Time was when it was easy to be blasé about the possibility of a Downton film. Now, after the end of the final series, I've lost count of how many times I've googled "downton abbey movie" (forget "downton abbey film" - the top hits are all about filming locations). I know it makes little sense to wish for a film when the series was so nicely wrapped up, but I really, really want one.
Roughly, this is the argument that takes place in my head on this subject:
Downton Abbey went out with a bang with series six. The script was zingy, the pace had picked up since series five, and the characters continued to engage our interest. Most importantly, there were happy endings pretty much all around. So why risk a less satisfying ending of the drama with a film? Surely it's better to pull down the curtain while everything's still sunny.
Granted. But some of the characters' stories could safely be expanded upon. I don't want to complain or anything, but it would be nice to see Molesley and Miss Baxter married - other romances that hadn't been around as long were all right as hinted future scenarios, but after two and a half series I'd have hoped for these two to have reached the engagement stage, or at least the kissing stage. It would also be reassuring to see that things still look rosy for Edith and Bertie Pelham past the wedding night stage, and there's surely more fun to be had from Bertie's steely mum. Plus, do I have to remind you that Thomas still doesn't have a fella?
I'll get back to that. Meanwhile, about those hinted-at romances. Because the series ends where it does, we can imagine them all coming to pass. If the story goes on, one or two of these romances will probably be seen as to come to nothing, for the sake of "realism" and dramatic tension. Do you really want that?
No, fair point. But some of the romances could get into troubled waters and then be patched up again at the end of the film - that would make for some dramatic tension. And I'm ashamed to say I could, if pushed, sacrifice a romantic scenario or two for the sake of more Downton. Molesley and Miss Baxter have to end up together, and it would be really sad if Mrs Patmore didn't manage to become Mrs Mason. But it wouldn't be a catastrophe if Branson and Miss Edmunds didn't become an item - why, they've hardly met. As for Daisy and Andy, I would certainly like to see her married to someone, after all her footman troubles. It doesn't have to be him, though. When Daisy said "I could do a lot better an' all" I was inclined to agree with her.
There is talk of setting the Downton film ten years after the final episode, as Maggie Smith doesn't want to continue as the Dowager Countess. This would allow the Dowager to pass on - or die, as she herself would robustly put it - off-stage, and for the mourning period to be safely over by the time the film starts.
Sooo?
So, there would be a Downton Abbey film without the Dowager Countess! Come on!
Look, I know she's the show's most popular character, but while I have nothing against the Dowager, I would be able to bear her absence for my own part. She was great when interfering in the other characters' storylines - like Mary's love life, say - but her own plot lines were more feeble. And the epigrams started to pall a bit somewhere in series four; in the last series, I thought the best lines went to Mary and Mrs Patmore.
It would only be reasonable if one or two of the other oldies were goners as well, if we are to fast-forward as far as ten years into the future.
Mmm, I see what you mean about making sacrifices. What about Carson? He wouldn't want a long inactive retirement anyway. And Lord Merton - sweet as he is - thought he'd had "a good innings" in 1926. If he were to have died after a few final blissful years with Isobel, surely that would be all right.
But everyone would be older. And we'd be in the boring Thirties. And there'd be Nazis.
Ten years on does sound a lot. Five would do it, surely. On the other hand, ten years on, we'd be able to see Sybbie and George as adolescents, which would be fun - Sybbie would even be old enough for her first crush. The original actors could still convincingly play their characters (except the children, that is!), even if they're a little older - after all, in the first series, most of them acted characters considerably younger than their own age. And the Thirties aren't all about Nazis, Fascists and Communists. It would be dramatically rewarding to see how Mary tries to make as sure of George's safety as she possibly can in the event of a future war (to her father's disgust), but otherwise the film could steer clear of World War Two themes without much effort - Gosford Park did, and that was set in the Thirties too. And thankfully, none of the Downton regulars is much at risk of being seduced by Nazism, or even the homegrown Fascist variety.
By the way, I hope you realise that a Downton Abbey film does not mean that Thomas is going to get any? If there is anyone less likely to score than a gay Yorkshire butler pushing forty in the Twenties, it's a gay Yorkshire butler pushing fifty in the Thirties.
Not necessarily. Look, how does this sound? A corrupt government or army VIP, himself no spring chicken, with influence in recruitment matters promises to make sure George gets a cushy job in the event of a war if Thomas puts out. Thomas, not thinking it too much of a hardship, complies, with Mary's morally anguished encouragement. But the new footman (Andy having left to become a farmer) doesn't care for the arrangement as he's infatuated with Thomas himself, so he shops the VIP to the latter's superior who happens to be the Duke of Crowborough...
Oh, I give up.
onsdag 23 mars 2016
torsdag 17 mars 2016
It's the final Downton 2: Follow-up of series six predictions
My (maybe) very last Downton Abbey predictions turned out to be the usual hit-and-miss affair. I might as well get down to it, there's a lot of ground to cover:
Henry Talbot jilts Mary: NO. In fact he turned out to be her happily-ever-after. Who knew? I take some comfort in the fact that even Anna was surprised.
If I could ask Julian Fellowes only one question about Downton, it would be: Why not Mary and Charles Blake? Unlike the majority of Mary's beaux who simply put her on a pedestal, Blake challenged her and encouraged her to become the best version of herself: less the hidebound snob, more the determined, adaptable woman of substance. Now, Henry Talbot seems a nice enough chap, and he loves Mary. But so did Tony Gillingham. So did Evelyn Napier - and still does by the looks of it, poor chap - and there is little to explain why Henry is the better bet. There wasn't an awful lot of time to establish him as a character (he made his first series six appearance in episode four), and we were told rather than shown that he was an equal to Mary in strength of character. What's more - and this may be only me - I found Henry's debonair manner a little verging on sleepwalking. I preferred the snap and crackle in the Mary-Blake scenes in series four and five.
One thing has to be said for Henry, though. Mary's objection that he doesn't bring enough to the table materially is pure nonsense. In fact, a well-born husband without an estate of his own is much the most practical thing for Mary. If she had married Gillingham or Blake, they would have expected her to move to their estate/estate-to-be and take a primary interest in that, leaving the rest of the family to look after Downton for Master George. Henry's lack of non-portable property is actually an advantage, and high marks to him for attempting to make his way in trade along with the newly-converted-to-capitalism Branson.
Marigold becomes a test of love: YES. This was the series where most Downton viewers joined Edith's camp and clamoured for a happy ending for her, which she got. I'm thrilled, obviously, because I've had sympathy with Edith ever since her spiteful letter-writing-to-Turkish-Embassy days. Yet funnily enough, although Mary nearly ruined her sister's love match in an attack of pique, it was in series six where I finally came to see the point of Mary, and to understand why Fellowes himself seems to prefer her to Edith.
