Thursday, May 21, 2015

The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

Georgette Heyer and I have a long history, but in this case, it's not because I discovered and devoured her books as a teenager. Quite the contrary, in fact. While most of my friends read her all through their teen years and have since grown out of her, realising that she is the literary equivalent of chocolate and thereby not a brilliant dietary staple, I came from quite a different angle. My mother and I were both reading Jane Austen in my mid-teens when she began reminiscing about the Georgette Heyer books she read in her own youth. "Not a patch on Jane Austen," she said. "I liked them because of the romance, but they weren't half so realistic."

That was why for years I regarded Georgette Heyer as a trashy romance novelist, until at last another friend prevailed on me to borrow one of her Heyer novels (Regency Buck, I think). I confess I was a little disappointed on two counts. First, the romance was by no means as trashy as I had had a sneaking hope it would be! But second, I felt that the novel was an attempt at a Jane Austen imitation, and a pale and shabby one at that.

By some means, however, I eventually dipped my nose into another Georgette Heyer novel, and then another, and since then she has become, with (the admittedly superior) Mary Stewart, one of my go-to guilty-pleasure reads--someone I read not above two or three times a year, but revel in when I do. I've come to appreciate her for herself, as a splendid writer of wit and comedy (a friend once confessed that the only reason she knows how to write as well as she does, is because she was a voracious consumer of Heyer as a girl), and I've also heard a glowing recommendation of her book A Civil Contract. But it wasn't till recently that I had the chance of reading one of her acknowledged classics, The Grand Sophy.

Sir Horace Stanton-Lacy, diplomat to war-torn Europe, flits through London on his way to Brazil, pausing only long enough to arrange for his daughter to stay with his sister Lady Ombersley and her family. When the vivacious and harebrained Sophy arrives, she finds the Ombersley home in no end of trouble--cousin Cecilia is determined to refuse an offer of marriage from the eligible Lord Charlbury and marry a feckless poet instead, cousin Hubert looms in the background brooding over a secret woe, and to cap it off, not only has cousin Charles engaged himself to a lady even more prim and dictatorial than himself, but having got control of the family finances, he is running the home with a rod of iron to the despair of his parents and siblings.

The Ombersley home is, in fact, beset with troubles. And if there's one thing Sophy likes better than anything else, it's straightening out other people's troubles...

...though if you ask cousin Charles, you might be pardoned for thinking that no trouble could ever compare with Sophy herself!

OK, I'll deal with the good first. This was a charming book, a book so charming and harebrained, much like its heroine, that I would have to be a real curmudgeon to pick apart its faults. Sophy, a volatile mixture of Pollyanna, Emma Woodhouse, and Bobbie Wickham, whizzes through the book with effortless poise and sweetness, disrupting everyone's lives and somehow making beautiful harmony out of the wreckage. This is pure farce, and not meant to be taken seriously; and yet...and yet...

And yet, this book made me dashed uncomfortable.

Take PG Wodehouse's Bobbie Wickham, the closest thing the canon of English literature has to Heyer's Sophy. Bobbie is a similarly vivacious and adorable female with a similar talent for attempting to fix things through hilariously ridiculous schemes. But, and here is the important part, Bobbie does not always succeed. In fact, her schemes, more often or not, go wrong. Additionally, she is invariably depicted from the perspective of the luckless fellows who get swept up into them and bear the brunt of the suffering. They admire her. They like her. They cannot deny her charm. But they find her too hot to handle. When Bobbie heaves into sight across the horizon, they pack their bags and head to Ultima Thule.

Is it fun to read Georgette Heyer's take on a cross between Bobbie Wickham and Emma Woodhouse? You bet. Is it even more charming that this character's schemes inevitably go gloriously right? For sure. Am I particularly impressed by the way Heyer handles this character? Nope. It would have been nice if once, just once, Sophy had messed up. I didn't believe her in the slightest. For heaven's sake, at one point she shoots an acquaintance for the flimsiest of reasons, and after a moment's gruffness, he comes around to her way of seeing things and agrees that no, she's a complete hoot...

I didn't believe a word of her. That was a shame, because the hero is actually a thoroughly realistic and flawed character. But Sophy was so crackers I couldn't see how she would win his love, and I further didn't believe that he had demonstrated an ability to deal with her, as does the young man who marries Bobbie Wickham in Wodehouse.

