When finally visiting the market around Camden Lock last year, I couldn't resist buying a T-shirt with Darth Vader on it and the caption: "Come to The Dark Side - We have cookies". To me, it neatly summarises the appeal of The Dark Side in the Star Wars films.
First, there's Dark Side poster boy Vader. We villain-lovers have Darth Vader to thank for a lot. Talk about misleading the young: I think I've yet to meet a child who doesn't think Vader is really cool. I thought it myself as a kid, and I still do to some extent. The mask; the swirling black cape; the under-water breathing; the stentorian voice; the great sound track which I keep meaning to download as a phone signal: DA-DA-DA-da-da-DA-da-da-DA. And then he turns out to be Luke's father. I mean: wow.
Of course he is not a subtle character study - in spite of efforts in that direction being made in the prequel films. But as a bad guy in an epic fairy tale set in space, he will do nicely. And we get to see that old friend, the road-to-redemption plot line, also known to villain-lovers as the having-your-cake-and-eating-it plot line. See, we weren't weird for having a soft spot for Darth Vader after all, because he turns good at the very end. Admittedly, for such a short time that even the characters in the new film - which is excellent: I will be getting to that eventually - have a problem remembering his conversion (or, to be precise, re-conversion) to the light.
What about the cookies, then? My first fond memories of the original Star Wars films are from my childhood. When I rewatched them as an adult, it slowly dawned on me that being a Jedi didn't sound like much fun at all. At one point, Yoda (whom I had found unfailingly delightful as a child) upbraids Luke for wanting to break off his Jedi training in order to help his friends. Mere friendship is not something a Jedi should get hung up about, it seems: it's much more worthwhile getting stones to fly around in a deeply meaningful way. The same message returns in the prequel films (I've only seen them once, so forgive me if I'm a bit hazy about the details) where Anakin Skywalker - the future Darth Vader - becomes vulnerable to The Dark Side because of his excessive love for his pregnant wife. Well, excessive for a Jedi (they're not even supposed to have a wife). There is a lot of guff about how these petty worldly concerns get in the way of a Jedi's spiritual enlightenment. Family? Friends? Forget them. They only come between the perfect Jedi warrior and the Force.
It's interesting, and not a little distressing, that some thoughts keep recurring in wildly different contexts and belief systems throughout the ages. Take the idea that self-denial and emotional restraint are good in themselves, even when they do not lead to any discernible increase in happiness for any human being. Don't enjoy yourself. It's sinful/common/bourgeois/decadent/hostile to the environment/unsolidaric to the Third World/harmful to The Force. From puritanism to "fat shaming" and faux mysticism in sci-fi films, there always seem to be people about who equate being virtuous with being a killjoy.
No wonder Supreme Chancellor Palpatine found it child's play to scoop up Anakin Skywalker. No more harnessing emotions, no more denying instincts, no more self-abnegation. Here, Anakin, have a cookie.
Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens is mainly good because it is an expertly crafted yarn with engaging characters, thrilling action and some truly moving moments (plus better dialogue than the original films). But an incidental pleasure is the relative absence of waffle about the Force. Instead, it's all about the human relationships: friendship, romantic love and family ties are what makes the protagonists care about each other and what inspires them to heroism. In spite of the fact that The Dark Side still has some cookies at its disposal - like Kylo Ren, who is seriously yummy behind his mask, and General Hux (I'm a sucker for a redhead) - it's really not hard to root for the good guys when they're as likeable as this. And honestly, at the end of the day, and all sophistry apart: when you find yourself serving a giant lizard straight out of Evil Noseless Creatures' Central Casting and destroying a world looking suspiciously like a planet-sized Manhattan you know you've gone wrong somewhere, cookies or not.
Incidentally, what was is that finally turned Darth Vader against the evil Emperor in the original films? His love for his son. Put that in your transcendental pipe and smoke it, Yoda.
Thursday, 7 January 2016
Saturday, 26 December 2015
A wish for 2016: More high-quality entertainment, please
I might as well face it. 2016 will not be the year when I discover the joys of serious, mind-expanding, high-brow cultural ventures. There will be no let-up in work for a while yet, and what I will crave most for my workday evenings will be entertainment and relaxation. I can, however, still hope for good quality. There’s no reason why novels, TV dramas or films made for popular consumption should be bad.
My book wish for 2016, then, apart from more novels from authors I’ve already discovered, is to find more seriously good writers of popular fiction. I’ve always resisted the wide-spread tendency to sneer at well-known bestselling authors, believing that they know their craft and take their job seriously and for those reasons alone deserve their success. It has to be said, though, that books from some of the famous bestselling names in popular fiction compare rather poorly prose-wise with authors in the same genres whom I have discovered by chance, such as Jude Morgan, Sally Beauman or Kate Saunders. Hopefully, these authors aren’t doing too badly out of their sales, but they’re not exactly household names. It would be heartening if good writing in popular genres would be more amply rewarded. If we readers of historic romances, family sagas and light-hearted romps aren’t careful, we’ll only be left with writers favouring the flat, recapitulating style of prose which you find in plot summaries of previous chapters in magazine novel serialisations. I call it the “now read on” style: it tells us what happens and what the characters feel, but doesn’t bring it to life. The silver lining in all this is that you can still discover good writers on your own (or only led by a favourable review somewhere), and impulse buys can turn out to be among the best reads of the year. I have a certain sympathy with Rum Tum Tugger who “only likes what he finds for himself”.
As for TV, what I wish for most heartily, of course, is a replacement for Downton Abbey (the final Christmas episode will be aired in Sweden this evening). This will be extremely difficult, as even Downton failed to become a consuming obsession for me right away: it crept up on me stealthily, hit me squarely over the head with the strong Thomas-Jimmy storyline in series three, turned out to hold up very well for rewatching, and did for me that way. What had been a light-hearted costume-drama pleasure – a guilty pleasure even – became, for me, the undisputed TV highlight of the year.