I'd lie if I said the reasons were wholly Thomas-unrelated. That of all the family it would be Mary who stood up for him when he was about to be sacked was as unexpected as the Earl's economising zeal. Even I have to concede that Mary owes Thomas precisely nothing. Edith, on the other hand, owes him her life, but she doesn't even register that he's in trouble, or for that matter anything much that happens at Downton if it isn't happening to her. At the start of the series, she moans to her endlessly understanding aunt that she "wants a life" - but she has a life: she has a successful magazine, a gorgeous London flat, and her illegitimate daughter living at Downton, receiving the same love and care as Sybbie and George. When she finds her final piece of happiness, it's as if she's willing it to go wrong: she does little to stop Bertie Pelham leaving her, and nearly drives him away when he comes back begging her forgiveness. Edith isn't more selfish than Mary - no-one could be that - but she is more self-pitying, and more self-absorbed. There's a reason she's the family member who interacts least with the servants.
Nevertheless, it was satisfying to see Edith finally get her man, and a marquess too - an eventuality I predicted, by the way. And Mary's betrayal was terrible - nothing less than fixing the match herself would have given her the viewers' forgiveness. However, I think her sabotaging of Strallan's proposal in series one is infinitely worse: that was a calculated meanness, rather than a moment's loss of temper, and she wasn't sorry afterwards. This time around Mary regrets her actions, and so her lapse into the Bad Old Mary ways paradoxically becomes a means of showing how much she has developed as a character.
An upstairs guest takes a shine to Thomas: NOPE. If Thomas had known that the romantic highlight of the whole Downton series for him would be to be jilted by a duke in the very first episode, he'd probably have accepted Crowborough's offer of break-up sex. Three series of romantic disasters - where at least Thomas kept trying to hook up with someone - were followed by three series of complete quiet on the love front. With a little ingenuity, one can imagine him getting laid once or twice during his travels as backup valet to the Earl ("How was London?" "Quite fun, as a matter of fact." "How was America?" "Very interesting... Very modern."). But otherwise: zilch.
The annoying thing is, I bet the makers of the series are congratulating themselves on how realistic they're being. How likely is it that Thomas would find love when homosexuality in the Twenties was illegal and considered to be a sin, blah blah? Well, the fact remains that Thomas is hardly the only gay man in Twenties England. In the right clandestine metropolitan circles, the unstereotypically alpha-male Mr Barrow would be fighting 'em off. Instead he chooses to stay in a Yorkshire backwater, settles for trying to strike up a platonic friendship with Andy the Ingrate (who's clean forgotten the gambling den rescue) and doesn't even have much luck with that.
Apart from me wanting Thomas to find "the right person", as Mrs Hughes puts it - or any person - surely it is a dramatic opportunity lost not to have him as the chased rather as the chaser in a love scenario? Moreover, if he'd found someone who actually loved him, it would make his attempts to reform his character much more believable. Ah well, maybe in the film (if there is one).
Peter Coyle turns up: YES. Not that we got to see him. One opportunity after another was set up dramatically - a showdown between Coyle and Miss Baxter in court; a confrontation between them in prison - only to turn into nought. It's a perfect example of one of Downton's many Blind Alley Plots. In the world of Downton, there are a wealth of guns over the fireplace that are not fired in the last act - Michael Gregson's disappearance is another instance that comes to mind. As frustrating as this was for the viewer, it did make the series a lot more unpredictable. Though the non-show of the other Peter, Bertie's "artistic" cousin whose character was described at some length, was even more of a disappointment than the invisibility of Peter Coyle. After all, if Cousin Peter had come back from the dead (and in want of a valet, maybe?), Edith would still have taken Bertie.
The Green case is resolved, finally! YES. But not in a way which explained why we've been stuck with this storyline for so long. Instead it just... petered out. This left the Bateses blissfully free of legal problems, but with very little else to do. Bates especially was shoved into the background, which did not displease me. Anna (whose child we could confidently guess would be safely delivered) had a little more on her plate as a downstairs peacekeeper general. Luckily for her hubby's career, she got quite chummy with Thomas, well before he looked set for the butler post. Surely it was largely down to her that Thomas and Bates at long last buried the hatchet (about three series later than would have been natural, but still). It may seem surprising that Anna would befriend Thomas, if one recalls the fierceness of the Bates-Barrow wars in the first series and the fact that Anna was the only one sceptical to the Save Thomas campaign in series three. But they did bond over Sybil's death, she tried to offer him comfort when Jimmy left - a friendly ouverture Thomas didn't reject - and Anna, like Miss Baxter, is a woman who likes to make her benevolent presence felt. She may not be entirely immune to leader-of-the-pack appeal, either.
Henry Talbot jilts Mary: NO. In fact he turned out to be her happily-ever-after. Who knew? I take some comfort in the fact that even Anna was surprised.
If I could ask Julian Fellowes only one question about Downton, it would be: Why not Mary and Charles Blake? Unlike the majority of Mary's beaux who simply put her on a pedestal, Blake challenged her and encouraged her to become the best version of herself: less the hidebound snob, more the determined, adaptable woman of substance. Now, Henry Talbot seems a nice enough chap, and he loves Mary. But so did Tony Gillingham. So did Evelyn Napier - and still does by the looks of it, poor chap - and there is little to explain why Henry is the better bet. There wasn't an awful lot of time to establish him as a character (he made his first series six appearance in episode four), and we were told rather than shown that he was an equal to Mary in strength of character. What's more - and this may be only me - I found Henry's debonair manner a little verging on sleepwalking. I preferred the snap and crackle in the Mary-Blake scenes in series four and five.
One thing has to be said for Henry, though. Mary's objection that he doesn't bring enough to the table materially is pure nonsense. In fact, a well-born husband without an estate of his own is much the most practical thing for Mary. If she had married Gillingham or Blake, they would have expected her to move to their estate/estate-to-be and take a primary interest in that, leaving the rest of the family to look after Downton for Master George. Henry's lack of non-portable property is actually an advantage, and high marks to him for attempting to make his way in trade along with the newly-converted-to-capitalism Branson.
Marigold becomes a test of love: YES. This was the series where most Downton viewers joined Edith's camp and clamoured for a happy ending for her, which she got. I'm thrilled, obviously, because I've had sympathy with Edith ever since her spiteful letter-writing-to-Turkish-Embassy days. Yet funnily enough, although Mary nearly ruined her sister's love match in an attack of pique, it was in series six where I finally came to see the point of Mary, and to understand why Fellowes himself seems to prefer her to Edith.
I'd lie if I said the reasons were wholly Thomas-unrelated. That of all the family it would be Mary who stood up for him when he was about to be sacked was as unexpected as the Earl's economising zeal. Even I have to concede that Mary owes Thomas precisely nothing. Edith, on the other hand, owes him her life, but she doesn't even register that he's in trouble, or for that matter anything much that happens at Downton if it isn't happening to her. At the start of the series, she moans to her endlessly understanding aunt that she "wants a life" - but she has a life: she has a successful magazine, a gorgeous London flat, and her illegitimate daughter living at Downton, receiving the same love and care as Sybbie and George. When she finds her final piece of happiness, it's as if she's willing it to go wrong: she does little to stop Bertie Pelham leaving her, and nearly drives him away when he comes back begging her forgiveness. Edith isn't more selfish than Mary - no-one could be that - but she is more self-pitying, and more self-absorbed. There's a reason she's the family member who interacts least with the servants.
