Ugh - while I had a run of benevolent posts at the end of 2019, I suspect 2020 will be the year when I complain a lot and will actually have to move into contentious territory, though I really don't wanna. Not yet, though. Let's have a nice, unprovocative theme for this week's post. Like, erm, audiobooks?
I've never really been into audiobooks until the last months, because I always preferred actually reading the books, and I still do. Belatedly, though, I've discovered the perfect use for an audiobook: as a means of taking your mind off the fact that you're doing something mind-numbingly boring. Earlier, I've tried music as a boredom-reliever, and in some situations - like simple working tasks that still require some attention - it's still the best remedy. But when it comes to, say, domestic chores, music leaves too much room in my brain to reflect on how dull the chore in question is and how much I would rather be doing something else. If I'm very lucky and find an audiobook I really enjoy, on the other hand, the opportunity to listen to it partly makes up for the dreariness of doing the washing, packing my lunch, unpacking supermarket bags or cleaning the kitchen. The first audiobook I tried - River Road - helped me get through a four-hour train journey when the novel I'd brought failed to thrill.
The service I use is Audible, which has its advantages and disadvantages. The selection of books on offer is outstanding, but it's pretty pricey. I thought that the monthly subscription would give me access to the audiobooks on offer for free, but no such luck. You get a couple of free ones at the start, then one free book per month, but that's it: the rest you have to buy, and they're not cheap. I'll think I'll stick with it, though: I can work the app now, and it's nice to have so much to choose from. Here are some of the audios I've found so far:
River Road by Carol Goodman: Carol Goodman is the perfect autumn read, and most enjoyable in traditional book form. The settings, which are often academic and/or connected to creative writing, like a school teaching the Fine Arts or a writers' colony, have a high cosiness factor, and Goodman's use of myths and folklore appeals greatly to my inner librarian. On the down side, her heroines - often pretty opinionated - can annoy me, and the payoff of a nicely set up story is not always satisfying. The earliest books - The Lake Of Dead Languages and The Seduction Of Water - had wonderful atmosphere, and I loved the fairy-tale theme in The Seduction Of Water. But there are really no prizes for guessing who the main villain is in either of these novels. Later novels like The Other Mother and The Night Visitors are less easily guessable, but also less cosy and less full of "gosh, I know this myth/fairy-tale - aren't I learned" moments.
River Road was a novel I didn't get hold of in book form, so I was glad to find the audio version. It's in between the early, bookish but a bit predictable Goodman novels and the grittier later ones. Though not Goodman's best, it still has an enjoyable atmosphere - the protagonist Nan teaches creative writing at a college, which is the kind of job you have if you're a Goodman heroine - and as she has had some hard knocks in her life, like losing her small daughter in a car accident (why are writers so obsessed with kids who die or go missing?), I may actually have appreciated this story more as an easily digestible audiobook than if I'd pored over the pages of the actual novel.
Blythewood, also by Carol Goodman: This teen fantasy story was a disappointment. I'd have thought someone well-read like Goodman would be able to come up with a fantasy world enriched by classic myths and fairy-tales, but this was pretty generic stuff. The teenage heroine's love interest is a beautiful boy with wings, and the main villain is a creature of smoke and shadows - nothing particularly new there, and the magic school setup feels pretty done by now. I don't think I'll bother with the sequel; swooning over winged, misunderstood male beauties just isn't my thing.
Evil Under The Sun by Agatha Christie: One way to make sure you don't lose the thread of an audiobook's narrative is to listen to a book you've already read. This was read with relish by David Suchet, who did all the voices, not just Poirot's. If you stick with it through the somewhat slow start - Mrs Gardiner's monologues can be a bit much in this format - this is good fun, ideal for sorting and archiving documents to.
Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie: What, again? Well, this was one of the freebies on offer at the start of my subscription, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to familiarise myself with the play as opposed to the book. It wasn't made clear, though, how close this adaptation actually was to the play, and apart from some obvious liberties taken with the source material - the Darling household scenes are set during the Blitz; Tiger Lily leads a gang of "Lost Girls", so not for the first time in the history of Peter Pan adaptations her poor tribe is shafted and written out of the story altogether; Hook flirts outrageously with the devoted Smee - the story follows the one in Peter and Wendy very closely indeed. I'm not sure I'm much the wiser. It was a nice, light-hearted listen, though. Rupert Everett's Hook is the campest pirate who ever yo-ho-hoed on the seven seas, which is something of a pity - even the Disney version is a wonder of dignity and menace in comparison - but he draws the odd chuckle. Adeel Akhtar is sweet as Smee (the polar opposite of his Thénardier) and the kids are convincing.
The Two Destinies by Wilkie Collins: OK, I'm not going to lie: about one hour in, this story is still rather soporific, even if it is read by the admirable Sam West. I'm a huge fan of Collins, but he can be long-winded in his explanations, and perhaps he's not ideal audiobook material. Anyway, I couldn't resist getting nine hours listening time as my free book of the month (a Christie would only have offered six hours). It remains to be seen if my greed has deceived me - nine hours are no good if I'm to give up after three. But sometimes Collins is a late starter, so there's still hope.
Wednesday, 12 February 2020
Wednesday, 29 January 2020
The dullness of His Dark Materials
So I did say a few blog posts back that I was longing to rubbish something and was hoping His Dark Materials (as adapted by the BBC) would be it. When it comes down to it, though, I've not been looking forward to writing about this series, even though it makes a pretty good subject for rubbishing. The problem is that it wasn't bad in a way that's entertaining to pick apart - it was just very, very boring.
The fantasy world wasn't original enough to be interesting. The dialogue was leaden and slow-moving. Most of the characters were so paper thin they were hardly there. Consequently, the actors didn't have much to work with, and it felt like most of them didn't even try. The plot was a pretty standard "brave child goes on an adventure in order to save her world" story, and wouldn't you know it - Lyra, the child, is a Chosen One. To be fair, I believe His Dark Materials predates Harry Potter and a few other instances where this plot has been used, but even so - a story where the protagonist stumbles into an adventure and becomes a hero or heroine based on their own actions is a lot more satisfying than one where the hero/heroine is somehow preordained to be great. And still, the Chosen One plot is everywhere, not least in a fantasy context. What often connects these stories is that the side characters are far more fascinating than the main one, because they don't have a prophecy or what have you backing up a claim to be special: they have to earn the readers'/audience's interest. The mulish Lyra isn't the worst Chosen One protagonist on offer - she has too much character to be bland - but she's not the best either. The overall impression is of a run-of-the-mill fantasy plot rather poorly executed, and interwoven with scenes from "our world" which - far from having that eerie, "what's wrong with this picture" feel when reality meets the fantastical which you ideally get from a meet-the-companion episode in Doctor Who - are the most mind-numbingly dull in the whole series.
The one consistently excellent thing about this series is Ruth Wilson's magnetic performance as Mrs Coulter. She can make you engaged in even the most cumbersome lines and lifts every scene she is in. Apparently, she's supposed to be blonde in the novels, which does make me wonder whether it would have killed them to put a blonde wig on her to please book fans, but apart from that there is nothing to criticise here. Lin-Manuel Miranda as the aeronaut Lee and his long-suffering daemon, the hare Hester, are fun but not in any way central to the plot. The boy who played Lyra's best friend Roger did a pretty good job of not being annoying, I thought. The daemons (described as the souls of the characters which follow them around in the shape of an animal, and from which the humans in this world cannot be separated without dire consequences) are cute. But as positives go, that is pretty much it.
Now, I admit I didn't want to like this series. From what I've heard of Philip Pullman, he is a man with whom I would have little in common by way of opinions and beliefs, and far from keeping his private, he seems fond of professing them both in his fiction and outside of it. However, the ideas expressed in the BBC series are too confusing to be very provoking. I was expecting to want to shout at the screen, not to yawn my way through episode after episode.
Let's look at, for instance, the much-talked-about anti-Christianity which is supposedly all over the book series of His Dark Materials. So the bad guys in charge of Lyra's world are called the Magisterium, which is obviously some sort of church. Within the framework of the TV series, though, they're no different from any other sort of Fantasy Dictatorship. They might as well be called the Government (and be evil politicians), the Corporation (and be evil businessmen), the People's Representatives (and be evil revolutionaries), the Nobility (self-explanatory)... take your pick. Aside from being called "Father" and "Cardinal", what do they do that is specifically churchy? Well, I mentioned the cute soul animal creatures called daemons, right? Now, the Magisterium is running a terrifying experiment where they kidnap children in order to remove them from their daemons, which is supposed to make the children better beings eventually but has so far only made them catatonic. Oh, I see, because removing people from their souls is definitely something Christianity is about. No, wait...
