Foyle's War gets its own entry.
Or at least that was the idea. I saved Foyle's War for today, only to realize I'd never commented on any of the other tv that I meant to mention yesterday. So I'll get the other tv out of the way first, then move on to the topic of the hour! ;o9
I had a little Christmas money from Gramma, and as of immediately after Christmas, several of the dvd sets I'd been coveting were available uncharacteristically cheap. (From what I could tell, anyway. Perhaps they are normally available at those prices on Amazon, and I had just never bothered to look?) Anyhoo, this meant that I could have them all, without having to choose between them! Whoopee! I selected the second season of Pushing Daisies, Little Dorrit, and Our Mutual Friend (which I had at one time decided I liked but did not need to have permanently on-hand, only to find that I pined for it when it wasn't around).
I expect I shall find myself wanting to do a Pushing Daisies rewatch and/or obituary retrospective post sometime soon, because I *did* so love that show, and I tend to be in just the right mood for it, come wintertime. (Something to cozy up to, perhaps?) But my chief excitement upon getting my dvds in the mail was to watch the three episodes I hadn't seen yet. These episodes weren't exactly unaired, but the network aired them at some sort of random time, without first informing The Presidentrix. Hmph. So I never got to see them. I'm not sure what, exactly, I was hoping for from them, because a) I knew no ending had ever been planned, so there wouldn't be one, and b) I figure that any attempt to produce an ending within three episodes that would tie up all or most of Pushing Daisies' loose threads would most likely turn out to be a storytelling disaster. Without spoiling anything in particular, I can say that these were three more basically pretty great episodes of a show that was basically pretty great (but a show that acted for all the world like it had no idea it was so likely to be canceled). The latter three episodes shake loose at least as many new threads as they tie down.
I haven't picked a favorite episode of Pushing Daisies yet, but my snap judgment of the second season puts the highlight at around 'Dim Sum, Lose Sum,' and 'Oh Oh Oh It's Magic,' which I found sweet and uproariously funny. Oooor maybe it's the lighthouse episode, where Olive makes Emerson Cod wear a fish-print raincoat. Hmm... Anyway, the new episodes are good, but I don't think they'll top the aforementioned episodes in my estimation, not even when you figure in my very great enjoyment of David Arquette as 'Randy Mann,' a mild-mannered and unflappable taxidermist (and suitor for Olive). What didn't I like? The last thirty seconds of the very last episode, obviously tacked-on in a desperate attempt to give some semblance of an ending. No surprise: it doesn't work. In fact, those thirty seconds of enforced closure are like a clumsy slap to the face. Maybe it's because Pushing Daisies always tended to portray life as fluid, random, unpredictable and adventurous, or maybe it's because if something marvelous is going to happen to a character you've come to care about, it should be allowed to unfold in a marvelous way - not by way of perfunctory announcement. You can't just take any old development in a character's story and be all, 'See! Something just happened to him or her! That means The End!' At the very least, you should try to avoid letting your tacked-on ending bear any resemblance to the 'next time on Pushing Daisies' promo that fans would probably so much prefer it were, instead. Salt in the wound! Ah well. 'Tis but thirty seconds. And I can easily pretend they never happened while I'm busy enjoying the rest of the show and imagining where it might have gone instead.
At the time it came out, I never wrote about Little Dorrit in my own journal, because I was keeping myself busy over at the journal of valancy_s, who live-blogged about it on the night of each new installment. But despite failing to say so, I found it to be a very pleasing BBC mini with an especially strong, engaging cast.
Returning to the series on dvd, I've been gratified to discover that, in addition to loving the characters as I did before, I now understand the plot (sooooo much) better than I did previously. The first time 'round, it sure seemed as though the core story, which spoke directly to the heart, was being constantly and inconveniently interrupted by scenes which, while eccentric, didn't have any clear purpose at all. Of course, knowing me, I probably wasn't paying close enough attention, but I think I'd have required advance knowledge of the story in order to make sense of at least some of the circuitous Dickensian sub-plots, under any circumstances. (Uh, no, I haven't read the book).
Finally figuring out the plot has meant, in turn, new affection for supporting characters that had previously baffled or bored me. I now think Mr. Pancks may be one of my very favorites (along with Mr. Sparkler, also risen in my estimation, though mainly because I continue to find him funnier and funnier, and not because he was ever complicated or hard to figure out). This despite the regrettable fact that Pancks is involved in one ugly and deucedly ill-advised scene, late in the series. Mr. Casby, I am informed by those who know, is *not* meant to be a Jewish character (and he doesn't look anything like the almost-contemporaneous Jewish men one sees in the recent adaptation of Eliot's Daniel Deronda, fwiw), but something about the styling and appearance of the actor who plays the role suggests a possibly Jewish man, and this turns the scene where the greedy Mr. Casby is publicly humiliated - in a particularly loaded way - into an unintentional (I can only suppose; I may be naive and wrong, of course, but I can't get my head around the directors wanting it to be intentional) figuring of anti-Semitism, especially disturbing because it is the humiliators whose cause is celebrated in that moment. I think it is meant to be a scene where any mean old Londoner gets what it is coming to him, but... it is rather badly and thoughtlessly done.