As a result, I can only recommend this book to readers who know the difference between outrageous make-believe, and actual reality. Life doesn't work this way. The charming Sophy Stanton-Lacy to the contrary, well-intentioned women who meddle in affairs beyond their authority are a plague on the earth. If you are after a delightful romantic farce, read Jeeves in the Offing or something instead.

Or, if you've already read Jeeves in the Offing, then I suppose you can go ahead and find The Grand Sophy on Amazon or the Book Depository.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

The Mabinogion

Recently, in compiling a Tour Guide to Arthurian Literature for Hanna at Book Geeks Anonymous, I found myself wishing to revisit all the books I was writing about--especially the Welsh Mabinogion. Here's what I wrote: 
The Welsh have always had a special claim on the Arthur legends, being the descendants of the Celtic peoples of whom he is said to be the champion. And he features prominently in their national cycle of legends, The Mabinogion. Compiled somewhere between the late 1300s and the early 1400s, the Mabinogion is a collection of stories ranging from the dreamlike Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed to the more chivalric-romance-style Peredur, Son of Efrawg. Again, in a good translation, the Mabinogion is highly accessible. In addition, reading this book feels very like getting in touch with the very earliest Arthurian traditions, possibly still with some shreds of paganism clinging to them.
So, I forgot about all the other books I had waiting to be read for the first time, and I went back and read this old favourite, in the Everyman translation by Gwyn Jones and Thomas Jones.

The first four stories are the Mabinogi properly so-called. The scholarly introduction by Jones maior and Jones minor informs us that the literary form known as mabinogi was probably a series of tales revolving around the conception, youthful exploits, captivity, and death of a heroic central figure. In the Four Branches of the Mabinogion, however, the central figure--most likely the hero Pryderi--has been largely pushed to the side so that the stories can focus on related characters.

Rhiannon, by Alan Lee
In Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, the First Branch, we are given the tale of a prince who changes place with the King of Annwn (an otherworld in Welsh myth), and later, by a series of exploits, wins the uncanny beauty Rhiannon to be his wife. When their son is born, he is stolen away by magic and Rhiannon is accused of murdering him. In Branwen, Daughter of Llyr, the marriage between a British princess and the King of Ireland results in a war in which the Irish are aided by the magic cauldron which brings the dead back to life. In Manawydan, Son of Llyr--my favourite of the Four Branches--the heroes Manawydan and Pryderi, together with their wives, are astonished one day when all the people vanish from their lands. When Pryderi and his mother Rhiannon also disappear, Manawydan must employ all his wit and cunning to discover the enemy and bring back the vanished people. Finally, in Math, Son of Mathonwy, we have a tale of multigenerational sordidity culminating in the hero Lleu Llaw Gyffes surviving both his birth-mother's malice and his wife's assassination attempts.

What is most unforgettable about this cycle of stories is the surreal fairy-tale-like imagery: the silver basin suspended by an endless chain running into the sky in Manawydan, the ride of Rhiannon in Pwyll. Characters such as Bendigeidfran in Branwen, as well as Rhiannon herself, were originally pagan Welsh deities, but in The Mabinogion they have, after the coming of Christianity, descended to a mortal level--more or less:
Messengers went to Branwen. "Lady," said they, "what thinkest thou that is?" "Though lady I am not," said she, "I know what that is: the men of the Island of the Mighty on their way over, having heard of my woes and my humiliation." "What is the forest that was seen upon the sea?" they asked. "The masts of ships and their yards," said she. "Alas," said they, "what was the mountain that could be seen alongside the ships?" "Bendigeidfran, my brother, that was," she said, "coming by wading. There was never a ship in which he might be contained." "What was the lofty ridge, and the lake on each side of the ridge?" "He," said she, "looking towards this island; he is angered. The two lakes on each side of the ridge are his two eyes, one on each side of his nose."
After the Four Branches of the Mabinogi, we have the "Four Independent Native Tales"--including The Dream of Macsen Wledig, telling how the Emperor of Rome travelled to Britain to find the bride he dreamed of; Lludd and Llefelys, telling how two brothers rid Britain of a series of plagues. The next story, Culhwch and Olwen, is the first of the tales that actually speaks of King Arthur. It is a fascinating cultural relic, possibly one of the earliest surviving tales of Arthur. The French chivalric tradition has not yet transformed the legend of Arthur into a series of chivalric romances. Instead, we find Arthur, his wife Gwenhwyfar (Guinevere) and his trusted warriors Cei (Kay), Bedwyr (Bedevere), and Gwalchmai (Gawain) in a more tribal setting, with war-bands rather than knights. Culhwch, a nephew of Arthur's, travels to his court to ask the king's aid in winning Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Chief Giant. Yspaddaden, who will according to prophecy die at his daughter's marriage, sets Culhwch a long list of impossible tasks to fulfill, which Arthur and his warriors help him accomplish. Finally, in The Dream of Rhonabwy, a man long after the days of Arthur has a vision of the legendary king in a combined game of gwyddbwyll and oneupmanship with his nephew Owein (Ywain).

