Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
Published by: Back Bay Books
Publication Date: 1945
Format: Paperback, 351 Pages
Rating: ★★★★★
To Buy (different edition than one reviewed)
"If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper."
Vomiting through a window doesn't seem like the most promising start to a friendship, yet that is how Charles Ryder first meets a rather inebriated Sebastian Flyte. Charles is swept up in Sebastian's wake of luxury, decadence, eccentricities, and alcohol vapors. Throwing off his rather mundane life, Charles is wooed by the world of privilege that Sebastian belongs to. Charles falls not just for this sot with a teddy bear, but for his whole life; the family, the house, everything. Looking back on those halcyon days while mired in the WW II, Charles lovingly thinks of the world that has been lost forever. Yet Charles lost entre into that world earlier then the announcement on the wireless that England is at war. His love affair with the Flytes had soured over the years, moving from Sebastian to his sister Julia, Charles took whatever he could of this family, but it the end, it was something deep in the family that made certain he was never one of them, and never could be.
Before I became an avid reader Brideshead Revisited was one of those books that my father kept saying I had to read. I won't say that it's his favorite book, because the author is Evelyn Waugh and not Sherwood Anderson and the book's title isn't Winesburg Ohio, but Brideshead Revisited is firmly in place as one of his favorite books. Much like this little old lady I met at a Rembrandt show in New York who was insistent on how memorable his work would be when seen in it's original setting (ie Amsterdam), my Dad has the same tenacity and insistence of how the language of Brideshead Revisited would capture me and not let me go. Many conversations with him start "I remember how the language captured me the fist time I read..." insert any of his favorite classic books here, usually Jude the Obscure, but for this instance, Brideshead Revisited. Though, for Brideshead Revisited the refrain is more "when Lord Marchmain comes home to die..." or anything to do with Edward Ryder, Charles's father. Still, despite the copious copies of the book laying about the house, I just didn't pick it up.
When I started to hone myself into the Anglophile that I am today I watched as many miniseries as I could lay my hands to, and Brideshead Revisited finally entered into my life officially in at least one form. At this point my father had already worn out his old VHS copy and for his birthday I had upgraded him to the DVD set which I now watched. Brideshead Revisited is literally THE definition of a miniseries, and it set the standard for what we expect in our miniseries today. Mainly it was the first to be shot entirely on location. I loved all the houses and scenery, and Anthony Andrews, such a perfect actor, as are every other actor save one, I didn't love Jeremy Irons. There's something about Jeremy Irons that bothers me. He has a wonderful voice, but I think his voice has led people to ignore the fact that he seriously can't act. I am 100% anti-Jeremy Irons. So watching the miniseries all I could think was, ok, I've had enough of this for quite awhile now (except the John Gielgud lunch scene, that can NEVER be watched enough), I don't think I'll read the book right now... and so, until this month, I had never realized how right my father was in this instance.
Evelyn Waugh's writing is like a palate cleanser, everything that you read before was lugubrious and everything that you read after is sub par. Brideshead Revisited shows how fast a book that is well written goes. Time disappears, the words just flow, except for the occasional drunken tumble over a word or phrase that is now out of it's time. The lunch between Anthony Blanche and Charles, where Anthony dominates the conversation, felt just as if you were sitting opposite him in that restaurant and were being overwhelmed by his torrent of words and your inability to get a word in edgewise, a sensation that I am sure we have all experienced with certain of our own friends and were vividly reliving while reading this passage. And even while I didn't necessarily like or relate to any of the characters, the language usage is so lush that you can't help but agree with the little quote on the cover that calls the book "[h]eartbreakingly beautiful... The 20th century's finest English novel." To write a story that is so of it's time and so unrelatable to a certain extent, yet to have it forge a connection with me, well that is wondrous writing.