Amy and Arthur, the leads, continue to endear themselves to me upon rewatching. (My only complaint about the pair of them, in fact, is that the story separates them for, imo, faaar too long, then rushes through the reunion. I could do with a few hours more!) I like that they're such ordinary, soft-spoken people, not scintillating wits or persons of particular distinction, and I appreciate the way that both, while they may seem to err on the side of passivity, endure quietly from a place of strength, not timidity. (And are quite capable of speaking up for themselves at the moments they deem proper). I've realized that I actively admire Amy Dorrit. She is, no doubt, idealized (especially if you factor out some contemporary quirks of this particular adaptation), but I think there's a core of genuine wisdom - not just Victorian sensibility - in the way she's depicted dealing, for example, with her unbalanced father. It takes rationality, determination and grace to deal with another person's indignities in a way that doesn't further strip that person of the vestiges of their pride.
And oh, John Chivery, oh oh oh John Chivery. How do I love thee? If I counted the ways, I would start with your perfect, round, pink, cup-handle ears, and not stop until I had utterly exhausted the graces of your heart-felt, scene-stealing performance. ;o9
So: I've been typing for how long now and still haven't gotten to Foyle's War? Regarding my revisitation of Our Mutual Friend, then, I shall endeavor to be brief. (Ha!)
I find that I still enjoy this story - in snatches, especially - but think the total production is unfortunately clumsy. (I don't think it has quite the production values of the later adaptations). It's kind of a pity. Bella and John are excellent characters, their conversations are often excellent, and their supporting cast (their Boffins!) is excellent. Also, Bella's many yellow dresses are excellent. (And Mr. Sloppy is excellent. I love Mr. Sloppy). But Bella and John make up just one strand of several intertwined, and I'm unable to get equally excited about the other strands, except at odd moments here and there. I mean, I think the whole point of Eugene Wrayburn is that he's (initially) sort of boring and a waste of space, but do I have to watch it? Must we perform his boringitude - and at such length? (Or maybe it only feels lengthy...) Lizzie Hexam is sweet but unmemorable (especially as compared with Bella, so thoughtful and self-conscious in her apparent mercenary frivolity), Lizzie's brother is blurty, unsubtle and horrid, and her suitor/stalker guy is... chills and ugh. (He's supposed to be, but that doesn't make it enjoyable to watch). In short (for once?) my intense affection for Bella and John, and my almost as intense disaffection for so much of the rest of the story make war on each other, and simultaneously make Our Mutual Friend difficult to rate by comparison to other costume dramas. I still can't help but recommend it - Bella and John are worth it, and I totally pined for OMF on dvd when I didn't have it, just as I said - but I'm becoming persuaded that Bleak House and Little Dorrit are ultimately both superior minis, when considered as a whole.
Ah,FOYLE'S WAR. Finally! My friend valancy recommended UK historical detective series Foyle's War some time ago (last winter?), and I really can't remember what recalled it to my mind the other night, but I've made it through all six seasons in just three or four days, after discovering them at least temporarily available on the Youtubes. This is not, perhaps, quite the overwhelming accomplishment it sounds like, since each season of Foyle's war consists of only two to four feature-length episodes, that is still a lot of Foyle. I was very committed. Because, to put it plainly, I dig Foyle, and I really dig his crew.
Christopher Foyle is a police inspector during WWII. He would like to be doing something more significant for the war effort, but his superiors won't let him, because he's simply too good at his job. Practically the only available police detective in his area, what with so many British soldiers deployed all over the world, Foyle is responsible for almost the entire South Coast of England. His environs evolve as the war progresses, rationing deepens, and imminent danger waxes and wanes, but the setting of the show remains a gripping one: almost-sleepy seaside and farming villages that must become staging grounds for major military operations. Bombs do fall, invasion is sometimes anticipated, but morale and the irregular spaces between incidents demand that country life proceed at almost its accustomed place. And in the midst of it all, people still commit crimes.
As police shows go, Foyle's War is almost an antidote to the typical American serial. The mysteries are intricate but modestly deployed (sans any courtroom outbursts, for example) and clever enough that I was rarely able to figure out absolutely every part of any one case before the end (the notable exceptions being the two or so episodes where a simpler case seemed to take a backseat to character development - not that I'm arguing). I'm neither the best nor the worst guesser of endings I know, but still. I consider that a pretty remarkable record for a mystery series that doesn't cheat - at least, not as far as I can recall. (Some of the solutions depend on historical knowledge that Foyle has and the average citizen of the twenty-first century may not, but that's not to say that one couldn't know, if one has studied one's Agrippa WWII).
So the mysteries are creditable, and the setting gives the action a palpable sense of significance, but what I found I enjoyed most about the show, more than anything else, was the core trio of characters. It's very difficult to say anything staggering or unprecedented about any of them, and yet I had the pleasant feeling that I had never met any of them before. Foyle and his team seem like real individuals, without even having to be especially odd to do it.