Nevertheless, it was satisfying to see Edith finally get her man, and a marquess too - an eventuality I predicted, by the way. And Mary's betrayal was terrible - nothing less than fixing the match herself would have given her the viewers' forgiveness. However, I think her sabotaging of Strallan's proposal in series one is infinitely worse: that was a calculated meanness, rather than a moment's loss of temper, and she wasn't sorry afterwards. This time around Mary regrets her actions, and so her lapse into the Bad Old Mary ways paradoxically becomes a means of showing how much she has developed as a character.
An upstairs guest takes a shine to Thomas: NOPE. If Thomas had known that the romantic highlight of the whole Downton series for him would be to be jilted by a duke in the very first episode, he'd probably have accepted Crowborough's offer of break-up sex. Three series of romantic disasters - where at least Thomas kept trying to hook up with someone - were followed by three series of complete quiet on the love front. With a little ingenuity, one can imagine him getting laid once or twice during his travels as backup valet to the Earl ("How was London?" "Quite fun, as a matter of fact." "How was America?" "Very interesting... Very modern."). But otherwise: zilch.
The annoying thing is, I bet the makers of the series are congratulating themselves on how realistic they're being. How likely is it that Thomas would find love when homosexuality in the Twenties was illegal and considered to be a sin, blah blah? Well, the fact remains that Thomas is hardly the only gay man in Twenties England. In the right clandestine metropolitan circles, the unstereotypically alpha-male Mr Barrow would be fighting 'em off. Instead he chooses to stay in a Yorkshire backwater, settles for trying to strike up a platonic friendship with Andy the Ingrate (who's clean forgotten the gambling den rescue) and doesn't even have much luck with that.
Apart from me wanting Thomas to find "the right person", as Mrs Hughes puts it - or any person - surely it is a dramatic opportunity lost not to have him as the chased rather as the chaser in a love scenario? Moreover, if he'd found someone who actually loved him, it would make his attempts to reform his character much more believable. Ah well, maybe in the film (if there is one).
Peter Coyle turns up: YES. Not that we got to see him. One opportunity after another was set up dramatically - a showdown between Coyle and Miss Baxter in court; a confrontation between them in prison - only to turn into nought. It's a perfect example of one of Downton's many Blind Alley Plots. In the world of Downton, there are a wealth of guns over the fireplace that are not fired in the last act - Michael Gregson's disappearance is another instance that comes to mind. As frustrating as this was for the viewer, it did make the series a lot more unpredictable. Though the non-show of the other Peter, Bertie's "artistic" cousin whose character was described at some length, was even more of a disappointment than the invisibility of Peter Coyle. After all, if Cousin Peter had come back from the dead (and in want of a valet, maybe?), Edith would still have taken Bertie.
The Green case is resolved, finally! YES. But not in a way which explained why we've been stuck with this storyline for so long. Instead it just... petered out. This left the Bateses blissfully free of legal problems, but with very little else to do. Bates especially was shoved into the background, which did not displease me. Anna (whose child we could confidently guess would be safely delivered) had a little more on her plate as a downstairs peacekeeper general. Luckily for her hubby's career, she got quite chummy with Thomas, well before he looked set for the butler post. Surely it was largely down to her that Thomas and Bates at long last buried the hatchet (about three series later than would have been natural, but still). It may seem surprising that Anna would befriend Thomas, if one recalls the fierceness of the Bates-Barrow wars in the first series and the fact that Anna was the only one sceptical to the Save Thomas campaign in series three. But they did bond over Sybil's death, she tried to offer him comfort when Jimmy left - a friendly ouverture Thomas didn't reject - and Anna, like Miss Baxter, is a woman who likes to make her benevolent presence felt. She may not be entirely immune to leader-of-the-pack appeal, either.
onsdag 9 mars 2016
It's the final Downton 1: General reflections (mainly underbutler-related) on series 6
Blimey, as the man himself might have said. Talk about a hard-won victory.
Yes, they've finally shown the whole of series - or season - six of Downton Abbey in the US, and I'm off the leash. Bear with me while I devote a couple of posts to the final lap of my favourite series of the 2010s: this could be the last time I have the chance to wallow in all things Downton. Maybe the last time. I don't know.
The hard-won victory is, of course, that of Thomas. I have the perfect excuse to make my comments on the Thomasy side, because so, in fact, was this series. Not all Downton characters can carry equal weight in every series, and this time around the meatiest storylines belonged to the two remaining Crawley daughters, in search of love, and to Thomas, in search of - well, a reason to live, basically. Other Downton regulars are as often as not caught up in auxiliary functions in these storylines, or waste time on the Hospital Plot, which had viewers all over the world rolling their eyes with boredom. Tom Branson turns up again with Sybbie in tow, which is a good thing in itself - Allen Leech has a knack of making this potentially irritating character endearing - but he spends most of his time matchmaking for Mary and generally being a sort of Jiminy Cricket for the girls. Thomas at least has something substantial to do. That's the good news.
Strewth, though, it was gruelling. Time was, when something bad happened to a favourite Downton character, you could comfort yourself with the thought that it would all be over in an episode or two. From series four onwards, however, the plot lines became more and more stretched out over time. Which is fine when it is a dramatically rewarding story being told, worse if it's not (the whole "who killed Mr Green" plot should really have been wrapped up in the series four Christmas special). Thomas's sufferings are dramatically rewarding - but did he really have to be put through the wringer during the whole series, until the light at the end of the tunnel appears in the very last episode?
There were two good reasons for making such a meal of Thomas's trials. The first was to make it believable that his despair should reach suicidal dimensions, even though objectively speaking he has been through worse things before without a thought of slitting his wrists - such as being spurned and hated by the man he loved and about to be dismissed without a character at the end of series three. Then, he talked of finding a job through a cousin in Bombay. Whatever happened to the cousin-in-Bombay plan this time around, one wonders?
The second reason (an excellent one, this) was to make viewers not already on Team Barrow accept that the new butler of Downton after Carson will be none other than wine-pinching, William-harassing, snuffbox-hiding, dog-napping Thomas. For this to happen, there had to be suffering followed by redemption, and judging by comments online - and some from the TV sofa - the strategy worked a treat. Those like me, who were quite ready to see Thomas end up in the top job long before the Earl first uttered "who needs an under-butler these days?", simply had to put up with it in a worthy cause. And it's not as if I mind a bit of road-to-redemptioning - just not so much of it. The upside was a sizeable number of Vulnerable Thomas scenes, and, it has to be said, it's quite nice not to be the only one going "Awww" when they appear.
The "longest underbutler-sacking in history" plot was a little hard on the characters put on Thomas-torturing duty. Take Lord Grantham. When it comes to Downton, you sometimes have to swallow a wobbly premise for the sake of its dramatic rewards, and the Earl's new-found enthusiasm for domestic economy was wobblier than most. Not only do we see the amiable gent who once upbraided Matthew for making Molesley feel useless ready to lay of staff even before it becomes economically necessary. I couldn't help wondering whether it was even within his remit to make these economies. Shouldn't household matters be left to the lady of the house? Did the Earl even discuss his staff-rationalising ideas with Cora? When she gushes to Thomas in the Christmas special "We'll always be grateful to you for saving Lady Edith from the fire", has she any idea how silly that sounds?