Mrs Coulter later explains to Lyra what exactly the Magisterium has against the daemons. It appears that they are considered to be excellent playmates when kids are young, but once the children hit puberty their daemons - in the eyes of the Magisterium - start to lead them astray and towards sinfulness. Right... so not that soulful then, are they? Or are we ditching the soul-body split altogether, and is Pullman's point that for example sex drive is as much a thing of the soul as of the body and should not be frowned upon? That's pretty interesting, but if your argument is that the body and soul are one, why introduce a soul concept in the shape of cute daemons in the first place?
It gets more confusing when taking into account the discussions on Dust. Dust is an invisible substance that settles on the people of Lyra's world, but only the adults. The children are free of it. The Magisterium sees it as a harbinger of original sin. Lyra's father, Lord Asriel, sees it as something good and wants to use it to move between different worlds. He talks lyrically of a world without the shame and guilt induced by the ideas of the Magisterium. OK. I can see where he's coming from. Except: 1) Inducing shame and guilt isn't something specifically tied to religion. Sadly, it seems to be part of human nature to want to castigate oneself for being unworthy, while also pointing a finger at others for being even more unworthy so you can feel virtuous by comparison. I could mention some very secular shaming campaigns of late. 2) Needless shame and guilt is a bitch. I couldn't agree more. But there is such a thing as warranted feelings of guilt, which are a result of having a conscience. You know, the thing that tells us that abducting kids and performing experiments on them is A Bad Thing. The series ends with Asriel performing a daemon-child split of his own for his greater good, which sort of proves the point that his morality is no better than the Magisterium's. 3) Weren't the daemons the ones who were supposed to bring on adolescence and the naughty shenanigans the Magisterium wants to get rid of? So which is it, Dust, or daemons?
Maybe Pullman's ideas are better explained in the novels, and maybe they will be made clearer in subsequent series of His Dark Materials. I don't think I'll be watching any more, however. I can be grateful for the BBC His Dark Materials for one thing: I no longer feel guilty for not giving the novels a try. No needless shame and guilt, then.
The fantasy world wasn't original enough to be interesting. The dialogue was leaden and slow-moving. Most of the characters were so paper thin they were hardly there. Consequently, the actors didn't have much to work with, and it felt like most of them didn't even try. The plot was a pretty standard "brave child goes on an adventure in order to save her world" story, and wouldn't you know it - Lyra, the child, is a Chosen One. To be fair, I believe His Dark Materials predates Harry Potter and a few other instances where this plot has been used, but even so - a story where the protagonist stumbles into an adventure and becomes a hero or heroine based on their own actions is a lot more satisfying than one where the hero/heroine is somehow preordained to be great. And still, the Chosen One plot is everywhere, not least in a fantasy context. What often connects these stories is that the side characters are far more fascinating than the main one, because they don't have a prophecy or what have you backing up a claim to be special: they have to earn the readers'/audience's interest. The mulish Lyra isn't the worst Chosen One protagonist on offer - she has too much character to be bland - but she's not the best either. The overall impression is of a run-of-the-mill fantasy plot rather poorly executed, and interwoven with scenes from "our world" which - far from having that eerie, "what's wrong with this picture" feel when reality meets the fantastical which you ideally get from a meet-the-companion episode in Doctor Who - are the most mind-numbingly dull in the whole series.
The one consistently excellent thing about this series is Ruth Wilson's magnetic performance as Mrs Coulter. She can make you engaged in even the most cumbersome lines and lifts every scene she is in. Apparently, she's supposed to be blonde in the novels, which does make me wonder whether it would have killed them to put a blonde wig on her to please book fans, but apart from that there is nothing to criticise here. Lin-Manuel Miranda as the aeronaut Lee and his long-suffering daemon, the hare Hester, are fun but not in any way central to the plot. The boy who played Lyra's best friend Roger did a pretty good job of not being annoying, I thought. The daemons (described as the souls of the characters which follow them around in the shape of an animal, and from which the humans in this world cannot be separated without dire consequences) are cute. But as positives go, that is pretty much it.
Now, I admit I didn't want to like this series. From what I've heard of Philip Pullman, he is a man with whom I would have little in common by way of opinions and beliefs, and far from keeping his private, he seems fond of professing them both in his fiction and outside of it. However, the ideas expressed in the BBC series are too confusing to be very provoking. I was expecting to want to shout at the screen, not to yawn my way through episode after episode.
Let's look at, for instance, the much-talked-about anti-Christianity which is supposedly all over the book series of His Dark Materials. So the bad guys in charge of Lyra's world are called the Magisterium, which is obviously some sort of church. Within the framework of the TV series, though, they're no different from any other sort of Fantasy Dictatorship. They might as well be called the Government (and be evil politicians), the Corporation (and be evil businessmen), the People's Representatives (and be evil revolutionaries), the Nobility (self-explanatory)... take your pick. Aside from being called "Father" and "Cardinal", what do they do that is specifically churchy? Well, I mentioned the cute soul animal creatures called daemons, right? Now, the Magisterium is running a terrifying experiment where they kidnap children in order to remove them from their daemons, which is supposed to make the children better beings eventually but has so far only made them catatonic. Oh, I see, because removing people from their souls is definitely something Christianity is about. No, wait...
Mrs Coulter later explains to Lyra what exactly the Magisterium has against the daemons. It appears that they are considered to be excellent playmates when kids are young, but once the children hit puberty their daemons - in the eyes of the Magisterium - start to lead them astray and towards sinfulness. Right... so not that soulful then, are they? Or are we ditching the soul-body split altogether, and is Pullman's point that for example sex drive is as much a thing of the soul as of the body and should not be frowned upon? That's pretty interesting, but if your argument is that the body and soul are one, why introduce a soul concept in the shape of cute daemons in the first place?
It gets more confusing when taking into account the discussions on Dust. Dust is an invisible substance that settles on the people of Lyra's world, but only the adults. The children are free of it. The Magisterium sees it as a harbinger of original sin. Lyra's father, Lord Asriel, sees it as something good and wants to use it to move between different worlds. He talks lyrically of a world without the shame and guilt induced by the ideas of the Magisterium. OK. I can see where he's coming from. Except: 1) Inducing shame and guilt isn't something specifically tied to religion. Sadly, it seems to be part of human nature to want to castigate oneself for being unworthy, while also pointing a finger at others for being even more unworthy so you can feel virtuous by comparison. I could mention some very secular shaming campaigns of late. 2) Needless shame and guilt is a bitch. I couldn't agree more. But there is such a thing as warranted feelings of guilt, which are a result of having a conscience. You know, the thing that tells us that abducting kids and performing experiments on them is A Bad Thing. The series ends with Asriel performing a daemon-child split of his own for his greater good, which sort of proves the point that his morality is no better than the Magisterium's. 3) Weren't the daemons the ones who were supposed to bring on adolescence and the naughty shenanigans the Magisterium wants to get rid of? So which is it, Dust, or daemons?
Maybe Pullman's ideas are better explained in the novels, and maybe they will be made clearer in subsequent series of His Dark Materials. I don't think I'll be watching any more, however. I can be grateful for the BBC His Dark Materials for one thing: I no longer feel guilty for not giving the novels a try. No needless shame and guilt, then.
Wednesday, 15 January 2020
Frozen 2 and the lack of new Disney villains
The start of the year has been busy, which means I'm late with my blogging. At least I'm spoilt for choice when it comes to subject matter, having watched both Frozen 2 and The Rise Of Skywalker at the cinema. I'll stick mainly with Frozen 2 for this post, though touching briefly on Rise Of Skywalker towards the end.
I realise that Frozen 2 could have been a great deal worse, and it didn't annoy me the way Wreck It Ralph 2 did. It was visually stunning, the songs were good and the characters still likeable. However, the story was a mess. Story elements were thrown in and then not expanded upon or made intelligible, new characters were introduced who then had very little to do, and the end of the film - though happy - is somehow unsatisfying. To be more precise, I'll have to go into spoilers, though there is precious little to spoil, as there are no big twists in the story.
So, firstly, the whole idea of magic in this universe being tied to the four elements and Elsa being the "fifth element" which ties the other four together is very confusing. Elsa's powers include creating snow and ice. That should make her magic part of the water element, no? Why on earth should her undefined fifth element status require her to take up residence in an enchanted forest (not the Enchanted Forest, regrettably) while Anna is made Queen? Who thought separating these devoted sisters (though it's made clear that they meet often) was a good idea? Frozen was partly about Elsa being able to connect with the world around her by coming to terms with her magic powers. At the end of Frozen 2, she is on her own again, though she does have the company of the pretty anonymous Northuldra tribe and a fire salamander. She might almost as well have stayed in her "ice palace for one".