Foyle, for example, is a man of deep affections, who somehow manages to communicate those affections - and their depth - with only the smallest modulations of tone and gesture. He is a master of eliciting the truth. He's dogged enough in his investigation of crime, but his righteous wrath expends itself not in dramatic bursts, but in a sort of ever-present righteous grumpiness. He does not drive, so he requires the services of a police driver.
No policeman is available to be Foyle's driver, so Foyle's superiors requisition a (completely wonderful) young woman from the Motorized Transport Corps. This is Sam, and one inevitably wonders how long the show creators had to look to find an actress who could look so beautiful and so perfectly-suited to an everyday uniform in such an ugly shade of ochre. (Somehow, not even Sam's pretty civilian clothes look quite so well on her as that uniform does). But I do her character a significant injustice by starting with her appearance, no matter how fine it is. Sam is just... fantastic. Adorable. And I struggle even to begin to say how. She's just as bright as a new copper penny. Eager, smart, loyal, kindly, forthright, brave, and - on memorable occasions - youthfully daft.
The very first time I heard someone say, unequivocally, that Elizabeth Bennet was the greatest female character in all English literature, I boggled at the very idea that one could claim to have narrowed the field so decisively. It was not until later that I had occasion to reflect on just how little competition she has. And it is on a somewhat similar note that I say: I think Sam Stewart is one of the great female tv characters - and certainly not because she has any particularly extraordinary character traits. She's an ordinary girl. Just an especially well-written and acted one.
And then there is Milner, coming in a very close third place in my love, right on the heels of Sam and Foyle. It was an interesting experience seeing Milner for the first time, because I recognized the actor who plays him from the also-excellent and highly recommended Wives and Daughters mini, (another instance of an especially well-written and acted role for a young woman). But I thought to myself, 'Huh, he looks kind of like the guy who plays Roger Hamley, but not,' only to find out that Milner looks kind of like the guy who plays Roger Hamley, but not not - because he is, in fact, the same guy. Six seasons in, though, and I'm still squinting at the screen, asking myself 'are we completely sure that's him? And not, say, a very similar-looking brother?' I mean, does anyone else think Milner looks like they took Roger Hamley and, like, stretched him out or something? I don't remember Roger Hamley being tall, for example. And Roger's face and his whole bearing seemed broader and friendlier - sort of blockier. Hmm.
But I digress. I think I love Milner chiefly for his stillness. He's played as convincingly, solemnly contained, and thereby a nice companion to gruff and equally reserved Foyle, and nice counterpoint to eager beaver Sam.
I think I love Milner secondmost for his vests. (Goodness, but that man can work a sweater-vest and a sport coat! Very fine vests, indeed). Thirdmost, I love him for his elegantly receding hairline.
Now, it's time to talk
Number 1: On the subject of romantic entanglements: I approve of Sam with Foyle's son, Andrew, but find I do so mostly for the reason Andrew gives: that Sam must end up part of Big Foyle's family. By the end of the series, I cannot imagine Sam and Foyle apart. Also, I do rather like Andrew. (My favorite parts with Andrew are always the all-too-casual, emotionally layered scenes with his father). But I am also somewhat cool on the pairing, because when I ask myself the question, 'Whom should Sam marry?' the answer comes back, 'Only the most wonderful (and age-appropriate) man in all the world is good enough for her!' Andrew will have to become that man over time, I suppose. He's solid raw material, anyway. ;o9
I had heard that a lot of people like the idea of Sam and Milner together, but when it came to the actual show, I never saw it for a minute. Sam and Milner are both lovely, and they may be close after a fashion, but I feel like you can actually watch Milner's face from episode to episode and see him looking on her as a little sister. Even in the scene where she tries to get him to dance with her. Sam is just being a funny kid, trying to cheer him up, and she knows it and he knows it, and I don't think Sam would have permitted herself to be in that situation in the first place, if she thought of Milner as anything more than a friend and colleague. Sam may not be constantly trotting out her principles, but she seems to have quite firm and personal ones, not to mention pride and a measure of caution when it comes to making connections. (She sure shut down that American boy quickly enough, the first time he approached her without due decorum). I don't think Sam would be looking at a married man - or a sort-of-not-really-married-anymore-or-whatever man - as a live option. She's just too smart for that. Which brings me to
Number Two: Milner's ending. I can't help but think that Milner finally fell into third place (if only ever-so-slightly) for me when Edith came on the scene. For one, Original Edith has the dubious distinction of being the first Foyle's War actor so egregiously bad that I noticed right away and didn't believe in her for a moment. I kept waiting for Foyle to tell Edith that she was a terrible liar, and she might as well stop it, because he already knew she was the killer. But she wasn't. And then she came onto Milner, and I had every confidence that he would immediately send her packing. But he didn't. Because apparently she is his kind of woman. (I lost a modicum of respect for him over that one - though Roger Hamley can't help that they hired a bad actress to play his sweetie, I suppose). And then there's the part where he lies about being divorced and leads Edith on, only to have his wife come back and be (quite conveniently) killed. Eliminating any obstacle (except, well, guilt and deception and whatnot) between Milner and the bad actress I, for one, was so unthrilled to see him with in the first place. Whee! Second Edith makes no obvious acting transgressions, but the damage is already done. Perhaps especially because Original Edith seemed to think it was No Big if it turned out that Milner had, in fact, murdered his wife. WHAT? I mean, I believe humans are sufficiently complex that even otherwise-decent, caring, law-abiding persons sometimes commit murder, and I believe that those who have committed murder may still need care and support from their loved ones, but woman, you don't just laughingly step out with a guy you believe did his last wife in! Because, what, there's something about you that guarantees you won't be the next victim of his violence? His first wife was just that mean, and your love is just that true? *sigh* So yeah, I don't think I'll ever quite resign myself to Edith.