The manner the Earl goes about his economising is pure Grantham style, though, and one of several indications in this series that paternalism may not be all it's cracked up to be. (Remember Lord Darnley complaining about his family's "poky London house" while Mr Mason's about to lose the roof over his head - can you blame Daisy for being furious?) Of course, the Earl must have thought it was terribly nice of him to give a servant he was about to sack time to find another job - without reflecting on how impossible said servant's position would become if no other job was forthcoming. Furthermore, it's not just niceness that makes the Earl and Carson nudge Thomas out by degrees rather than just dismiss him with a good character: it's the wish to avoid "unpleasantness". The gradual sacking leaves them free to act as if it's not happening: Carson remarks in episode three that Thomas seems "disenchanted", as if he had no idea why; not long afterwards, the Earl has the barefaced cheek to read Thomas a moral lecture - twice - for landing Gwen in the soup (not to criticise Gwen, but wouldn't you?) and huffing over his "lack of generosity" - what, like getting rid of the man who saved your daughter's life when your finances don't even require it, you mean? Carson takes the biscuit with the comment "it's not quite fair on his Lordship to string it out" - not fair on his Lordship?
At least the Earl has some touching moments throughout the series, even if he doesn't cover himself in glory in the Thomas business. He sees off Mary's blackmailer, has a sweet encounter with a forward village boy ("more a philosopher than a thief") during the day the castle is open to the public and shows love and a growing respect for his problem child Edith. Poor Carson is less lucky. He has some marvellous scenes in the first episode, declaring his love for Mrs Hughes to Mrs Patmore. But then it's downhill all the way. Not only does his usual Disapproving Dad Act towards Thomas (not wildly helpful in the circs but at least understandable) harden to downright nastiness ("Then when do you need me, Mr Carson?" "When indeed?"). He also makes the audience-alienating mistake of opposing the wishes of his future wife when it comes to the wedding reception, then criticising her cooking and housekeeping (!) once they're married, and tops it up by being on the wrong side of every argument - even trying to stop the family aiding Mrs Patmore in her hour of need, after she has done so much one way or another to promote his marital happiness. None of this is out of character. Of course, a crusty old bachelor takes some domesticating before he can make a perfect husband, and you can see why Fellowes couldn't have the Carsons cooing happily for the rest of the series once they'd been hitched - there's not much drama to be got out of that. But Carson does have a more teddybear-like side to him which we saw precious little of in the final series. If this is so we'd mind less about his shaking hands in the final episode, it's pretty callous - but rather effective.
Right. Next time: a follow-up of my predictions for series six, and with it reflections on Mary and Edith and their romances. Just don't think I'm quite done with Thomas yet.
Yes, they've finally shown the whole of series - or season - six of Downton Abbey in the US, and I'm off the leash. Bear with me while I devote a couple of posts to the final lap of my favourite series of the 2010s: this could be the last time I have the chance to wallow in all things Downton. Maybe the last time. I don't know.
The hard-won victory is, of course, that of Thomas. I have the perfect excuse to make my comments on the Thomasy side, because so, in fact, was this series. Not all Downton characters can carry equal weight in every series, and this time around the meatiest storylines belonged to the two remaining Crawley daughters, in search of love, and to Thomas, in search of - well, a reason to live, basically. Other Downton regulars are as often as not caught up in auxiliary functions in these storylines, or waste time on the Hospital Plot, which had viewers all over the world rolling their eyes with boredom. Tom Branson turns up again with Sybbie in tow, which is a good thing in itself - Allen Leech has a knack of making this potentially irritating character endearing - but he spends most of his time matchmaking for Mary and generally being a sort of Jiminy Cricket for the girls. Thomas at least has something substantial to do. That's the good news.
Strewth, though, it was gruelling. Time was, when something bad happened to a favourite Downton character, you could comfort yourself with the thought that it would all be over in an episode or two. From series four onwards, however, the plot lines became more and more stretched out over time. Which is fine when it is a dramatically rewarding story being told, worse if it's not (the whole "who killed Mr Green" plot should really have been wrapped up in the series four Christmas special). Thomas's sufferings are dramatically rewarding - but did he really have to be put through the wringer during the whole series, until the light at the end of the tunnel appears in the very last episode?
There were two good reasons for making such a meal of Thomas's trials. The first was to make it believable that his despair should reach suicidal dimensions, even though objectively speaking he has been through worse things before without a thought of slitting his wrists - such as being spurned and hated by the man he loved and about to be dismissed without a character at the end of series three. Then, he talked of finding a job through a cousin in Bombay. Whatever happened to the cousin-in-Bombay plan this time around, one wonders?
The second reason (an excellent one, this) was to make viewers not already on Team Barrow accept that the new butler of Downton after Carson will be none other than wine-pinching, William-harassing, snuffbox-hiding, dog-napping Thomas. For this to happen, there had to be suffering followed by redemption, and judging by comments online - and some from the TV sofa - the strategy worked a treat. Those like me, who were quite ready to see Thomas end up in the top job long before the Earl first uttered "who needs an under-butler these days?", simply had to put up with it in a worthy cause. And it's not as if I mind a bit of road-to-redemptioning - just not so much of it. The upside was a sizeable number of Vulnerable Thomas scenes, and, it has to be said, it's quite nice not to be the only one going "Awww" when they appear.
The "longest underbutler-sacking in history" plot was a little hard on the characters put on Thomas-torturing duty. Take Lord Grantham. When it comes to Downton, you sometimes have to swallow a wobbly premise for the sake of its dramatic rewards, and the Earl's new-found enthusiasm for domestic economy was wobblier than most. Not only do we see the amiable gent who once upbraided Matthew for making Molesley feel useless ready to lay of staff even before it becomes economically necessary. I couldn't help wondering whether it was even within his remit to make these economies. Shouldn't household matters be left to the lady of the house? Did the Earl even discuss his staff-rationalising ideas with Cora? When she gushes to Thomas in the Christmas special "We'll always be grateful to you for saving Lady Edith from the fire", has she any idea how silly that sounds?
The manner the Earl goes about his economising is pure Grantham style, though, and one of several indications in this series that paternalism may not be all it's cracked up to be. (Remember Lord Darnley complaining about his family's "poky London house" while Mr Mason's about to lose the roof over his head - can you blame Daisy for being furious?) Of course, the Earl must have thought it was terribly nice of him to give a servant he was about to sack time to find another job - without reflecting on how impossible said servant's position would become if no other job was forthcoming. Furthermore, it's not just niceness that makes the Earl and Carson nudge Thomas out by degrees rather than just dismiss him with a good character: it's the wish to avoid "unpleasantness". The gradual sacking leaves them free to act as if it's not happening: Carson remarks in episode three that Thomas seems "disenchanted", as if he had no idea why; not long afterwards, the Earl has the barefaced cheek to read Thomas a moral lecture - twice - for landing Gwen in the soup (not to criticise Gwen, but wouldn't you?) and huffing over his "lack of generosity" - what, like getting rid of the man who saved your daughter's life when your finances don't even require it, you mean? Carson takes the biscuit with the comment "it's not quite fair on his Lordship to string it out" - not fair on his Lordship?