These stories, especially Culhwch and Olwen, give as a fascinating glimpse of just how the Arthur legends began as just one element of a well-known body of legends. Culhwch in fact comes with a dazzlingly huge supporting cast; were there stories and origins for all these oddly-named people that have since been lost?

The final segment of The Mabinogion are the "Three Romances". In The Lady of the Fountain, the knight Owein sets out on the adventure which he hears will come if he goes to a certain place and throws a bowlful of water on a stone slab. Peredur, Son of Efrawg is an early version of the tale of Sir Perceval, in which elements of the Grail legend appear in a disjointed form, and which culminates with Peredur conquering a castle of warrior-witches. Finally, Gereint, the Son of Erbin, tells the tale of the courtship and early marital difficulties endured by the knight Gereint and his long-suffering bride Enid.

Composed at a later date, showing some influence from the French chivalric tradition, these three romances are notable in that the French author Chretien de Troyes dealt with the same three stories in his own Arthurian romances. The Mabinogion's Lady of the Fountain, Peredur Son of Efrawg, and Gereint Son of Erbin correspond to de Troyes's Ywain, the Knight of the Lion, Perceval, the Story of the Grail, and Erec and Enid. The fascinating thing? No one knows anymore whether the Mabinogion drew on de Troyes, or whether de Troyes drew on The Mabinogion, or if the stories came about independently.

In any case The Mabinogion is good reading. Even in the later stories, which show more of a French influence, the tales retain a strong ethnic Welsh flavour which I've always found particularly charming. If you are looking for an accessible introduction to some medieval Arthurian literature, or if you've read some of the standard Arthurian works and would like to investigate further, I would happily recommend The Mabinogion.

Find The Mabinogion on Amazon, The Book Depository, Librivox or Project Gutenberg.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti

In a way, it's a shame that Christina Rossetti's most well-known poem is the early work Goblin Market, which is far from representative of her long body of work. Metaphysical and devotional poems like Up-hill, Cried Out With Tears, or In Progress are far more representative of her work. However, Goblin Market remains a perennial favourite, and not without justice. A narrative poem framing temptation, sin, sacrifice, and redemption in a lushly evocative fairy-tale, Goblin Market is a delight to read; its rhythm and extraordinary imagery cling in the mind.
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy.
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries,
Melons and raspberries..."
Sisters Lizzie and Laura, down at the brook to fetch water, hear the goblins cry in the evening.
"We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?"
When Laura succumbs to temptation and gorges herself on sweet goblin fruit, she loses her taste for anything else and begins to fade away, unable anymore to hear the goblins calling. Until Lizzie, desperate to save her sister's life, finally dares to go to the goblins in order to bring back fruit for Laura.

The chief delight of this poem is the language. Rossetti wields a lush and gorgeous vocabulary that comes alive with reading aloud. The irregularities in the rhythm and rhyme structure prevent the short lines from degenerating into sing-song doggrel, and despite its somewhat heavy subject matter, the poem remains, like its youthful authoress, fresh and charming.