There are some possible contenders for the Downton crown, which should at least provide good costume-drama fun until one particular series gathers enough momentum to fill the Downton gap. Dickensian looks promising judging from its trailer and preview reports. It seems well-produced and well-cast – I hope one of Dickens’s prime-quality villains will turn up to seal the deal eventually (Fagin won’t be enough, I’m afraid, not even as played by Anton Lesser). Poldark looks set to continue for a while yet, with no less than twelve volumes of family saga as source material. Its great advantage – from my perspective – is that the hot villain, George Warleggan, is already well established. But I worry about the narrow focus and lack of complexity in the series – which is a fancy way of saying that I fear it will become too obsessed with its hero Ross Poldark, and that Georgey will be reduced to playing Tom to his Jerry and consequently suffer one defeat after the other.
The final Mr Selfridge series will probably bring some solace too. I’ve read that Lady Mae will return, which should boost the show after a disappointing series three. But there has been no mention of her ex-hubby, so who will be the villain? Here’s hoping that they realise the need for at least one.
My book wish for 2016, then, apart from more novels from authors I’ve already discovered, is to find more seriously good writers of popular fiction. I’ve always resisted the wide-spread tendency to sneer at well-known bestselling authors, believing that they know their craft and take their job seriously and for those reasons alone deserve their success. It has to be said, though, that books from some of the famous bestselling names in popular fiction compare rather poorly prose-wise with authors in the same genres whom I have discovered by chance, such as Jude Morgan, Sally Beauman or Kate Saunders. Hopefully, these authors aren’t doing too badly out of their sales, but they’re not exactly household names. It would be heartening if good writing in popular genres would be more amply rewarded. If we readers of historic romances, family sagas and light-hearted romps aren’t careful, we’ll only be left with writers favouring the flat, recapitulating style of prose which you find in plot summaries of previous chapters in magazine novel serialisations. I call it the “now read on” style: it tells us what happens and what the characters feel, but doesn’t bring it to life. The silver lining in all this is that you can still discover good writers on your own (or only led by a favourable review somewhere), and impulse buys can turn out to be among the best reads of the year. I have a certain sympathy with Rum Tum Tugger who “only likes what he finds for himself”.
As for TV, what I wish for most heartily, of course, is a replacement for Downton Abbey (the final Christmas episode will be aired in Sweden this evening). This will be extremely difficult, as even Downton failed to become a consuming obsession for me right away: it crept up on me stealthily, hit me squarely over the head with the strong Thomas-Jimmy storyline in series three, turned out to hold up very well for rewatching, and did for me that way. What had been a light-hearted costume-drama pleasure – a guilty pleasure even – became, for me, the undisputed TV highlight of the year.
There are some possible contenders for the Downton crown, which should at least provide good costume-drama fun until one particular series gathers enough momentum to fill the Downton gap. Dickensian looks promising judging from its trailer and preview reports. It seems well-produced and well-cast – I hope one of Dickens’s prime-quality villains will turn up to seal the deal eventually (Fagin won’t be enough, I’m afraid, not even as played by Anton Lesser). Poldark looks set to continue for a while yet, with no less than twelve volumes of family saga as source material. Its great advantage – from my perspective – is that the hot villain, George Warleggan, is already well established. But I worry about the narrow focus and lack of complexity in the series – which is a fancy way of saying that I fear it will become too obsessed with its hero Ross Poldark, and that Georgey will be reduced to playing Tom to his Jerry and consequently suffer one defeat after the other.
The final Mr Selfridge series will probably bring some solace too. I’ve read that Lady Mae will return, which should boost the show after a disappointing series three. But there has been no mention of her ex-hubby, so who will be the villain? Here’s hoping that they realise the need for at least one.
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
Dickens's other Christmas books
Hey ho. I confess I've felt more alert and blog-ready in my life, but at least once during this Year of Work that is 2015 I should try to piece together a post on a Dickensian subject. And as Christmas is approaching, the other Christmas books Dickens wrote, apart from A Christmas Carol, could make a nice theme.
I've already revealed my Carol fatigue, but there are reasons why this is Dickens's most famous Christmas book. Its great past-present-future premise, and the powerful drama of a bad man turned good and redeemed (instead of despairing and dying which is usually the case in Dickens), go some way to mitigate the faults all the Dickens Christmas books share to a degree: the characters are far less complex than in Dickens's full-length novels, there are sometimes levels of soppiness even I object to, and then there's the preaching. Oh dear me, the preaching. If you are already a little fed up with road-to-redemption plot lines - like I happen to be at the moment - the Christmas books are not ideal reading.
Nevertheless, Dickens is Dickens. Even the beginning of one of the weaker Christmas books, The Cricket on the Hearth, manages to draw you in immediately ("The kettle began it"). There is heartwarming whimsy to be had, and funny phrases, and even the odd memorable character. And not all of the Moral Messages are total rubbish.
Here, then, is my ratings list of Dickens's Christmas books excepting the Carol, starting with the best and ending with the most irritating:
The Haunted Man: I would almost rate this as high as the Carol. The message of this tale is that the bad things that happen in our lives, and the remembrance of them, make us better as people and kinder to our fellow human beings. I'm not sure I agree, but the point is worth arguing, and it's argued powerfully here, and in a grown-up manner. The supernatural element is properly scary and does not become ridiculous. Also, the haunted man himself, Mr Redlaw, is an engaging protagonist. He may be a gloomy soul, but he remains sensitive to the sufferings of others. When he spreads the "gift" of losing all your bad memories to the people around him, they become cold, selfish and discontented. Redlaw, on the other hand, although he has lost his own memories of suffering without becoming happier as a result, retains his decency and willingness to help. One could of course wonder why a man like that needs to be put through the whole ghostly visitation thing - more of that anon.
The Battle of Life: I wish someone could have explained a quite simple fact to Dickens. Two women in love with the same man do not, as a rule, become best friends. And I'm prepared to wager they never enter into a "you have him, dear" - "no, you have him" scenario. This is wishful thinking of an (I suspect) specifically male nature. In Dickens's world, only bad girls like Rosa Dartle are allowed to be jealous, whereas there's nothing to stop the hero from being as jealous as he likes. For instance, David Copperfield hates the man with red whiskers who courts Dora, but Dora and Agnes become bezzie mates. Honestly, t'ain't right, t'ain't fair, t'ain't proper.
