I recently finished "Gentlemen and Players" by Joanne Harris - of "Chocolat" fame - and I'm rather puzzled as to why she is considered to be a "popular author" rather than one of the Booker Prize brigade. I can well understand her popularity: "G&P" is gripping. But it is also well-constructed, well-written and at times thought-provoking (is loyalty to an institution such as the renownded school St Oswald's a good or a bad thing?). The main characters are interesting, if not always likeable. I was especially impressed by the way the reader is manipulated into sympathising more and more with the Latin master Roy Straitley, who at first seems to be a pompous old buffer carrying on a somewhat mean-minded feud with the teachers in the German section. When the school is under serious threat, however, he stands up for his colleagues, including his old antagonist, the head of the German department. The description of the interloper who is trying to bring the school down is skilfully done: on the one hand, you shudder over the descriptions of a bleak childhood, while on the other hand, you realise that no end of childhood traumas can excuse the monstrous behaviour of this clever psychopath. I guessed one of the main twists of the plot, and still had a good time reading the book while feeling not a little clever myself. So why, to get to my point, do I get a feeling that members of the literary establishment look down their noses slightly at this author?
I may be imagining it, of course: but it is a starting point as good as any for an uninformed theory (as most theories are). I think the answer lies in the label "of 'Chocolat' fame". I remember reading a few reviews of "Chocolat" when it came out, and they were generally very favourable. It was probably the film that harmed Harris's reputation. I did see the film, and for me the problem with it was not its feel-goodiness, but the relentless trumpeting of hedonism which made even a lover of creature comforts like myself feel we ought to give the poor ascetics a break. Film critics, though, objected more to the feel-good factor. It was observed that the book was more "dark" than the film. Nevertheless, whenever I read a review of a Harris book now, I can be pretty sure that there is a variation on the theme "this book is more dark than 'Chocolat'" in it somewhere. Yet you get the impression that the reviewer doesn't think the new book is quite "dark" enough. Throughout, "dark" equals "good": the "darker" a book or a film is, the better.
Now, I'm not against a spot of darkness in fiction. After all, that is where villains come in: their job is to generate conflict and make lives difficult for heroes and heroines. A book without its fair share of strife would risk becoming boring. I have myself used the expression "dark erotic drama" about "Dombey and Son" and meant it in a positive way: happy couplings in modern Regency Romances are simply not as interesting as a spot of Dickensian power play (though that might have something to do with who the author is). Having said all that, darkness is only one ingredient available to an author. Like any ingredient, you can add too much of it, and there are some situations where it should not be used at all.
On the subject of too much darkness, it eludes me why unhappy endings are considered much more chic than happy ones. Unhappy endings are not more credible or more true to life than happy ones. The series of catastrophes at the end of "Madame Bovary" is about as realistic as if Charles had won the lottery. A classical tragedy which makes you sob your heart out has its beauty, but as for the smug "ha ha sucks to you unsophisticated readers who wanted this story to end well" unhappy endings constructed by would-be cynical authors (actually, you're not a real cynic unless you have a poor view of your own moral worth along with everyone else's, which authors rarely do), they leave me completely cold. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, there is no such thing as a sophisticated or unsophisticated ending. Endings are either well written or badly written. That is all.
On the subject of darkness where it's really not needed: why does every film in every conceivable genre have to have a "dark" aspect nowadays? I'm not a Batman fan, but if I were I believe I would rather watch him driving the Batmobile and kicking eccentric baddie ass than contemplating his tortured comic-book soul. Every new "Harry Potter" film is described as more "dark" than the previous one: why is this a good thing? These are films about a kid wizard! People don't watch them in order to get a "King Lear" experience. The supposed "darkness" of the HP films is mostly moonshine anyway, but all the same, you wonder what's next. A "dark" Winnie the Pooh film?
Ironically, "Gentlemen and Players" is pretty dark in places, so those who like that sort of thing won't be disappointed. But more importantly, it's simply a good read.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Well-reasoned TV drama - a solace in hard times
There are advantages with unpaid leave. For instance, in between job applications, there is nothing to stop me from taking TV breaks during the day which distract me from my cold, crackpot parties with scarily focused party leaders in the Swedish Parliament and other annoyances.
I finished watching "North and South" (again, the Gaskell version) last week, and unless the book is radically different from the adaptation, I remain puzzled about Gaskell's "Christian Socialist" label. That would be "Socialist" as in "not Socialist at all but quite able to see both sides of an industrial quarrel and with no wish to dispose of factory owners either violently or by unspeficied peaceful methods". Well, not that I'm complaining: a lucid, balanced look at 19th century Industrial England was just what I would have wished, but did not get, from Dickens in "Hard Times". In "North and South" (the adaptation at least), the social conflict is so well handled that the romantic part of the story is less captivating by contrast. Of course you want the beleaguered mill owner Thornton (the exceptionally handsome Richard Armitage - but why doesn't he shave?) and the ex-vicar's daughter in straitened circumstances Margaret Hale to lay their differences aside and realise that they love each other. But the obstacles in their path are, as so often in romances, largely self-imposed. You know they will kiss and make up, and when it happens you could be forgiven for thinking "what took you so long?". When Thornton reaches an agreement with the union leader Nicholas Higgins - who shares his faults: they are both proud, stubborn and contemptuous of weakness - you feel, on the other hand, that they have achieved something important, and that real issues have been resolved.