When it comes to the characters, I was pretty relieved we didn't see more of the leader of the Northuldra tribe, as she seemed to be the kind of "nature good, civilisation bad" character that tends to irritate me. But Lieutenant Mattias had wasted potential - his reactions when hearing the girls' history as retold by Olaf, mirroring as they did the audience's reactions when first seeing Frozen (Olaf as Hans: "You're not worth it! Guess what, I'm the bad guy" Mattias: "What?!") were sweet and funny, and I liked his exchange with Anna about his old flame back in Arendelle. When told that she never married, he sighs "Now, why doesn't that make me feel happier?". But his impact on the story? Practically zero. And what happened to the Northuldra guy who talks to reindeer in the same way as Kristoff does? You think that this is the start of a beautiful friendship, but it's never followed through. Not to mention Honeymaren, a Northuldra girl who's introduced by name but not given any character or anything to do at all. Some of the regular characters are marking time as well: Kristoff's story arc is about trying to propose to Anna, while events keep getting in the way. But this is years after the first Frozen: surely Kristoff and Anna should have been married ages ago!
Somewhat perversely, seeing as I didn't much approve of the Frozen arc in Once Upon a Time, I was bummed that Once's version of what happened after (and before) Frozen was not only ignored but actively negated in Frozen 2. My beef with the Frozen arc in Once is that it was poorly integrated in the main story, and Anna and Elsa were strangely one-dimensional in their interactions with the Storybrooke/Enchanted Forest crowd. The story itself actually functioned well if seen merely as a sequel to Frozen, and contained cool elements such as a villainous Snow Queen more in keeping with H C Andersen's than Elsa and a magic mirror (similar to the one mentioned in Andersen's story) which makes people turn against their nearest and dearest. I know Once isn't Disney canon, but that's because it usually takes great liberties with its source material. In the case of Frozen, it primly toed the line and didn't go against anything described in the film, which had a curtailing effect on the script-writers' creative freedom - and it all turns out to have been for nothing. Ah well.
What's a great deal worse is that yet again, Disney fails to deliver on the villain front. Elsa sees what you could call ice flashbacks of her grandfather, King Runeard, behaving badly, which sparks a conflict between Arendelle and the Northuldra and isolates the Northuldra's forest in a magic mist for thirty odd years (whatever the point of that was - care to explain, magic elements?). However, as well as coming as no surprise whatsoever - what, you didn't think the oh-so-wise-and-close-to-nature Northuldra started the quarrel, did you? - these brief flashbacks give us no insight into Runeard's reasons or character. We can only assume that it was the Northuldra's use of magic that spooked him, as he must otherwise have been a pretty tolerant king with a generous immigration policy (Mattias is from immigrant stock). An ice statue grandfather does not count as a villain, and so, after Wreck It Ralph 2 and Toy Story 4, we have another Disney/Pixar villain no-show.
It may be that Disney is trying to be "mature" and show that life can be complicated enough without colourful antagonists. But who wants an animated Disney film to be true to life to the detriment of the story? It's as if the Disney people have twigged that people have grown tired of the twist villains but don't have a clue what to replace them with. It's been so long since they had an upfront baddie in the Jafar mould that they've somehow lost the knack of creating them. There are several trends when it comes to Disney's output that leave me concerned, but this is perhaps the most worrying. Can it be that the company's unending quest for worthiness has made them forget just how satisfying a really good villain can be?
The Rise Of Skywalker seems to point in the direction of a company struggling to come up with something new villain-wise. Snoke having been unceremoniously killed off in The Last Jedi, the powers that be felt obliged to reintroduce Emperor Palpatine as the Big Bad, in spite of him being very, very dead at the end of The Return Of The Jedi. Now, I don't object to a spot of Palps - I admit I'm one of the fans who squeed delightedly when hearing his trademark cackle in the trailer, instead of going: "Oh no! Doesn't this make the heroes' victory in The Return Of The Jedi worthless?" (though I understand that argument). But reintroducing a tried-and-tested baddie in this way doesn't exactly show a lot of imagination.
As it happens, they wouldn't even have had to come up with anything new for Frozen 2. I can't be the only one who hoped for the reintroduction of and a redemption arc for Hans, can I?
I realise that Frozen 2 could have been a great deal worse, and it didn't annoy me the way Wreck It Ralph 2 did. It was visually stunning, the songs were good and the characters still likeable. However, the story was a mess. Story elements were thrown in and then not expanded upon or made intelligible, new characters were introduced who then had very little to do, and the end of the film - though happy - is somehow unsatisfying. To be more precise, I'll have to go into spoilers, though there is precious little to spoil, as there are no big twists in the story.
So, firstly, the whole idea of magic in this universe being tied to the four elements and Elsa being the "fifth element" which ties the other four together is very confusing. Elsa's powers include creating snow and ice. That should make her magic part of the water element, no? Why on earth should her undefined fifth element status require her to take up residence in an enchanted forest (not the Enchanted Forest, regrettably) while Anna is made Queen? Who thought separating these devoted sisters (though it's made clear that they meet often) was a good idea? Frozen was partly about Elsa being able to connect with the world around her by coming to terms with her magic powers. At the end of Frozen 2, she is on her own again, though she does have the company of the pretty anonymous Northuldra tribe and a fire salamander. She might almost as well have stayed in her "ice palace for one".
When it comes to the characters, I was pretty relieved we didn't see more of the leader of the Northuldra tribe, as she seemed to be the kind of "nature good, civilisation bad" character that tends to irritate me. But Lieutenant Mattias had wasted potential - his reactions when hearing the girls' history as retold by Olaf, mirroring as they did the audience's reactions when first seeing Frozen (Olaf as Hans: "You're not worth it! Guess what, I'm the bad guy" Mattias: "What?!") were sweet and funny, and I liked his exchange with Anna about his old flame back in Arendelle. When told that she never married, he sighs "Now, why doesn't that make me feel happier?". But his impact on the story? Practically zero. And what happened to the Northuldra guy who talks to reindeer in the same way as Kristoff does? You think that this is the start of a beautiful friendship, but it's never followed through. Not to mention Honeymaren, a Northuldra girl who's introduced by name but not given any character or anything to do at all. Some of the regular characters are marking time as well: Kristoff's story arc is about trying to propose to Anna, while events keep getting in the way. But this is years after the first Frozen: surely Kristoff and Anna should have been married ages ago!
Somewhat perversely, seeing as I didn't much approve of the Frozen arc in Once Upon a Time, I was bummed that Once's version of what happened after (and before) Frozen was not only ignored but actively negated in Frozen 2. My beef with the Frozen arc in Once is that it was poorly integrated in the main story, and Anna and Elsa were strangely one-dimensional in their interactions with the Storybrooke/Enchanted Forest crowd. The story itself actually functioned well if seen merely as a sequel to Frozen, and contained cool elements such as a villainous Snow Queen more in keeping with H C Andersen's than Elsa and a magic mirror (similar to the one mentioned in Andersen's story) which makes people turn against their nearest and dearest. I know Once isn't Disney canon, but that's because it usually takes great liberties with its source material. In the case of Frozen, it primly toed the line and didn't go against anything described in the film, which had a curtailing effect on the script-writers' creative freedom - and it all turns out to have been for nothing. Ah well.
What's a great deal worse is that yet again, Disney fails to deliver on the villain front. Elsa sees what you could call ice flashbacks of her grandfather, King Runeard, behaving badly, which sparks a conflict between Arendelle and the Northuldra and isolates the Northuldra's forest in a magic mist for thirty odd years (whatever the point of that was - care to explain, magic elements?). However, as well as coming as no surprise whatsoever - what, you didn't think the oh-so-wise-and-close-to-nature Northuldra started the quarrel, did you? - these brief flashbacks give us no insight into Runeard's reasons or character. We can only assume that it was the Northuldra's use of magic that spooked him, as he must otherwise have been a pretty tolerant king with a generous immigration policy (Mattias is from immigrant stock). An ice statue grandfather does not count as a villain, and so, after Wreck It Ralph 2 and Toy Story 4, we have another Disney/Pixar villain no-show.