Number Three: the swastika puzzle Sam finds in the book of toys and games. Foyle's solution (or, well, the solution he pretends not to have), is much more elegant, and it doesn't ruin any playing cards. But I would have taken the four cards, bent them in half at a ninety-degree angle, then arranged them standing up on their sides, LOL.
As to the more general reflections that watching Foyle's War occasioned, I wonder if we, in Western society as we presently find it, would be capable of the sustained, unified effort and sacrifice exhibited by Foyle's mid-century community. Not so much because I don't personally know as many obviously brave, sacrificial individuals as Foyle does - I mean, would I? Are most people that brave or sacrificial before they're called upon to be? - but because I don't think the majority of us would be able to go on, united year after year, in a conviction that whatever we were doing for the war, we were obviously on the Side of Right. Our skepticism is not a bad thing, mind you - especially since the wars in which we've involved ourselves since WWII have not been about the same issues - but I wonder if one consequence of our propensity to question authority and our lack of illusion about war's supposed glamors and honors ('dulce et decorum est,' etc., etc.) is that we would no longer be capable of that kind of sustained, generally unified effort - because we know too much. (Not that the sustained, unified effort in question is all about bravery and nobility or, for that matter, naivete; it's also about social pressure, as Foyle's War makes abundantly clear).
And speaking of social pressure, another thing that I thought about while watching Foyle's War is the diminishment of decorum over time. In one scene, Sam is approached by an American boy, who clearly has little idea how young British men are expected to approach women. Though the boy does nothing more than talk to her, Sam's acknowledgment to Milner that the boy was more than forward, he was 'fresh,' suggests that the kid transgressed a fairly strict - if perhaps difficult to codify - set of expectations of which he was completely unaware. When societies are more mannered - at least according to cliche - they're also often supposed to be more repressed, and I'm not especially interested in increased repression. But the decorum practiced by Foyle's associates did make me think that we might be better off as a people if we promoted more discretion, even to the point of being more mannered than we are at present. Codes and manners create opportunities for individuals - like Sam, for example - to say 'yes, there was a transgression,' far before the point of violence. (I definitely don't mean that the merely verbal precludes violence, mind you, just that we often have trouble saying in what way we think someone has shown disrespect for our boundaries, and an inability to point to the transgression sometimes causes doubt, to the point that we wonder whether any transgression has even taken place, and if we go on wondering and wondering, sometimes others can use our confusion as a foothold for what ultimately become abusive, damaging relations).
Sometimes it would be nice to be a little clearer on how one person should or should not be approached by another. Sometimes it would be nice to have a collective social code structured to protect those who, for example, would rather not talk about a personal matter with just anyone, rather than a social code that seems to expect persons, especially women, to be ever more free and accommodating, at the risk of seeming rude. In one episode of Foyle's war, a man actually asks a woman's permission before he kisses her. I hardly assume that this was standard behavior at that or any time, but it was jarring to me - and not, for the record, because the gesture struck me as unromantic. In a culture where the vaunted romantic ideal is two persons crashing together in sudden, inarticulate shared ecstasy, it's no wonder we're all confused about when somebody else wants our intrusion on their personal space, and a sad truth that many individuals take advantage of this confusion to force such attentions where they are not, in fact, wanted. It's not the allure - the prettiness - of a man's manners when he asks a woman before kissing her that interests me, it's the way the way the gesture demonstrates an (at least institutionalized) awareness of and respect for the fact that she's not required to think either way, and that it might be worth finding out before crossing into her intimate, personal space.
And on a final, much shallower note: How was forties hair so fabulous, especially when there was a war on??? I know Foyle's War is a tv show and a contemporary one, at that, and therefore not a straightforward indication of any real historical milieu's actual grooming practices, but I've also seen photos from that period, and dude, it's like everyone had perfect, fancy hair. How can there be such a thing as an entire generation of women with awesome hair? Wasn't there anyone whose hair just wouldn't cooperate? My hair isn't straight and smooth, but it also won't hold curl for more than half an hour. And it gets dirty every single day, meaning that having my hair done at a salon - as Sam and other women her age seem to do on Foyle's War - would last for exactly one day. I don't understand it! And my hair isn't even outstandingly uncooperative. I daresay I've known plenty of girlfriends who would give a forties hairdresser an even worse time. What did the girls with the bad hair do during the forties? I ask you! Where did they go? Where were they hiding?
