Right then. War and Peace.
Not the novel, mind - I must admit that not only have I never read it, I'm unlikely ever to do so. Call me shallow, but I don't think I can face a 1000 page-long story set during the Napoleonic wars from an anti-Napoleonic perspective, especially as it includes the catastrophic Russian campaign. Moreover, it doesn't matter if a novel is 1000 pages long if the plot moves at a fair lick, but I suspect Tolstoy of being a digresser in the Hugo vein - and I wouldn't be too surprised if many of the digressions were soundings-off about a certain French Emperor.
However, I have watched the old, 15-hour-long BBC adaptation of the novel starring Anthony Hopkins as Pierre (something must have happened to my attention span since then), and so I do have something with which to compare the new, snappier Andrew Davies adaptation. What I found I enjoyed in the old version were the relationship dramas - a largish cast of characters were linked in intricate and sometimes unexpected ways, and it wasn't entirely predictable who would end up with whom. This seemed like promising material for the magic Davies touch.
The first episode was frothy enough, and included the suspenseful "get Pierre to his dying dad on time" storyline. Four episodes in, though (the whole series is six episodes long), and I can't help noticing that the pace isn't exactly frantic. When I first heard the melancholic Russian theme song I thought "get away with you, Andrew", but as a matter of fact, this adaptation is rather more pensive than one is used to from Davies, and contains scenes which don't advance the plot much but which Set the Mood. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit dull at times. Sometime during episode three I thought "this is the peace part, I should be enjoying this more" - and got a feeling of déja vu when I realised I had been thinking much the same thing when watching much the same part of the story in the old 15-hour-adaptation.
Having said that, the Davies adaptation is an Express train compared to the old one, and the more sensible choice if you want a handy TV version of War and Peace which will give you an inkling of what's it all about. Let's face it, if you want an endurance test, you might as well read the novel - at a rate of 50 pages per hour you'd be on page 750 after 15 hours, with a mere 250 pages to go. All right, so if you skip the old adaptation you don't get Anthony Hopkins or Alan Dobie's handsome Andrei. But the new version's heroes aren't bad either - Paul Dano is sweet as Pierre, and James Norton gives Andrei an intensity of feeling which just about saves the character from being too much of a stuffed shirt. And then there's Lily James as a lovely but clueless Natasha, dangerously getting to grips with love and desire through trial and error. James (known as Lady Rose in Downton) is used to playing wilful teenagers, and the fact that Natasha is merely eighteen when committing a fundamental error which needlessly complicates her love life is much more convincingly brought home than in the old version.
The other characters are well-cast too: Stephen Rea as the scheming Prince Kuragin (!), regrettably more or less absent after the two first episodes; Rebecca Front - always a joy - as the ambitious mum of personable but shallow Boris; Adrian Edmondson and Greta Scacchi as Natasha's parents, with Edmondson particularly poignant as a man seemingly incapable of anger ("it is a little difficult... we will have to close down our house in Moscow" is his reaction when his son contracts an astronomical gambling debt); Tuppence Middleton as Pierre's sluttish wife Hélène, who can be relied on to crank up the drama a bit; and so on. (I was a little disappointed in Hélène's brother Anatole, but maybe my expectations were too high, as this is a character who's supposed to be able to fell ladies with a glance. I don't think I'd have minded the same actor as, say, Sampson Brass in The Old Curiosity Shop.)
For lazybones like me, then, this War and Peace adaptation is a fairly pleasant way to acquaint oneself with the source material. I do wonder, though, whether it doesn't risk falling between two chairs, as being too frothy for the real War and Peace diehards and not frothy enough to costume-drama addicts who simply want a good time. But who knows? The same thing might be said about Davies's Dickens adaptations, and I thought they were brilliant, speaking both as a costume drama viewer and as a card-carrying Dickens fan. It is perfectly possible that those who have read and loved War and Peace will enjoy seeing both the available BBC versions.