At least the Earl has some touching moments throughout the series, even if he doesn't cover himself in glory in the Thomas business. He sees off Mary's blackmailer, has a sweet encounter with a forward village boy ("more a philosopher than a thief") during the day the castle is open to the public and shows love and a growing respect for his problem child Edith. Poor Carson is less lucky. He has some marvellous scenes in the first episode, declaring his love for Mrs Hughes to Mrs Patmore. But then it's downhill all the way. Not only does his usual Disapproving Dad Act towards Thomas (not wildly helpful in the circs but at least understandable) harden to downright nastiness ("Then when do you need me, Mr Carson?" "When indeed?"). He also makes the audience-alienating mistake of opposing the wishes of his future wife when it comes to the wedding reception, then criticising her cooking and housekeeping (!) once they're married, and tops it up by being on the wrong side of every argument - even trying to stop the family aiding Mrs Patmore in her hour of need, after she has done so much one way or another to promote his marital happiness. None of this is out of character. Of course, a crusty old bachelor takes some domesticating before he can make a perfect husband, and you can see why Fellowes couldn't have the Carsons cooing happily for the rest of the series once they'd been hitched - there's not much drama to be got out of that. But Carson does have a more teddybear-like side to him which we saw precious little of in the final series. If this is so we'd mind less about his shaking hands in the final episode, it's pretty callous - but rather effective.
Right. Next time: a follow-up of my predictions for series six, and with it reflections on Mary and Edith and their romances. Just don't think I'm quite done with Thomas yet.
onsdag 24 februari 2016
War, peace and TV adaptations
Right then. War and Peace.
Not the novel, mind - I must admit that not only have I never read it, I'm unlikely ever to do so. Call me shallow, but I don't think I can face a 1000 page-long story set during the Napoleonic wars from an anti-Napoleonic perspective, especially as it includes the catastrophic Russian campaign. Moreover, it doesn't matter if a novel is 1000 pages long if the plot moves at a fair lick, but I suspect Tolstoy of being a digresser in the Hugo vein - and I wouldn't be too surprised if many of the digressions were soundings-off about a certain French Emperor.
However, I have watched the old, 15-hour-long BBC adaptation of the novel starring Anthony Hopkins as Pierre (something must have happened to my attention span since then), and so I do have something with which to compare the new, snappier Andrew Davies adaptation. What I found I enjoyed in the old version were the relationship dramas - a largish cast of characters were linked in intricate and sometimes unexpected ways, and it wasn't entirely predictable who would end up with whom. This seemed like promising material for the magic Davies touch.
The first episode was frothy enough, and included the suspenseful "get Pierre to his dying dad on time" storyline. Four episodes in, though (the whole series is six episodes long), and I can't help noticing that the pace isn't exactly frantic. When I first heard the melancholic Russian theme song I thought "get away with you, Andrew", but as a matter of fact, this adaptation is rather more pensive than one is used to from Davies, and contains scenes which don't advance the plot much but which Set the Mood. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit dull at times. Sometime during episode three I thought "this is the peace part, I should be enjoying this more" - and got a feeling of déja vu when I realised I had been thinking much the same thing when watching much the same part of the story in the old 15-hour-adaptation.
Having said that, the Davies adaptation is an Express train compared to the old one, and the more sensible choice if you want a handy TV version of War and Peace which will give you an inkling of what's it all about. Let's face it, if you want an endurance test, you might as well read the novel - at a rate of 50 pages per hour you'd be on page 750 after 15 hours, with a mere 250 pages to go. All right, so if you skip the old adaptation you don't get Anthony Hopkins or Alan Dobie's handsome Andrei. But the new version's heroes aren't bad either - Paul Dano is sweet as Pierre, and James Norton gives Andrei an intensity of feeling which just about saves the character from being too much of a stuffed shirt. And then there's Lily James as a lovely but clueless Natasha, dangerously getting to grips with love and desire through trial and error. James (known as Lady Rose in Downton) is used to playing wilful teenagers, and the fact that Natasha is merely eighteen when committing a fundamental error which needlessly complicates her love life is much more convincingly brought home than in the old version.
The other characters are well-cast too: Stephen Rea as the scheming Prince Kuragin (!), regrettably more or less absent after the two first episodes; Rebecca Front - always a joy - as the ambitious mum of personable but shallow Boris; Adrian Edmondson and Greta Scacchi as Natasha's parents, with Edmondson particularly poignant as a man seemingly incapable of anger ("it is a little difficult... we will have to close down our house in Moscow" is his reaction when his son contracts an astronomical gambling debt); Tuppence Middleton as Pierre's sluttish wife Hélène, who can be relied on to crank up the drama a bit; and so on. (I was a little disappointed in Hélène's brother Anatole, but maybe my expectations were too high, as this is a character who's supposed to be able to fell ladies with a glance. I don't think I'd have minded the same actor as, say, Sampson Brass in The Old Curiosity Shop.)
For lazybones like me, then, this War and Peace adaptation is a fairly pleasant way to acquaint oneself with the source material. I do wonder, though, whether it doesn't risk falling between two chairs, as being too frothy for the real War and Peace diehards and not frothy enough to costume-drama addicts who simply want a good time. But who knows? The same thing might be said about Davies's Dickens adaptations, and I thought they were brilliant, speaking both as a costume drama viewer and as a card-carrying Dickens fan. It is perfectly possible that those who have read and loved War and Peace will enjoy seeing both the available BBC versions.
Not the novel, mind - I must admit that not only have I never read it, I'm unlikely ever to do so. Call me shallow, but I don't think I can face a 1000 page-long story set during the Napoleonic wars from an anti-Napoleonic perspective, especially as it includes the catastrophic Russian campaign. Moreover, it doesn't matter if a novel is 1000 pages long if the plot moves at a fair lick, but I suspect Tolstoy of being a digresser in the Hugo vein - and I wouldn't be too surprised if many of the digressions were soundings-off about a certain French Emperor.
However, I have watched the old, 15-hour-long BBC adaptation of the novel starring Anthony Hopkins as Pierre (something must have happened to my attention span since then), and so I do have something with which to compare the new, snappier Andrew Davies adaptation. What I found I enjoyed in the old version were the relationship dramas - a largish cast of characters were linked in intricate and sometimes unexpected ways, and it wasn't entirely predictable who would end up with whom. This seemed like promising material for the magic Davies touch.
The first episode was frothy enough, and included the suspenseful "get Pierre to his dying dad on time" storyline. Four episodes in, though (the whole series is six episodes long), and I can't help noticing that the pace isn't exactly frantic. When I first heard the melancholic Russian theme song I thought "get away with you, Andrew", but as a matter of fact, this adaptation is rather more pensive than one is used to from Davies, and contains scenes which don't advance the plot much but which Set the Mood. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit dull at times. Sometime during episode three I thought "this is the peace part, I should be enjoying this more" - and got a feeling of déja vu when I realised I had been thinking much the same thing when watching much the same part of the story in the old 15-hour-adaptation.