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I had a little Christmas money from Gramma, and as of immediately after Christmas, several of the dvd sets I'd been coveting were available uncharacteristically cheap. (From what I could tell, anyway. Perhaps they are normally available at those prices on Amazon, and I had just never bothered to look?) Anyhoo, this meant that I could have them all, without having to choose between them! Whoopee! I selected the second season of Pushing Daisies, Little Dorrit, and Our Mutual Friend (which I had at one time decided I liked but did not need to have permanently on-hand, only to find that I pined for it when it wasn't around).
I expect I shall find myself wanting to do a Pushing Daisies rewatch and/or obituary retrospective post sometime soon, because I *did* so love that show, and I tend to be in just the right mood for it, come wintertime. (Something to cozy up to, perhaps?) But my chief excitement upon getting my dvds in the mail was to watch the three episodes I hadn't seen yet. These episodes weren't exactly unaired, but the network aired them at some sort of random time, without first informing The Presidentrix. Hmph. So I never got to see them. I'm not sure what, exactly, I was hoping for from them, because a) I knew no ending had ever been planned, so there wouldn't be one, and b) I figure that any attempt to produce an ending within three episodes that would tie up all or most of Pushing Daisies' loose threads would most likely turn out to be a storytelling disaster. Without spoiling anything in particular, I can say that these were three more basically pretty great episodes of a show that was basically pretty great (but a show that acted for all the world like it had no idea it was so likely to be canceled). The latter three episodes shake loose at least as many new threads as they tie down.
I haven't picked a favorite episode of Pushing Daisies yet, but my snap judgment of the second season puts the highlight at around 'Dim Sum, Lose Sum,' and 'Oh Oh Oh It's Magic,' which I found sweet and uproariously funny. Oooor maybe it's the lighthouse episode, where Olive makes Emerson Cod wear a fish-print raincoat. Hmm... Anyway, the new episodes are good, but I don't think they'll top the aforementioned episodes in my estimation, not even when you figure in my very great enjoyment of David Arquette as 'Randy Mann,' a mild-mannered and unflappable taxidermist (and suitor for Olive). What didn't I like? The last thirty seconds of the very last episode, obviously tacked-on in a desperate attempt to give some semblance of an ending. No surprise: it doesn't work. In fact, those thirty seconds of enforced closure are like a clumsy slap to the face. Maybe it's because Pushing Daisies always tended to portray life as fluid, random, unpredictable and adventurous, or maybe it's because if something marvelous is going to happen to a character you've come to care about, it should be allowed to unfold in a marvelous way - not by way of perfunctory announcement. You can't just take any old development in a character's story and be all, 'See! Something just happened to him or her! That means The End!' At the very least, you should try to avoid letting your tacked-on ending bear any resemblance to the 'next time on Pushing Daisies' promo that fans would probably so much prefer it were, instead. Salt in the wound! Ah well. 'Tis but thirty seconds. And I can easily pretend they never happened while I'm busy enjoying the rest of the show and imagining where it might have gone instead.
At the time it came out, I never wrote about Little Dorrit in my own journal, because I was keeping myself busy over at the journal of valancy_s, who live-blogged about it on the night of each new installment. But despite failing to say so, I found it to be a very pleasing BBC mini with an especially strong, engaging cast.
Returning to the series on dvd, I've been gratified to discover that, in addition to loving the characters as I did before, I now understand the plot (sooooo much) better than I did previously. The first time 'round, it sure seemed as though the core story, which spoke directly to the heart, was being constantly and inconveniently interrupted by scenes which, while eccentric, didn't have any clear purpose at all. Of course, knowing me, I probably wasn't paying close enough attention, but I think I'd have required advance knowledge of the story in order to make sense of at least some of the circuitous Dickensian sub-plots, under any circumstances. (Uh, no, I haven't read the book).
Finally figuring out the plot has meant, in turn, new affection for supporting characters that had previously baffled or bored me. I now think Mr. Pancks may be one of my very favorites (along with Mr. Sparkler, also risen in my estimation, though mainly because I continue to find him funnier and funnier, and not because he was ever complicated or hard to figure out). This despite the regrettable fact that Pancks is involved in one ugly and deucedly ill-advised scene, late in the series. Mr. Casby, I am informed by those who know, is *not* meant to be a Jewish character (and he doesn't look anything like the almost-contemporaneous Jewish men one sees in the recent adaptation of Eliot's Daniel Deronda, fwiw), but something about the styling and appearance of the actor who plays the role suggests a possibly Jewish man, and this turns the scene where the greedy Mr. Casby is publicly humiliated - in a particularly loaded way - into an unintentional (I can only suppose; I may be naive and wrong, of course, but I can't get my head around the directors wanting it to be intentional) figuring of anti-Semitism, especially disturbing because it is the humiliators whose cause is celebrated in that moment. I think it is meant to be a scene where any mean old Londoner gets what it is coming to him, but... it is rather badly and thoughtlessly done.