It may be that Disney is trying to be "mature" and show that life can be complicated enough without colourful antagonists. But who wants an animated Disney film to be true to life to the detriment of the story? It's as if the Disney people have twigged that people have grown tired of the twist villains but don't have a clue what to replace them with. It's been so long since they had an upfront baddie in the Jafar mould that they've somehow lost the knack of creating them. There are several trends when it comes to Disney's output that leave me concerned, but this is perhaps the most worrying. Can it be that the company's unending quest for worthiness has made them forget just how satisfying a really good villain can be?
The Rise Of Skywalker seems to point in the direction of a company struggling to come up with something new villain-wise. Snoke having been unceremoniously killed off in The Last Jedi, the powers that be felt obliged to reintroduce Emperor Palpatine as the Big Bad, in spite of him being very, very dead at the end of The Return Of The Jedi. Now, I don't object to a spot of Palps - I admit I'm one of the fans who squeed delightedly when hearing his trademark cackle in the trailer, instead of going: "Oh no! Doesn't this make the heroes' victory in The Return Of The Jedi worthless?" (though I understand that argument). But reintroducing a tried-and-tested baddie in this way doesn't exactly show a lot of imagination.
As it happens, they wouldn't even have had to come up with anything new for Frozen 2. I can't be the only one who hoped for the reintroduction of and a redemption arc for Hans, can I?
Thursday, 26 December 2019
Why an evil Peter Pan is no great surprise
It may not be very festive to criticise the childhood hero of many a tot. But it's high time I blogged about something book-related, so here goes. I had my eye on Christina Henry's Lost Boy since a while back, especially after having enjoyed her Alice books (even if they didn't have that much to do with Alice in Wonderland), but I held back, as I felt it only fair that I should read the original Peter Pan story before I got to Henry's dark take on it. Though I have seen a good many adaptations of and riffs on Peter Pan, until recently I had neither seen the play by J.M. Barrie nor read his novelisation of it, Peter and Wendy. Now I've read the latter, considered the most important Peter Pan text by those responsible for Penguin Classics. It's easy to see what they mean, as Peter and Wendy offers a more detailed narrative than any play could, but I do still need to catch the play - in unadulterated form - some day. I still can't say for certain whether Skull Rock (not in the book) is a Disney invention or not.
Anyway, having read Peter and Wendy, I thought I could in good conscience move on to Lost Boy. In Lost Boy, Peter Pan is a villain. Strangely, though, this was no great shock to me, nor I suspect to a great many other people. In fact, my own reaction is more or less "Well, duh" or "Tell me something I don't know". I don't think I'm alone in thinking there is something a little off about J.M. Barrie's creation. Youtube videos on "dark stories behind Disney films" like to point out that J.M. Barrie more than hints that Peter killed off lost boys who committed the crime of growing up. As for the Peter Pan-as-villain idea, it has been done before: in Once Upon A Time (still my favourite TV series: how I miss it!), Peter Pan was one of the most memorable "guest villains", being the main threat of the first half of season 3.
So why is it less unlikely that Peter Pan should be a villain than, say, Winnie the Pooh? How similar are the two villain Peters in Once and Lost Boy to the original, and what can be said in defence of J.M. Barrie's version?
I didn't much care for the versions of Peter I came across as a kid, but this wasn't because I thought there was something sinister about him. The explanation was quite simply that I was Team Hook (that was long before Once nearly ruined the Captain for me). It's when you revisit the story as an adult that you start to question the good intentions of the protagonist, and the feeling of unease is only strengthened when you actually read Peter and Wendy. Neverland in the book is a pretty creepy place. Unlike in the Disney film (which, to do it credit, otherwise follows the original story rather faithfully) childen actually both kill and get killed on the island, and Peter is largely responsible for it. When he is away, the Lost Boys and the pirates are content with "biting their thumbs at each other", but that isn't good enough for Peter. Early on, he makes a careless comment about killing pirates, and one must assume that the skirmishes with the Indians were equally lethal until there is a truce. What's more, he isn't a very good leader. No-one is allowed to know more than him, so as he doesn't quite know what a twin is, the Twins live in existential uncertainty. As he's unable to distinguish between when he and his gang have had a real or a make-believe meal, the boys often go hungry. And yes, the Youtube videos are right: "The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according to as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out".
As for his relationship with the Darlings, Peter is actually only interested in getting Wendy to Neverland as she can tell stories: the two boys just come along for the ride. When they keep falling from the sky in their flight to the island, Wendy is constantly afraid that Peter will tire of preventing their fall, as he sees saving them as a game rather than caring one way or another whether they live or not. Once in Neverland, Peter has no intention of ever letting the Darling children go back to their home, and nearly sabotages their attempt to do so, though he is finally reluctantly moved by Mrs Darling's plight. The boy who never grows up is a thoughtless, selfish one, and there is even something off-putting about those supposedly beguiling milk teeth.
However, the reimaginings of him in Once Upon A Time and Lost Boy are pretty harsh. The Once Peter is probably the one who would have upset J.M. Barrie most, not because he's villainous, but because he is really an adult, an irresponsible small-time crook called Malcolm who abandons his son in exchange for (almost) eternal youth. "A child can't have a child", he explains as the crying boy is carried away from the island by the Shadow (a separate, malign entity). Reinvented as Peter Pan, a name taken from his son's lost toy (the little'un having a flair for names), Malcolm lives it up for many, many years. He lures other children to the island to keep him company (doubling as the Pied Piper), until the time comes when he has to prolong his life by getting hold of the heart of his great-grandson. Not a problem for this Peter, who sets about it, until the boy's friends and relatives put a few spanners in the works.
The Peter Pan in Lost Boy is closer to the original, not least because he is a child, though a mad and malicious one. Lost Boy is essentially a back story for Hook, though the protagonist Jamie isn't very Hookish, and could more or less be any intelligent Lost Boy who gets disillusioned by his leader and friend. The trouble starts for real when Peter brings Charlie, a boy who is really too young for the Neverland life, to the island. Jamie starts caring for him which makes Peter jealous. Through the ensuing adventures it becomes more and more apparent that Peter is a monster who has to be the centre of the universe for all of the boys, Jamie especially, and who will try to get rid of anyone who stands in his way.
The dark Neverland of Lost Boy isn't so far removed from the original Neverland as the setting of Henry's Alice books was from Wonderland. J.M. Barrie's Neverland was, as I've mentioned, rather unsettling already, so Henry's interpretation doesn't feel altogether "out there". But while I liked Lost Boy quite a lot, and hugely enjoyed the dastardly Peter Pan in Once (brilliantly played by Robbie Kay, who must be older than he looks), I feel that neither Henry nor the creators of Once have quite grasped J.M. Barrie's intentions. Nor do they have to, obviously, as long as their riffs on the Peter Pan story work as their own thing, which they do. But it would be wrong to judge J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan on the basis of these reinterpretations. Barrie's Peter often behaves questionably to say the least, but that is because he is supposed to be the eternal, typical child: "gay, innocent and heartless" (I don't have to explain that "gay" means "carefree" in this context, do I?). Barrie's view of children is unsentimental, and Peter isn't the only one who acts selfishly. The Darling children, at first, have no intention of coming home to their grieving parents until years in the future, when they blithely envisage getting a hero's welcome. Their parents' distress isn't real to them - even Wendy, who is almost grown-up and should know better, dallies. When the "do you believe in fairies" scene is written into the novel's narrative, Barrie is aware that not every kid would play ball in the circumstances: "Many clapped. Some didn't. A few little beasts hissed."
To sum up, J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan is selfish not because he is Peter, but because he is a child. To make out that he's much worse than all the other children in Neverland is not completely good form. Then again, I never went to Eton, so I don't complain.
Anyway, having read Peter and Wendy, I thought I could in good conscience move on to Lost Boy. In Lost Boy, Peter Pan is a villain. Strangely, though, this was no great shock to me, nor I suspect to a great many other people. In fact, my own reaction is more or less "Well, duh" or "Tell me something I don't know". I don't think I'm alone in thinking there is something a little off about J.M. Barrie's creation. Youtube videos on "dark stories behind Disney films" like to point out that J.M. Barrie more than hints that Peter killed off lost boys who committed the crime of growing up. As for the Peter Pan-as-villain idea, it has been done before: in Once Upon A Time (still my favourite TV series: how I miss it!), Peter Pan was one of the most memorable "guest villains", being the main threat of the first half of season 3.
So why is it less unlikely that Peter Pan should be a villain than, say, Winnie the Pooh? How similar are the two villain Peters in Once and Lost Boy to the original, and what can be said in defence of J.M. Barrie's version?