I'm not going to switch allegiances, however: Dickens is still the master storyteller. He may not be much good when it comes to insightful comments on the Condition of England, but his characters have that extra oomph which few other 19th century authors ever come close to - even when he's not trying very hard. Gaskell's characters are a bit colourless by comparison, and a problem from my point of view is that she just doesn't "do" villains. Milton (Yes, I get it, Mill-town, plus Margaret thinks she has lost a paradise when moving from the South - but still, as a town-name it is just as unconvincing as Coketown) could have done with the odd Bitzer or Slackbridge. And as for the hero's stern mother Mrs Thornton, Mrs Sparsit in "Hard Times" out-gorgons her effortlessly.
My main cold-curing TV at the moment is not a costume drama at all: I'm re-watching "The West Wing" for the umpteenth time. It's great entertainment, at the same time as it makes you feel intelligent for being able to follow the political arguments and get the jokes. Some questions raised are more pertinent than others right now: there's one episode called "Five votes down". Guys, I know exactly how you feel.
I finished watching "North and South" (again, the Gaskell version) last week, and unless the book is radically different from the adaptation, I remain puzzled about Gaskell's "Christian Socialist" label. That would be "Socialist" as in "not Socialist at all but quite able to see both sides of an industrial quarrel and with no wish to dispose of factory owners either violently or by unspeficied peaceful methods". Well, not that I'm complaining: a lucid, balanced look at 19th century Industrial England was just what I would have wished, but did not get, from Dickens in "Hard Times". In "North and South" (the adaptation at least), the social conflict is so well handled that the romantic part of the story is less captivating by contrast. Of course you want the beleaguered mill owner Thornton (the exceptionally handsome Richard Armitage - but why doesn't he shave?) and the ex-vicar's daughter in straitened circumstances Margaret Hale to lay their differences aside and realise that they love each other. But the obstacles in their path are, as so often in romances, largely self-imposed. You know they will kiss and make up, and when it happens you could be forgiven for thinking "what took you so long?". When Thornton reaches an agreement with the union leader Nicholas Higgins - who shares his faults: they are both proud, stubborn and contemptuous of weakness - you feel, on the other hand, that they have achieved something important, and that real issues have been resolved.
I'm not going to switch allegiances, however: Dickens is still the master storyteller. He may not be much good when it comes to insightful comments on the Condition of England, but his characters have that extra oomph which few other 19th century authors ever come close to - even when he's not trying very hard. Gaskell's characters are a bit colourless by comparison, and a problem from my point of view is that she just doesn't "do" villains. Milton (Yes, I get it, Mill-town, plus Margaret thinks she has lost a paradise when moving from the South - but still, as a town-name it is just as unconvincing as Coketown) could have done with the odd Bitzer or Slackbridge. And as for the hero's stern mother Mrs Thornton, Mrs Sparsit in "Hard Times" out-gorgons her effortlessly.
My main cold-curing TV at the moment is not a costume drama at all: I'm re-watching "The West Wing" for the umpteenth time. It's great entertainment, at the same time as it makes you feel intelligent for being able to follow the political arguments and get the jokes. Some questions raised are more pertinent than others right now: there's one episode called "Five votes down". Guys, I know exactly how you feel.
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Where have all the costume dramas gone? The blinkered head of BBC drama took them every one
I still haven't got over it. It was almost a year ago that I found out, in an article about Andrew Davies, that the BBC had axed his upcoming adaptation of "Dombey and Son". I had so much been looking forward to this adaptation: no-one does them better than Andrew Davies, wo had already adapted "Bleak House" and "Little Dorrit" so splendidly. Finally, I would be able to show my family and friends what my ongoing Carker-obsession was about. I couldn't expect them to read the novel, which, truth to tell, is uneven. I couldn't expect them to watch the existing "Dombey and Son" TV adaptation from 1983. It's wonderfully cast: Julian Glover was surely born to play Dombey, and as for Paul Darrow as Carker - yum. Nevertheless, the adaptation creaks horribly, somehow managing to retain boring stuff like Mrs Chick's soliloquies (very well acted, but what of it? They're still boring!) while disposing of the whole subplot involving Carker's siblings, his discarded mistress and the latter's creepy mother completely. I'm glad I have it, but it really is for hard-line Dickens fans only. Whereas only imagine what Davies could have done with such material! One of the many wonderful things about his "Bleak House" and "Little Dorrit" adaptations is that they are both pacy and contain so much of the original plot lines. He would have made something eminently watchable of a plot involving dysfunctional families and dark erotic drama. Maybe he could even have found a way to deal with The Awful Plot Twist.
We may not be entirely bereft, of course. There are rumours that Davies has been told to do an adaptation of "David Copperfield" instead. But we already have a perfectly good BBC adaptation of "David Copperfield" which has not aged perceptibly. In fact, there are quite a number of "David Copperfield" adaptations out there, so there is no pressing need to make a new one. I'll still watch it when it comes of course - IF it comes - but I would have liked a "Dombey and Son" adaptation better.