Amy and Arthur, the leads, continue to endear themselves to me upon rewatching. (My only complaint about the pair of them, in fact, is that the story separates them for, imo, faaar too long, then rushes through the reunion. I could do with a few hours more!) I like that they're such ordinary, soft-spoken people, not scintillating wits or persons of particular distinction, and I appreciate the way that both, while they may seem to err on the side of passivity, endure quietly from a place of strength, not timidity. (And are quite capable of speaking up for themselves at the moments they deem proper). I've realized that I actively admire Amy Dorrit. She is, no doubt, idealized (especially if you factor out some contemporary quirks of this particular adaptation), but I think there's a core of genuine wisdom - not just Victorian sensibility - in the way she's depicted dealing, for example, with her unbalanced father. It takes rationality, determination and grace to deal with another person's indignities in a way that doesn't further strip that person of the vestiges of their pride.
And oh, John Chivery, oh oh oh John Chivery. How do I love thee? If I counted the ways, I would start with your perfect, round, pink, cup-handle ears, and not stop until I had utterly exhausted the graces of your heart-felt, scene-stealing performance. ;o9
So: I've been typing for how long now and still haven't gotten to Foyle's War? Regarding my revisitation of Our Mutual Friend, then, I shall endeavor to be brief. (Ha!)
I find that I still enjoy this story - in snatches, especially - but think the total production is unfortunately clumsy. (I don't think it has quite the production values of the later adaptations). It's kind of a pity. Bella and John are excellent characters, their conversations are often excellent, and their supporting cast (their Boffins!) is excellent. Also, Bella's many yellow dresses are excellent. (And Mr. Sloppy is excellent. I love Mr. Sloppy). But Bella and John make up just one strand of several intertwined, and I'm unable to get equally excited about the other strands, except at odd moments here and there. I mean, I think the whole point of Eugene Wrayburn is that he's (initially) sort of boring and a waste of space, but do I have to watch it? Must we perform his boringitude - and at such length? (Or maybe it only feels lengthy...) Lizzie Hexam is sweet but unmemorable (especially as compared with Bella, so thoughtful and self-conscious in her apparent mercenary frivolity), Lizzie's brother is blurty, unsubtle and horrid, and her suitor/stalker guy is... chills and ugh. (He's supposed to be, but that doesn't make it enjoyable to watch). In short (for once?) my intense affection for Bella and John, and my almost as intense disaffection for so much of the rest of the story make war on each other, and simultaneously make Our Mutual Friend difficult to rate by comparison to other costume dramas. I still can't help but recommend it - Bella and John are worth it, and I totally pined for OMF on dvd when I didn't have it, just as I said - but I'm becoming persuaded that Bleak House and Little Dorrit are ultimately both superior minis, when considered as a whole.
Ah,FOYLE'S WAR. Finally! My friend valancy recommended UK historical detective series Foyle's War some time ago (last winter?), and I really can't remember what recalled it to my mind the other night, but I've made it through all six seasons in just three or four days, after discovering them at least temporarily available on the Youtubes. This is not, perhaps, quite the overwhelming accomplishment it sounds like, since each season of Foyle's war consists of only two to four feature-length episodes, that is still a lot of Foyle. I was very committed. Because, to put it plainly, I dig Foyle, and I really dig his crew.
Christopher Foyle is a police inspector during WWII. He would like to be doing something more significant for the war effort, but his superiors won't let him, because he's simply too good at his job. Practically the only available police detective in his area, what with so many British soldiers deployed all over the world, Foyle is responsible for almost the entire South Coast of England. His environs evolve as the war progresses, rationing deepens, and imminent danger waxes and wanes, but the setting of the show remains a gripping one: almost-sleepy seaside and farming villages that must become staging grounds for major military operations. Bombs do fall, invasion is sometimes anticipated, but morale and the irregular spaces between incidents demand that country life proceed at almost its accustomed place. And in the midst of it all, people still commit crimes.
As police shows go, Foyle's War is almost an antidote to the typical American serial. The mysteries are intricate but modestly deployed (sans any courtroom outbursts, for example) and clever enough that I was rarely able to figure out absolutely every part of any one case before the end (the notable exceptions being the two or so episodes where a simpler case seemed to take a backseat to character development - not that I'm arguing). I'm neither the best nor the worst guesser of endings I know, but still. I consider that a pretty remarkable record for a mystery series that doesn't cheat - at least, not as far as I can recall. (Some of the solutions depend on historical knowledge that Foyle has and the average citizen of the twenty-first century may not, but that's not to say that one couldn't know, if one has studied one's Agrippa WWII).
So the mysteries are creditable, and the setting gives the action a palpable sense of significance, but what I found I enjoyed most about the show, more than anything else, was the core trio of characters. It's very difficult to say anything staggering or unprecedented about any of them, and yet I had the pleasant feeling that I had never met any of them before. Foyle and his team seem like real individuals, without even having to be especially odd to do it.
