strange and random happenstance

Rebecca
Based on the book by Daphne Du Maurier
Starring: Joanna David, Elspeth March, Jeremy Brett, Hugh Morton, Richard Willis, Anna Massey, Terrence Hardiman, Vivian Pickles, Leon Sinden, William Morgan Sheppard, Julian Holloway, Virginia Denham, Sylvia Coleridge, Harriet Walter, Neville Hughes, Victor Lucas, Richardson Morgan, Robert Flemyng, and John Saunders
Release Date: 1979
Rating: ★★★★
Out of Print

Mrs. Van Hopper has her own friend of the bosom. Paid to be her companion, but really acting as her dogsbody. When Mrs. Van Hopper falls ill her friend catches the attention of widower Maxim de Winter and when Mrs. Van Hopper decides to head home to New York Maxim gives the young girl a choice; New York with Mrs. Van Hopper or Manderely with him. As his wife. She hastily marries Maxim and becomes the second Mrs. de Winter. Though she worries and frets that she won't be up to the job, especially once she sees Manderely in person and meets the housekeeper Mrs. Danvers. She feels overwhelmed and Mrs. Danvers does everything in her power to make things worse for her new mistress. It doesn't help that Rebecca has left her imprint everywhere, not just physically, but emotionally. She is in the hearts and minds of the staff, the locals, and even Maxim and his family. So much is expected of the new bride, even a lavish costume ball, just like Rebecca used to host. How is she to continue when Maxim is obviously questioning the wisdom of returning to Manderely? But is it the place or the new bride he regrets more? Only the revelation of a horrible secret will show the truth to the young bride. 

If you are looking for the most accurate adaptation of Rebecca you couldn't do better than this version made by the BBC in the late seventies if you tried, and oh how I've tried. While my heart will always belong to Alfred Hitchcock's version as the obsession of my youth, this one is now my favorite, in spite of the whole last episode being out of sync. This was just chock-a-block with 1970s BBC goodness. If shows like The Pallisers, The Duchess of Duke Street, and Upstairs, Downstairs are your idea of what quality TV should be, then this one's for you! There's a nostalgic quality to shows that went for acting chops over everything else. The sets might be recycled and familiar, yes, that is the window from the maid's garret in Upstairs, Downstairs in a dowdy room in Monte Carlo, and that is the drawing room from The Pallisers transplanted to Manderley with a desk hiding a certain broken cupid, but that just gives you the familiarity that makes this adaptation feel like coming home. While I had never seen this adaptation before, Jeremy Brett and Joanna David surrounded by so many actors I have seen for years and years on the small screen just made me giddy that for once I'd found a Rebecca with less to complain about that made me feel like I was visiting an old friend.

Though, this is me, so you know I will have something to complain about; and that complaint is Joanna David, though it's through no fault of her own. Or maybe a little because I didn't like how they bracketed the show with how she was telling someone about her dream about Manderley while wearing pearls, but that was the director's fault. So the reason I had issues with Joanna David was because of the 1997 adaptation of Rebecca staring Emilia Fox and Charles Dance. Emilia Fox not only played the second Mrs. de Winter, a role here played by Joanna David, but she happens to be Joanna David's daughter. I've never really thought of them looking too much alike, but watching this adaptation from the seventies, I'd occasionally catch a similarity, the way Joanna tilted her head or pursed her lips and I wouldn't be seeing her anymore I'd be seeing her daughter and seeing the same expressions flit across her face was almost unnerving. Oh, how I wish I had seen this adaptation first. Because to constantly remind me of the atrocity that was the 1997 adaptation is a sin. Yet it's a sin that, logically, I shouldn't hold against them because this other adaptation was almost twenty years in the future. But then again I am fickle. Thankfully Jeremy Brett is no Charles Dance.

Yet then there's the perfection of Anna Massey as Mrs. Danvers to make you forget your woes. If I were to gather up all the Mrs. Danvers she would win hands down. She is perfection without ever veering too far into the crazy skid. She's not self-immolating like Judith Anderson or the only bright, yet undeniably unhinged, spot in a horrid production like Diana Rigg. She's simply perfection. Because the truth is Mrs. Danvers is a real human, not a caricature, and despite all her actions, they are rooted in her connection and love for Rebecca, no matter how obsessive that love was. I first fell in love with Anna Massey's acting when I watched He Knew He Was Right. This is a pitch perfect adaptation of Anthony Trollope's book that I love so much I even mentioned it to David Tennant that time I met him. Anna Massey stands in the way of a marriage but will break your heart when she relents to the match. After this I started searching out her work and realized I'd seen her for years in everything from Midsomer Murders to The Darling Buds of May. Yet it's the scene in Rebecca's bedroom when she shows it off to the second Mrs. de Winter that she will destroy you with her range. Going from triumph to boasting to melancholy all in the blink of an eye. Grief as restrained madness. Perfection! 