So why am I whining about this now, one year afterwards? Simply because I've read a summary of the dramas that will be aired on English TV this autumn, and it looks less than promising. Yes, there are some costume dramas, but they are predominantly set in the 20th century and based on novels by authors such as D.H. Lawrence. Of the great Victorian novels with their thrilling, epic plots there is no sign. All this, of course, is entirely in line with the BBC drama head's ambition to "broaden" BBC's outlook, if by broaden you mean abandoning the 19th century entirely, since regrettably the BBC has now run out of Austen books to adapt to death. The BBC seems to have some sort of trendy aversion to "bonnet drama", but it's not the bonnets that make Victorian novels exciting: it's the characters and the plot. I doubt they will be able to find something equally meaty period drama-wise elsewhere. Meanwhile, ITV is putting on a lavish series set in the Edwardian era and scripted by the reliable Julian Fellowes. That should be fun. Not quite Dickens, but at least it's not D.H. Lawrence.
More on cossie dramas another time: I have to get ready for a yoga class. My first and, I suspect, my last.
We may not be entirely bereft, of course. There are rumours that Davies has been told to do an adaptation of "David Copperfield" instead. But we already have a perfectly good BBC adaptation of "David Copperfield" which has not aged perceptibly. In fact, there are quite a number of "David Copperfield" adaptations out there, so there is no pressing need to make a new one. I'll still watch it when it comes of course - IF it comes - but I would have liked a "Dombey and Son" adaptation better.
So why am I whining about this now, one year afterwards? Simply because I've read a summary of the dramas that will be aired on English TV this autumn, and it looks less than promising. Yes, there are some costume dramas, but they are predominantly set in the 20th century and based on novels by authors such as D.H. Lawrence. Of the great Victorian novels with their thrilling, epic plots there is no sign. All this, of course, is entirely in line with the BBC drama head's ambition to "broaden" BBC's outlook, if by broaden you mean abandoning the 19th century entirely, since regrettably the BBC has now run out of Austen books to adapt to death. The BBC seems to have some sort of trendy aversion to "bonnet drama", but it's not the bonnets that make Victorian novels exciting: it's the characters and the plot. I doubt they will be able to find something equally meaty period drama-wise elsewhere. Meanwhile, ITV is putting on a lavish series set in the Edwardian era and scripted by the reliable Julian Fellowes. That should be fun. Not quite Dickens, but at least it's not D.H. Lawrence.
More on cossie dramas another time: I have to get ready for a yoga class. My first and, I suspect, my last.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Things royal and industrial
My punishment for rubbishing "Hard Times" seems to be that I'm now possessed with the spirit of Slackbridge. That I should quarrel with my employer, who suddenly considers "telemarketing" - that's cold-calling to you or me - part of my job description when I was hired as an administrator, and that I should join the union in consequence, may not be that strange. But that I should watch the first episode of the TV adaptation of Gaskell's "North and South" and think "Cut wages to below the level of five years ago? Nah, that's not right, you go on strike lads" - now that really scares me.
I may be too early to tell, but I must admit that so far Gaskell's treatment of the industrial North is more nuanced that Dickens's and fairer that I expected from a "Christian Socialist" (I'm a Christian myself, but I don't care for the combination with "Socialist" at all - in fact I find it insulting, as if people with other political views were automatically bad Christians). The reasoning we get from both sides of the factory owner-worker quarrel is far more sensible than anything Bounderby or Stephen Blackpool came up with, which I agree is not saying much. It is refreshing that the tender-hearted heroine from the South is not always right: in fact she is sometimes blatantly naïve ("and all this for cotton no-one wants to buy!"). But didn't we have the whole "factory owner scarred by years of hardship" plot in Charlotte Brontë's "Shirley"? It irritates me that there has to an "excuse" for the fact that he is not dancing around kissing babies. Maybe what made factory owners of the nineteenth century somewhat edgy was not their own early experiences, but the annoyingness of bleeding-heart authors who swooped in, complained about their town, idealised their workforce and then "wanted some answers" about why things had to be the way they were.
I wonder what kind of early experiences could possibly have counted as an excuse for Henry VIII's style of leadership. Mind you, he's more kindly portrayed in "Wolf Hall" than one might expect, maybe in order to make us see why a sensible man like Wolsey would call him "the sweetest prince in Christendom". I've now read the whole novel and yes, it is good until the very end, though Wolsey is sorely missed after his demise by both Cromwell and the reader. It does suffer a bit from Tudor-novelitis, that is, too many "atmospheric" descriptions. I really don't care what the weather was like or how the trees or the water looked on this-and-this day. Give me another scene with überbitch Anne and her likewise bitchy ladies-in-waiting instead. I confess I thought Cromwell's interest in Jane Seymour, still an obscure (non-bitchy) attendant on Anne and nothing more, somewhat unlikely, but it does provide a cliffhanger. At the end of the novel, Cromwell is planning a visit to the Seymours' place Wolf Hall. We know butter-wouldn't-melt-Jane ended up with the king and not with "Master Secretary". So what happened there? I'll definitely be buying Mantel's next Cromwell book so I can find out.