What makes the "you have him, dear"-plot in The Battle of Life a little easier to swallow is that the two women in love with the same man are sisters. Blood is thicker etc., so of course they're not going to end up hating each other (not being the Grantham girls). But accepting with good grace that the man you've set your heart on prefers your sister is one thing: actively promoting the match at every turn is another. This story contains insane amounts of self-sacrifice that not only hurt the self-sacrificing women but their nearest and dearest, too. On the plus side - and this is why it ends second on my list - The Battle of Life is a good, honest relationship drama, without any supernatural funny business, which makes a touching point about the importance of everyday heroism. And it contains two nice lawyers (not the villain kind, the well-meaning but prone to thinking the worst kind).
The Cricket of the Hearth: If you think the story of a blind girl and her devoted father, who keeps their wretched surroundings a secret from her and conjures up a bright fantasy world for her benefit, sounds hopelessly sentimental, then The Cricket on The Hearth is decidedly not for you. Because this is the best part of it (in fact, it unfailingly makes me blub). That and the acerbic, child-hating toy merchant Tackleton in a secondary part.
The main plot in Cricket is a variation of the Doctor Strong subplot in David Copperfield. The young, pretty wife of a good but unglamorous older man comes under suspicion of adultery. The husband, after struggling with his feelings, declines to think that she's guilty, but still comes to the conclusion that she does not love him. However, everything ends happily. I was fond of the Strong storyline, but here it is ruined by far too much domestic syrup and, yes, self-sacrifice again. You think I exaggerate? This story contains household fairies. Masses of them. And they're a right soupy lot - Puck wouldn't have anything to say to them. Everything is overegged, including the conversion of the sort-of-villain Tackleton - at one point in the story, he could have bowed out with his dignity intact, and things would have been quite satisfactory. But he has to go the whole Scrooge, and turn up for the concluding knees-up as genial as anything. The eponymous cricket is supposed to be the good spirit of the house. There's a dog, too. Enough!
The Chimes: Anyone of the opinion that Dickens is a deep political thinker should read The Chimes as a penance. It contains such clumsy caricatures of the promoters of social and political ideas Dickens does not approve of that it makes Hard Times seem well-reasoned and nuanced in comparison. Especially threadbare is the depiction of a gentleman who praises the "good old times". I haven't forgotten his name - he doesn't have one. He is an idea barely written up at all. Another reprehensible establishment figure, Alderman Cute, sadly does not live up to his name ("cute" meaning "shrewd" in a 19th-century English context). Out of these caricatures, only the statistician Mr Filer shows signs of life, when he gets het up about tripe ("'Who eats tripe?' said Mr Filer, warmly.") or has the guts to contradict one of his chums on the basis of statistical facts. (He is scathing about Henry VIII - a favourite of Cute's, but not of Dickens's - who had "considerably more than the average number of wives, bye the bye"). But that isn't really enough to make a proper character of him rather than a mouthpiece.
To be fair, neither of these gentlemen is the subject of the main plot. The protagonist, Toby "Trotty" Veck the ticket porter, is well-realised and a perfect sweetie. But this becomes the story's main problem. All the other Christmas books suffer in comparison with the Carol in one respect: Ebenezer Scrooge truly needs redemption. The characters who are taught painful lessons in the other Christmas books, on the other hand, are at heart good men, though they are stuck with some misconception (Redlaw thinks we would be better off without painful memories; Doctor Jeddler in The Battle of Life thinks life is a farce and not to be taken seriously; John Peerybingle in The Cricket on The Hearth thinks he is unworthy of being loved by his wife). In the other tales, the insights the good men gain are - arguably - great enough to balance what they've been through and make the whole exercise worthwhile. But what has poor Trotty Veck done to be put through the wringer by the goblins of the church bells? He is a kind man who, though poor, gives houseroom to a stranger and his niece and gives up his own evening meal for them. But because he reacts with indignation when he reads in the paper about a woman who's drowned herself and her child, he has to witness a version of the future where his own daughter is reduced to the same fate. Granted that Trotty has to get rid of the idea that the poor are "born bad", but given that he is himself an example of the contrary, this could surely have been done in a far kinder way. Quite simply, he does not need the Dickensian Christmas story treatment - he's already as decent as they come. Dickens becomes guilty of exactly the same thing that he criticises Alderman Cute and Co. for - of reading a lecture to an honest poor man and telling him what to think.
I've already revealed my Carol fatigue, but there are reasons why this is Dickens's most famous Christmas book. Its great past-present-future premise, and the powerful drama of a bad man turned good and redeemed (instead of despairing and dying which is usually the case in Dickens), go some way to mitigate the faults all the Dickens Christmas books share to a degree: the characters are far less complex than in Dickens's full-length novels, there are sometimes levels of soppiness even I object to, and then there's the preaching. Oh dear me, the preaching. If you are already a little fed up with road-to-redemption plot lines - like I happen to be at the moment - the Christmas books are not ideal reading.
Nevertheless, Dickens is Dickens. Even the beginning of one of the weaker Christmas books, The Cricket on the Hearth, manages to draw you in immediately ("The kettle began it"). There is heartwarming whimsy to be had, and funny phrases, and even the odd memorable character. And not all of the Moral Messages are total rubbish.
Here, then, is my ratings list of Dickens's Christmas books excepting the Carol, starting with the best and ending with the most irritating:
The Haunted Man: I would almost rate this as high as the Carol. The message of this tale is that the bad things that happen in our lives, and the remembrance of them, make us better as people and kinder to our fellow human beings. I'm not sure I agree, but the point is worth arguing, and it's argued powerfully here, and in a grown-up manner. The supernatural element is properly scary and does not become ridiculous. Also, the haunted man himself, Mr Redlaw, is an engaging protagonist. He may be a gloomy soul, but he remains sensitive to the sufferings of others. When he spreads the "gift" of losing all your bad memories to the people around him, they become cold, selfish and discontented. Redlaw, on the other hand, although he has lost his own memories of suffering without becoming happier as a result, retains his decency and willingness to help. One could of course wonder why a man like that needs to be put through the whole ghostly visitation thing - more of that anon.