Having said that, the Davies adaptation is an Express train compared to the old one, and the more sensible choice if you want a handy TV version of War and Peace which will give you an inkling of what's it all about. Let's face it, if you want an endurance test, you might as well read the novel - at a rate of 50 pages per hour you'd be on page 750 after 15 hours, with a mere 250 pages to go. All right, so if you skip the old adaptation you don't get Anthony Hopkins or Alan Dobie's handsome Andrei. But the new version's heroes aren't bad either - Paul Dano is sweet as Pierre, and James Norton gives Andrei an intensity of feeling which just about saves the character from being too much of a stuffed shirt. And then there's Lily James as a lovely but clueless Natasha, dangerously getting to grips with love and desire through trial and error. James (known as Lady Rose in Downton) is used to playing wilful teenagers, and the fact that Natasha is merely eighteen when committing a fundamental error which needlessly complicates her love life is much more convincingly brought home than in the old version.
The other characters are well-cast too: Stephen Rea as the scheming Prince Kuragin (!), regrettably more or less absent after the two first episodes; Rebecca Front - always a joy - as the ambitious mum of personable but shallow Boris; Adrian Edmondson and Greta Scacchi as Natasha's parents, with Edmondson particularly poignant as a man seemingly incapable of anger ("it is a little difficult... we will have to close down our house in Moscow" is his reaction when his son contracts an astronomical gambling debt); Tuppence Middleton as Pierre's sluttish wife Hélène, who can be relied on to crank up the drama a bit; and so on. (I was a little disappointed in Hélène's brother Anatole, but maybe my expectations were too high, as this is a character who's supposed to be able to fell ladies with a glance. I don't think I'd have minded the same actor as, say, Sampson Brass in The Old Curiosity Shop.)
For lazybones like me, then, this War and Peace adaptation is a fairly pleasant way to acquaint oneself with the source material. I do wonder, though, whether it doesn't risk falling between two chairs, as being too frothy for the real War and Peace diehards and not frothy enough to costume-drama addicts who simply want a good time. But who knows? The same thing might be said about Davies's Dickens adaptations, and I thought they were brilliant, speaking both as a costume drama viewer and as a card-carrying Dickens fan. It is perfectly possible that those who have read and loved War and Peace will enjoy seeing both the available BBC versions.
tisdag 9 februari 2016
The Paying Guests - Painless ambitious reading
I wonder if it's a spoiler to say that a novel doesn't have a twist? As a matter of fact, I rather think it might be. Let me mitigate my spoiling, then, by saying that The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters does contain surprising turns of event - and not all of them unpleasant, either. What it doesn't have is the sort of rug-pulled-away-under-your-feet twist which makes you reassess the characters and what's been going on completely. I've come across twists like these in the other two books by Waters that I've read, Fingersmith and Affinity, and consequently I viewed Lilian, the heroine's love interest, with some suspicion. We know about those butter-wouldn't-melt type of women, don't we? She is no con artist, though: if the characters of The Paying Guests let each other down at times, it's because of other failings than cold-hearted deviousness.
Taking place in London in 1922, the novel opens with the protagonist, Frances Wray, and her mother receiving their new lodgers, Leonard and Lilian Barber. The Wrays are genteel (which is why their friends refer to their lodgers as "paying guests") but fallen on hard times, the Barbers are of the "clerk class". Frances doesn't much like having to share her house with strangers, and is at first a little contemptous of the Barbers, though she appreciates Lilian's kindness. Her positive feelings towards Lilian grow stronger as the two women become friends, until Frances has to admit to herself that she's fallen in love. With one failed love affair already behind her, this is unwelcome news, especially as Lilian's first reaction when realising that her friend's lost love was a actually a girl is shock and embarrassment. Will Lilian come round? And, it that case, how are they going to handle the small matter of her husband Leonard?
If you want to read a critically acclaimed novel which is also an entertaining piece of storytelling, bristling with the traditional virtues of character and plot, then look no further. For sheer page-turning value, I liked Fingersmith more: as the plot of The Paying Guests is that of a chamber piece, I did at times want the few characters involved to get on with it. But the prose has verve, and Frances is an engaging protagonist. Once you've resigned yourself to the fact that some particular plot point won't be resolved in a hurry, you can sit back and enjoy her take on things. The Paying Guests is also a kinder book than both Affinity and Fingersmith, and the characters (not just Frances - even Leonard is fairly, sometimes even sympathetically, treated) easier to like.
It gives one hope that critics can stoop to praising a good storyteller. Of course, this must mainly be because of the good writing. I suspect, though, that the all-female love affairs help, and that the supposedly challenging "lesbian angle" protects Waters from the accusation of being old-fashioned. Ironically, the relationships depicted by Waters are not in any way exotic: that's one of the points she very effectively makes in her novels. The heartbreaks, thrills, betrayals and reconciliations her female protagonists go through are the same as those a "man's woman" might experience - or a man, come to that. In The Paying Guests, the robust common sense with which the story is told (unlike Margaret in Affinity, Frances is no whiner) makes sure that the straight reader never feels preached to. True, you learn a thing or two about the situation for lesbians in Twenties England (not all bad - two girls can set up house together without any awkward questions being asked), but the story doesn't feel like it's written from any particular angle. It's just a love story.
Taking place in London in 1922, the novel opens with the protagonist, Frances Wray, and her mother receiving their new lodgers, Leonard and Lilian Barber. The Wrays are genteel (which is why their friends refer to their lodgers as "paying guests") but fallen on hard times, the Barbers are of the "clerk class". Frances doesn't much like having to share her house with strangers, and is at first a little contemptous of the Barbers, though she appreciates Lilian's kindness. Her positive feelings towards Lilian grow stronger as the two women become friends, until Frances has to admit to herself that she's fallen in love. With one failed love affair already behind her, this is unwelcome news, especially as Lilian's first reaction when realising that her friend's lost love was a actually a girl is shock and embarrassment. Will Lilian come round? And, it that case, how are they going to handle the small matter of her husband Leonard?
If you want to read a critically acclaimed novel which is also an entertaining piece of storytelling, bristling with the traditional virtues of character and plot, then look no further. For sheer page-turning value, I liked Fingersmith more: as the plot of The Paying Guests is that of a chamber piece, I did at times want the few characters involved to get on with it. But the prose has verve, and Frances is an engaging protagonist. Once you've resigned yourself to the fact that some particular plot point won't be resolved in a hurry, you can sit back and enjoy her take on things. The Paying Guests is also a kinder book than both Affinity and Fingersmith, and the characters (not just Frances - even Leonard is fairly, sometimes even sympathetically, treated) easier to like.
It gives one hope that critics can stoop to praising a good storyteller. Of course, this must mainly be because of the good writing. I suspect, though, that the all-female love affairs help, and that the supposedly challenging "lesbian angle" protects Waters from the accusation of being old-fashioned. Ironically, the relationships depicted by Waters are not in any way exotic: that's one of the points she very effectively makes in her novels. The heartbreaks, thrills, betrayals and reconciliations her female protagonists go through are the same as those a "man's woman" might experience - or a man, come to that. In The Paying Guests, the robust common sense with which the story is told (unlike Margaret in Affinity, Frances is no whiner) makes sure that the straight reader never feels preached to. True, you learn a thing or two about the situation for lesbians in Twenties England (not all bad - two girls can set up house together without any awkward questions being asked), but the story doesn't feel like it's written from any particular angle. It's just a love story.
onsdag 27 januari 2016
Christie's Terrorised Ten (or nine)
I approached BBC's new adaptation of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None with a certain wariness. The screen writer, Sarah Phelps, has been known to mess around with fundamental elements in the works she's adapted in the past (turning Oliver Twist into a thug in the making, for instance, or Miss Havisham's manner into that of a - poisonous - little girl lost). What would she do to Christie, who is apt to be underrated, when she sometimes gives the impression of wanting to improve on Dickens himself? However, I needn't have worried: The Beeb's And Then There Were None is a success. Some plot elements have been tampered with, yes, but not to any disastrous effect. There is only one change I take serious issue with.