I may be too early to tell, but I must admit that so far Gaskell's treatment of the industrial North is more nuanced that Dickens's and fairer that I expected from a "Christian Socialist" (I'm a Christian myself, but I don't care for the combination with "Socialist" at all - in fact I find it insulting, as if people with other political views were automatically bad Christians). The reasoning we get from both sides of the factory owner-worker quarrel is far more sensible than anything Bounderby or Stephen Blackpool came up with, which I agree is not saying much. It is refreshing that the tender-hearted heroine from the South is not always right: in fact she is sometimes blatantly naïve ("and all this for cotton no-one wants to buy!"). But didn't we have the whole "factory owner scarred by years of hardship" plot in Charlotte Brontë's "Shirley"? It irritates me that there has to an "excuse" for the fact that he is not dancing around kissing babies. Maybe what made factory owners of the nineteenth century somewhat edgy was not their own early experiences, but the annoyingness of bleeding-heart authors who swooped in, complained about their town, idealised their workforce and then "wanted some answers" about why things had to be the way they were.
I wonder what kind of early experiences could possibly have counted as an excuse for Henry VIII's style of leadership. Mind you, he's more kindly portrayed in "Wolf Hall" than one might expect, maybe in order to make us see why a sensible man like Wolsey would call him "the sweetest prince in Christendom". I've now read the whole novel and yes, it is good until the very end, though Wolsey is sorely missed after his demise by both Cromwell and the reader. It does suffer a bit from Tudor-novelitis, that is, too many "atmospheric" descriptions. I really don't care what the weather was like or how the trees or the water looked on this-and-this day. Give me another scene with überbitch Anne and her likewise bitchy ladies-in-waiting instead. I confess I thought Cromwell's interest in Jane Seymour, still an obscure (non-bitchy) attendant on Anne and nothing more, somewhat unlikely, but it does provide a cliffhanger. At the end of the novel, Cromwell is planning a visit to the Seymours' place Wolf Hall. We know butter-wouldn't-melt-Jane ended up with the king and not with "Master Secretary". So what happened there? I'll definitely be buying Mantel's next Cromwell book so I can find out.
Monday, 30 August 2010
Wonderful Wolsey
I think I may have discovered something - a piece of good advice if you're thinking of writing a novel where you mean to defend a much-maligned historical or fictional character. Don't tell it from his or her point of view: tell it from the point of view of someone close to him or her.
I'm reading "Wolf Hall" and yes, it is seriously good. I knew Hilary Mantel could spin a yarn because I read "A Place Of Greater Safety" a great many years ago (although I must admit, French Revolution fanatic that I was, that I skipped some of the back-story and zoomed in around 1789). At first I was incensed because the author off-handedly slated my favourite revolutionary: "Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes." Ironically, this is probably exactly what Maximilien Robespierre (though Max seems an unlikely nickname for him, like a flamboyant theatre agent or sci-fi baddie) did think. Still, I mean to say, what. Mantel didn't have to sound as if she agreed with him. This aberration of taste put me in a bad mood, and yet I grudgingly had to admit that "A Place Of Greater Safety" was a good read. If you're interested in the French Revolution, go ahead and read it, but bear in mind that the characterisation can be quite cynical. Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, the revolution's golden couple, as manipulative monsters? Babette Duplay a nymphomaniac? Surely not. Robespierre, whether or not he is a Max, is spot on, though.
Anyway, back to "Wolf Hall" and the art of saving someone's reputation at one remove. The novel is narrated from Thomas Cromwell's point of view, but it's not he (so far) who comes out of it best. Mantel's Cromwell is admirably able, but he's more bulldog than wolf. Sometimes he can be funny - as when he's sparring with Anne Boleyn - but a great deal of the time he's quite dour. I rather miss the popular image of Cromwell the villain - but then I would. Cromwell's master Cardinal Wolsey, on the other hand, is delightful. When seeing Wolsey's portrait in The National Portrait Gallery, I have asked myself how they could have the face to engage Sam Neill to play this man. Now I understand. Ah, the charm, the wit, and somewhere beneath it all, underlying kindness too! When it comes to Wolsey, Mantel has won me over completely. Let's see if she can do the same for her hero in time - there's more than half the book to go.
Elsewhere, there is not the same cynicism as in "A Place Of Greater Safety". The characterisation seems mellower. Of course, the sainted More is depicted as thoroughly nasty beneath his surface geniality. But then he was, wasn't he?
I'm reading "Wolf Hall" and yes, it is seriously good. I knew Hilary Mantel could spin a yarn because I read "A Place Of Greater Safety" a great many years ago (although I must admit, French Revolution fanatic that I was, that I skipped some of the back-story and zoomed in around 1789). At first I was incensed because the author off-handedly slated my favourite revolutionary: "Max was surprised that any girl would be attracted by Fouché, with his frail, stick-like limbs and almost lashless eyes." Ironically, this is probably exactly what Maximilien Robespierre (though Max seems an unlikely nickname for him, like a flamboyant theatre agent or sci-fi baddie) did think. Still, I mean to say, what. Mantel didn't have to sound as if she agreed with him. This aberration of taste put me in a bad mood, and yet I grudgingly had to admit that "A Place Of Greater Safety" was a good read. If you're interested in the French Revolution, go ahead and read it, but bear in mind that the characterisation can be quite cynical. Camille and Lucile Desmoulins, the revolution's golden couple, as manipulative monsters? Babette Duplay a nymphomaniac? Surely not. Robespierre, whether or not he is a Max, is spot on, though.