I didn't much care for the versions of Peter I came across as a kid, but this wasn't because I thought there was something sinister about him. The explanation was quite simply that I was Team Hook (that was long before Once nearly ruined the Captain for me). It's when you revisit the story as an adult that you start to question the good intentions of the protagonist, and the feeling of unease is only strengthened when you actually read Peter and Wendy. Neverland in the book is a pretty creepy place. Unlike in the Disney film (which, to do it credit, otherwise follows the original story rather faithfully) childen actually both kill and get killed on the island, and Peter is largely responsible for it. When he is away, the Lost Boys and the pirates are content with "biting their thumbs at each other", but that isn't good enough for Peter. Early on, he makes a careless comment about killing pirates, and one must assume that the skirmishes with the Indians were equally lethal until there is a truce. What's more, he isn't a very good leader. No-one is allowed to know more than him, so as he doesn't quite know what a twin is, the Twins live in existential uncertainty. As he's unable to distinguish between when he and his gang have had a real or a make-believe meal, the boys often go hungry. And yes, the Youtube videos are right: "The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according to as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out".
As for his relationship with the Darlings, Peter is actually only interested in getting Wendy to Neverland as she can tell stories: the two boys just come along for the ride. When they keep falling from the sky in their flight to the island, Wendy is constantly afraid that Peter will tire of preventing their fall, as he sees saving them as a game rather than caring one way or another whether they live or not. Once in Neverland, Peter has no intention of ever letting the Darling children go back to their home, and nearly sabotages their attempt to do so, though he is finally reluctantly moved by Mrs Darling's plight. The boy who never grows up is a thoughtless, selfish one, and there is even something off-putting about those supposedly beguiling milk teeth.
However, the reimaginings of him in Once Upon A Time and Lost Boy are pretty harsh. The Once Peter is probably the one who would have upset J.M. Barrie most, not because he's villainous, but because he is really an adult, an irresponsible small-time crook called Malcolm who abandons his son in exchange for (almost) eternal youth. "A child can't have a child", he explains as the crying boy is carried away from the island by the Shadow (a separate, malign entity). Reinvented as Peter Pan, a name taken from his son's lost toy (the little'un having a flair for names), Malcolm lives it up for many, many years. He lures other children to the island to keep him company (doubling as the Pied Piper), until the time comes when he has to prolong his life by getting hold of the heart of his great-grandson. Not a problem for this Peter, who sets about it, until the boy's friends and relatives put a few spanners in the works.
The Peter Pan in Lost Boy is closer to the original, not least because he is a child, though a mad and malicious one. Lost Boy is essentially a back story for Hook, though the protagonist Jamie isn't very Hookish, and could more or less be any intelligent Lost Boy who gets disillusioned by his leader and friend. The trouble starts for real when Peter brings Charlie, a boy who is really too young for the Neverland life, to the island. Jamie starts caring for him which makes Peter jealous. Through the ensuing adventures it becomes more and more apparent that Peter is a monster who has to be the centre of the universe for all of the boys, Jamie especially, and who will try to get rid of anyone who stands in his way.
The dark Neverland of Lost Boy isn't so far removed from the original Neverland as the setting of Henry's Alice books was from Wonderland. J.M. Barrie's Neverland was, as I've mentioned, rather unsettling already, so Henry's interpretation doesn't feel altogether "out there". But while I liked Lost Boy quite a lot, and hugely enjoyed the dastardly Peter Pan in Once (brilliantly played by Robbie Kay, who must be older than he looks), I feel that neither Henry nor the creators of Once have quite grasped J.M. Barrie's intentions. Nor do they have to, obviously, as long as their riffs on the Peter Pan story work as their own thing, which they do. But it would be wrong to judge J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan on the basis of these reinterpretations. Barrie's Peter often behaves questionably to say the least, but that is because he is supposed to be the eternal, typical child: "gay, innocent and heartless" (I don't have to explain that "gay" means "carefree" in this context, do I?). Barrie's view of children is unsentimental, and Peter isn't the only one who acts selfishly. The Darling children, at first, have no intention of coming home to their grieving parents until years in the future, when they blithely envisage getting a hero's welcome. Their parents' distress isn't real to them - even Wendy, who is almost grown-up and should know better, dallies. When the "do you believe in fairies" scene is written into the novel's narrative, Barrie is aware that not every kid would play ball in the circumstances: "Many clapped. Some didn't. A few little beasts hissed."
To sum up, J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan is selfish not because he is Peter, but because he is a child. To make out that he's much worse than all the other children in Neverland is not completely good form. Then again, I never went to Eton, so I don't complain.
Wednesday, 11 December 2019
The Crown season three: What side is Peter Morgan on?
I was cautiously looking forward to the third season of The Crown. I felt guilty for not getting into the first season more, and the second one didn't really hit home with me either. Nevertheless, I acknowledged that it was well-made and well acted. This time around, with no favourite series featuring fantastic villains to compete, I felt that I was finally ready to appreciate it as much as period drama fans generally seem to do.
Sadly not, though. The series still has the same strengths and weaknesses as in previous seasons. On the plus side, the acting's still great (mostly). Olivia Colman doesn't convince quite as much as Claire Foy as Queen Elizabeth; you never really buy that she's supposed to be a bit of a cold fish, as her face is too expressive. Nevertheless, she gives a good performance as always. I preferred Tobias Menzies as Prince Philip to Matt Smith's version: Smith's boyishness, which is charming when he plays the Doctor, grated rather when he was Philip, especially in season two. Menzies is a bit stiff, but has great rapport with Colman and other co-actors. While it felt unnecessary to recast the roles of Lord Mountbatten and the Duke of Windsor, seeing as Greg Wise and Alex Jennings did such a good job of them and could easily have been aged up just a bit more, the advantage was that we got to see Charles Dance and Derek Jacobi on screen. Jane Lapotaire was spectacular as Philip's mother, a put-upon, chainsmoking nun. Also, the production values are impressive, and the series still feels like a quality product. On the minus side, the pacing was still slow, and there wasn't much going on in each episode. Some of the events highlighted deserved the attention they got, while others didn't.
However, this time around something else bugged me that hadn't before. Back in season one, I'd assumed Peter Morgan's project was about understanding both the Queen and the British monarchy better. It didn't have to be a ringing endorsement by any means, but I saw it as an earnest endeavour to find out the inner workings of the monarchy and what it must be like to be its figurehead. I thought we were supposed to see things from the Queen's point of view, as in Morgan's film The Queen. That's not to say it should go unchallenged, but I expected the base note of the series, so to speak, to be sympathy with the Queen.
This is what I thought we got in season one, which I even claimed was good PR for the royals. In season two, after I read an article where Peter Morgan showed republican leanings, doubt set in. By now, and after having heard some more choice quotes from Morgan about the Queen and the monarchy (admittedly, from a hostile source) I'm starting to wonder if The Crown is in fact a Trojan horse of a series. It attracts largely pro-royal viewers with the promise of making a believable drama out of Queen Elizabeth's home life, then starts to feed them the message that the monarchy, to which she's devoted her life, isn't really worth it. Maybe those early instances in the series of the Queen putting duty before her own wishes weren't explorations of ethical dilemmas at all but part of a bigger pattern, which is supposed to show us how the Crown demands far too much of its bearer. We seem to be getting the "poor little royals" argument for abolishing the monarchy again and again: look how the members of the royal family have to sacrifice who they really are, and how miserable it makes them. Wouldn't they be happier living an "ordinary" life?
Now, it's not as if I were an ardent monarchist myself, though I happen to think that the Swedish and the British royals are (for the most part) doing a good job. In principle, there's not much to be said for monarchy, and if Morgan wants to get rid of it, that's a perfectly respectable opinion. However, if the purpose of The Crown was to show us how worthless said crown is, then it hasn't been playing fair. Whether monarchist or republican, one doesn't want to be made a fool of. Anyway, the "poor little royals" argument doesn't cut much ice with me as it's possible, if difficult, for a royal to opt out of the whole thing. They seldom choose to do so, however. Hmmm, wonder why.
This royal rant has left me little time to get into the specifics of season three. I enjoyed the two first episodes - especially the second one, where Princess Margaret (a hilarious Helena Bonham Carter) charms President Johnson. Episode three was "Aberfan" and can't be called enjoyable, but it did pack a punch and had something interesting to say about why we shy away from the grief-stricken (because we think we'd be rubbish at comforting them) and why we shouldn't stay away (because even if we don't have much to say, showing up is a help). Whether it was entirely ethical to highlight these dilemmas on the back of an actual tragedy is another matter. Episode four brought us Lapotaire, but one of the plot lines - about how poorly received a documentary about the royal family was - was, according to one review I read, a complete invention. A journalist called John Armstrong plays an important part in the episode, but apparently there was no such person. Learning this shook me and made me question whether Morgan actually knows what he's doing. If the documentary wasn't poorly received, then the whole point of this plot is undermined. Morgan may not care for the documentary himself, but he shouldn't foist his opinions on the national press of the day.