The Battle of Life: I wish someone could have explained a quite simple fact to Dickens. Two women in love with the same man do not, as a rule, become best friends. And I'm prepared to wager they never enter into a "you have him, dear" - "no, you have him" scenario. This is wishful thinking of an (I suspect) specifically male nature. In Dickens's world, only bad girls like Rosa Dartle are allowed to be jealous, whereas there's nothing to stop the hero from being as jealous as he likes. For instance, David Copperfield hates the man with red whiskers who courts Dora, but Dora and Agnes become bezzie mates. Honestly, t'ain't right, t'ain't fair, t'ain't proper.
What makes the "you have him, dear"-plot in The Battle of Life a little easier to swallow is that the two women in love with the same man are sisters. Blood is thicker etc., so of course they're not going to end up hating each other (not being the Grantham girls). But accepting with good grace that the man you've set your heart on prefers your sister is one thing: actively promoting the match at every turn is another. This story contains insane amounts of self-sacrifice that not only hurt the self-sacrificing women but their nearest and dearest, too. On the plus side - and this is why it ends second on my list - The Battle of Life is a good, honest relationship drama, without any supernatural funny business, which makes a touching point about the importance of everyday heroism. And it contains two nice lawyers (not the villain kind, the well-meaning but prone to thinking the worst kind).
The Cricket of the Hearth: If you think the story of a blind girl and her devoted father, who keeps their wretched surroundings a secret from her and conjures up a bright fantasy world for her benefit, sounds hopelessly sentimental, then The Cricket on The Hearth is decidedly not for you. Because this is the best part of it (in fact, it unfailingly makes me blub). That and the acerbic, child-hating toy merchant Tackleton in a secondary part.
The main plot in Cricket is a variation of the Doctor Strong subplot in David Copperfield. The young, pretty wife of a good but unglamorous older man comes under suspicion of adultery. The husband, after struggling with his feelings, declines to think that she's guilty, but still comes to the conclusion that she does not love him. However, everything ends happily. I was fond of the Strong storyline, but here it is ruined by far too much domestic syrup and, yes, self-sacrifice again. You think I exaggerate? This story contains household fairies. Masses of them. And they're a right soupy lot - Puck wouldn't have anything to say to them. Everything is overegged, including the conversion of the sort-of-villain Tackleton - at one point in the story, he could have bowed out with his dignity intact, and things would have been quite satisfactory. But he has to go the whole Scrooge, and turn up for the concluding knees-up as genial as anything. The eponymous cricket is supposed to be the good spirit of the house. There's a dog, too. Enough!
The Chimes: Anyone of the opinion that Dickens is a deep political thinker should read The Chimes as a penance. It contains such clumsy caricatures of the promoters of social and political ideas Dickens does not approve of that it makes Hard Times seem well-reasoned and nuanced in comparison. Especially threadbare is the depiction of a gentleman who praises the "good old times". I haven't forgotten his name - he doesn't have one. He is an idea barely written up at all. Another reprehensible establishment figure, Alderman Cute, sadly does not live up to his name ("cute" meaning "shrewd" in a 19th-century English context). Out of these caricatures, only the statistician Mr Filer shows signs of life, when he gets het up about tripe ("'Who eats tripe?' said Mr Filer, warmly.") or has the guts to contradict one of his chums on the basis of statistical facts. (He is scathing about Henry VIII - a favourite of Cute's, but not of Dickens's - who had "considerably more than the average number of wives, bye the bye"). But that isn't really enough to make a proper character of him rather than a mouthpiece.
To be fair, neither of these gentlemen is the subject of the main plot. The protagonist, Toby "Trotty" Veck the ticket porter, is well-realised and a perfect sweetie. But this becomes the story's main problem. All the other Christmas books suffer in comparison with the Carol in one respect: Ebenezer Scrooge truly needs redemption. The characters who are taught painful lessons in the other Christmas books, on the other hand, are at heart good men, though they are stuck with some misconception (Redlaw thinks we would be better off without painful memories; Doctor Jeddler in The Battle of Life thinks life is a farce and not to be taken seriously; John Peerybingle in The Cricket on The Hearth thinks he is unworthy of being loved by his wife). In the other tales, the insights the good men gain are - arguably - great enough to balance what they've been through and make the whole exercise worthwhile. But what has poor Trotty Veck done to be put through the wringer by the goblins of the church bells? He is a kind man who, though poor, gives houseroom to a stranger and his niece and gives up his own evening meal for them. But because he reacts with indignation when he reads in the paper about a woman who's drowned herself and her child, he has to witness a version of the future where his own daughter is reduced to the same fate. Granted that Trotty has to get rid of the idea that the poor are "born bad", but given that he is himself an example of the contrary, this could surely have been done in a far kinder way. Quite simply, he does not need the Dickensian Christmas story treatment - he's already as decent as they come. Dickens becomes guilty of exactly the same thing that he criticises Alderman Cute and Co. for - of reading a lecture to an honest poor man and telling him what to think.
Wednesday, 18 November 2015
Comfort reading - and viewing
One commonplace I'm guilty of spouting a lot, especially in spring and summer, is "autumn has its uses, because then you're not tempted to go out and you get things done" (not that I'm ever tempted to go out a great deal). All right, you do get quite a bit done workwise, but apart from that? This autumn, ambitions have been decidedly low on the home front. "Go on", my non-better self urges me, "you're a grown woman. Why shouldn't you have a cup of cocoa if you want to?" (Though maybe better selves are not the issue here. Why should I consider it immoral to drink too much cocoa, when I'm the only one who suffers if my jeans get too tight?) Book-wise, too, I have consistently gone for the cup of cocoa novel equivalent.