The plot of And Then There Were None concerns ten people who are lured to an island and stranded there, while being picked off one by one by a ruthless killer. The motive is clear from the off: all of the ten are accused, in a gramophone recording, of having caused one or several deaths. The murders are a form of insane retribution: at the same time, the killer seems to be enjoying himself (I will call the murderer "he" out of convenience, but it may of course be a she). The victims are killed following the pattern of a nursery rhyme (called "Ten Little Soldier Boys" in the adaptation, completely understandably considering the original title). After a while, it dawns on the prospective victims that the murderer is not some lunatic hiding on the island, but must in matter of fact be one of them.
Christie's novel is rather an unpleasant one, but it is extremely cleverly constructed. One of the clever touches is that the killings of which the victims are accused are of the kind that they would never be convicted of in a court of law. They are indirect murders, with the odd accidental death thrown in. This gives the reader something to ponder while trying to figure out which of the ten is the one who wants to do the rest of them in. Are the actions the luckless island visitors are accused of really the equivalent of murder? How responsible are they for the deaths they are charged with, and would we put them in the same order depending on their "degree of guilt" as the murderer (the guiltier he thinks they are, the longer they have to wait before they're killed off)? Is there a clue somewhere hidden in the more vague or unsatisfactory accusations? After all, the murderer clearly feels himself to be morally superior to the rest of the crew - does this mean that he considers himself innocent, for some reason, of the charge against him? The fact that the ten suspects/victims are not hands-on murderers who've actually stuck a knife in someone is one of the main points of the novel.
Unfortunately, it is lost in the adaptation. Here, several of the indirect killings have been changed to actual murders. This is a real pity, especially as some beautiful indirect murder scenarios are done away with as a consequence. In the novel, the servant couple Mr and Mrs Rogers failed to give their former employer her medicine at the right time, resulting in her death and a nice legacy for them. In the adaptation, Rogers (considerably more Gothic than in the book) simply smothers the old lady with a pillow. On screen, General Macarthur is seen putting a bullet in his wife's lover's head; in the novel, he ingeniously sent the young man on a suicidal mission, with no-one - except a suspicious fellow officer, who of course had no proof - any the wiser about the fact that it wasn't an honest mistake. With several bona fide murderers among the ten, who would look more at home in Cards on The Table's Mr Shaitana's collection than U.N. Owen's (the murderer's alias), the plot loses an interesting dimension and the question of "degrees of guilt" doesn't really become an issue.
Having said that, the TV adaptation works very well as a thriller rather than as a clever conundrum. The focus is, as it should be, on the victims, and how they cope with the nightmare situation they've landed in. Mercifully, there is no "they had it coming" gleefulness over the proceedings. In spite of the fact that the story is divided into three whole hour-long episodes when the novel is only 220-odd pages long, the tension is kept up. The casting is absolutely spot-on, from the smaller parts (or are they...?) of Douglas Booth as reckless but eye-poppingly gorgeous Anthony Marston and Anna Maxwell Martin as the cowed Mrs Rogers to the more substantial ones. My personal favourite was Burn Gorman (Guppy in Bleak House) as the shifty copper Blore, sometimes funny when trying to salvage his dignity in trying circumstances ("I was in the lavvy if you must know"), sometimes clearly a man dangerously easy to underestimate. It's a shame that his role in the death of Stephen Landor is not only changed but also poorly motivated, but Gorman makes the best of it, and I doubt many could have grieved for the fate of Blore's allotment as convincingly. Casting Aidan Turner aka Ross Poldark as Philip Lombard is no audience-ingratiating move on the part of the BBC - well, not wholly; he's precisely the right type for this part, and as a bonus, he's allowed to shave as Lombard. I hadn't come across Maeve Dermody before, but she's exactly as I imagine Vera Claythorne: deceptively demure, but when it comes down to it a right calculating little minx. Ooh, and did I mention Charles Dance as the wintry judge? I could go on and on.
After having watched this atmospheric nail-biter, which does not belittle Christie's story or her characters, I feel more positive in view of Phelps's rumoured involvement in one or several episodes of Dickensian. I wonder if original TV drama would not suit her better than adaptations, though. And I still would not trust her or anyone else than Andrew Davies with adapting Dombey and Son - a question which remains sadly academic.
The plot of And Then There Were None concerns ten people who are lured to an island and stranded there, while being picked off one by one by a ruthless killer. The motive is clear from the off: all of the ten are accused, in a gramophone recording, of having caused one or several deaths. The murders are a form of insane retribution: at the same time, the killer seems to be enjoying himself (I will call the murderer "he" out of convenience, but it may of course be a she). The victims are killed following the pattern of a nursery rhyme (called "Ten Little Soldier Boys" in the adaptation, completely understandably considering the original title). After a while, it dawns on the prospective victims that the murderer is not some lunatic hiding on the island, but must in matter of fact be one of them.
Christie's novel is rather an unpleasant one, but it is extremely cleverly constructed. One of the clever touches is that the killings of which the victims are accused are of the kind that they would never be convicted of in a court of law. They are indirect murders, with the odd accidental death thrown in. This gives the reader something to ponder while trying to figure out which of the ten is the one who wants to do the rest of them in. Are the actions the luckless island visitors are accused of really the equivalent of murder? How responsible are they for the deaths they are charged with, and would we put them in the same order depending on their "degree of guilt" as the murderer (the guiltier he thinks they are, the longer they have to wait before they're killed off)? Is there a clue somewhere hidden in the more vague or unsatisfactory accusations? After all, the murderer clearly feels himself to be morally superior to the rest of the crew - does this mean that he considers himself innocent, for some reason, of the charge against him? The fact that the ten suspects/victims are not hands-on murderers who've actually stuck a knife in someone is one of the main points of the novel.
Unfortunately, it is lost in the adaptation. Here, several of the indirect killings have been changed to actual murders. This is a real pity, especially as some beautiful indirect murder scenarios are done away with as a consequence. In the novel, the servant couple Mr and Mrs Rogers failed to give their former employer her medicine at the right time, resulting in her death and a nice legacy for them. In the adaptation, Rogers (considerably more Gothic than in the book) simply smothers the old lady with a pillow. On screen, General Macarthur is seen putting a bullet in his wife's lover's head; in the novel, he ingeniously sent the young man on a suicidal mission, with no-one - except a suspicious fellow officer, who of course had no proof - any the wiser about the fact that it wasn't an honest mistake. With several bona fide murderers among the ten, who would look more at home in Cards on The Table's Mr Shaitana's collection than U.N. Owen's (the murderer's alias), the plot loses an interesting dimension and the question of "degrees of guilt" doesn't really become an issue.