Wednesday, 24 February 2016
Tuesday, 9 February 2016
The Paying Guests - Painless ambitious reading
I wonder if it's a spoiler to say that a novel doesn't have a twist? As a matter of fact, I rather think it might be. Let me mitigate my spoiling, then, by saying that The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters does contain surprising turns of event - and not all of them unpleasant, either. What it doesn't have is the sort of rug-pulled-away-under-your-feet twist which makes you reassess the characters and what's been going on completely. I've come across twists like these in the other two books by Waters that I've read, Fingersmith and Affinity, and consequently I viewed Lilian, the heroine's love interest, with some suspicion. We know about those butter-wouldn't-melt type of women, don't we? She is no con artist, though: if the characters of The Paying Guests let each other down at times, it's because of other failings than cold-hearted deviousness.
Taking place in London in 1922, the novel opens with the protagonist, Frances Wray, and her mother receiving their new lodgers, Leonard and Lilian Barber. The Wrays are genteel (which is why their friends refer to their lodgers as "paying guests") but fallen on hard times, the Barbers are of the "clerk class". Frances doesn't much like having to share her house with strangers, and is at first a little contemptous of the Barbers, though she appreciates Lilian's kindness. Her positive feelings towards Lilian grow stronger as the two women become friends, until Frances has to admit to herself that she's fallen in love. With one failed love affair already behind her, this is unwelcome news, especially as Lilian's first reaction when realising that her friend's lost love was a actually a girl is shock and embarrassment. Will Lilian come round? And, it that case, how are they going to handle the small matter of her husband Leonard?
If you want to read a critically acclaimed novel which is also an entertaining piece of storytelling, bristling with the traditional virtues of character and plot, then look no further. For sheer page-turning value, I liked Fingersmith more: as the plot of The Paying Guests is that of a chamber piece, I did at times want the few characters involved to get on with it. But the prose has verve, and Frances is an engaging protagonist. Once you've resigned yourself to the fact that some particular plot point won't be resolved in a hurry, you can sit back and enjoy her take on things. The Paying Guests is also a kinder book than both Affinity and Fingersmith, and the characters (not just Frances - even Leonard is fairly, sometimes even sympathetically, treated) easier to like.
It gives one hope that critics can stoop to praising a good storyteller. Of course, this must mainly be because of the good writing. I suspect, though, that the all-female love affairs help, and that the supposedly challenging "lesbian angle" protects Waters from the accusation of being old-fashioned. Ironically, the relationships depicted by Waters are not in any way exotic: that's one of the points she very effectively makes in her novels. The heartbreaks, thrills, betrayals and reconciliations her female protagonists go through are the same as those a "man's woman" might experience - or a man, come to that. In The Paying Guests, the robust common sense with which the story is told (unlike Margaret in Affinity, Frances is no whiner) makes sure that the straight reader never feels preached to. True, you learn a thing or two about the situation for lesbians in Twenties England (not all bad - two girls can set up house together without any awkward questions being asked), but the story doesn't feel like it's written from any particular angle. It's just a love story.
Taking place in London in 1922, the novel opens with the protagonist, Frances Wray, and her mother receiving their new lodgers, Leonard and Lilian Barber. The Wrays are genteel (which is why their friends refer to their lodgers as "paying guests") but fallen on hard times, the Barbers are of the "clerk class". Frances doesn't much like having to share her house with strangers, and is at first a little contemptous of the Barbers, though she appreciates Lilian's kindness. Her positive feelings towards Lilian grow stronger as the two women become friends, until Frances has to admit to herself that she's fallen in love. With one failed love affair already behind her, this is unwelcome news, especially as Lilian's first reaction when realising that her friend's lost love was a actually a girl is shock and embarrassment. Will Lilian come round? And, it that case, how are they going to handle the small matter of her husband Leonard?