First, I've worked my way through the back catalogue of Kate Saunders - though saving Night Shall Overtake Us because it takes place during World War One, of which I'm currently rather sick. The Marrying Game, Lily-Josephine and Bachelor Boys all proved gripping page turners, though sadly no more sexy villain sightings were forthcoming (with the exception of a quite nice villain surrogate in The Marrying Game who unfortunately doesn't feature as much as I would have liked). Next, I gave Kate Morton another try - some years ago, I gave up on The Forgotten Garden because I couldn't see how anything could lighten up its gloomy premise. This time round I tried The Secret Keeper. It's not such high quality escapism as Kate Saunders, but it was still an enjoyable read with nice twists and a satisfying conclusion. Morton seems fond of plots where old mysteries are solved several decades after the events took place. The upside of this is you get a historic setting to some of the action; the downside is that some characters have to wait an awfully long time to have old ghosts laid to rest.
Now, I've fallen far enough to resort to chick lit, with no on-travel excuse whatsoever. More fool me - Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella is proving to be one of the more stressful Shopaholic books. When it comes to Becky, the Shopaholic franchise's heroine, I don't mind her shopaholicism that much, but I have a hard time with the pathological lying which puts her in all kinds of unnecessary scrapes. Sometimes, her frantic scrambling to iron out various swindles while owning up to as little as possible calls to mind some chick-lit version of The Way We Live Now.
As for TV, I emergency-ordered the first part of the new Doctor Who series recently - I needed another fictional universe to snuggle up in in order to dampen my Downton worries, and my worthy ambition to wait until the whole series was available fell flat (honestly, part two isn't even available for pre-order yet!). It's still great, though the two-part episodes this far haven't come up with any tidier solutions than the shorter adventures. The added time is mostly taken up with potentially character-explaining chatting - but with dialogue of this calibre, who's complaining? I was particularly pleased to see Missy again, as cheerfully over-the-top wicked as ever. When Clara asks sceptically if she's supposed to think Missy's turned good now, she treats the question with the contempt it deserves. "No, I've not turned good", she sighs very Scottishly, killing off a random passer-by just to prove her point.
I know villains who are capable of reform are the best - of course I do - but there is something therapeutic with the Missy approach now and again. The problem with a villain redeemed is the good guys get to have it all their own way. And gracious me, they can be a smug, sanctimonious lot, in great need of having their certainties shaken up a bit. Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular, mind...
First, I've worked my way through the back catalogue of Kate Saunders - though saving Night Shall Overtake Us because it takes place during World War One, of which I'm currently rather sick. The Marrying Game, Lily-Josephine and Bachelor Boys all proved gripping page turners, though sadly no more sexy villain sightings were forthcoming (with the exception of a quite nice villain surrogate in The Marrying Game who unfortunately doesn't feature as much as I would have liked). Next, I gave Kate Morton another try - some years ago, I gave up on The Forgotten Garden because I couldn't see how anything could lighten up its gloomy premise. This time round I tried The Secret Keeper. It's not such high quality escapism as Kate Saunders, but it was still an enjoyable read with nice twists and a satisfying conclusion. Morton seems fond of plots where old mysteries are solved several decades after the events took place. The upside of this is you get a historic setting to some of the action; the downside is that some characters have to wait an awfully long time to have old ghosts laid to rest.
Now, I've fallen far enough to resort to chick lit, with no on-travel excuse whatsoever. More fool me - Mini Shopaholic by Sophie Kinsella is proving to be one of the more stressful Shopaholic books. When it comes to Becky, the Shopaholic franchise's heroine, I don't mind her shopaholicism that much, but I have a hard time with the pathological lying which puts her in all kinds of unnecessary scrapes. Sometimes, her frantic scrambling to iron out various swindles while owning up to as little as possible calls to mind some chick-lit version of The Way We Live Now.
As for TV, I emergency-ordered the first part of the new Doctor Who series recently - I needed another fictional universe to snuggle up in in order to dampen my Downton worries, and my worthy ambition to wait until the whole series was available fell flat (honestly, part two isn't even available for pre-order yet!). It's still great, though the two-part episodes this far haven't come up with any tidier solutions than the shorter adventures. The added time is mostly taken up with potentially character-explaining chatting - but with dialogue of this calibre, who's complaining? I was particularly pleased to see Missy again, as cheerfully over-the-top wicked as ever. When Clara asks sceptically if she's supposed to think Missy's turned good now, she treats the question with the contempt it deserves. "No, I've not turned good", she sighs very Scottishly, killing off a random passer-by just to prove her point.
I know villains who are capable of reform are the best - of course I do - but there is something therapeutic with the Missy approach now and again. The problem with a villain redeemed is the good guys get to have it all their own way. And gracious me, they can be a smug, sanctimonious lot, in great need of having their certainties shaken up a bit. Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular, mind...
Thursday, 5 November 2015
The Cardinal's man
In spite of having read both Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies and enjoyed them (though I was shocked by Thomas Cromwell's behaviour in the latter), I didn't expect to think much of the TV dramatisation of the novels, called simply Wolf Hall. True, most of the reviews were very favourable indeed, but in a somewhat off-putting way. They made it sound impossibly worthy and high-brow, and thus implied the reviewers' contempt for more easy-going, middlebrow costume-drama fare. At length, I started watching the series and did, at first, get irritated by its high-browness. Yet it has grown on me. I've watched four of six episodes now, and am feeling increasingly positive. Admittedly, a certain long-night's-journey-into-day Downton plot line (I bloody well hope there'll be some daylight at the end of it, anyway) may have made me feel especially sympathetic to Cromwell's "I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you" mindset. If there ever was a time when I could be led to believe that lopping a group of people's heads off just because they vilified someone you care about in a play was anything else than bananas, this is that time.
Wolf Hall the series may be slow-burning, but it has a great deal going for it. For one, it is superlatively acted. I spent the starting credits cooing "Ooh, is he in it? And she?" - there's an awful lot of acting talent involved. Mark Rylance lives up to the hype as Cromwell himself, and has more charm than the Cromwell of the novels. When he smiles, you feel that he is sharing a dry joke with the person he's speaking to, which must leave them feeling flattered. His expressive face registers other emotions, such as cardinal-induced blues or ill-disguised dislike of the self-righteous More (a convincing Anton Lesser, enjoying himself), just as easily. Damian Lewis is puppyish enough as Henry VIII to make it believable that Cromwell should underestimate his tyrannic streak. The willowy Claire Foy is a perfect fit for the role of spiteful Anne Boleyn, and it takes something to be the perfect Anne and the perfect Little Dorrit. Bernard Hill is a joy as the unapologetically brutal Norfolk (admittedly, he has some of the best lines). I could go on.