Critics have, of course, argued for years about what Goblin Market, with its forbidden fruit and its sensuous vocabulary, really means. If anything, I favour the fallen-woman interpretation. Both Christina's brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti, as well as their friend and fellow Pre-Raphaelite artist William Holman Hunt, chose to paint pictures on this topic. In Hunt's The Awakening of Conscience, a young woman with clasped hands turns away from her lover to stare out of a window toward the viewer at a moment perhaps of resistance, perhaps of remorse or repentance. In Dante Gabriel Rossetti's unfinished picture Found!, a young farmer going to market discovers his old sweetheart working the city streets, and seizes her wrists as she collapses dramatically. Christina Rossetti herself began volunteer work with "fallen women" at Highgate Penitentiary on or shortly after the date of the completion of Goblin Market. However, according to William Michael Rossetti, Christina's brother, "I have more than once heard Christina say that she did not mean anything profound by this fairy tale - it is not a moral apologue consistently carried out in detail."

Ironically, it was DGR's own Cockney mistress who posed for this picture.
Certainly, Goblin Market demonstrates a highly moral sensibility. Laura succumbs to temptation, suffers the consequences, nearly dies, but is brought back to life through her sister's love and courage in a moment with a more than superficial parallel with Scripture--"Eat me, drink me, love me." Rossetti is steeped enough in biblical imagery and cadences that she cannot help bleeding it all out onto the page, and because all sin works in the same way (opening lines of Anna Karenina to the contrary), her story, rich as it is in meaning, would work equally well as a parable for any temptation. As it says in James 1:15, "Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death." 

Apart from all this, Goblin Market is a wonderful entry in the English fairy-tale genre, a tradition that stretches back to Middle English lays like Sir Orfeo or Tam Lin, and all the way forward to more modern works like Stardust or Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. It was first published in 1862 as part of a collection of Rossetti's poems, and Goblin Market and Other Poems remains one of my favourite Rossetti collections. If you like poetry and English fairy tales, be sure to dip into Goblin Market.

Find Goblin Market and Other Poems on Amazon, the Book Depository, Librivox, or Project Gutenberg.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

 Well, now that the Pendragon's Heir release excitement is done, it's probably a good time to return to your regularly scheduled classic literature. Today I'd love to review everyone's favourite Shakespeare comedy, Much Ado About Nothing.

This is, indeed, a joyous work. Don Pedro returns to Messina in triumph, hauling his card-carrying-villain brother Don John behind him, together with a following of soldiers including the young and callow Claudio and the more cynical wit Benedick. They're greeted by Leonato, a prominent citizen, his daughter Hero, for whom Claudio immediately falls like a ton of bricks, and his niece Beatrice, a spirited young lady who professes to despise Benedick but somehow cannot seem to stop talking about him...

With Claudio and Hero's wedding safely arranged, Don Pedro concocts an even zanier plan: to trick the the twice-shy Benedick and the acid-tongued Beatrice into "a mountain of affection, the one for the other." But the lighthearted shenanigans in Leonato's gardens aren't the only plots afoot. Don John is still bent on mischief, this time with Claudio and Hero in the crosshairs.

Well, you know the story (and if you don't, what are you waiting for?--Go and read it, because spoilers follow). Much Ado About Nothing has always been one of my very favourite Shakespeare plays, and if I haven't faced up to tackling a review till now, it's because of how daunting such a prospect is. In addition to being laugh-out-loud funny, tear-jerkingly dramatic, and just plain Shakespeare, Much Ado is also complex, profound, and thought-provoking.

Wise and Foolish Lovers

Where should I start? Well, I've previously explained my own theory that Shakespeare spent a lot of time writing about Wise and Foolish Lovers. Romeo and Juliet, as well as Othello, are brilliant examples of Foolish Lovers, who fall for each other at first sight, idolise each other, and then prove unable to get through the first storms of married life without killing themselves or each other. The Taming of the Shrew, on the other hand, is about Wise Lovers, whose courtship is more like a sparring match in which each of them deliberately tests the other. In no other play, however, are the two kinds of couple more clearly contrasted than in Much Ado About Nothing.

