect from such a setting. There is much attention to detail, where you see the interplay between what goes on inside Riley's mind and outside in her surroundings. For instance, I liked the scene where Disgust, Fear and Anger frantically try "to be Joy" in her absence, with the effect that Riley's answers to her parents' questioning - which look upbeat enough on paper - come across as sarcastic, wary and defensive respectively.
It's imaginative, brainy, well-scripted, visually stunning entertainment - and it almost convinced me that sadness is as important as joy.
I've already confessed my devotion to Disney, or its animation studio at least. My feelings for Pixar, first a partner to and now a part of the Disney empire, are a little less gooey. I admire the Pixar people tremendously: their films are intelligent and masterfully crafted. But I'm seldom so completely taken in by a Pixar film as I am by "pure Disney" products with their extra spoonfuls of sugar. This is because Pixar's films, clever, funny and often moving (the prologue to Up is hyped for a reason) though they are, can sometimes peddle disconcerting messages.
Take the Toy Story trilogy, doing it best to reinforce the needless guilt one feels towards toys one has abandoned. The fears that the films' protagonists show of being replaced, forgotten or thrown away are imaginatively handled - but to what purpose, exactly? Even adults have a hard time coming to terms with the fact that their old beloved toys are not, in fact, alive and do not have feelings to hurt - and films like Toy Story 1-3 aren't helping. I can only hope that kids are more sensible, and not too shaken up by scenarios where a teddy bear lost during an outing and then replaced is so traumatised he turns into a psycho.
Then there's Finding Nemo, where the message is that parents should not be too overprotective towards their children, but should allow them to have adventures. But overprotectiveness isn't such a grievous fault as all that, is it? What's more, it's a sign of love. Is it necessary to guilt-trip loving parents and to hint that they may lose their offsprings' affection if they hold on too hard? And what about The Incredibles? There were critics who raved about this film's "shameless elitism" and found it very refreshing. But it depends on what you mean by elitism, doesn't it? The Incredibles encourages the use of superpowers if you've got them - except in the real world, people don't have superpowers. It doesn't work as a parable to normal talents either: the most talented person in the film is the villain, who attains superpowers through using inventions perfected by hard work and perseverance (and a lot of killing). Yet he and his "fake" superpowers are considered lesser than the "real" superheroes (all right, partly because he puts the teddy bear in the shade when it comes to psychopathic behaviour). This isn't meritocratic elitism - it's aristocratic elitism. If you weren't born a superhero, you shouldn't get ideas above your station.
I remember my amusement when various intellectuals procaimed how much better and more "edgy" the animated film Antz (DreamWorks) was compared to A Bug's Life (Pixar). Well yes, if you think a strong individualistic message is "edgy", then Antz is certainly edgier. But if you're looking for revolutionary fervour, look no further than the oppressed masses of ants in A Bug's Life rising up collectively against the exploitative grasshoppers. I'd have thought this would be right up the street of those commentators who routinely sneer at anything associated with Disney. For myself, though I've seen and enjoyed A Bug's Life often (I've only seen Antz once), I feel a twinge of unease when Flik pronounces with great emphasis that "ants are not meant to serve grasshoppers". Um... what's he implying, exactly?
The message of Inside Out is a characteristically hard sell, but this time I buy it. The film takes place inside the mind of Riley, an eleven-year-old girl, where her feelings see to the day-to-day-running of things under the management of the relentlessly upbeat Joy. The other feelings personalised in Riley's head are Sadness, Disgust, Anger and Fear. Joy can just about see the point of the other feelings, except Sadness. The film sets out to show her - as well as the viewers - that sadness has just as worthwhile a part to play in a person's life as joy.
This is very skilfully done, and the packaging is breathtaking. The different parts of Riley's mind - long-term memory, imagination, abstract thought, dreams, the subconscious "where all the troublemakers end up" etc. - are depicted with all the inventiveness you expect from such a setting. There is much attention to detail, where you see the interplay between what goes on inside Riley's mind and outside in her surroundings. For instance, I liked the scene where Disgust, Fear and Anger frantically try "to be Joy" in her absence, with the effect that Riley's answers to her parents' questioning - which look upbeat enough on paper - come across as sarcastic, wary and defensive respectively.