Also, the dialogue is snappy and the adaptation is skillful. It has at its focus Cromwell's filial affection for Cardinal Wolsey (a suitably disarming Jonathan Pryce), which was one of his most humanising traits in Mantel's novels. This almost makes sense of the twists and turns of Cromwell's career. While Wolsey is alive, he protects the Cardinal's interests and works to get him back in favour with the King. When Wolsey dies, Cromwell tries to protect his memory instead, and is incensed when it is defiled by Anne's gang of young bucks. He is set on avenging his old employer, settling scores with whoever has sneered at him or caused him a moment's discomfort - though with a few notable exceptions, as I will soon return to. Wolf Hall the novel focused a great deal more on Cromwell's Protestant sympathies as a motivating factor; however, in Bring Out The Bodies, Cromwell readily dispensed with these sympathies and allied himself with Catholic nobles against the reform-friendly Anne. Perhaps it is wise, then, for the series not to make too great a claim for Cromwell's reformatory zeal and concentrate on the Wolsey plot line instead. It makes for some great human drama, too: you feel the Cardinal's ghost is standing between Anne and Cromwell at every opportunity, even when they have a shared interest. In one scene, they both stand at a window gloating over More's resignation as Lord Chancellor, and Anne, in a rare gesture of sympathy, puts her hand over Cromwell's. But he's wearing the Cardinal's ring, and as the person largely responsible for his downfall she - and we, the viewers - sense without being told that she and Cromwell can never really be friends.
There are weaknesses with the Wolsey storyline, though, and they're not the adaptation's fault, as they exist in the novels as well. As I've pointed out before, who is the main guilty party in Wolsey's destruction? Why, the King himself, the very same man that Cromwell serves so dutifully. And what about the Dukes Norfolk and Suffolk: were they not worse enemies of Wolsey than an ungrateful lute player or some courtiers making asses of themselves in an (admittedly nasty) play? It seems Cromwell is not too keen to try his mettle against the most powerful men in the land, however anti-Wolsey they may have been. I suppose one may argue that a fierce but openly fought battle is more easy to forgive than small, unnecessary slights and betrayals. Nevertheless, Cromwell's loyalty to the King's cause - which in time will lead to his own fall from grace and execution - is hard to make sense of in the circumstances, especially as - vengenance apart - you never really discover what he wants to use his power for.
The adaptation has some weaknesses of its own as well, like the already-mentioned high-browness, as evidenced by the historically accurate dim light, the renaissancy music and the meaningful pauses that litter the conversation (I'm a sworn enemy to meaningful silences in film and on TV: they may work on stage, but on screen they merely slow up the pace). But at least it earns its chops as quality drama. Too often nowadays you get lush hooey like The Tudors, which takes itself far more seriously than it deserves and consequently often manages to fall between the chairs of ambitious drama and light entertainment (Reign, of which I've seen two episodes, is another example of this genre: so po-faced it's surpisingly boring, in spite of the glamorous sets and bed-hopping). Wolf Hall, at least, is the real deal - though maybe not ideal for after-gym watching.
Wolf Hall the series may be slow-burning, but it has a great deal going for it. For one, it is superlatively acted. I spent the starting credits cooing "Ooh, is he in it? And she?" - there's an awful lot of acting talent involved. Mark Rylance lives up to the hype as Cromwell himself, and has more charm than the Cromwell of the novels. When he smiles, you feel that he is sharing a dry joke with the person he's speaking to, which must leave them feeling flattered. His expressive face registers other emotions, such as cardinal-induced blues or ill-disguised dislike of the self-righteous More (a convincing Anton Lesser, enjoying himself), just as easily. Damian Lewis is puppyish enough as Henry VIII to make it believable that Cromwell should underestimate his tyrannic streak. The willowy Claire Foy is a perfect fit for the role of spiteful Anne Boleyn, and it takes something to be the perfect Anne and the perfect Little Dorrit. Bernard Hill is a joy as the unapologetically brutal Norfolk (admittedly, he has some of the best lines). I could go on.
Also, the dialogue is snappy and the adaptation is skillful. It has at its focus Cromwell's filial affection for Cardinal Wolsey (a suitably disarming Jonathan Pryce), which was one of his most humanising traits in Mantel's novels. This almost makes sense of the twists and turns of Cromwell's career. While Wolsey is alive, he protects the Cardinal's interests and works to get him back in favour with the King. When Wolsey dies, Cromwell tries to protect his memory instead, and is incensed when it is defiled by Anne's gang of young bucks. He is set on avenging his old employer, settling scores with whoever has sneered at him or caused him a moment's discomfort - though with a few notable exceptions, as I will soon return to. Wolf Hall the novel focused a great deal more on Cromwell's Protestant sympathies as a motivating factor; however, in Bring Out The Bodies, Cromwell readily dispensed with these sympathies and allied himself with Catholic nobles against the reform-friendly Anne. Perhaps it is wise, then, for the series not to make too great a claim for Cromwell's reformatory zeal and concentrate on the Wolsey plot line instead. It makes for some great human drama, too: you feel the Cardinal's ghost is standing between Anne and Cromwell at every opportunity, even when they have a shared interest. In one scene, they both stand at a window gloating over More's resignation as Lord Chancellor, and Anne, in a rare gesture of sympathy, puts her hand over Cromwell's. But he's wearing the Cardinal's ring, and as the person largely responsible for his downfall she - and we, the viewers - sense without being told that she and Cromwell can never really be friends.