Claudio and Hero are our Foolish Lovers--or specifically Claudio. Claudio falls for Hero, not through wisdom and intentionality, but simply because he's just finished the job of war and is now on vacation, with no more immediate tasks on his mind:
O, my lord,
When you went onward on this ended action,
I looked upon her with a soldier's eye,
That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
Than to drive liking to the name of love;
But now I am returned and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying I liked her ere I went to wars.
In other words, he sort of slides into love. In addition, though he makes no particular attempt to get to know Hero or to test her character, there are at least a couple of passages in which it becomes clear that he has a very cold appraisal of her cash value:
Claudio: Hath Leonato any son, my lord?
Don Pedro: None but Hero; she's his only heir.
And again, lampshaded by Benedick:
Claudio: Thou thinkest I am in sport; I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.
Benedick: Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?
Claudio: Can the world buy such a jewel?
Benedick: Yea, and a case to put it into. 
From other reading in Shakespeare--The Taming of the Shrew, for instance, in which Petruchio decides to pursue Kate on a purely financial basis--I don't believe Shakespeare thought it wrong to consider money matters in making a match. Rather, this exchange draws our attention to the fact that Claudio is failing entirely to relate to Hero as a human being. On the one hand, he has idealised her into the perfect woman; on the other hand, he has commercialised her into a financial prize; revealingly, he also seems oddly dependent upon Benedick and Don Pedro's evaluation of her, as if her desirability depends upon his friends desiring her as well. Predictably, when his estimation of Hero's worth is compromised by a laughably threadbare plot, Claudio reacts with savagery. As an idol, she has proven to have feet of clay; as a socioeconomic prize, she is now unable to make him the envy of his comrades.

Benedick and Beatrice, by contrast, declare themselves (in one of the play's most revealing lines) as "too wise to woo peaceably." Even after falling for each other--and it seems clear that their former rivalry and cynicism stemmed somehow from their breaking each other's hearts in the past--their courtship is one long sparring match. Clearly, they have no illusions about each other; for comic effect, they even seem reluctant to admit any good qualities in each other. And the heart of the play is a test posed by Beatrice to Benedick: to prove his love for her, he must kill his best friend...

Because Beatrice and Benedick know each other's faults and have tested each other's character, because they have a sense of humour and do not take either themselves or each other so seriously as to imagine the beloved can do no wrong, they clearly have a stronger foundation to build upon than do Claudio and Hero. It's further enlightening that neither Benedick nor Beatrice "fall for each other" in the usual sense: their very love is a choice. Each of them is told that the other is dying for love of them. In a hilarious monologue (including the immortal line, "The world must be peopled!"), Benedick chooses to return the love he thinks Beatrice bears for him, and in a more poignant moment, in which Beatrice is confronted with her own sins, she makes the same decision:
What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.
For the Wise Lovers, love is a choice, an act of freewill, entered into in full awareness of the other party's faults.

Shifting Allegiances

It is Beatrice's ultimate test of Benedick's love and character that she demands him--in one of the most breathless scenes of all Shakespearean canon--to "Kill Claudio." This test reveals another noteworthy theme of the play, which has to do with the differences between a bachelor's allegiances and a married man's. As Peter Leithart points out in his absolutely splendid book Brightest Heaven of Invention: A Christian Guide to Six Shakespeare Plays (I highly recommend reading his far more in-depth analysis), love is described in the play as an upheaval of a man's whole being: marvelling over Claudio's twitterpation, Benedick asks himself, "May I be so converted and see with these eyes?"

Claudio, Benedick, and Don Pedro all come to the play with a strong bond of fellowship, forged in war. It is to these friends that Claudio first confesses his feelings for Hero, and it is these friends, when Claudio is too shy to pursue his suit for himself, who pursue it for him. Despite earning the nickname of "Monsieur Love" from the disgusted Benedick, however, Claudio's change of allegiance, his switch from "the rougher task" of war to the "soft and delicate desires" of love is proved superficial by his reaction to the accusations against Hero. Instead of defending her and investigating the matter more closely, he and Don Pedro join forces to disgrace her. Their solidarity stems from notions of honour and holds firm across the male ranks. Don John appeals to it when making his accusation: "If you love her then, tomorrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind" (emphasis mine). Later, in the church, Don Pedro delivers his own verdict:

What should I speak?
I stand dishonoured, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.