Then followed a string of episodes where we see royals discontent with their lot. The Queen confides to a chum who's helping her out with her horses that horse breeding was what she really wanted to do with her life, not "the other thing". Prince Philip has a mid-life crisis triggered by the moon landing - what is his life of visiting factories for dentures and such-like worth compared to walking on the moon? (As to that, I bet the employees of that factory were happy to get a spot of royal glamour.) Prince Charles doesn't feel he can get his voice heard. His split with Camilla is blamed firmly on his family, for dramatic effect (though if she did two-time him with Andrew Parker-Bowles, I would have thought that had something to do with it). Princess Margaret gets routinely shafted, as in the previous two seasons. And so on and so forth. It's pretty tiring, though things do get more exciting every time Margaret's around.
"Everything is politics", prime minister Wilson glumly states when an adviser questions whether anyone would want to make political hay out of the tragedy at Aberfan. Ironically, The Crown is best when it's not political, but dwells on human relationships. The friendship between the Queen and Wilson is nicely handled, and more believable than in Morgan's play The Audience. Philip reaching out to a group of clerics he has earlier derided is a moving payoff to an uneven episode. After Margaret tries to kill herself, she and her sister are allowed a scene of real affection and understanding, where Queen Elizabeth confesses that to go on without her sister would be unbearable. Moments like these are welcome, though I feel myself more and more viewing the protagonists in The Crown as fictional characters who happen to have the same names and positions as some real-life figures. I do believe that's the best way.
Sadly not, though. The series still has the same strengths and weaknesses as in previous seasons. On the plus side, the acting's still great (mostly). Olivia Colman doesn't convince quite as much as Claire Foy as Queen Elizabeth; you never really buy that she's supposed to be a bit of a cold fish, as her face is too expressive. Nevertheless, she gives a good performance as always. I preferred Tobias Menzies as Prince Philip to Matt Smith's version: Smith's boyishness, which is charming when he plays the Doctor, grated rather when he was Philip, especially in season two. Menzies is a bit stiff, but has great rapport with Colman and other co-actors. While it felt unnecessary to recast the roles of Lord Mountbatten and the Duke of Windsor, seeing as Greg Wise and Alex Jennings did such a good job of them and could easily have been aged up just a bit more, the advantage was that we got to see Charles Dance and Derek Jacobi on screen. Jane Lapotaire was spectacular as Philip's mother, a put-upon, chainsmoking nun. Also, the production values are impressive, and the series still feels like a quality product. On the minus side, the pacing was still slow, and there wasn't much going on in each episode. Some of the events highlighted deserved the attention they got, while others didn't.
However, this time around something else bugged me that hadn't before. Back in season one, I'd assumed Peter Morgan's project was about understanding both the Queen and the British monarchy better. It didn't have to be a ringing endorsement by any means, but I saw it as an earnest endeavour to find out the inner workings of the monarchy and what it must be like to be its figurehead. I thought we were supposed to see things from the Queen's point of view, as in Morgan's film The Queen. That's not to say it should go unchallenged, but I expected the base note of the series, so to speak, to be sympathy with the Queen.
This is what I thought we got in season one, which I even claimed was good PR for the royals. In season two, after I read an article where Peter Morgan showed republican leanings, doubt set in. By now, and after having heard some more choice quotes from Morgan about the Queen and the monarchy (admittedly, from a hostile source) I'm starting to wonder if The Crown is in fact a Trojan horse of a series. It attracts largely pro-royal viewers with the promise of making a believable drama out of Queen Elizabeth's home life, then starts to feed them the message that the monarchy, to which she's devoted her life, isn't really worth it. Maybe those early instances in the series of the Queen putting duty before her own wishes weren't explorations of ethical dilemmas at all but part of a bigger pattern, which is supposed to show us how the Crown demands far too much of its bearer. We seem to be getting the "poor little royals" argument for abolishing the monarchy again and again: look how the members of the royal family have to sacrifice who they really are, and how miserable it makes them. Wouldn't they be happier living an "ordinary" life?
Now, it's not as if I were an ardent monarchist myself, though I happen to think that the Swedish and the British royals are (for the most part) doing a good job. In principle, there's not much to be said for monarchy, and if Morgan wants to get rid of it, that's a perfectly respectable opinion. However, if the purpose of The Crown was to show us how worthless said crown is, then it hasn't been playing fair. Whether monarchist or republican, one doesn't want to be made a fool of. Anyway, the "poor little royals" argument doesn't cut much ice with me as it's possible, if difficult, for a royal to opt out of the whole thing. They seldom choose to do so, however. Hmmm, wonder why.
This royal rant has left me little time to get into the specifics of season three. I enjoyed the two first episodes - especially the second one, where Princess Margaret (a hilarious Helena Bonham Carter) charms President Johnson. Episode three was "Aberfan" and can't be called enjoyable, but it did pack a punch and had something interesting to say about why we shy away from the grief-stricken (because we think we'd be rubbish at comforting them) and why we shouldn't stay away (because even if we don't have much to say, showing up is a help). Whether it was entirely ethical to highlight these dilemmas on the back of an actual tragedy is another matter. Episode four brought us Lapotaire, but one of the plot lines - about how poorly received a documentary about the royal family was - was, according to one review I read, a complete invention. A journalist called John Armstrong plays an important part in the episode, but apparently there was no such person. Learning this shook me and made me question whether Morgan actually knows what he's doing. If the documentary wasn't poorly received, then the whole point of this plot is undermined. Morgan may not care for the documentary himself, but he shouldn't foist his opinions on the national press of the day.
Then followed a string of episodes where we see royals discontent with their lot. The Queen confides to a chum who's helping her out with her horses that horse breeding was what she really wanted to do with her life, not "the other thing". Prince Philip has a mid-life crisis triggered by the moon landing - what is his life of visiting factories for dentures and such-like worth compared to walking on the moon? (As to that, I bet the employees of that factory were happy to get a spot of royal glamour.) Prince Charles doesn't feel he can get his voice heard. His split with Camilla is blamed firmly on his family, for dramatic effect (though if she did two-time him with Andrew Parker-Bowles, I would have thought that had something to do with it). Princess Margaret gets routinely shafted, as in the previous two seasons. And so on and so forth. It's pretty tiring, though things do get more exciting every time Margaret's around.
"Everything is politics", prime minister Wilson glumly states when an adviser questions whether anyone would want to make political hay out of the tragedy at Aberfan. Ironically, The Crown is best when it's not political, but dwells on human relationships. The friendship between the Queen and Wilson is nicely handled, and more believable than in Morgan's play The Audience. Philip reaching out to a group of clerics he has earlier derided is a moving payoff to an uneven episode. After Margaret tries to kill herself, she and her sister are allowed a scene of real affection and understanding, where Queen Elizabeth confesses that to go on without her sister would be unbearable. Moments like these are welcome, though I feel myself more and more viewing the protagonists in The Crown as fictional characters who happen to have the same names and positions as some real-life figures. I do believe that's the best way.
Wednesday, 27 November 2019
Freewheeling Sanditon
Yes, I know, now would be a good time to reflect on the themes of The Crown. But it's November, and it's been a long day. So instead, I will reach for low-hanging fruit - in fact the lowest-hanging fruit in all the land - and blog about the TV series Sanditon.
Though the first half-hour or so is based on the fragment of an unfinished Jane Austen novel, I hesitate to call it an adaptation. In fact, if you haven't watched the series and would like to try it, there is one thing you have to bear in mind at all times: don't expect anything even vaguely Austenesque. The characters Jane Austen sketched in her fragment are there, true, but they neither speak nor act like Austen characters - even the more off-colour ones - do. TV Sanditon is a romp. It features, among other things, a girl giving a rake a hand job in order to disarm his advances and the heroine surprising the hero emerging stark naked from a spot of sea-bathing (because these days, a wet shirt would be much too subtle). Sanditon may not be as racy as those regency romances with a half-clad beauty on the cover and titles like Seducing a Duke, but it has more in common with those kind of books than with anything by Austen.