There are weaknesses with the Wolsey storyline, though, and they're not the adaptation's fault, as they exist in the novels as well. As I've pointed out before, who is the main guilty party in Wolsey's destruction? Why, the King himself, the very same man that Cromwell serves so dutifully. And what about the Dukes Norfolk and Suffolk: were they not worse enemies of Wolsey than an ungrateful lute player or some courtiers making asses of themselves in an (admittedly nasty) play? It seems Cromwell is not too keen to try his mettle against the most powerful men in the land, however anti-Wolsey they may have been. I suppose one may argue that a fierce but openly fought battle is more easy to forgive than small, unnecessary slights and betrayals. Nevertheless, Cromwell's loyalty to the King's cause - which in time will lead to his own fall from grace and execution - is hard to make sense of in the circumstances, especially as - vengenance apart - you never really discover what he wants to use his power for.
The adaptation has some weaknesses of its own as well, like the already-mentioned high-browness, as evidenced by the historically accurate dim light, the renaissancy music and the meaningful pauses that litter the conversation (I'm a sworn enemy to meaningful silences in film and on TV: they may work on stage, but on screen they merely slow up the pace). But at least it earns its chops as quality drama. Too often nowadays you get lush hooey like The Tudors, which takes itself far more seriously than it deserves and consequently often manages to fall between the chairs of ambitious drama and light entertainment (Reign, of which I've seen two episodes, is another example of this genre: so po-faced it's surpisingly boring, in spite of the glamorous sets and bed-hopping). Wolf Hall, at least, is the real deal - though maybe not ideal for after-gym watching.
Wednesday, 21 October 2015
The long Downton goodbye
"Who has an under-butler these days?"
Oh, I don't know. An earl who wants to win the annual cricket match? An earl with a butler near retirement who will need to be replaced? An earl with a houseful of secrets, whose under-butler is resentful enough to make trouble for someone simply for calling him a "stupid fool", let alone for sacking him? Most important of all, an earl whose daughter's life has actually been saved by said under-butler? I'm not sure even Alan Sugar would recommend firing in such circumstances.
Does it show that I've been thinking about angry comebacks to this line ever since I first heard about it (it was part of an early trailer shown to the press, apparently)? Now when the first episode of Downton Abbey series six has aired in Sweden and I see the line in its context, what strikes me most is the Earl's apparent insouciance. He airily considers if he should reduce staff, not because of some pressing financial need but because he's keen to show he's not "out of step" with the times (since when?). To cap it all, he rounds off his talk with Carson on the matter with a sweeping remark about not being able to "stop history in its tracks". He might easily have added that the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. At least Burns felt sorry for the mouse.
Don't let this grumble mislead you: I was, on the whole, deeply satisfied with the first Downton episode. Because it's the last series, I feel I've caught the reticence bug and don't want to give too much away. However, I can say that the episode contains truly moving scenes, and that plenty of things happen but without the over-hectic pace of episode one of series five, where you had the feeling that every character had a bit of plot business crammed in so he or she could take a bow for the audience. I don't think I'd be entirely happy either if there was nothing to grumble about (another example: however refreshing it is with a series where bolshie rants aren't considered a good thing, whom Daisy chooses to insult in her spare time is surely her own affair?). I think this series is going to be a corker.
It only made me realise how much I will miss Downton when it ends. I think I've been reasonably sensible about the news that this is the final series, and yes, I still believe this may be the best time to stop. But when will I get this much satisfaction out of a TV series again? Poldark doesn't even begin to compare, in spite of the heartstoppingly lovely George. When all is said and done, the plot-line and characters in Poldark are fairly simple. It's up to sweet Demelza to be the drama's heart, whereas in Downton - with the risk of sounding like Dickens's Mrs Skewton - there's heart everywhere. Fellowes cares about his characters, and it shows.
I will, perhaps, not be able to refrain completely from bellyaching in a faintly spoilerish manner when things go agley later on. But I know that I will not have been the only one who was pleased to see Thomas being nice to the children (George and Marigold: this is important) because 1) see? he's not all bad 2) it makes a redemptive story-arc for him far more likely. When Downton is done, I will most likely never again savour the feeling that my villain-besottedness is shared by thousands. Oh, well, we're not there yet.
Oh, I don't know. An earl who wants to win the annual cricket match? An earl with a butler near retirement who will need to be replaced? An earl with a houseful of secrets, whose under-butler is resentful enough to make trouble for someone simply for calling him a "stupid fool", let alone for sacking him? Most important of all, an earl whose daughter's life has actually been saved by said under-butler? I'm not sure even Alan Sugar would recommend firing in such circumstances.
Does it show that I've been thinking about angry comebacks to this line ever since I first heard about it (it was part of an early trailer shown to the press, apparently)? Now when the first episode of Downton Abbey series six has aired in Sweden and I see the line in its context, what strikes me most is the Earl's apparent insouciance. He airily considers if he should reduce staff, not because of some pressing financial need but because he's keen to show he's not "out of step" with the times (since when?). To cap it all, he rounds off his talk with Carson on the matter with a sweeping remark about not being able to "stop history in its tracks". He might easily have added that the best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley. At least Burns felt sorry for the mouse.
Don't let this grumble mislead you: I was, on the whole, deeply satisfied with the first Downton episode. Because it's the last series, I feel I've caught the reticence bug and don't want to give too much away. However, I can say that the episode contains truly moving scenes, and that plenty of things happen but without the over-hectic pace of episode one of series five, where you had the feeling that every character had a bit of plot business crammed in so he or she could take a bow for the audience. I don't think I'd be entirely happy either if there was nothing to grumble about (another example: however refreshing it is with a series where bolshie rants aren't considered a good thing, whom Daisy chooses to insult in her spare time is surely her own affair?). I think this series is going to be a corker.
It only made me realise how much I will miss Downton when it ends. I think I've been reasonably sensible about the news that this is the final series, and yes, I still believe this may be the best time to stop. But when will I get this much satisfaction out of a TV series again? Poldark doesn't even begin to compare, in spite of the heartstoppingly lovely George. When all is said and done, the plot-line and characters in Poldark are fairly simple. It's up to sweet Demelza to be the drama's heart, whereas in Downton - with the risk of sounding like Dickens's Mrs Skewton - there's heart everywhere. Fellowes cares about his characters, and it shows.