If you want to read a critically acclaimed novel which is also an entertaining piece of storytelling, bristling with the traditional virtues of character and plot, then look no further. For sheer page-turning value, I liked Fingersmith more: as the plot of The Paying Guests is that of a chamber piece, I did at times want the few characters involved to get on with it. But the prose has verve, and Frances is an engaging protagonist. Once you've resigned yourself to the fact that some particular plot point won't be resolved in a hurry, you can sit back and enjoy her take on things. The Paying Guests is also a kinder book than both Affinity and Fingersmith, and the characters (not just Frances - even Leonard is fairly, sometimes even sympathetically, treated) easier to like.
It gives one hope that critics can stoop to praising a good storyteller. Of course, this must mainly be because of the good writing. I suspect, though, that the all-female love affairs help, and that the supposedly challenging "lesbian angle" protects Waters from the accusation of being old-fashioned. Ironically, the relationships depicted by Waters are not in any way exotic: that's one of the points she very effectively makes in her novels. The heartbreaks, thrills, betrayals and reconciliations her female protagonists go through are the same as those a "man's woman" might experience - or a man, come to that. In The Paying Guests, the robust common sense with which the story is told (unlike Margaret in Affinity, Frances is no whiner) makes sure that the straight reader never feels preached to. True, you learn a thing or two about the situation for lesbians in Twenties England (not all bad - two girls can set up house together without any awkward questions being asked), but the story doesn't feel like it's written from any particular angle. It's just a love story.
Wednesday, 27 January 2016
Christie's Terrorised Ten (or nine)
I approached BBC's new adaptation of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None with a certain wariness. The screen writer, Sarah Phelps, has been known to mess around with fundamental elements in the works she's adapted in the past (turning Oliver Twist into a thug in the making, for instance, or Miss Havisham's manner into that of a - poisonous - little girl lost). What would she do to Christie, who is apt to be underrated, when she sometimes gives the impression of wanting to improve on Dickens himself? However, I needn't have worried: The Beeb's And Then There Were None is a success. Some plot elements have been tampered with, yes, but not to any disastrous effect. There is only one change I take serious issue with.
The plot of And Then There Were None concerns ten people who are lured to an island and stranded there, while being picked off one by one by a ruthless killer. The motive is clear from the off: all of the ten are accused, in a gramophone recording, of having caused one or several deaths. The murders are a form of insane retribution: at the same time, the killer seems to be enjoying himself (I will call the murderer "he" out of convenience, but it may of course be a she). The victims are killed following the pattern of a nursery rhyme (called "Ten Little Soldier Boys" in the adaptation, completely understandably considering the original title). After a while, it dawns on the prospective victims that the murderer is not some lunatic hiding on the island, but must in matter of fact be one of them.
Christie's novel is rather an unpleasant one, but it is extremely cleverly constructed. One of the clever touches is that the killings of which the victims are accused are of the kind that they would never be convicted of in a court of law. They are indirect murders, with the odd accidental death thrown in. This gives the reader something to ponder while trying to figure out which of the ten is the one who wants to do the rest of them in. Are the actions the luckless island visitors are accused of really the equivalent of murder? How responsible are they for the deaths they are charged with, and would we put them in the same order depending on their "degree of guilt" as the murderer (the guiltier he thinks they are, the longer they have to wait before they're killed off)? Is there a clue somewhere hidden in the more vague or unsatisfactory accusations? After all, the murderer clearly feels himself to be morally superior to the rest of the crew - does this mean that he considers himself innocent, for some reason, of the charge against him? The fact that the ten suspects/victims are not hands-on murderers who've actually stuck a knife in someone is one of the main points of the novel.
Unfortunately, it is lost in the adaptation. Here, several of the indirect killings have been changed to actual murders. This is a real pity, especially as some beautiful indirect murder scenarios are done away with as a consequence. In the novel, the servant couple Mr and Mrs Rogers failed to give their former employer her medicine at the right time, resulting in her death and a nice legacy for them. In the adaptation, Rogers (considerably more Gothic than in the book) simply smothers the old lady with a pillow. On screen, General Macarthur is seen putting a bullet in his wife's lover's head; in the novel, he ingeniously sent the young man on a suicidal mission, with no-one - except a suspicious fellow officer, who of course had no proof - any the wiser about the fact that it wasn't an honest mistake. With several bona fide murderers among the ten, who would look more at home in Cards on The Table's Mr Shaitana's collection than U.N. Owen's (the murderer's alias), the plot loses an interesting dimension and the question of "degrees of guilt" doesn't really become an issue.
