Cute (Character) Overload, Book-to-Film Edition

Yeah, I haven't been able to write a decent review either (that's what you get when one's family is visiting to celebrate one's graduation ceremony) but since we're here, I might as well share some of my favorite clips from adaptations of my favorite books...




1) Sense & Sensibility, 2007-2008. Forget the fact that Willoughby looks too much like that weaselly Samm Levine for my taste, or that Marianne resembles the Clueless-era (and pre-destroyed-by-fame) Brittany Murphy. The scenery is fantastic, the acting is near pitch-perfect... and if you've ever wondered what on earth I ever saw in David Morrissey in spite of his role as a jackass in State of Play (not to mention his other craptastic roles - really, Basic Instinct 2 and The Reaping?!?!?!), start at the 4:30 mark when Marianne arrives at Delaford... and keep watching as he shows off his mad falconry skillz. He's definitely no Alan Rickman, but at least the perceived age difference between him and this Marianne isn't as squicky.





2) A Room with a View, 1986: Apparently the YouTube gods may also have realized that people hated the recent remake as much as Happy Scribe and I did... which probably explains why and how the spoilerrific videos from that hot mess disappeared from the site. (A pity, since I would've loved an endless HD loop of Rafe Spall-as-George giving Lucy her first kiss in the fields of Tuscany.) So please do enjoy this video of Helena Bonham Carter lying to Julian Sands' handsome face.




3) Shattered Glass, 2004. Okay, technically not a book adaptation - and this trailer is more like yet another excuse for me to post more proof of the hotness that is Peter Sarsgaard, as if I needed another one. Still, this trailer is a preview of what we have cooking for the upcoming Readers' Survey, which we'll also post late this weekend.

And speaking of excuses to post more proof of hotness...

Mr. Darcy says, "Kindly tell that walrus that I do, indeed, have his bucket. Thank you."

Hook, Line, Sinker: Agatha Christie and Le Train a Grande Perfidie

I had been on a major Agatha Christie kick lately - which is actually a late-in-life discovery for me, having been hooked by the televised versions of the Miss Marple series. (And yes, I am aware that the recent versions were not faithful to Dame Christie's version - though I'll admit that I will still take them over last Sunday's desecration of E. M. Forster.) While I'm up here, I'll also say that I have not always had the chance to watch David Suchet's portrayal of Hercule Poirot on TV. I did, however - geek alert! - download and waste hours of my time on the computer-game versions of Death on the Nile and Peril at End House. Yes, the games do bear the signature of Dame Christie by way of a nifty licensing agreement - though not necessarily faithful to the plots of the books themselves (see the Wikipedia entries for both books if you want more spoiling) - and the game play is superb.

That said, I plowed through the first two Hercule Poirot books from my stash - Evil Under the Sun and The Mysterious Affair at Styles - both of which turned out to be quick, addictive reads that made me lose track of time at the bus stops and office desks where I tried to sneak them in. I figured, since I was already hooked, I might as well get cracking on the third book in my stack: Murder on the Orient Express. How hard could it be, right?

Easier said than done. It took me three days to get through this whole novel, even though it was no thicker than the two other books I had just finished.

How hard is it, anyway, to get through a claustrophobic murder mystery surrounding the not-quite-cold corpse of a wealthy, obnoxious American? How hard is it to figure things out when Dame Christie's publishers were kind enough to even provide me with a diagram of everyone's accommodations? How hard could it be for anyone to figure out who the murderer is, with all these passengers on board - bound only by a common hallway on a passenger cab - and a snowdrift blocking the train's way from Istanbul to Calais?

By then I was no longer a stranger to Christie's recurring theme of treachery in close quarters - not after having played the games and watched the movies - so of course I had to find out which one of the twelve passengers was the culprit. Midway through the book, however, I was practically suspicious of everyone on board - even with all the airtight alibis and lack of access to crime-fighting resources. CSI this certainly isn't. And if you thought the mystery surrounding Le Train a Grande Perfidie (a little pun, by the way, pour les Francophones et Francophiles) was going to get tied up neatly in a pretty bow, with Hercule Poirot offering a pithy soundbite while twirling his Mustache of Justice... think again.


I had to read the last chapter of the book three times this afternoon, just to make sure I actually got everything straight - all while screaming all sorts of obscenities (in my head, of course) and wondering how in Dame Christie's own mind did she able to manage to wrap such a dark mystery in so much skull-duggery without making the whole thing sound so depressing. Any other writer would've come close to putting the same elements together, and still would never have come up with something so intricately structured and engineered.

In Hercule Poirot's own words: "The whole thing was a very cleverly planned jigsaw puzzle, so arranged that every fresh piece of knowledge that came to light made the solution of the whole more difficult."

And it took me another re-read to realize that this was more than just another story about a dead American on a train; it was, after all, the story of the world at large in the early 20th century, where globalization in commerce also brought about the globalization of scandal and treachery. (Ian McEwan, are you taking notes?) True, the Americans in this story are nowhere near heroic - though the Europeans don't fare any better, either - and Christie even manages to sneak in a "ripped-from-the-headlines" allusion to the Lindbergh kidnapping case to drive home her point... but that's just a small fraction of the bigger picture - as M. Bouc, the train-company executive who helps Poirot solve the mystery, gives us a clue at the very beginning:

"...All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their separate ways, never perhaps to see each other again."

But are these passengers really strangers to each other - trains passing in the night, so to speak? Can they truly get away from each other, in the light of such grand tragedy? And what does this case have to do with those other places in that particular point in history, where people of all classes, sexes, and ethnicities often found themselves with no choice but to co-exist with one another while living with their own consciences? (Let me put it this way: If it were truly up to me, Barack Obama should be reading this book right now.)