It's imaginative, brainy, well-scripted, visually stunning entertainment - and it almost convinced me that sadness is as important as joy.
torsdag 10 september 2015
The derailing of Ross
Oh dear. Spoke to soon, didn't I? Here I was, thinking that Ross Poldark showed healthy signs of self-awareness and that he didn't seem too enamoured of his own hero status. Well, not for long. Before the first series was done, he had committed the lethal double-fault which heroes should avoid at all costs: he loudly and repeatedly declared his own moral superiority, then went on to do something ethically indefensible without showing the slightest trace of remorse.
The notion of being the People's Friend was always going to be at the bottom of most annoying Ross behaviour. This is one area where he makes no bones about thinking himself more admirable than others - Gorgeous George and uncle, naturally, but also other members of the upper-middle class and gentry. As soon as one of Ross's rustic pals is in danger, his judgment seems to go out of the window. The first time he stoops to moral grandstanding is when he tries to get Jim, a childhood friend and picturesquely poor, off the charge of poaching. The only trouble is, Jim's guilty, and what's more, a repeat offender. Ross guilt-trips the court to bring in the sentence of two years' imprisonment - this for a crime that could lead to either hanging or transportation. But Ross is not satisfied: Jim's lungs are weak, he will surely die, the judges are monsters. Afterwards, he realises briefly that his thundering sermonising to the judges may not have been the best way to win hearts and minds, and that he would have served Jim better if he had been civil. However, his anger rises again when Jim does die, though not of his lungs but of a typhoid epidemic, and near the end of his sentence, which rather goes against the argument that he was physically unfit to go to prison in the first place. Nevertheless, Ross squarely blames the judges for Jim's demise, and spends a whole ball glowering at his unfeeling social equals.
Later, he helps another rustic friend to escape justice after he (the friend) has accidentally killed his wife. True, in this case Ross's protegé is at least innocent of the crime for which he would be tried, and it seems realistic that the court would have had difficulty in believing said innocence. Nevertheless, he wants to face up to what he's done himself, and it is surely a little worrying that Ross should feel it completely justified to floor soldiers in order for his mate to escape. One soldier is even shot (though not by Ross), and we never learn whether he made it.
So far, so normal, vaguely irritating hero behaviour. One can live with it. But at the same time, Ross becomes more and more self-righteous about his business plans, which at first were calculated only to make sure of his financial survival. Who knew that creating a cartel was such a fine and upstanding thing? And that anyone opposing this cartel's noble dealings - seeking to destroy it even - was an enemy of the community? That Ross's business interests should clash with George's is fair enough, but there's no need to be prissy about it. This is the mining industry, not a holy crusade.
And then it happens. Noble Ross, at his life's lowest ebb, looks out over the coastline. (Yes, his child's just died. Tragic, but not something even Ross can blame the Warleggans for.) He sees the Warleggans' ship, Queen Charlotte, run aground on her maiden voyage. There's a shipwreck. What does he do? Alert the authorities? No. Try to save the passengers and crew from drowning? Nope. Ignore the whole thing, because what has the Warleggans' precious ship to do with him? No, not even that. Joyously, he drums up all his rustic friends for a proper and thorough looting of the wreck. The loveable rustics cheer. Ross leers triumphantly. No-one lifts a finger to help the ship's crew or passengers. Only when less cuddly miners (because they don't work for Ross) gate-crash the wrecking does the smouldering hero call to mind that maybe he should "protect the survivors" - a phrase that indicates that more lives than that of the Warleggans' card-sharping cousin were lost while the Poldark contingent was having a party.
What is this? A man derailed by grief? Or are we seriously supposed to think that wreck-plundering's OK now? I was planning to use Poldark as a starting-point to another discussion on the well-worn theme of what heroes can afford to do, and why (unfairly, I admit) villains get away with much more. But I see I've used up too much space and energy with Ross-bashing instead, which I'm aware won't appeal to that many. In my defence, had I not had a more than expected favourable impression of the show's hero to start with (though his stand-offishness towards George is, of course, incomprehensible), I would have minded both the preachiness and the shocking looting business a whole lot less. It's what I always say: self-righteousness is a hero's worst enemy. Not only is it infuriating, it can lead to things ill done and done to others' harm.