You'd think with all this superb talent that everyone is perfection in the cast. Well, you'd be wrong because there's Jack Favell... Jack is usually the character that is always gotten right even in the worst of productions. But here? Julian Holloway isn't Jack. Not. One. Bit. Jack is a slimy character, a smooth operator who has no moral compass and you could easily see as jumping into bed with his cousin. Therefore he needs to be equally repellent and alluring. Here he's just repellant. He's a "good old boy" who you'd expect to see wandering around the grounds in plus fours! Rebecca wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole! Oddly enough there's a modern equivalent acting today, Rory Kinnear. This Jack IS 100% like all the characters Rory Kinnear played for years. I have spent years bemoaning him being everywhere, especially in National Theatre Live productions. Two years ago I swear he was in every single production so I avoided that season like the plague. But for as much as I dislike him, annoying me to no end with his profuse body of work, he at least has range, and a few productions I actually liked him in. This proto-Kinnear? He has the range of a teaspoon.

There is one thing though, besides giving this version a proper release, that would easily upgrade it in my opinion, and that is if the music were fixed. The score of this adaptation is literally all over the place. At the beginning of the third part for about three minutes I thought they might have finally gotten it right and then it slid back into a mish-mash of styles. You will catch glimpses of Debussy, which might have occasionally worked, especially as it sounds like, according to my brother, that they might have been using "La Mer" which would be appropriate, but then as the happy couple approaches Manderely the music goes all old school cinema. You feel like you're watching an old reel where the dastardly villain is twirling his mustache while he ties the maiden to the tracks and waits for the train to arrive. I assume the train in this musicians mind is Mrs. Danvers, but who knows. It's almost comical in it's appearance. But for how much that music might have been too old school and inappropriate, don't worry, here are some synths thrown in to make it modern or to, I don't know, remind you it's the seventies despite the fact Rebecca doesn't take place in the seventies? Seriously, the music needs an overhaul.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Adaptation, Anna Massey, Daphne Du Maurier, Du Maurier December, Emilia Fox, He Knew He Was Right, Jeremy Brett, Joanna David, Midsomer Murders, Rebecca, Rory Kinnear, The Pallisers, Upstairs Downstairs

The Sign of the Four by Arthur Conan Doyle
Published by: Book-of-the-Month Club
Publication Date: 1890
Format: Hardcover, 125 Pages
Rating: ★★
To Buy (different edition than one reviewed)

Miss Mary Morstan comes to Sherlock Holmes asking him to help her solve two mysteries in her life, that may or may not be related. The first is the disappearance of her father, Captain Arthur Morstan, ten years previously, the second is that four years after her father's death she answered a newspaper ad as to her whereabouts and started receiving a pearl a year, only this year was different, there was a note with the pearl saying that she had been wronged and asking for a meeting. The only item Mary has that might be of relevance is a map that was hidden in her father's desk with four men's names on it. Holmes immediately takes the case and finds that the pearls started arriving shortly after the death of Captain Arthur Morstan's friend and comrade in arms, Major Sholto. In fact the anonymous benefactor of Mary Morstan is one of Major Sholto's sons, Thaddeus. He tells Mary about a great treasure their fathers had brought back from India. A treasure that has been hidden all these many years until Thaddeus's brother Bartholomew found it the day he sent Mary the note. They arrive to find Bartholomew dead via a dart in the neck with a menacing note next to his body, just like the one found years earlier on Major Sholto, "The Sign of Four." Holmes quickly realizes the crime was committed by a man with one wooden leg and a rather small accomplice. They should be unique enough that finding them shouldn't be a problem, just a matter of waiting. Yet all the while Thaddeus is held in custody for his brother's murder and Watson is finding it hard to concentrate when he is bewitched by the lovely Miss Morstan. Yet with Holmes on the case, the truth will out.

The Sign of Four, or more accurately, The Sign of the Four because you learn something new everyday, is perhaps the Sherlock Holmes story I know the best out of all the stories. I remember when the adaptation with Jeremy Brett first aired in the late eighties. It was the first feature length special for the series and therefore a big to-do. Every one of the eventual five feature length adaptations would be a special occasion in my house growing up, in particular The Last Vampyre because of Roy Marsden, but you never forget the first one. I even remember that we bought it on tape. Whenever we needed a mystery to watch, into the VCR The Sign of Four would go. It didn't hurt that Watson was now played by Edward Hardwicke, I was never the fan of David Burke that my mom was. The problem going into the book is I knew this story backwards and forwards. I knew all the little twists and shocking revelations. I tried my hardest to look at this story with new eyes, but I just couldn't. All I could see was Tonga's evil face on the stern of the ship as it disappeared into the dark and foggy Thames. Not being caught up in the mystery, lots of little things started to annoy me to no end and while the story is interesting, I'd heard it all before and therefore it had the feeling of a story you've heard so many times it's worn out it's welcome.