Even if the world of the novel is unrelatable to a certain extent, except in our daydreams, it's the themes of the book we relate to. Waugh wrote this book looking back on a golden age that was gone, destroyed by war and an ever changing world. The Flytes embody this full stop. They lived at the height of decadence but look what happens to them. Their world ends and they are literally a dead end gene pool. Look to the four Flyte children, Brideshead has married a woman too old to bear children, Julia is living apart from her husband and due to her previous miscarriage on top of the fact a reconciliation is unlikely she will never have a child, Cordelia lives as a nun, and well, Sebastian, even if he wasn't homosexual, he's basically living a monastic life now. They are the world that has come to an end, so it is only right that they too have come to an end. This mourning for what is lost and can not be had again, their youth, this golden age, this innocence... the light snuffed out on the bright young things is the spine of this book. The world keeps turning, and while the story of the Flytes is a bit fatalist, we can relate to the loss, because as we age and move on we lose all the time.
Now I do have to address one thing. The Catholic question. Does it really matter? Yes and no. While I do find it ironic that a catholic wrote what might be the most anti-catholic book out there, the religion aspect is more a signifier then an actual physical thing. We are like Charles Ryder, we are on the outside looking in at this world of popery that we don't quite understand, even if some of us were even raised Catholics. But I really think that it's not a question of religion, but more a symbol of something in your life that you don't necessarily want but still you need it and it is all consuming to your detriment. So am I basically saying that Catholicism is a form of addiction like Sebastian's drinking? Now that I think on it, yes I am... Now I'm not saying that it is like this for anyone other then the Flyte's, but their relationship with God is unhealthy and not only brings down their lives but takes away their happiness and fills it with guilt and remorse. It's this dogged insistence that they stick to the old ways that links back into the fact that their time on earth is done. We must adapt in order to survive. At least Waugh was able to give us this loving eulogy to a world now lost.
My parents like to cite Doctor Zhivago as their beginning. But personally I think that a compelling case could be made for their mutual love of Thomas Hardy. Before they even met my Dad ranked Jude the Obscure as one of his favorite books of all time and my mom named her cat Eustacia after Eustacia Vye from The Return of the Native. Of course it turned out Eustacia was a boy but Stacey lived a long long life unlike most characters in Thomas Hardy's books. Because my parents held Thomas Hardy in such high esteem he therefore became an author I was reluctant to read. Mainly because if I didn't like him I could possibly be disowned. Or at least I thought so at the time. But my love of James Purefoy made me willing to finally give Thomas Hardy a chance. In other words, I was really excited for the 2003 adaptation of The Mayor of Casterbridge that was made for A and E. And I didn't even make it through the first episode. I honestly don't know how far I made it but it was just depressing and muddy and it was at the height of my hatred of Ciarán Hinds so I washed my hands of it. Which means I wasn't over the moon about watching the 1978 adaptation but I do love Alan Bates so I was willing to give it a try. The problem is that no matter who stars in this tale it's a story of a miserable and horrible man, Michael Henchard. He sells his wife while drunk and blames the drink. Of course it's not the drink that's to blame, it's something rotten and twisted within him. Because if he had been a little nicer, a little more generous, you know what? Everyone could have had a happy ending. Instead there's lots of misery and death and self-flagellation. I mean, seriously, this is a lot to handle. Watching someone in a downward spiral with no way to stop it is not something that is relaxing. This isn't a show to be watched passively. You're an active viewer. You're viscerally involved in watching this man's downfall and just hoping that his death comes soon enough that some happiness can be grasped by the survivors. But at least with Alan Bates driving this crazy train there is acting on such a level that, well, I'm sorry, Ciarán Hinds, you could just never reach it. The simplest expression, the way Alan Bates's face can morph from awe and love to sheer blinding terror and rage in just an instant made the fall of Michael Henchard riveting but not restful television. The fact that the supporting cast includes Anna Massey, Jack Lowden's doppelganger, and the face melting Nazis from Raiders of the Lost Ark, was just an added bonus. Or another drink at the pub put on someone else's tab? Because Michael Henchard is not a man the better for drink. In fact most of Thomas Hardy is just desperation verging on folk horror. Which, it's a vibe I can get behind. And a vibe this adaptation leaned into. Just look to the scarecrow and how the townsfolk scared Lucetta to an early grave. Seriously, if Carl Davis had made the score a little scarier this might have been horror. But isn't the fall of a man horrible enough as it is? Again, I'd say it depends on the man and Michael Henchard got what he deserved.