Anyway, back to "Wolf Hall" and the art of saving someone's reputation at one remove. The novel is narrated from Thomas Cromwell's point of view, but it's not he (so far) who comes out of it best. Mantel's Cromwell is admirably able, but he's more bulldog than wolf. Sometimes he can be funny - as when he's sparring with Anne Boleyn - but a great deal of the time he's quite dour. I rather miss the popular image of Cromwell the villain - but then I would. Cromwell's master Cardinal Wolsey, on the other hand, is delightful. When seeing Wolsey's portrait in The National Portrait Gallery, I have asked myself how they could have the face to engage Sam Neill to play this man. Now I understand. Ah, the charm, the wit, and somewhere beneath it all, underlying kindness too! When it comes to Wolsey, Mantel has won me over completely. Let's see if she can do the same for her hero in time - there's more than half the book to go.
Elsewhere, there is not the same cynicism as in "A Place Of Greater Safety". The characterisation seems mellower. Of course, the sainted More is depicted as thoroughly nasty beneath his surface geniality. But then he was, wasn't he?
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Aye, 'tis a muddle all right
Well now that's done and I'm glad it's over. I've finally read "Hard Times", which means I can lay claim to having read all of Dickens's novels, all his Christmas books and a fair share of his short fiction. The reason I waited so long with "Hard Times" was that I was warned against it, and suspected myself that, judging by the subject matter, I wouldn't like it. And I didn't, but now at least I can rubbish it knowing what I'm talking about.
Although I love Dickens and would rather read something mediocre by his standards than most modern authors' best efforts, I'm the first to admit that he isn't perfect. This is part of the fun: liking and disliking different part of Dickens's works can lead to very lively discussions among Dickens fans. For my part, I don't think that social satire, for which he is so lauded by high-minded intellectuals, is really his forte. What makes it bearable is how he uses human drama to illustrate diverse social ills. It is the fates of Rick and Ada and poor miss Flite (and Gridley if you feel more charitable towards him than I do) which make the description of Chancery interesting in "Bleak House", although Dickens does not have a single constructive idea as to how civil law cases should be handled instead. The Circumlocution Office is a pretty lame satire of a government department, but the Barnacles are instantly recognisable as types (as an administrator, I recognise and have occasionally myself used Barnacle strategies - pompous condescension, blustering defensiveness and friendly unhelpfulness - against hostile clients/customers). As to how a department should be run, Dickens has no more clue than William Dorrit would have. He is the Concerned Citizen who, if he didn't write books about his concerns, would write letters to the Times about them. He may shine a light on a particular problem, but that's all he does: for solutions you have to go elsewhere.
I was rather interested to see what a socially concerned, non-socialist observer like Dickens would make of industrial relations, but "Hard Times" leaves me little wiser. What is it he wants? Less smoke? Safer working conditions? More green spaces in the town? A less aggressive tone from factory owners when faced with complaints from their workers or from government officials? Something like that, I suppose, and it sounds fair enough, but it hardly adds up to a Grand Vision. You can't shake the feeling, either, that his observations are those of an outsider, an appalled Londoner on a flying visit who finds industrial towns aesthetically unappealing in their smokiness and sameness, although this may not be the main concern of the people who actually live there.
All right, but I didn't expect brilliant social satire, nor would I (if the truth be told) be that interested in reading a brilliant social satire on industrial England. The problem with "Hard Times" is that Dickens's imprecise rants are not balanced by the human interest you normally find in his novels. I hardly know which character is the more underdeveloped: the dastardly factory owner Bounderby (yes, that's his name!) or the honest, noble and extremely tiresome power-loom weaver Stephen Blackpool. Bounderby is incapable of one kind word or deed, but what's worse, he doesn't have the consolation usually accorded to Evil Capitalist characters, namely that of being brainy. In fact, he's quite impossibly daft: when there's a theft in his bank, he ignores a glaringly obvious suspect; he does not realise when an elegant London gentleman makes a play for his wife under his very nose; his housekeeper runs rings round him. The famous "gold spoon" tirade is woefully unfunny and does not improve on repetition. One of the strongest scenes in the book is when Bounderby's mum proudly defends herself against the charge of being a bad mother, not knowing that it is her "darling boy" who has slandered her in the first place. But the drama and the strength of the writing cannot make up for the fact that the whole situation is improbable in the extreme, for who in his right mind would denounce a loving parent just for the sake of being able to tell a hard-luck story? It is not only heartless, it is also stupid, when an enemy (and Bounderby does not lack enemies) can check up on his background at any time.
I do think though, on reflection, that Stephen is an even worse failure as a character, and a fine illustration of the both gushing and patronising tone Dickens uses when describing the factory workforce. I found myself positively warming to the wicked union representative Slackbridge (Marxists take note: Dickens is not in favour of unions, nor of silver-tongued middle-class socialist agitators) because he is so unlike the dense-seeming noble savages in workman's clothing whom he is haranguing and "leading astray". In particular, he is refreshingly mean to Stephen, who speaks like a not very bright ten-year-old with a speech impediment. If I were a power-loom weaver, I'm not sure I would be thrilled to be represented in a book by this surly, soppy dunce, however good and honest. The obviously well-educated (and yes, I admit I enjoyed that satirical detail) Slackbridge has one advantage over Dickens when it comes to being the workers' friend: he doesn't talk down to his audience.