To say anything more about the book at this point would be to ruin the grand mystery behind such perfidy; I can't even tell you whether or not the solution to the mystery actually leads to the resolution of the crime. What I can tell you for sure, though, is that Murder on the Orient Express could not be any more relevant now than it was in the 1930s, and it will definitely make you wonder how much of what we now know as history has been foreshadowed by the undisputed Queen of Mysteries in this singular, treacherous train ride. You won't be sorry.

Character Assassination (Or: Closure Is A Real Word)

For those of you who read this week's NBLB weekend survey, and want to suggest that I watch the new version of A Room with a View on PBS this Sunday, I have these words to say to you: No, thank you.

I'm sorry to say this, but I did get spoilered because somebody had the bright idea to post the entire 2007 production on YouTube, broken down into ten parts. I'd post the link, but I'm still too upset to consider what they did to one of my favorite books.

It does go without saying that I am insanely partial to the original Merchant-Ivory version, with both Helena Bonham Carter and Julian Sands at their best (before both of them devolved into caricatures of their former selves), with a young Daniel Day-Lewis (who, I believe, grew back his Cecil Vyse mustache when he started drinking those damn milkshakes) and a plethora of top-shelf British acting talent supporting them. That's why I was looking forward to this new version - I was hoping they'd breathe some fresh air into what was threatening to become a musty relic.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

Say what you will about messing with classics (see also: criticism of the the ongoing Miss Marple series) or about how E. M. Forster was unable to relate to A Room With a View later in life (see also: Maurice), but I don't think I'm buying what Andrew Davies is trying to sell here - not even to justify the time shifts, the "new" "ending," or even the currently-disputed fact that Forster did write a postscript to Room which reflected his more cynical view of life and love. Yes, I'm part of the horribly gauche masses who do want George Emerson and Lucy Honeychurch to end up together, as they should have been: blissfully in love in Italy, showering each other with kisses. And why, pray tell, should that be a problem?

What also gets to me was that the "liberties" taken by the producers and screenwriters with this novel are a massive waste of everyone's time and talent - most especially the adorable Rafe Spall (seen here in another production), who could not have been a much cuter George Emerson if he tried. He does remind me a bit of Heath Ledger, in a way - if Heath (God bless his soul) had become hopelessly addicted to IHOP instead of partying- and watching him yearn soulfully for Lucy Honeychurch brought home all the great reasons why I've loved George Emerson the way Forster intended him to be. And yes, he does have certain delicious scenes without his clothes on, including the final scene of him at the Pensione Bertolini.

But then... the freaking ending. No. No. No. They should never have done that to poor George and Lucy. Wasn't it enough to have them risk ostracism by eloping, thereby liberating Lucy from the narrowmindedness of her quaint English countryside town? Again, say what you want about whether or not it's an ending that would have made E. M. Forster's heart proud, but: unnecessary, blasphemous, and a great waste of both George Emerson and Rafe Spall.

And this raises yet another timeless question: Why do we even bother with "happily ever after" in the first place, if so many people dislike it so much to mess around with it?

Don't get me wrong. There are days when I do feel that a sad and/or messy ending is appropriate - witness my love for Ian McEwan's Amsterdam, for instance. Sometimes, however, there are days when readers like myself and Happy Scribe have no use for bitter cynicism. Yes, we understand that sugar is bad for you, and can be kind of fake when you just slap it on... but does it really help to be bitter, especially at a time when most people have a reason to be cynical? Come on, people: how easy is it, anyway, to find somebody who is actually happy about living on a diet of nothing but spelt and Brussels sprouts?

My theory: If Forster (or anybody else) wanted to prove a point by showing a more realistic view of relationships by rewriting George and Lucy after their elopement, that's fine - but that also betrays a lack of trust between author and audience, especially when the "creative risk" means destroying people's perceptions of characters they have grown to love. Most people who read books would rather prefer to leave what happens next to the imagination, regardless of what they think about the ending or the author's intention. The synergy between reader and author is what makes messing with an established ending - especially an established happy ending - a complete waste of time; there's a reason, after all, why closure is a legitimate word.

Miss Austen Says No, No, No

Like many geeky bookworms of A Certain Age, I spent a good chunk of my Sundays following The Complete Jane Austen on PBS' Masterpiece Theatre. Nevermind that they've reformatted the old public-television chestnut to include a softly-lit Gillian Anderson stiffly intoning intros against a background that Keckler of Television Without Pity rightfully likened to a "My Moment, My Dove" commercial - it's the Beeb's own reinterpretation of Aunt Jane's finest work, so how hard could it be to refuse?

For the most part, however, I did enjoy most of the adaptations, especially Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park (worth it just for Billie "Honey to the B" Piper reciting flawless dialogue in regency garb). I also enjoyed the adaptation of Persuasion, too, but somehow I couldn't get myself past the fact that the actress who plays Anne Elliot bore a strange resemblance to another talented British celebrity, albeit one more troubled than your average Austen heroine.

Here's Sally Hawkins as Anne Elliot...

...and here's the person whose face kept popping up every time Sally Hawkins was on screen.

That ought to put some things in perspective, shouldn't it? Oh, they have attempted to send me to a sanctuary for teetotallers, but I have steadfastly, adamantly refused. Why, verily, I have been foul, but when I am proper, you will surely and definitely be able to recognize it as so! I may not have enough time, and if Papa should believe that I am suitable, you can try to force me into temperance and surely, with defiance, I shall refuse to go...