Meanwhile, Claudio's vengeance somehow ignores the man (or men) involved, putting all the blame on Hero. Even after he hears that Hero has died of shock because of his attack, Claudio continues to hang out with Don Pedro, cracking jokes. It isn't hard to see that the "rougher task" of war isn't so far behind Claudio as he thinks. War might be over, but Claudio continues to see his fighting buddies--and all men by extension--as his friends, and women as the enemies.

(Notice how Shakespeare foreshadows this ironically in the opening scenes. Benedick, who will prove to be love's true convert later in the play, swears that he will never marry because to be married is to be cuckolded. Claudio, "Monsieur Love," begins the play mooning over Hero, but as events prove, his opinion of women is if anything even lower than Benedick's).

It takes the shock of realising that he's killed an innocent woman to wrench Claudio away from his old allegiances, and prepare him for an infinitely more risky and unreserved commitment--promising marriage to a woman he knows nothing about:
I do embrace your offer, and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio.
Whereas Claudio, even at his wedding, chooses the brotherhood of soldiery over a commitment to an imperfect woman, Benedick at the same moment demonstrates a shift of allegiances, even before he has spoken to Beatrice about marriage. When Claudio and Don Pedro stalk out of the church in disgust, Beatrice calls on him for help and he stays behind, eventually receiving her ultimatum. The scene is played beautifully in my favourite filmed Much Ado, with Benedick hesitating towards the door after the others leave, clearly unwilling to leave but uncertain whether he should stay, until Beatrice calls him. His commitments are already shifting as a result of his conscious decision to love Beatrice. Nevertheless, understandably, when Beatrice tells him to duel his friend, his answer is far from eager--"Not for the wide world!" And yet, there can be no two ways about it. Claudio is guilty; Hero is innocent; Benedick's commitment is now to Beatrice.

(Of course, this reasoning really only works if Hero has literally died. We know she has not. It is a fascinating aspect of the play that everyone, even those who are in the know--Benedick, Leonato, Antonio--behave as though they truly do consider her dead. Shakespeare only ever once to my knowledge actually brought a character back from literal death, in The Winter's Tale, under very similar circumstances; in both cases, a slandered wife. I assume he felt he could not pull the same trick twice. It suits the plot, however, and it seems oddly fitting, for Hero to undergo a death and resurrection which seems more than mere pretence. And this is another thing I like about my favourite Much Ado, in which Hero is led from the church by the friar, by another door than that her father takes to return home; she vanishes, not merely offscreen in Leonato's house, but out of the visual setting of the play altogether.)

Benedick's willingness to duel Claudio is thus a declaration, not just to Beatrice, but to the whole world, that he is willing to commit to her even at the price of his friendship with Don Pedro and with Claudio. Where Claudio stood with his brothers-at-arms to attack Hero, Benedick takes exactly the opposite course: he champions Hero and Beatrice against his brothers-at-arms. Where Claudio's superficial love resulted in a superficial commitment, Benedick's true conversion results in a true commitment.

Now Go and See It!

Everyone loves Much Ado About Nothing. What with the wit, the sparks flying between Benedick and Beatrice, and the way the plot careens from comedy to tragedy and then back again (forming a kind of foil to Shakespeare's other play about Foolish Lovers, Romeo and Juliet, in which the situation of classic farce veers into tragedy and never rights itself), Much Ado has everything one could desire, from wacky comedy to riveting drama. Its core scene--Benedick and Beatrice in the abandoned church--is intense even on the page, but in the hands of good actors, it's riveting.

So, which actors to watch? A number of filmed versions exist. The one most people will be familiar with is the classic Kenneth Branagh/Emma Thompson film. Released in 1993, this is an eminently respectable rendition of the play, full of Branagh's trademark energy. It's missing a goodish bit of the text, there are at least a couple of scenes that make the movie unsuitable for family viewing (though they could be quite easily edited out), and more than one actor chews the scenery beyond bearing (Claudio, I'm looking at you). On the other hand, it's hard not to love Kenneth Branagh hamming up Benedick, and Emma Thompson hits a wonderful balance between sweetness and tartness as Beatrice.