The other theme of the novel - the attack on soulless education and philosophies that deny the power of feeling and imagination - works a little better, but again it is let down by weak characterisation, at least by Dickensian standards. The fact-obsessed Gradgrind who finally sees the error of his ways is the closest Dickens comes in this book to a well-rounded character, but he is not very engaging, and his supposedly damaged children even less so. Louisa is plain dull - even a cardboard cut-out like Bounderby deserves a better wife than this walking misery - and surely no education in the world would have made a good man of the ungracious Tom. Louisa's would-be seducer Harthouse is a tired Steerforth clone, of the kind we see a little too often in Dickens's novels. His seduction methods are not without interest, but there is not a lot of spark between him and the dismal Louisa. Sissy Jupe makes Pollyanna look like a troubled and brooding soul. My favourite character is Bitzer the teacher's pet turned social climber. I can't deny, though, that he is a minor character without much inner life to speak of: a promising boy ground down in the hard school of Dickens's didacticism. (Trust me, Manchester liberalism does not prescribe putting your mum in the workhouse.) He wins the title of best villain in the book more or less on walkover.
Although I love Dickens and would rather read something mediocre by his standards than most modern authors' best efforts, I'm the first to admit that he isn't perfect. This is part of the fun: liking and disliking different part of Dickens's works can lead to very lively discussions among Dickens fans. For my part, I don't think that social satire, for which he is so lauded by high-minded intellectuals, is really his forte. What makes it bearable is how he uses human drama to illustrate diverse social ills. It is the fates of Rick and Ada and poor miss Flite (and Gridley if you feel more charitable towards him than I do) which make the description of Chancery interesting in "Bleak House", although Dickens does not have a single constructive idea as to how civil law cases should be handled instead. The Circumlocution Office is a pretty lame satire of a government department, but the Barnacles are instantly recognisable as types (as an administrator, I recognise and have occasionally myself used Barnacle strategies - pompous condescension, blustering defensiveness and friendly unhelpfulness - against hostile clients/customers). As to how a department should be run, Dickens has no more clue than William Dorrit would have. He is the Concerned Citizen who, if he didn't write books about his concerns, would write letters to the Times about them. He may shine a light on a particular problem, but that's all he does: for solutions you have to go elsewhere.
I was rather interested to see what a socially concerned, non-socialist observer like Dickens would make of industrial relations, but "Hard Times" leaves me little wiser. What is it he wants? Less smoke? Safer working conditions? More green spaces in the town? A less aggressive tone from factory owners when faced with complaints from their workers or from government officials? Something like that, I suppose, and it sounds fair enough, but it hardly adds up to a Grand Vision. You can't shake the feeling, either, that his observations are those of an outsider, an appalled Londoner on a flying visit who finds industrial towns aesthetically unappealing in their smokiness and sameness, although this may not be the main concern of the people who actually live there.
All right, but I didn't expect brilliant social satire, nor would I (if the truth be told) be that interested in reading a brilliant social satire on industrial England. The problem with "Hard Times" is that Dickens's imprecise rants are not balanced by the human interest you normally find in his novels. I hardly know which character is the more underdeveloped: the dastardly factory owner Bounderby (yes, that's his name!) or the honest, noble and extremely tiresome power-loom weaver Stephen Blackpool. Bounderby is incapable of one kind word or deed, but what's worse, he doesn't have the consolation usually accorded to Evil Capitalist characters, namely that of being brainy. In fact, he's quite impossibly daft: when there's a theft in his bank, he ignores a glaringly obvious suspect; he does not realise when an elegant London gentleman makes a play for his wife under his very nose; his housekeeper runs rings round him. The famous "gold spoon" tirade is woefully unfunny and does not improve on repetition. One of the strongest scenes in the book is when Bounderby's mum proudly defends herself against the charge of being a bad mother, not knowing that it is her "darling boy" who has slandered her in the first place. But the drama and the strength of the writing cannot make up for the fact that the whole situation is improbable in the extreme, for who in his right mind would denounce a loving parent just for the sake of being able to tell a hard-luck story? It is not only heartless, it is also stupid, when an enemy (and Bounderby does not lack enemies) can check up on his background at any time.
I do think though, on reflection, that Stephen is an even worse failure as a character, and a fine illustration of the both gushing and patronising tone Dickens uses when describing the factory workforce. I found myself positively warming to the wicked union representative Slackbridge (Marxists take note: Dickens is not in favour of unions, nor of silver-tongued middle-class socialist agitators) because he is so unlike the dense-seeming noble savages in workman's clothing whom he is haranguing and "leading astray". In particular, he is refreshingly mean to Stephen, who speaks like a not very bright ten-year-old with a speech impediment. If I were a power-loom weaver, I'm not sure I would be thrilled to be represented in a book by this surly, soppy dunce, however good and honest. The obviously well-educated (and yes, I admit I enjoyed that satirical detail) Slackbridge has one advantage over Dickens when it comes to being the workers' friend: he doesn't talk down to his audience.