Having said that, the TV adaptation works very well as a thriller rather than as a clever conundrum. The focus is, as it should be, on the victims, and how they cope with the nightmare situation they've landed in. Mercifully, there is no "they had it coming" gleefulness over the proceedings. In spite of the fact that the story is divided into three whole hour-long episodes when the novel is only 220-odd pages long, the tension is kept up. The casting is absolutely spot-on, from the smaller parts (or are they...?) of Douglas Booth as reckless but eye-poppingly gorgeous Anthony Marston and Anna Maxwell Martin as the cowed Mrs Rogers to the more substantial ones. My personal favourite was Burn Gorman (Guppy in Bleak House) as the shifty copper Blore, sometimes funny when trying to salvage his dignity in trying circumstances ("I was in the lavvy if you must know"), sometimes clearly a man dangerously easy to underestimate. It's a shame that his role in the death of Stephen Landor is not only changed but also poorly motivated, but Gorman makes the best of it, and I doubt many could have grieved for the fate of Blore's allotment as convincingly. Casting Aidan Turner aka Ross Poldark as Philip Lombard is no audience-ingratiating move on the part of the BBC - well, not wholly; he's precisely the right type for this part, and as a bonus, he's allowed to shave as Lombard. I hadn't come across Maeve Dermody before, but she's exactly as I imagine Vera Claythorne: deceptively demure, but when it comes down to it a right calculating little minx. Ooh, and did I mention Charles Dance as the wintry judge? I could go on and on.
After having watched this atmospheric nail-biter, which does not belittle Christie's story or her characters, I feel more positive in view of Phelps's rumoured involvement in one or several episodes of Dickensian. I wonder if original TV drama would not suit her better than adaptations, though. And I still would not trust her or anyone else than Andrew Davies with adapting Dombey and Son - a question which remains sadly academic.
The plot of And Then There Were None concerns ten people who are lured to an island and stranded there, while being picked off one by one by a ruthless killer. The motive is clear from the off: all of the ten are accused, in a gramophone recording, of having caused one or several deaths. The murders are a form of insane retribution: at the same time, the killer seems to be enjoying himself (I will call the murderer "he" out of convenience, but it may of course be a she). The victims are killed following the pattern of a nursery rhyme (called "Ten Little Soldier Boys" in the adaptation, completely understandably considering the original title). After a while, it dawns on the prospective victims that the murderer is not some lunatic hiding on the island, but must in matter of fact be one of them.
Christie's novel is rather an unpleasant one, but it is extremely cleverly constructed. One of the clever touches is that the killings of which the victims are accused are of the kind that they would never be convicted of in a court of law. They are indirect murders, with the odd accidental death thrown in. This gives the reader something to ponder while trying to figure out which of the ten is the one who wants to do the rest of them in. Are the actions the luckless island visitors are accused of really the equivalent of murder? How responsible are they for the deaths they are charged with, and would we put them in the same order depending on their "degree of guilt" as the murderer (the guiltier he thinks they are, the longer they have to wait before they're killed off)? Is there a clue somewhere hidden in the more vague or unsatisfactory accusations? After all, the murderer clearly feels himself to be morally superior to the rest of the crew - does this mean that he considers himself innocent, for some reason, of the charge against him? The fact that the ten suspects/victims are not hands-on murderers who've actually stuck a knife in someone is one of the main points of the novel.