The 2013 Joss Whedon film contains more of the actual text and features far and away the best Dogberry of all (Nathan Fillion, doing a brilliant job), but the modernisation doesn't quite work, especially with the decision to include flashbacks to indicate that Benedick and Beatrice slept together. It makes little sense for Hero to suffer for something that Beatrice is actually guilty of, and introduces a note of real bitterness into her sparring with Benedick. While there are a number of nice touches--the implication, for instance, that Borachio is jealous of Claudio's success with Hero, thereby providing a neat explanation for his oddly dignified repentance when he is told that she died--I can't recommend this version on account of even more inappropriate scenery than the Kenneth Branagh version.

My favourite Much Ado About Nothing, hands down, is the BBC television edition. Yes, yes, it's obviously filmed on a sound stage, the video quality isn't great, and Hero looks like a newt. Basically it's just actors standing around speaking their lines to a static camera. I say this not because you will actually notice this, but because you won't. It is simply Shakespeare and marvellous, marvellous acting. The director has obviously meditated deeply on the play, for he includes a whole variety of thoughtful touches that reinforce the play's deeper themes. The actors deliver perfectly balanced performances, falling prey neither to excessive ham nor to understatement. And there's little or no objectionable content on the screen. (As to the contents of the script, well, that's another matter. This is Shakespeare, after all.) With great casting, subtle direction, and brilliant acting, this is far and away my favourite version.

Which of these three films have you seen? Which is your favorite? Comment and let me know!

Find Much Ado About Nothing on Amazon, The Book Depository, Librivox, and Project Gutenberg.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

Originality: Redux

For our final release party event, today I'll be contributing to Arhyalon, the blog of author L Jagi
Lamplighter, with a few more words on originality and why it's not something I get excited about. This time with added CS Lewis quotes!
No man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth, without caring twopence how often it has been told before, you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. - CS Lewis
 Head over to Arhyalon for the whole thing!

And thanks so much, Vintage Novels readers, for coming along and celebrating this release with me. It's been such a privilege to have your support and encouragement through all the hard work and excitement of writing and self-publishing a novel! Hope you're all enjoying Pendragon's Heir so far, and I look forward to presenting you with more and even better stories in time.*

Seriously, I cannot believe this day has come XD
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Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Of Inspiration and Nerys the Fay

For the Pendragon's Heir release party today, I'm very privileged to be featuring on the following blogs:

Of Battles, Dragons, and Swords of Adamant, where I'll tell you how a Josephine Tey murder mystery, a Arthurian retelling for children, a medieval romance and a science fiction novel inspired Pendragon's Heir; and

Anything, Everything, where I'll introduce you to a favourite character, Nerys the Fay!
Like most young Victorian Englishwomen, Blanche Pendragon has a chaperone to keep her company and ensure she does nothing scandalous. But Nerys isn’t your typical Victorian lady’s-companion. For one thing, she hasn’t aged in decades. For another, the wardrobe in her room acts as the portal to a world of danger and adventure. 

Fleeing the hounds of Gore across the hills of Logres at midnight, Blanche learns the secret of Nerys’s people: exiled from a glory she can never regain, Nerys mourns for what she has lost. But unlike the rest of her people, she has chosen to take sides in the long war between light and darkness, driven by a hope against hope. 

Pendragon's Heir is finally here!
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Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Meet Blanche!

Today for the Pendragon's Heir release party, I'm on Fulness of Joy, introducing you all to one of the two main protagonists: Blanche Pendragon!

Almost from the beginning, I knew I wanted to do something a bit different with Blanche's character...
I was always fascinated when I stumbled across a good action movie—the Bourne films, for instance—in which the female characters did not join in the fighting. I had read Robert McKee’s Story, and I knew that film is an unforgiving medium: anything not directly related to the resolution of the plot must be left on the cutting-room floor. Clearly, keeping the ladies out of the fighting put a huge burden on the filmmakers to justify their existence in some other way—and that, it seemed, was when they really became characters in their own right.

So I set myself a challenge.

I was going to write a thrilling tale of action and adventure in medieval Arthurian Britain featuring a female protagonist—not a sidekick, not a love interest, but a protagonist—who would have trouble knowing one end of a sword from another. 
How did I do it, and why is Christine de Pisan's medieval French book The Treasury of the City of Ladies the most awesome thing since buttered toast? Check out Fulness of Joy to find out!

Pendragon's Heir is finally here!
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