Foyle, for example, is a man of deep affections, who somehow manages to communicate those affections - and their depth - with only the smallest modulations of tone and gesture. He is a master of eliciting the truth. He's dogged enough in his investigation of crime, but his righteous wrath expends itself not in dramatic bursts, but in a sort of ever-present righteous grumpiness. He does not drive, so he requires the services of a police driver.
No policeman is available to be Foyle's driver, so Foyle's superiors requisition a (completely wonderful) young woman from the Motorized Transport Corps. This is Sam, and one inevitably wonders how long the show creators had to look to find an actress who could look so beautiful and so perfectly-suited to an everyday uniform in such an ugly shade of ochre. (Somehow, not even Sam's pretty civilian clothes look quite so well on her as that uniform does). But I do her character a significant injustice by starting with her appearance, no matter how fine it is. Sam is just... fantastic. Adorable. And I struggle even to begin to say how. She's just as bright as a new copper penny. Eager, smart, loyal, kindly, forthright, brave, and - on memorable occasions - youthfully daft.
The very first time I heard someone say, unequivocally, that Elizabeth Bennet was the greatest female character in all English literature, I boggled at the very idea that one could claim to have narrowed the field so decisively. It was not until later that I had occasion to reflect on just how little competition she has. And it is on a somewhat similar note that I say: I think Sam Stewart is one of the great female tv characters - and certainly not because she has any particularly extraordinary character traits. She's an ordinary girl. Just an especially well-written and acted one.
And then there is Milner, coming in a very close third place in my love, right on the heels of Sam and Foyle. It was an interesting experience seeing Milner for the first time, because I recognized the actor who plays him from the also-excellent and highly recommended Wives and Daughters mini, (another instance of an especially well-written and acted role for a young woman). But I thought to myself, 'Huh, he looks kind of like the guy who plays Roger Hamley, but not,' only to find out that Milner looks kind of like the guy who plays Roger Hamley, but not not - because he is, in fact, the same guy. Six seasons in, though, and I'm still squinting at the screen, asking myself 'are we completely sure that's him? And not, say, a very similar-looking brother?' I mean, does anyone else think Milner looks like they took Roger Hamley and, like, stretched him out or something? I don't remember Roger Hamley being tall, for example. And Roger's face and his whole bearing seemed broader and friendlier - sort of blockier. Hmm.
But I digress. I think I love Milner chiefly for his stillness. He's played as convincingly, solemnly contained, and thereby a nice companion to gruff and equally reserved Foyle, and nice counterpoint to eager beaver Sam.
I think I love Milner secondmost for his vests. (Goodness, but that man can work a sweater-vest and a sport coat! Very fine vests, indeed). Thirdmost, I love him for his elegantly receding hairline.
Now, it's time to talk
Number 1: On the subject of romantic entanglements: I approve of Sam with Foyle's son, Andrew, but find I do so mostly for the reason Andrew gives: that Sam must end up part of Big Foyle's family. By the end of the series, I cannot imagine Sam and Foyle apart. Also, I do rather like Andrew. (My favorite parts with Andrew are always the all-too-casual, emotionally layered scenes with his father). But I am also somewhat cool on the pairing, because when I ask myself the question, 'Whom should Sam marry?' the answer comes back, 'Only the most wonderful (and age-appropriate) man in all the world is good enough for her!' Andrew will have to become that man over time, I suppose. He's solid raw material, anyway. ;o9
I had heard that a lot of people like the idea of Sam and Milner together, but when it came to the actual show, I never saw it for a minute. Sam and Milner are both lovely, and they may be close after a fashion, but I feel like you can actually watch Milner's face from episode to episode and see him looking on her as a little sister. Even in the scene where she tries to get him to dance with her. Sam is just being a funny kid, trying to cheer him up, and she knows it and he knows it, and I don't think Sam would have permitted herself to be in that situation in the first place, if she thought of Milner as anything more than a friend and colleague. Sam may not be constantly trotting out her principles, but she seems to have quite firm and personal ones, not to mention pride and a measure of caution when it comes to making connections. (She sure shut down that American boy quickly enough, the first time he approached her without due decorum). I don't think Sam would be looking at a married man - or a sort-of-not-really-married-anymore-or-whatever man - as a live option. She's just too smart for that. Which brings me to
Number Two: Milner's ending. I can't help but think that Milner finally fell into third place (if only ever-so-slightly) for me when Edith came on the scene. For one, Original Edith has the dubious distinction of being the first Foyle's War actor so egregiously bad that I noticed right away and didn't believe in her for a moment. I kept waiting for Foyle to tell Edith that she was a terrible liar, and she might as well stop it, because he already knew she was the killer. But she wasn't. And then she came onto Milner, and I had every confidence that he would immediately send her packing. But he didn't. Because apparently she is his kind of woman. (I lost a modicum of respect for him over that one - though Roger Hamley can't help that they hired a bad actress to play his sweetie, I suppose). And then there's the part where he lies about being divorced and leads Edith on, only to have his wife come back and be (quite conveniently) killed. Eliminating any obstacle (except, well, guilt and deception and whatnot) between Milner and the bad actress I, for one, was so unthrilled to see him with in the first place. Whee! Second Edith makes no obvious acting transgressions, but the damage is already done. Perhaps especially because Original Edith seemed to think it was No Big if it turned out that Milner had, in fact, murdered his wife. WHAT? I mean, I believe humans are sufficiently complex that even otherwise-decent, caring, law-abiding persons sometimes commit murder, and I believe that those who have committed murder may still need care and support from their loved ones, but woman, you don't just laughingly step out with a guy you believe did his last wife in! Because, what, there's something about you that guarantees you won't be the next victim of his violence? His first wife was just that mean, and your love is just that true? *sigh* So yeah, I don't think I'll ever quite resign myself to Edith.