A classic scene in innumerable dramas and melodramas is when the hero stands with a weapon in his hand in front of the villain, and the villain is baiting him to use it and kill him. Here, someone close to the hero (usually his love interest) intervenes: "Don't do it. You're better than him". It's not quite as simple as that. It's more a case of living up to your own hype. If the hero has claimed to be a better man than his enemy, then he is honour bound to prove it.
The notion of being the People's Friend was always going to be at the bottom of most annoying Ross behaviour. This is one area where he makes no bones about thinking himself more admirable than others - Gorgeous George and uncle, naturally, but also other members of the upper-middle class and gentry. As soon as one of Ross's rustic pals is in danger, his judgment seems to go out of the window. The first time he stoops to moral grandstanding is when he tries to get Jim, a childhood friend and picturesquely poor, off the charge of poaching. The only trouble is, Jim's guilty, and what's more, a repeat offender. Ross guilt-trips the court to bring in the sentence of two years' imprisonment - this for a crime that could lead to either hanging or transportation. But Ross is not satisfied: Jim's lungs are weak, he will surely die, the judges are monsters. Afterwards, he realises briefly that his thundering sermonising to the judges may not have been the best way to win hearts and minds, and that he would have served Jim better if he had been civil. However, his anger rises again when Jim does die, though not of his lungs but of a typhoid epidemic, and near the end of his sentence, which rather goes against the argument that he was physically unfit to go to prison in the first place. Nevertheless, Ross squarely blames the judges for Jim's demise, and spends a whole ball glowering at his unfeeling social equals.
Later, he helps another rustic friend to escape justice after he (the friend) has accidentally killed his wife. True, in this case Ross's protegé is at least innocent of the crime for which he would be tried, and it seems realistic that the court would have had difficulty in believing said innocence. Nevertheless, he wants to face up to what he's done himself, and it is surely a little worrying that Ross should feel it completely justified to floor soldiers in order for his mate to escape. One soldier is even shot (though not by Ross), and we never learn whether he made it.
So far, so normal, vaguely irritating hero behaviour. One can live with it. But at the same time, Ross becomes more and more self-righteous about his business plans, which at first were calculated only to make sure of his financial survival. Who knew that creating a cartel was such a fine and upstanding thing? And that anyone opposing this cartel's noble dealings - seeking to destroy it even - was an enemy of the community? That Ross's business interests should clash with George's is fair enough, but there's no need to be prissy about it. This is the mining industry, not a holy crusade.
And then it happens. Noble Ross, at his life's lowest ebb, looks out over the coastline. (Yes, his child's just died. Tragic, but not something even Ross can blame the Warleggans for.) He sees the Warleggans' ship, Queen Charlotte, run aground on her maiden voyage. There's a shipwreck. What does he do? Alert the authorities? No. Try to save the passengers and crew from drowning? Nope. Ignore the whole thing, because what has the Warleggans' precious ship to do with him? No, not even that. Joyously, he drums up all his rustic friends for a proper and thorough looting of the wreck. The loveable rustics cheer. Ross leers triumphantly. No-one lifts a finger to help the ship's crew or passengers. Only when less cuddly miners (because they don't work for Ross) gate-crash the wrecking does the smouldering hero call to mind that maybe he should "protect the survivors" - a phrase that indicates that more lives than that of the Warleggans' card-sharping cousin were lost while the Poldark contingent was having a party.
What is this? A man derailed by grief? Or are we seriously supposed to think that wreck-plundering's OK now? I was planning to use Poldark as a starting-point to another discussion on the well-worn theme of what heroes can afford to do, and why (unfairly, I admit) villains get away with much more. But I see I've used up too much space and energy with Ross-bashing instead, which I'm aware won't appeal to that many. In my defence, had I not had a more than expected favourable impression of the show's hero to start with (though his stand-offishness towards George is, of course, incomprehensible), I would have minded both the preachiness and the shocking looting business a whole lot less. It's what I always say: self-righteousness is a hero's worst enemy. Not only is it infuriating, it can lead to things ill done and done to others' harm.
A classic scene in innumerable dramas and melodramas is when the hero stands with a weapon in his hand in front of the villain, and the villain is baiting him to use it and kill him. Here, someone close to the hero (usually his love interest) intervenes: "Don't do it. You're better than him". It's not quite as simple as that. It's more a case of living up to your own hype. If the hero has claimed to be a better man than his enemy, then he is honour bound to prove it.
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