Unfortunately, it is lost in the adaptation. Here, several of the indirect killings have been changed to actual murders. This is a real pity, especially as some beautiful indirect murder scenarios are done away with as a consequence. In the novel, the servant couple Mr and Mrs Rogers failed to give their former employer her medicine at the right time, resulting in her death and a nice legacy for them. In the adaptation, Rogers (considerably more Gothic than in the book) simply smothers the old lady with a pillow. On screen, General Macarthur is seen putting a bullet in his wife's lover's head; in the novel, he ingeniously sent the young man on a suicidal mission, with no-one - except a suspicious fellow officer, who of course had no proof - any the wiser about the fact that it wasn't an honest mistake. With several bona fide murderers among the ten, who would look more at home in Cards on The Table's Mr Shaitana's collection than U.N. Owen's (the murderer's alias), the plot loses an interesting dimension and the question of "degrees of guilt" doesn't really become an issue.
Having said that, the TV adaptation works very well as a thriller rather than as a clever conundrum. The focus is, as it should be, on the victims, and how they cope with the nightmare situation they've landed in. Mercifully, there is no "they had it coming" gleefulness over the proceedings. In spite of the fact that the story is divided into three whole hour-long episodes when the novel is only 220-odd pages long, the tension is kept up. The casting is absolutely spot-on, from the smaller parts (or are they...?) of Douglas Booth as reckless but eye-poppingly gorgeous Anthony Marston and Anna Maxwell Martin as the cowed Mrs Rogers to the more substantial ones. My personal favourite was Burn Gorman (Guppy in Bleak House) as the shifty copper Blore, sometimes funny when trying to salvage his dignity in trying circumstances ("I was in the lavvy if you must know"), sometimes clearly a man dangerously easy to underestimate. It's a shame that his role in the death of Stephen Landor is not only changed but also poorly motivated, but Gorman makes the best of it, and I doubt many could have grieved for the fate of Blore's allotment as convincingly. Casting Aidan Turner aka Ross Poldark as Philip Lombard is no audience-ingratiating move on the part of the BBC - well, not wholly; he's precisely the right type for this part, and as a bonus, he's allowed to shave as Lombard. I hadn't come across Maeve Dermody before, but she's exactly as I imagine Vera Claythorne: deceptively demure, but when it comes down to it a right calculating little minx. Ooh, and did I mention Charles Dance as the wintry judge? I could go on and on.
After having watched this atmospheric nail-biter, which does not belittle Christie's story or her characters, I feel more positive in view of Phelps's rumoured involvement in one or several episodes of Dickensian. I wonder if original TV drama would not suit her better than adaptations, though. And I still would not trust her or anyone else than Andrew Davies with adapting Dombey and Son - a question which remains sadly academic.
Wednesday, 20 January 2016
You know Who (again)
It's official: Peter Capaldi is the best Doctor in the new Doctor Who series. Well, in my opinion, anyway. (I still haven't watched the old series, except the odd episode: I have a feeling I'll get there soon enough.) He can make me listen with rapt attention to a pacifist speech. Thanks to his tour de force solo performance, I can put up with an episode featuring one of my least favourite private fears (the misnamed "Heaven Sent", which should have had the title of its companion episode "Hell Bent" - enough said). I know the Doctor gig is draining, but I certainly hope Capaldi will hold out for a while yet; he'll be an extremely hard act to follow.
Mind you, all the new Doctors have been excellent, which is one sign among many of the effort and brainpower invested in this series. I preferred series eight to series nine - in the end, the two-episode structure didn't add as much as one would have liked - but if I grumble, it should be remembered that I'm still very well aware of the high level even a comparatively lacklustre Who episode attains compared to most other shows.