What really bothered me was how florid the writing of Watson is. Right now I'm totally coming down on the side of Sherlock who doesn't quite approve of the way that Watson writes, making it all romantic with a heavy heaping of nostalgia. Some of the romanticism is permitted in this instance as this is when Watson meets his future wife, Mary Morstan, but overall I'm siding with Holmes. This writing style just makes a mystery you're reading for the crime solving techniques of Holmes overwritten, to the point where Watson is almost obfuscating the deductive powers of his partner. But that is nothing to his sycophantic ways. Ugh. You can see where the whole "couple" theory emerged with Watson and Holmes, Watson totally wants to get a room with Holmes. If they were in high school he'd totally ask to carry his books, and maybe go steady. Yes, I know bromances have changed over the past hundred and twenty-five years, but there's admiration and there's adulation, and Watson is very much of the later. Holmes, you're so wonderful, only you could think of that, I would never have seen that in a million billion years, you are the smartest person that will ever exist, ever. Ugh. What's worse is the police getting in on this action. While Watson may be exaggerating the police's love, they do admire him to such an inconceivable degree that they're willing to break procedure for him. Holmes, you want the suspect brought to your house prior to going to prison so you can interrogate him? Sure, why not, anything for you Holmes. Ugh.

I wonder if there's some magical aura about Holmes that just makes everyone his to command. How else does he get the criminals to willingly tell all? It's such a cliched trope. Now Mr. Bond, while it looks like there's no way out for you I will detail all my plans so that when you escape the inescapable you will be able to thwart me. Sigh. This is the second Holmes story and also the second time the criminal comes clean. About everything. In A Study in Scarlet you can kind of get Jefferson Hope confessing all because he's about to die. Also, you could state that Jonathan Small confessed because he wasn't actually a killer, he was an unwitting accomplice to that crime, but still... it's too convenient. The only real purpose I can see to have these villains unburden themselves is that by having them tell everything they are corroborating Holmes's deductions. Because, without corroborating evidence, Holmes's hypothesises seem wildly absurd and almost complete shots in the dark that somehow find their target. It just is all too pat. Like the more cliched of Agatha Christie denouements when Poirot rounds everyone up in the library and states everything he knows and unmasks the villain. Sure, I could give it slack because it's fiction, but I won't. Fiction is better than reality and therefore has it's own set of rules and convenient tropes should be beneath Arthur Conan Doyle.

There is one thing I would like to ponder in a more generalized way, and that's lost treasure from India and the peril that befalls the criminals. In mysteries it comes across to readers that India is a continent awash with missing jewels and loot, all with guardians or some sort of curse. I don't know if I could actually remember every book and movie that has this trope but The Moonstone, The Ruby in the Smoke, and even The Pink Panther, all have this in common. And in each and every instance, something befalls those who removed the jewels from their rightful place. Seriously, how does one continent have so many jewels? Is this the real reason that Britain wanted to maintain control over India, because they thought it was awash with loot ripe for the picking? Yes, there's a romanticism associated with India and there's a mysticism with the culture that imbues magic to their jewels, even Indiana Jones fell prey to this; but after awhile, it's like, how many more stories will I have to read like this? How many times will it play out in the same way? Because the truth of the matter is The Moonstone and Wilkie Collins set the tone and the stage for this trope, and I don't think anyone will ever reach that level of perfection again. The Moonstone predates The Sign of the Four by over twenty years, and the later can not help but be compared to the former and found lacking. Sherlock Holmes may be a master of deduction, but in a story where every one is a pale imitator of the original, he had no chance to succeed.

Though for everything that got under my skin there was one thing this book did SO RIGHT and that's blow darts. Seriously, I think this is one of the coolest murder weapons out there, and ironically my love and reverence for them started with Sherlock Holmes, only Sherlock Holmes the younger. In the Young Sherlock Holmes the evil villain's sister uses a blow dart as her weapon of choice, and also shows what I fear most about them, them being used against you, when Sherlock blows in the out and kills the killer. So, they aren't a perfect weapon, seeing as they can be used against you, but at the same time, there's something so amusing about someone blowing through a tube and someone falling down dead or incapacitated that makes me giddy. If you doubt the humor value of blow darts instead focusing on the horror, I implore you to watch the Red Dwarf season seven episode "Beyond a Joke." In the episode there is a virtual reality game of Pride and Prejudice. The character of Kryten is annoyed that the rest of his shipmates have decided to play the game versus eat the lovely dinner he has prepared for them. Therefore he enters the game and eliminates each and every Bennet sister in a unique manner. Kitty is the victim of a blow dart. This one scene is perhaps my favorite and easily the funniest in one of my favorite series ever. So let's bring back blow darts shall we?