Having said that, the TV adaptation works very well as a thriller rather than as a clever conundrum. The focus is, as it should be, on the victims, and how they cope with the nightmare situation they've landed in. Mercifully, there is no "they had it coming" gleefulness over the proceedings. In spite of the fact that the story is divided into three whole hour-long episodes when the novel is only 220-odd pages long, the tension is kept up. The casting is absolutely spot-on, from the smaller parts (or are they...?) of Douglas Booth as reckless but eye-poppingly gorgeous Anthony Marston and Anna Maxwell Martin as the cowed Mrs Rogers to the more substantial ones. My personal favourite was Burn Gorman (Guppy in Bleak House) as the shifty copper Blore, sometimes funny when trying to salvage his dignity in trying circumstances ("I was in the lavvy if you must know"), sometimes clearly a man dangerously easy to underestimate. It's a shame that his role in the death of Stephen Landor is not only changed but also poorly motivated, but Gorman makes the best of it, and I doubt many could have grieved for the fate of Blore's allotment as convincingly. Casting Aidan Turner aka Ross Poldark as Philip Lombard is no audience-ingratiating move on the part of the BBC - well, not wholly; he's precisely the right type for this part, and as a bonus, he's allowed to shave as Lombard. I hadn't come across Maeve Dermody before, but she's exactly as I imagine Vera Claythorne: deceptively demure, but when it comes down to it a right calculating little minx. Ooh, and did I mention Charles Dance as the wintry judge? I could go on and on.
After having watched this atmospheric nail-biter, which does not belittle Christie's story or her characters, I feel more positive in view of Phelps's rumoured involvement in one or several episodes of Dickensian. I wonder if original TV drama would not suit her better than adaptations, though. And I still would not trust her or anyone else than Andrew Davies with adapting Dombey and Son - a question which remains sadly academic.
onsdag 20 januari 2016
You know Who (again)
It's official: Peter Capaldi is the best Doctor in the new Doctor Who series. Well, in my opinion, anyway. (I still haven't watched the old series, except the odd episode: I have a feeling I'll get there soon enough.) He can make me listen with rapt attention to a pacifist speech. Thanks to his tour de force solo performance, I can put up with an episode featuring one of my least favourite private fears (the misnamed "Heaven Sent", which should have had the title of its companion episode "Hell Bent" - enough said). I know the Doctor gig is draining, but I certainly hope Capaldi will hold out for a while yet; he'll be an extremely hard act to follow.
Mind you, all the new Doctors have been excellent, which is one sign among many of the effort and brainpower invested in this series. I preferred series eight to series nine - in the end, the two-episode structure didn't add as much as one would have liked - but if I grumble, it should be remembered that I'm still very well aware of the high level even a comparatively lacklustre Who episode attains compared to most other shows.
So, though I admit I found "Sleep No More" incomprehensible, hated the twist at the end and sniffed at the railing against "filthy, greedy humans" - hey, look it's not as if we actually had banished bed-time, is it? - it was nice to hear the Doc quote Shakespeare in his defence of the blessings of sleep. Even if I smirked sarcastically at the clumsy political parallels in the two-parter "The Zygon Invasion/The Zygon Inversion" (and could we perhaps not equate red, blotchy aliens with minorities that are unquestionably human? I'm not sure it's very tolerance-furthering), it was great to have Osgood back from the dead - so to speak - together with the other gutsy women from UNIT. Though it was an overcomplicated cheat to back away from the tragic but dignified ending Clara was given in "Face the Raven", it feels churlish to deny the fans the possibilities of the new adventures sketched out for her at the end of "Hell Bent", complete with her own Tardis and her own distinctly impressive companion. Even so, given that poor likeable bit-part players are killed off in droves in Doctor Who, with the Doctor mostly snapping something like "you can mourn him/her later" (as they're in the middle of a crisis), how come he has such a hard time accepting his precious companion's mortality, and goes to such extreme lengths to reverse the natural order of things for her? Humans die - you would have thought he'd grasped that by now. Only saying.
Series nine frequently falls into the three Doctor Who traps of preachiness, grimness (it should be scary sometimes, yes, but like a ghost story with a happy ending, not like a horror film) and over-tricksiness. Luckily, it has enough of the Who virtues of heart and brains to compensate. As for the plot holes, I've started to believe that they are quite deliberate, in order to give the devoted fan base something to do. There are all kinds of opportunities to fill in the blanks, even through the official channels: the sheer mass of spin-offs in the form of novels, audiobooks, comics etc. is enough to make devotees of other fictional TV worlds green with envy (I should know). I was planning to be more severe on series nine, but the enthusiasm displayed in the behind-the-scenes features were heartwarming enough to put me in a better mood. Whovians - the ones in charge, anyway - must be some of the most loveable nerds around, and it's difficult to stay cross with them for long.
Mind you, all the new Doctors have been excellent, which is one sign among many of the effort and brainpower invested in this series. I preferred series eight to series nine - in the end, the two-episode structure didn't add as much as one would have liked - but if I grumble, it should be remembered that I'm still very well aware of the high level even a comparatively lacklustre Who episode attains compared to most other shows.
So, though I admit I found "Sleep No More" incomprehensible, hated the twist at the end and sniffed at the railing against "filthy, greedy humans" - hey, look it's not as if we actually had banished bed-time, is it? - it was nice to hear the Doc quote Shakespeare in his defence of the blessings of sleep. Even if I smirked sarcastically at the clumsy political parallels in the two-parter "The Zygon Invasion/The Zygon Inversion" (and could we perhaps not equate red, blotchy aliens with minorities that are unquestionably human? I'm not sure it's very tolerance-furthering), it was great to have Osgood back from the dead - so to speak - together with the other gutsy women from UNIT. Though it was an overcomplicated cheat to back away from the tragic but dignified ending Clara was given in "Face the Raven", it feels churlish to deny the fans the possibilities of the new adventures sketched out for her at the end of "Hell Bent", complete with her own Tardis and her own distinctly impressive companion. Even so, given that poor likeable bit-part players are killed off in droves in Doctor Who, with the Doctor mostly snapping something like "you can mourn him/her later" (as they're in the middle of a crisis), how come he has such a hard time accepting his precious companion's mortality, and goes to such extreme lengths to reverse the natural order of things for her? Humans die - you would have thought he'd grasped that by now. Only saying.
Series nine frequently falls into the three Doctor Who traps of preachiness, grimness (it should be scary sometimes, yes, but like a ghost story with a happy ending, not like a horror film) and over-tricksiness. Luckily, it has enough of the Who virtues of heart and brains to compensate. As for the plot holes, I've started to believe that they are quite deliberate, in order to give the devoted fan base something to do. There are all kinds of opportunities to fill in the blanks, even through the official channels: the sheer mass of spin-offs in the form of novels, audiobooks, comics etc. is enough to make devotees of other fictional TV worlds green with envy (I should know). I was planning to be more severe on series nine, but the enthusiasm displayed in the behind-the-scenes features were heartwarming enough to put me in a better mood. Whovians - the ones in charge, anyway - must be some of the most loveable nerds around, and it's difficult to stay cross with them for long.
Prenumerera på:
Inlägg (Atom)