So, though I admit I found "Sleep No More" incomprehensible, hated the twist at the end and sniffed at the railing against "filthy, greedy humans" - hey, look it's not as if we actually had banished bed-time, is it? - it was nice to hear the Doc quote Shakespeare in his defence of the blessings of sleep. Even if I smirked sarcastically at the clumsy political parallels in the two-parter "The Zygon Invasion/The Zygon Inversion" (and could we perhaps not equate red, blotchy aliens with minorities that are unquestionably human? I'm not sure it's very tolerance-furthering), it was great to have Osgood back from the dead - so to speak - together with the other gutsy women from UNIT. Though it was an overcomplicated cheat to back away from the tragic but dignified ending Clara was given in "Face the Raven", it feels churlish to deny the fans the possibilities of the new adventures sketched out for her at the end of "Hell Bent", complete with her own Tardis and her own distinctly impressive companion. Even so, given that poor likeable bit-part players are killed off in droves in Doctor Who, with the Doctor mostly snapping something like "you can mourn him/her later" (as they're in the middle of a crisis), how come he has such a hard time accepting his precious companion's mortality, and goes to such extreme lengths to reverse the natural order of things for her? Humans die - you would have thought he'd grasped that by now. Only saying.
Series nine frequently falls into the three Doctor Who traps of preachiness, grimness (it should be scary sometimes, yes, but like a ghost story with a happy ending, not like a horror film) and over-tricksiness. Luckily, it has enough of the Who virtues of heart and brains to compensate. As for the plot holes, I've started to believe that they are quite deliberate, in order to give the devoted fan base something to do. There are all kinds of opportunities to fill in the blanks, even through the official channels: the sheer mass of spin-offs in the form of novels, audiobooks, comics etc. is enough to make devotees of other fictional TV worlds green with envy (I should know). I was planning to be more severe on series nine, but the enthusiasm displayed in the behind-the-scenes features were heartwarming enough to put me in a better mood. Whovians - the ones in charge, anyway - must be some of the most loveable nerds around, and it's difficult to stay cross with them for long.
Mind you, all the new Doctors have been excellent, which is one sign among many of the effort and brainpower invested in this series. I preferred series eight to series nine - in the end, the two-episode structure didn't add as much as one would have liked - but if I grumble, it should be remembered that I'm still very well aware of the high level even a comparatively lacklustre Who episode attains compared to most other shows.
So, though I admit I found "Sleep No More" incomprehensible, hated the twist at the end and sniffed at the railing against "filthy, greedy humans" - hey, look it's not as if we actually had banished bed-time, is it? - it was nice to hear the Doc quote Shakespeare in his defence of the blessings of sleep. Even if I smirked sarcastically at the clumsy political parallels in the two-parter "The Zygon Invasion/The Zygon Inversion" (and could we perhaps not equate red, blotchy aliens with minorities that are unquestionably human? I'm not sure it's very tolerance-furthering), it was great to have Osgood back from the dead - so to speak - together with the other gutsy women from UNIT. Though it was an overcomplicated cheat to back away from the tragic but dignified ending Clara was given in "Face the Raven", it feels churlish to deny the fans the possibilities of the new adventures sketched out for her at the end of "Hell Bent", complete with her own Tardis and her own distinctly impressive companion. Even so, given that poor likeable bit-part players are killed off in droves in Doctor Who, with the Doctor mostly snapping something like "you can mourn him/her later" (as they're in the middle of a crisis), how come he has such a hard time accepting his precious companion's mortality, and goes to such extreme lengths to reverse the natural order of things for her? Humans die - you would have thought he'd grasped that by now. Only saying.
Series nine frequently falls into the three Doctor Who traps of preachiness, grimness (it should be scary sometimes, yes, but like a ghost story with a happy ending, not like a horror film) and over-tricksiness. Luckily, it has enough of the Who virtues of heart and brains to compensate. As for the plot holes, I've started to believe that they are quite deliberate, in order to give the devoted fan base something to do. There are all kinds of opportunities to fill in the blanks, even through the official channels: the sheer mass of spin-offs in the form of novels, audiobooks, comics etc. is enough to make devotees of other fictional TV worlds green with envy (I should know). I was planning to be more severe on series nine, but the enthusiasm displayed in the behind-the-scenes features were heartwarming enough to put me in a better mood. Whovians - the ones in charge, anyway - must be some of the most loveable nerds around, and it's difficult to stay cross with them for long.
Thursday, 7 January 2016
Star Wars: The Dark Side and its cookies
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.
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.
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.
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