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 2 comments  

Labels: A Study in Scarlet, Arthur Conan Doyle, Blow Darts, Bromance, India, Jeremy Brett, John Watson, Pride and Prejudice, Red Dwarf, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlocked, The Moonstone, The Sign of the Four, Wilkie Collins

Sometimes being in a fandom is hard. Like really really I can't wait for the next episode I want it now hard. Being a fan of a British show makes it even harder because they have such shortened seasons. While us Americans have to admit that approximately six to thirteen episodes definitely means higher quality than a show lasting twenty-two, we're used to that twenty-two. Add to the fact that a British show doesn't always have a new season each year, and, well, withdrawal symptoms set in and there's only so many times you can watch the old episodes before you crave new ones. Now if you're a fan of Sherlock everything is multiplied by a thousand. In five years we've only had nine episodes. With new seasons every other year it's a wait. The fact that the next season doesn't even start filming till next year, and it's time for a deep breath. But we have the Christmas episode this Christmas! Or whenever "coming soon" is. That coming soon gives me hope. Yet it has also sparked in me more of a need then ever for some Sherlock. Hence, like Irene, I admit I am Sherlocked!

But I have been Sherlocked since long before Benedict Cumberbatch picked up the mantle. My childhood was spent watching Jeremy Brett and Basil of Baker Street and, of course, Nicholas Rowe as the Young Sherlock Holmes. Listening to audio books of old radio broadcasts on family car trips, that idea didn't go quite as planned. Yet despite my inculcation at such a young age I have never read the complete canon written by Arthur Conan Doyle. So, I thought to myself, why not? Why not while away the time waiting for Benedict to return to the small screen by reading all the original adventures. But more then that, think how much Sherlock Holmes has spread into our society. Think of all the offshoots and adaptations and reinterpretations, think of all of that! It's all of that I want to connect with too! I want to immerse myself in the totality of Sherlock Holmes and when I emerge have a Benediction... so join me in exploring the world of Sherlock Holmes over the next three months, canon, non-canon, comedy, prequel, future incarnation, inspiration, television, film, books, all of it! Bring it on!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Arthur Conan Doyle, Basil of Baker Street, Benedict Cumberbatch, Benediction, Canon, Christmas, Fandom, Irene Adler, Jeremy Brett, Nicholas Rowe, Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlocked, The Young Sherlock Holmes

As sure as the sun rises and sets there is sure to be another interpretation of Sherlock Holmes. With the recent big screen adaptation out today I thought it might be time for some pontification on that most memorable of detectives. While I thoroughly enjoyed Robert Downey Junior as Holmes with a cast rounded out by some wonderful BBC staples, I could always use another hit... though not the same kind as Holmes himself. I'm eagerly awaiting what, in the terms of geekdom, might be the most anticipated of collaborations. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss are joining forces (yes that's me squealing in the background) to bring a new twist to Holmes. Sure they have been more recently tied up with Doctor Who, but that doesn't mean this will be anything like The Doctor... how about Moffat's Jekyll reimagining? Even if it is supposedly set in modern times, with Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman and Rupert Graves we have a cast that I am certain to love. The three 90 minute films are in production now and I just could only wish for a Tardis to jump on into the future to catch an episode. But the real question is, how does Steven Moffat have the time? With writing the new Tin Tin movie, being the new show-runner for Doctor Who and now this!?! Sheer multitasking genius!

All this talks of the new Holmeses leads me to a very important thought... who really is the definitive Holmes? Basil Rathbone or Jeremy Brett... how do they stack up against each other. And are we to factor in parodies? Because then we have Michael Caine facing Peter Cook! Also what if we factor in Holmes' history and take into account Ian Richardson on Murder Rooms (which if you haven't watched, you really must)? The truth is, each actor brings something unique and different to the role and that one can not be compared to another or even to how we view Holmes in our minds. Of course, this being me, I do have a favorite... from a love of Egyptology and being in love with the star at an impressionable age, Nicholas Rowe as Holmes in The Young Sherlock Holmes will always be my favorite. He does not detract from the original, but adds a new layer of awesomeness. I'm sorry Elizabeth had to die... but I did like you saying my name over and over even if you did cause me to have an unnatural fear of pastries.

The history of Holmes is fascinating in and of itself. Doyle never wrote the Deerstalker, that was an invention of the Illustrator. And when Doyle had Holmes killed off, he was brought back to life by mass consensus. There are societies and spin offs and scholars and every manner of devotion possible, it's no wonder there are so many adaptations!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 3 comments  

Labels: Arthur Conan Doyle, Doctor Who, Ian Richardson, Jeremy Brett, Mark Gatiss, Martin Freeman, Nicholas Rowe, Robert Downey Junior, Sherlock Holmes, Steven Moffat, The Doctor, The Young Sherlock Holmes