I will, perhaps, not be able to refrain completely from bellyaching in a faintly spoilerish manner when things go agley later on. But I know that I will not have been the only one who was pleased to see Thomas being nice to the children (George and Marigold: this is important) because 1) see? he's not all bad 2) it makes a redemptive story-arc for him far more likely. When Downton is done, I will most likely never again savour the feeling that my villain-besottedness is shared by thousands. Oh, well, we're not there yet.
Wednesday, 14 October 2015
The modern-day retelling - the hardest classics-poaching genre of them all
As I've already confessed, I have a sneaking fondness for the prequel/sequel/retelling from another angle genres, in short: the "parasite" genres who poach ideas and characters from well-known classical works and put a new spin on them. But they are tricky to get right at the best of times, and lately I've started wondering whether the modern retelling, where a story from a classic novel is transposed to an up-to-date setting, is not the very trickiest. The other alternatives have built-in interest: in a sequel, we get to see familiar characters in new adventures; in a prequel, we get to know more about what makes them tick - plus we get a few new plots; in a retelling from another character's point of view, a new light is shed on the plot of a favourite novel which, at best, opens up a whole new perspective on it (and at worst only makes us angry). But the modern setting - what does it add, exactly? A reminder of the timelessness of the concerns of the original novel, perhaps, but surely something else is needed too: some new insight that highlights something in the original novel that you hadn't thought about before. Alternatively, simple fun can be had with a modern variation on a well-known theme, but it does have to be a variation.
I've come across two modern-day retellings lately on opposite sides of the faithfulness to the original vs free invention spectrum, and both approaches have their drawbacks. "Your rapier is like a bird: if you hold it too tight, it chokes - if you hold it too loosely, it flies." (Was that in Scaramouche? Or just in the Mickey Mouse version?)
To start with the free invention, quite a few nice things can be said about the American series Elementary. It's a good, funny, fairly clever crime series, ideal post-gym watching, and at least one of the protagonists (Watson) is worth rooting for. It is, however, not in any way reminiscent of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes. As in the English Sherlock, the series features a detective called Sherlock Holmes and a Watson - in the American version, a Joan instead of a John. The makers of Sherlock, however, are great Holmes fans, and it shows. Although the crime capers that their Holmes and Watson get up to are freely invented, there are a lot of affectionate references to the original stories. They get Holmes and Watson and what they're about. In Elementary, you have a feeling that the series creators have been inspired exclusively by Sherlock and not by the original stories at all. Elementary's Holmes is rude and antisocial, like Sherlock's Holmes - but unlike Conan Doyle's Holmes. The original Sherlock was arrogant, yes, but he treated witnesses and the like politely, otherwise they would not have told him their stories, omitting no detail however slight. I accept the "sociopathic" trait of Sherlock's Holmes because the series is so close to the spirit of the original in other ways, but Elementary just isn't. It's a crime series about a Englishman without manners who makes a lot of deductions and his likeable female sidekick - but there is no reason why these characters should be called Holmes and Watson.
As for the faithful retelling, I'm in the middle of Val McDermid's modern take on Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. It's pleasant enough, but it just doesn't catch fire. Although the action is relocated from Regency Bath to modern-day Edinburgh during the festival, the characters and the situations they find themselves in are essentially the same. Cat Morland, the modern equivalent to Austen's Catherine, is well caught, and still a very nice girl. But I've already lived through her disappointments, humiliations and occasional triumphs in trying to make the acquaintance of Henry Tilney and his family - while being hindered at every turn by the dreadful Thorpeses - when I read Austen's novel. Every situation in the original seems to have its counterpart here, and it feels too much of a retread. Perhaps something new will be added now that Cat is in Northanger Abbey itself, and maybe Val McDermid's novel will start to dare to take some liberties with Austen's plot. If not, I don't really see the point of retelling the same story from the same point of view and with the same characters, only now with mobiles and Facebook.
I've come across two modern-day retellings lately on opposite sides of the faithfulness to the original vs free invention spectrum, and both approaches have their drawbacks. "Your rapier is like a bird: if you hold it too tight, it chokes - if you hold it too loosely, it flies." (Was that in Scaramouche? Or just in the Mickey Mouse version?)
To start with the free invention, quite a few nice things can be said about the American series Elementary. It's a good, funny, fairly clever crime series, ideal post-gym watching, and at least one of the protagonists (Watson) is worth rooting for. It is, however, not in any way reminiscent of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes. As in the English Sherlock, the series features a detective called Sherlock Holmes and a Watson - in the American version, a Joan instead of a John. The makers of Sherlock, however, are great Holmes fans, and it shows. Although the crime capers that their Holmes and Watson get up to are freely invented, there are a lot of affectionate references to the original stories. They get Holmes and Watson and what they're about. In Elementary, you have a feeling that the series creators have been inspired exclusively by Sherlock and not by the original stories at all. Elementary's Holmes is rude and antisocial, like Sherlock's Holmes - but unlike Conan Doyle's Holmes. The original Sherlock was arrogant, yes, but he treated witnesses and the like politely, otherwise they would not have told him their stories, omitting no detail however slight. I accept the "sociopathic" trait of Sherlock's Holmes because the series is so close to the spirit of the original in other ways, but Elementary just isn't. It's a crime series about a Englishman without manners who makes a lot of deductions and his likeable female sidekick - but there is no reason why these characters should be called Holmes and Watson.
As for the faithful retelling, I'm in the middle of Val McDermid's modern take on Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey. It's pleasant enough, but it just doesn't catch fire. Although the action is relocated from Regency Bath to modern-day Edinburgh during the festival, the characters and the situations they find themselves in are essentially the same. Cat Morland, the modern equivalent to Austen's Catherine, is well caught, and still a very nice girl. But I've already lived through her disappointments, humiliations and occasional triumphs in trying to make the acquaintance of Henry Tilney and his family - while being hindered at every turn by the dreadful Thorpeses - when I read Austen's novel. Every situation in the original seems to have its counterpart here, and it feels too much of a retread. Perhaps something new will be added now that Cat is in Northanger Abbey itself, and maybe Val McDermid's novel will start to dare to take some liberties with Austen's plot. If not, I don't really see the point of retelling the same story from the same point of view and with the same characters, only now with mobiles and Facebook.
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