But regency romps can be very entertaining, and I enjoyed this one. To own the truth, I had a much easier time getting through it than, say, The Crown (which I'm still not quite finished with). At least half of Sanditon is penned by costume-drama supremo Andrew Davies, but what's notable is that most of the better episodes were written by his co-authors. Davies is surprisingly coarse, especially in the earlier episodes (I know he has that reputation, but somewhat unfairly in my view - there is nothing coarse about, say, his adaptation of Bleak House). In time, the show finds its feet more, but even at its best it's more seaside postcard than delicate ivory miniature. And as long as that's what you're prepared for, it's fine.
As Davies and Co. don't even try to finish the story the way they think Austen would have done it, it leaves them free to do anything they like with the Sanditon characters. In fact, Sanditon in some ways demonstrates the advantages and disadvantages of not having a set story to follow. There's the thrill that comes from the fact that anything can happen - and pretty much anything does. The script-writers can spin out the story, come up with new ideas that can be incorporated along the way, sometimes perhaps even respond to viewer reactions (even Dickens wasn't above a bit of fan service). Since Downton and Mr Selfridge ended, I've missed this kind of freewheeling drama. Attempts have been made to follow the Downton template - as with The Halcyon or Indian Summers - but they haven't been that successful. It remains to be seen whether Beecham House will make the transition from one-series wonder (which wasn't as wonderful as all that) to long-running costume drama soap. Sanditon, too, has aspirations to soapdom.
And here's where we come to the disadvantages of the freely invented costume drama that hopes to go on and on. The writers are averse to giving us a proper ending. In the optimistic hope of bagging a second series of Sanditon, Davies and Co. gave us a cliffhanger at the end of series one. Instead of getting together, astute country girl Charlotte Heywood and her brooding love interest Sidney Parker went their separate ways, as he had to make a wealthy match in order to salvage his brother's finances. What's more, Charlotte's friend and Sidney's ward, the East Indian heiress Georgiana (!) Lambe, was also separated from her love, and the personable foreman Mr Springer, who aspired to better things (and was a far better match for Charlotte than Sidney in my book) chose to give up an apprenticeship as an architect in order to honour his dead father's wishes.
All these problems could be resolved somehow if there is a second series - but what if there isn't? As with Beecham House, series one of Sanditon doesn't quite manage to stand on its own two feet. I don't like cliffhangers at the best of times, but they are especially irritating when there is no guarantee whatsoever that there will ever be another series. The trick in these cases is to end on a note which will leave the viewers content if the worst comes to the worst, while keeping a couple of plot twists up your sleeve should the possibility of a sequel come along.
All in all, though, I'd be more likely to recommend Sanditon than Beecham House to costume-drama lovers. Yes, the hero Sidney, who is brusque and impolite to Charlotte for no reason for a good chunk of the story (in an effort to channel Mr Darcy, supposedly - but Darcy's rudeness had its explanations, and anyway he didn't win his girl until he learned to behave) is a bit annoying. And why doesn't he shave? He's played by Theo James, aka Mr Pamuk, who is undeniably handsome, but he doesn't look his best with stubble - no man does. Yes, there is some clumsy anti-slavery pontificating at times, but it's not as if this wasn't a legitimate concern of the day. With an East Indian heiress as part of the cast, the race/slavery theme fits better into the story than when it's, say, rammed into a Mansfield Park adaptation for no particularly good reason. Yes, the characters are by no means remarkably complex. All the same, there's a lot to enjoy.
My favourite plot concerned the potential heirs circling the rich and, erm, challenging Lady Denham (Anne Reid elevating what is mostly a caricature). Making Sir Edward Denham and his sister merely step-siblings, in order for them to be able to have a clandestine affair without committing "real" incest, seemed a daft idea to me at first. If they're step-siblings, how come they're both called Denham? Shouldn't Miss Denham be called Miss Poorasachurchmouse or something after her dead father? I have to admit, however, that this amendment of their relationship pays off in the long run, as we realise just how smitten the outwardly cool Esther Denham is with her caddish step-brother, and in how much danger she is of denying herself happiness for his sake. Then there's Clara Brereton, Lady Denham's poor relation and not at all the innocent ingénue she appears. Esther calls her "a rat who would bite off her own tail to survive", and that sums it up neatly, but then she has good reason to hang on to Lady Denham for dear life. The schemings of the Denhams and Clara and their interactions are fun to watch while having somes serious aspects, too. At the end, everything seems to be resolved, but who knows? I only wish the other plots of Sanditon could have ended in an equally satisfying way.
Though the first half-hour or so is based on the fragment of an unfinished Jane Austen novel, I hesitate to call it an adaptation. In fact, if you haven't watched the series and would like to try it, there is one thing you have to bear in mind at all times: don't expect anything even vaguely Austenesque. The characters Jane Austen sketched in her fragment are there, true, but they neither speak nor act like Austen characters - even the more off-colour ones - do. TV Sanditon is a romp. It features, among other things, a girl giving a rake a hand job in order to disarm his advances and the heroine surprising the hero emerging stark naked from a spot of sea-bathing (because these days, a wet shirt would be much too subtle). Sanditon may not be as racy as those regency romances with a half-clad beauty on the cover and titles like Seducing a Duke, but it has more in common with those kind of books than with anything by Austen.
But regency romps can be very entertaining, and I enjoyed this one. To own the truth, I had a much easier time getting through it than, say, The Crown (which I'm still not quite finished with). At least half of Sanditon is penned by costume-drama supremo Andrew Davies, but what's notable is that most of the better episodes were written by his co-authors. Davies is surprisingly coarse, especially in the earlier episodes (I know he has that reputation, but somewhat unfairly in my view - there is nothing coarse about, say, his adaptation of Bleak House). In time, the show finds its feet more, but even at its best it's more seaside postcard than delicate ivory miniature. And as long as that's what you're prepared for, it's fine.
As Davies and Co. don't even try to finish the story the way they think Austen would have done it, it leaves them free to do anything they like with the Sanditon characters. In fact, Sanditon in some ways demonstrates the advantages and disadvantages of not having a set story to follow. There's the thrill that comes from the fact that anything can happen - and pretty much anything does. The script-writers can spin out the story, come up with new ideas that can be incorporated along the way, sometimes perhaps even respond to viewer reactions (even Dickens wasn't above a bit of fan service). Since Downton and Mr Selfridge ended, I've missed this kind of freewheeling drama. Attempts have been made to follow the Downton template - as with The Halcyon or Indian Summers - but they haven't been that successful. It remains to be seen whether Beecham House will make the transition from one-series wonder (which wasn't as wonderful as all that) to long-running costume drama soap. Sanditon, too, has aspirations to soapdom.
And here's where we come to the disadvantages of the freely invented costume drama that hopes to go on and on. The writers are averse to giving us a proper ending. In the optimistic hope of bagging a second series of Sanditon, Davies and Co. gave us a cliffhanger at the end of series one. Instead of getting together, astute country girl Charlotte Heywood and her brooding love interest Sidney Parker went their separate ways, as he had to make a wealthy match in order to salvage his brother's finances. What's more, Charlotte's friend and Sidney's ward, the East Indian heiress Georgiana (!) Lambe, was also separated from her love, and the personable foreman Mr Springer, who aspired to better things (and was a far better match for Charlotte than Sidney in my book) chose to give up an apprenticeship as an architect in order to honour his dead father's wishes.
All these problems could be resolved somehow if there is a second series - but what if there isn't? As with Beecham House, series one of Sanditon doesn't quite manage to stand on its own two feet. I don't like cliffhangers at the best of times, but they are especially irritating when there is no guarantee whatsoever that there will ever be another series. The trick in these cases is to end on a note which will leave the viewers content if the worst comes to the worst, while keeping a couple of plot twists up your sleeve should the possibility of a sequel come along.
All in all, though, I'd be more likely to recommend Sanditon than Beecham House to costume-drama lovers. Yes, the hero Sidney, who is brusque and impolite to Charlotte for no reason for a good chunk of the story (in an effort to channel Mr Darcy, supposedly - but Darcy's rudeness had its explanations, and anyway he didn't win his girl until he learned to behave) is a bit annoying. And why doesn't he shave? He's played by Theo James, aka Mr Pamuk, who is undeniably handsome, but he doesn't look his best with stubble - no man does. Yes, there is some clumsy anti-slavery pontificating at times, but it's not as if this wasn't a legitimate concern of the day. With an East Indian heiress as part of the cast, the race/slavery theme fits better into the story than when it's, say, rammed into a Mansfield Park adaptation for no particularly good reason. Yes, the characters are by no means remarkably complex. All the same, there's a lot to enjoy.