The other theme of the novel - the attack on soulless education and philosophies that deny the power of feeling and imagination - works a little better, but again it is let down by weak characterisation, at least by Dickensian standards. The fact-obsessed Gradgrind who finally sees the error of his ways is the closest Dickens comes in this book to a well-rounded character, but he is not very engaging, and his supposedly damaged children even less so. Louisa is plain dull - even a cardboard cut-out like Bounderby deserves a better wife than this walking misery - and surely no education in the world would have made a good man of the ungracious Tom. Louisa's would-be seducer Harthouse is a tired Steerforth clone, of the kind we see a little too often in Dickens's novels. His seduction methods are not without interest, but there is not a lot of spark between him and the dismal Louisa. Sissy Jupe makes Pollyanna look like a troubled and brooding soul. My favourite character is Bitzer the teacher's pet turned social climber. I can't deny, though, that he is a minor character without much inner life to speak of: a promising boy ground down in the hard school of Dickens's didacticism. (Trust me, Manchester liberalism does not prescribe putting your mum in the workhouse.) He wins the title of best villain in the book more or less on walkover.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Regency romance pitfalls
Lately I have been doing more Amazon-surfing than is strictly good for me. Always on the look-out for more self-indulgence reads, I have been criss-crossing the site following up "if you like Georgette Heyer you'll love..." tips. It's strange, this preference I have for regency romances. I suppose it's chiefly because 1) they are rom-coms 2) they are historical 3) they are not too historical. More specifically, they are virtually free from references to maggotty food, faulty sewage and rotting teeth, plus you are spared all those look-how-learned-I-am earthy descriptions of street-life you are likely to get in books set, say, in the 16th or 17th century, not to mention the Middle Ages. And perchance the language is not too stilted. If there were Victorian romances, I'd rather go for them, but as it is, what interests modern authors about Victorian times is apparently "Victorian London's dark underbelly". Unless Fagin happens to be around, though, I couldn't care less about Victorian London's dark underbelly. Which means Regency romances will have to do.
The down-side is there are a number of things that can crop up in a typical Regency romance which really get my goat, namely:
Predictability You would think authors would learn some things from the masters. When I first read "Pride and Prejudice", long before Colin Firth's wet shirt, I had no idea Elizabeth would end up with Darcy and was pleasantly surprised. Not because I liked Darcy overmuch, but because I hadn't expected it. Innocent girl that I was, I hadn't come across the love-starting-as-antagonism-plot before. Now I have, of course. Many, many times. But it was still fresh in Austen's day.
Perhaps this is part of the trouble, that it is hard coming up with plot developments that haven't already been done and that seasoned romance-readers recognise. Apart from the one above, there is the good-dependable-man-proves-better-catch-than-exciting-cad-plot (Austen invented that one, too); the suddenly-realising-you-love-your-best-friend-plot (Austen again, Dickens used it as well: in his case, refreshingly, the chump who saw the light was a man); the couple-who-pretend-to-be-together/are-forced-together-fall-in-love-for-real-plot... You can get good mileage out of these old war horses: especially the last one is hard not to make enjoyable. But the main difficulty is that there is bound to be one Hero, and one Heroine, and once you know who they are the suspense is limited. You know they'll end up together. You know if there are any significant others, they'll be ditched, and if there are any misunderstandings, they'll be straightened out. Is it really that hard to make the pairing off just that little bit more unpredictable? After all, there was a horrible moment (the masters again) where you were actually afraid Jane Eyre would settle for St John, not least because he was cunning enough to seem to take the moral high ground. And who would have guessed Dorothea and Lydgate in "Middlemarch" wouldn't even get close to ending up together?
Rakes What is so attractive about rakes? I don't get it. I'm a villain-lover, all right, but that is because villains can be so intelligent, razor-sharp, wonderfully sarky, able to cut prosy heroes and heroines down-to-size and, well, clever. The villains I admire have attained their position by making an effort when thinking out all their dastardy plots. What does a rake do? He drinks, gambles and is insulting to women rather than flattering them, assuming that he is so irresistible they will fall for him anyway. Which they do, the silly cows, after some desultory "I hate you"s! Which leads me seamlessly to:
Aristos For pity's sake, they're everywhere! Earls, viscounts, dukes, the odd marquis... a Regency romance hero, it seems, positively must have a title. Blame class-consciousness (I'm rather stridently middle-class), blame the Scarlet Pimpernel books (Chauvelin's so cute!), or blame the fact than when I first made acquaintance with Napoleonic France it was by way of Stefan Zweig's "Joseph Fouché", which meant the aristocratic Talleyrand became an enemy for evermore. The fact remains that the more dandyish, the more languid, the more elegantly lazy and indifferent, the more Hessian-booted, tightly-trousered, artfully-cravatted and, as I have touched on before, quizzing-glass-carrying a Regency buck gets, the more I want to string him to the nearest lamp-post. Not that all the nobs are like that, but I would have appreciated the odd tradesman hero.
"Boney"-bashing One has to be realistic. Napoleon the first, Emperor of the French, was not Regency England's most popular man. Even today, the English resist such an obviously good thing as the Metric system because "The Corsican Bandit" implemented it in the rest of Europe (or so I've heard it said). In a typical Regency romance, the hero has fought in Spain and/or at Waterloo and is chummy with "The Duke". Or, ludicrously, he's a spy. And we are supposed to cheer these noodles on in their effort to put the Bourbons back in power?