Number Three: the swastika puzzle Sam finds in the book of toys and games. Foyle's solution (or, well, the solution he pretends not to have), is much more elegant, and it doesn't ruin any playing cards. But I would have taken the four cards, bent them in half at a ninety-degree angle, then arranged them standing up on their sides, LOL.
As to the more general reflections that watching Foyle's War occasioned, I wonder if we, in Western society as we presently find it, would be capable of the sustained, unified effort and sacrifice exhibited by Foyle's mid-century community. Not so much because I don't personally know as many obviously brave, sacrificial individuals as Foyle does - I mean, would I? Are most people that brave or sacrificial before they're called upon to be? - but because I don't think the majority of us would be able to go on, united year after year, in a conviction that whatever we were doing for the war, we were obviously on the Side of Right. Our skepticism is not a bad thing, mind you - especially since the wars in which we've involved ourselves since WWII have not been about the same issues - but I wonder if one consequence of our propensity to question authority and our lack of illusion about war's supposed glamors and honors ('dulce et decorum est,' etc., etc.) is that we would no longer be capable of that kind of sustained, generally unified effort - because we know too much. (Not that the sustained, unified effort in question is all about bravery and nobility or, for that matter, naivete; it's also about social pressure, as Foyle's War makes abundantly clear).
And speaking of social pressure, another thing that I thought about while watching Foyle's War is the diminishment of decorum over time. In one scene, Sam is approached by an American boy, who clearly has little idea how young British men are expected to approach women. Though the boy does nothing more than talk to her, Sam's acknowledgment to Milner that the boy was more than forward, he was 'fresh,' suggests that the kid transgressed a fairly strict - if perhaps difficult to codify - set of expectations of which he was completely unaware. When societies are more mannered - at least according to cliche - they're also often supposed to be more repressed, and I'm not especially interested in increased repression. But the decorum practiced by Foyle's associates did make me think that we might be better off as a people if we promoted more discretion, even to the point of being more mannered than we are at present. Codes and manners create opportunities for individuals - like Sam, for example - to say 'yes, there was a transgression,' far before the point of violence. (I definitely don't mean that the merely verbal precludes violence, mind you, just that we often have trouble saying in what way we think someone has shown disrespect for our boundaries, and an inability to point to the transgression sometimes causes doubt, to the point that we wonder whether any transgression has even taken place, and if we go on wondering and wondering, sometimes others can use our confusion as a foothold for what ultimately become abusive, damaging relations).
Sometimes it would be nice to be a little clearer on how one person should or should not be approached by another. Sometimes it would be nice to have a collective social code structured to protect those who, for example, would rather not talk about a personal matter with just anyone, rather than a social code that seems to expect persons, especially women, to be ever more free and accommodating, at the risk of seeming rude. In one episode of Foyle's war, a man actually asks a woman's permission before he kisses her. I hardly assume that this was standard behavior at that or any time, but it was jarring to me - and not, for the record, because the gesture struck me as unromantic. In a culture where the vaunted romantic ideal is two persons crashing together in sudden, inarticulate shared ecstasy, it's no wonder we're all confused about when somebody else wants our intrusion on their personal space, and a sad truth that many individuals take advantage of this confusion to force such attentions where they are not, in fact, wanted. It's not the allure - the prettiness - of a man's manners when he asks a woman before kissing her that interests me, it's the way the way the gesture demonstrates an (at least institutionalized) awareness of and respect for the fact that she's not required to think either way, and that it might be worth finding out before crossing into her intimate, personal space.
And on a final, much shallower note: How was forties hair so fabulous, especially when there was a war on??? I know Foyle's War is a tv show and a contemporary one, at that, and therefore not a straightforward indication of any real historical milieu's actual grooming practices, but I've also seen photos from that period, and dude, it's like everyone had perfect, fancy hair. How can there be such a thing as an entire generation of women with awesome hair? Wasn't there anyone whose hair just wouldn't cooperate? My hair isn't straight and smooth, but it also won't hold curl for more than half an hour. And it gets dirty every single day, meaning that having my hair done at a salon - as Sam and other women her age seem to do on Foyle's War - would last for exactly one day. I don't understand it! And my hair isn't even outstandingly uncooperative. I daresay I've known plenty of girlfriends who would give a forties hairdresser an even worse time. What did the girls with the bad hair do during the forties? I ask you! Where did they go? Where were they hiding?
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