My favourite plot concerned the potential heirs circling the rich and, erm, challenging Lady Denham (Anne Reid elevating what is mostly a caricature). Making Sir Edward Denham and his sister merely step-siblings, in order for them to be able to have a clandestine affair without committing "real" incest, seemed a daft idea to me at first. If they're step-siblings, how come they're both called Denham? Shouldn't Miss Denham be called Miss Poorasachurchmouse or something after her dead father? I have to admit, however, that this amendment of their relationship pays off in the long run, as we realise just how smitten the outwardly cool Esther Denham is with her caddish step-brother, and in how much danger she is of denying herself happiness for his sake. Then there's Clara Brereton, Lady Denham's poor relation and not at all the innocent ingénue she appears. Esther calls her "a rat who would bite off her own tail to survive", and that sums it up neatly, but then she has good reason to hang on to Lady Denham for dear life. The schemings of the Denhams and Clara and their interactions are fun to watch while having somes serious aspects, too. At the end, everything seems to be resolved, but who knows? I only wish the other plots of Sanditon could have ended in an equally satisfying way.
Wednesday, 13 November 2019
Mary Poppins (Disney version) on good form
I'm starting to long for an opportunity to rubbish something. It feels like my recent blog posts have been comparatively benevolent, and it's a long time since I had a chance to tear a film, book or TV series to ribbons. Maybe the TV adaptation of His Dark Materials will oblige me by and by - the first episode was certainly dire, but the second, annoyingly, picked itself up a bit. I'll have to hold my fire for now. Meanwhile, I watched Mary Poppins Returns this weekend and found myself yet again enjoying something a great deal more than I expected.
I didn't think I'd like this film much at all, to be honest. I'd seen a scathing Youtube review of it, and it did seem like a rip-off of a franchise which I wasn't sure Disney handled very well to begin with. Yet from the get-go, I was charmed by the catchy songs, the adventures Mary Poppins takes the new generation of Banks children on and Mary herself as played by Emily Blunt. Yes, you can say the film's derivative - the numbers and adventures echo those in the first film in a number of ways - but for some reason this didn't really bother me. I had a good time for two solid hours without feeling that the story dragged.
Maybe the derivative aspect doesn't irritate me exactly because I don't quite consider the first Mary Poppins film a timeless classic. I rewatched it shortly after watching Saving Mr Banks and I liked it fine. For reasons explained in my Saving Mr Banks post, however, I don't see the Disney version of Mary Poppins as the "real" Mary Poppins - she's a far cry from the books (which, admittedly, I only remember very dimly). So as Julie Andrews was already not the Mary Poppins of my childhood, it doesn't feel like heresy to regard Emily Blunt as another manifestation of this particular version of Mary - Disney Mary. In some ways there's even a little more of the strict nanny about Blunt than Andrews, so she's a smidgeon closer to the book Mary, but not by much. Mary Poppins Returns sets out to deliver on the Disney Mary front - good songs, check; magical adventures, one of which includes animated characters, check (and where else do you get to see 2-D animation in the classic old Disney vein nowadays?); pretty uncontentious life lessons, check; heartwarming moments, check - and it does it well. There's nothing wrong with that, as far as I'm concerned.
My main criticism of Mary Poppins Returns relates, unsurprisingly, to its banker villain, played by Colin Firth. To see Firth deadpanning is always fun, but the part he's given is meagre to say the least. The main problem to overcome in the film is that Michael Banks, now grown up, owes the bank money, and will get his house repossessed if he doesn't repay the loan within a few days. The problem will go away if he can show that he was left shares in the bank by his father, as they are worth enough to settle the loan comfortably.
Now Firth's character Wilkins goes as far as to destroy the bank's records of the shares owned by the late George Banks, because for some reason he really wants that house rather than the loan paid in cash. But why? What banker would rather repossess houses than get his money back? Wilkins acts not only heartlessly, but stupidly and downright illegally. On no level does this display good business sense - no wonder his aged uncle sacks him in the end.
True, a Mary Poppins film isn't supposed to give a realistic picture of economic matters. But what bugs me is that Wilkins isn't given any motive at all, besides being evil. I could have bought an exaggerated, whimsical explanation, in tone with the story. He could have had a grudge against the Banks family (maybe the Banks children were always held up to him as shining examples by his tiresome uncles?) or some grandiose ideas about real estate being the Big Future and the only thing to keep the bank afloat during the great slump. It didn't have to be a good motive, as long as there was one.
Luckily, one of the bankers from the original story is reintroduced at the end, in time to reassure us that the film doesn't have some confused All Bankers Are Evil agenda. The bankers in the original film weren't evil: they meant well, and honestly thought they were helping Michael when they tried to persuade him to invest his penny rather than squander it on bird food. In a head-scratching twist from the new film, they weren't half wrong, either. They simply had a different outlook than the one Mary Poppins was trying to promote, and that's fair enough.
So, yes, the whole bank plot could have been better handled. But apart from that, Mary Poppins Returns is fun and occasionally moving escapism (I blubbed once or twice). Plus it's had me humming "The Cover is not the Book" tunelessly ever since I saw it.
I didn't think I'd like this film much at all, to be honest. I'd seen a scathing Youtube review of it, and it did seem like a rip-off of a franchise which I wasn't sure Disney handled very well to begin with. Yet from the get-go, I was charmed by the catchy songs, the adventures Mary Poppins takes the new generation of Banks children on and Mary herself as played by Emily Blunt. Yes, you can say the film's derivative - the numbers and adventures echo those in the first film in a number of ways - but for some reason this didn't really bother me. I had a good time for two solid hours without feeling that the story dragged.
Maybe the derivative aspect doesn't irritate me exactly because I don't quite consider the first Mary Poppins film a timeless classic. I rewatched it shortly after watching Saving Mr Banks and I liked it fine. For reasons explained in my Saving Mr Banks post, however, I don't see the Disney version of Mary Poppins as the "real" Mary Poppins - she's a far cry from the books (which, admittedly, I only remember very dimly). So as Julie Andrews was already not the Mary Poppins of my childhood, it doesn't feel like heresy to regard Emily Blunt as another manifestation of this particular version of Mary - Disney Mary. In some ways there's even a little more of the strict nanny about Blunt than Andrews, so she's a smidgeon closer to the book Mary, but not by much. Mary Poppins Returns sets out to deliver on the Disney Mary front - good songs, check; magical adventures, one of which includes animated characters, check (and where else do you get to see 2-D animation in the classic old Disney vein nowadays?); pretty uncontentious life lessons, check; heartwarming moments, check - and it does it well. There's nothing wrong with that, as far as I'm concerned.
My main criticism of Mary Poppins Returns relates, unsurprisingly, to its banker villain, played by Colin Firth. To see Firth deadpanning is always fun, but the part he's given is meagre to say the least. The main problem to overcome in the film is that Michael Banks, now grown up, owes the bank money, and will get his house repossessed if he doesn't repay the loan within a few days. The problem will go away if he can show that he was left shares in the bank by his father, as they are worth enough to settle the loan comfortably.
Now Firth's character Wilkins goes as far as to destroy the bank's records of the shares owned by the late George Banks, because for some reason he really wants that house rather than the loan paid in cash. But why? What banker would rather repossess houses than get his money back? Wilkins acts not only heartlessly, but stupidly and downright illegally. On no level does this display good business sense - no wonder his aged uncle sacks him in the end.
True, a Mary Poppins film isn't supposed to give a realistic picture of economic matters. But what bugs me is that Wilkins isn't given any motive at all, besides being evil. I could have bought an exaggerated, whimsical explanation, in tone with the story. He could have had a grudge against the Banks family (maybe the Banks children were always held up to him as shining examples by his tiresome uncles?) or some grandiose ideas about real estate being the Big Future and the only thing to keep the bank afloat during the great slump. It didn't have to be a good motive, as long as there was one.
Luckily, one of the bankers from the original story is reintroduced at the end, in time to reassure us that the film doesn't have some confused All Bankers Are Evil agenda. The bankers in the original film weren't evil: they meant well, and honestly thought they were helping Michael when they tried to persuade him to invest his penny rather than squander it on bird food. In a head-scratching twist from the new film, they weren't half wrong, either. They simply had a different outlook than the one Mary Poppins was trying to promote, and that's fair enough.
So, yes, the whole bank plot could have been better handled. But apart from that, Mary Poppins Returns is fun and occasionally moving escapism (I blubbed once or twice). Plus it's had me humming "The Cover is not the Book" tunelessly ever since I saw it.
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