Sex scenes I thought they were rather sweet at first, but now... Please, no more!
Having said all that, a fun frothy read is a fun frothy read. There are not so many about that you can afford to be picky. I have mentioned Julia Quinn before, and she is the wittiest of the Regency romp authors I've read this far, though not, I suspect, that well-read up on the period. Mary Balogh is another worthy contender for the Georgette Heyer crown if the one novel I've read by her so far is anything to go by - she is not as funny as Quinn, but she can create likeable characters and is probably more of a Regency buff than Quinn. Heyer still reigns supreme when it comes to plots and blissful lack of sex scenes (scenes that are unavoidable in Quinn and Balogh). Let's see, in time, what else I can dredge up from this genre filled with titles like "The Duke's Desire" and "Romping with a Rogue". All right, I made them up, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do exist.
The down-side is there are a number of things that can crop up in a typical Regency romance which really get my goat, namely:
Predictability You would think authors would learn some things from the masters. When I first read "Pride and Prejudice", long before Colin Firth's wet shirt, I had no idea Elizabeth would end up with Darcy and was pleasantly surprised. Not because I liked Darcy overmuch, but because I hadn't expected it. Innocent girl that I was, I hadn't come across the love-starting-as-antagonism-plot before. Now I have, of course. Many, many times. But it was still fresh in Austen's day.
Perhaps this is part of the trouble, that it is hard coming up with plot developments that haven't already been done and that seasoned romance-readers recognise. Apart from the one above, there is the good-dependable-man-proves-better-catch-than-exciting-cad-plot (Austen invented that one, too); the suddenly-realising-you-love-your-best-friend-plot (Austen again, Dickens used it as well: in his case, refreshingly, the chump who saw the light was a man); the couple-who-pretend-to-be-together/are-forced-together-fall-in-love-for-real-plot... You can get good mileage out of these old war horses: especially the last one is hard not to make enjoyable. But the main difficulty is that there is bound to be one Hero, and one Heroine, and once you know who they are the suspense is limited. You know they'll end up together. You know if there are any significant others, they'll be ditched, and if there are any misunderstandings, they'll be straightened out. Is it really that hard to make the pairing off just that little bit more unpredictable? After all, there was a horrible moment (the masters again) where you were actually afraid Jane Eyre would settle for St John, not least because he was cunning enough to seem to take the moral high ground. And who would have guessed Dorothea and Lydgate in "Middlemarch" wouldn't even get close to ending up together?
Rakes What is so attractive about rakes? I don't get it. I'm a villain-lover, all right, but that is because villains can be so intelligent, razor-sharp, wonderfully sarky, able to cut prosy heroes and heroines down-to-size and, well, clever. The villains I admire have attained their position by making an effort when thinking out all their dastardy plots. What does a rake do? He drinks, gambles and is insulting to women rather than flattering them, assuming that he is so irresistible they will fall for him anyway. Which they do, the silly cows, after some desultory "I hate you"s! Which leads me seamlessly to:
Aristos For pity's sake, they're everywhere! Earls, viscounts, dukes, the odd marquis... a Regency romance hero, it seems, positively must have a title. Blame class-consciousness (I'm rather stridently middle-class), blame the Scarlet Pimpernel books (Chauvelin's so cute!), or blame the fact than when I first made acquaintance with Napoleonic France it was by way of Stefan Zweig's "Joseph Fouché", which meant the aristocratic Talleyrand became an enemy for evermore. The fact remains that the more dandyish, the more languid, the more elegantly lazy and indifferent, the more Hessian-booted, tightly-trousered, artfully-cravatted and, as I have touched on before, quizzing-glass-carrying a Regency buck gets, the more I want to string him to the nearest lamp-post. Not that all the nobs are like that, but I would have appreciated the odd tradesman hero.
"Boney"-bashing One has to be realistic. Napoleon the first, Emperor of the French, was not Regency England's most popular man. Even today, the English resist such an obviously good thing as the Metric system because "The Corsican Bandit" implemented it in the rest of Europe (or so I've heard it said). In a typical Regency romance, the hero has fought in Spain and/or at Waterloo and is chummy with "The Duke". Or, ludicrously, he's a spy. And we are supposed to cheer these noodles on in their effort to put the Bourbons back in power?
Sex scenes I thought they were rather sweet at first, but now... Please, no more!
Having said all that, a fun frothy read is a fun frothy read. There are not so many about that you can afford to be picky. I have mentioned Julia Quinn before, and she is the wittiest of the Regency romp authors I've read this far, though not, I suspect, that well-read up on the period. Mary Balogh is another worthy contender for the Georgette Heyer crown if the one novel I've read by her so far is anything to go by - she is not as funny as Quinn, but she can create likeable characters and is probably more of a Regency buff than Quinn. Heyer still reigns supreme when it comes to plots and blissful lack of sex scenes (scenes that are unavoidable in Quinn and Balogh). Let's see, in time, what else I can dredge up from this genre filled with titles like "The Duke's Desire" and "Romping with a Rogue". All right, I made them up, but I wouldn't be surprised if they do exist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
