Latest McCall Smith: The Great Hippopotamus Hotel

Over the last few years, I have been reading all the books in Alexander McCall Smith's series, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. 

I got caught up last fall. 

This past month, I read the latest: The Great Hippopotamus Hotel. 

I am astonished, all over again, that McCall Smith can resist the pull of "after so many books/episodes, I must get melodramatic!" 

Television shows suffer from this assumption all the time. Even Bones, which was better than most, gave us Pelant arc. *Sigh.*

McCall Smith, without being repetitious (though, in fairness, there are only so many crimes to go around), gives us human beings who go on living their everyday lives while dealing with the related vagaries and oddities and unexpectedness and mundaneness. There are the mysteries, of course, but the interactions are ones that we can all relate to. Dorothy Sayers, I believe, once remarked that any gathering of people can find common ground in a discussion about plumbing. With McCall Smith, one such discussion involves men and their socks! 

There is also a hint of magical realism, which terms often makes me roll my eyes since it seems like an intellectual euphemism for "fantasy." But in McCall Smith's series, the enchantment of the country--to its characters, to its visitors--lays over everything. Magic is not unexpected, as with Mma Makutsi's talking shoes.

And the writing is very funny in a gentle, calm way that almost creeps up on the reader.  So, regarding those shoes and the small man who wants a sports car (but isn't going to tell his wife)--

What shoes allied to the female cause--as most ladies' shoes are--would remain silent in the face of the arrival at the garage of Mr. Mo Mo Malala, unashamedly planning to deceive his wife over the not unconsiderable matter of a small but high-powered Italian sports car. 

Every book is a delight!

Dysfunctional Relationships in Crime Shows: Disguise in Castle

All murder mysteries include romantic relationships gone wrong. In some shows, the dysfunctional relationship is based in the classic problem--cheating; in some, it is based on power imbalances, including unequal divisions of money; in some, it is based on unrealistic expectations.

In Castle, the dysfunctional relationships often come down to the problem of disguises. That is, one member of the couple has been hiding not just A truth (a dirty secret) but an entire alternate reality: a legal identity, a complicated past, another self.

While romance shows and novels often see disguise as an opportunity for forgiveness and reconciliation (the Duke in Twelfth Night is happy, not disturbed, by Viola's revelation), murder mysteries correctly pinpoint how the revelation of a "new" self could devastate a lover. 

As I comment in my post on Jessica Fletcher:

"[Jessica] is completely devastated [when she thinks her husband may have cheated]. It isn't so much the straying that bothers her. It is that she thought she knew [him]. Not only would her husband have strayed and kept that secret to himself, he would have kept a life-changing occurrence (his child) from her. And he simply isn't the kind of man to abandon his own child. Did she even know him?"

Do I even know you? is a question that crops up again and again in Castle. "Vampire Weekend" pits a son against the woman who raised him as well as a husband against the wife who entirely betrayed his trust. In the "The Mistress Always Spanks Twice," the victim doubled as a grad student and a dominatrix. Several Castle murderers are camouflaged as upstanding citizens while in "The Fifth Bullet," an amnesiac character accepts that he could be a murderer. In the meantime, the "3XK" killer deliberately and cruelly uses the investigators' identities against them in one of the show's darkest episodes. 

Of course, Castle also supplies a great deal of humor. There's the pizza episode with shop owners vying over who is the true "authentic terrific Nick's." In the episode "That 70's Show," the entire station house pretends to belong to an earlier era, all to help a man who hid his true feelings from other gangsters several decades earlier. 

However, my favorite example of how disguise or double identities can entirely disturb a person's mental health occurs in Season 3's "Nikki Heat" when the actress shadowing Beckett begins to adopt her clothes, hair, and mannerisms. Castle assures Beckett that he didn't sleep with the actress: "It would have been way too meta."

Ryan: We really should have a code word

so we know...

Come Dressed Up to Work Day: Happy Halloween!

A very fun trope in television shows is when characters come to work in clothes that they don't typically wear to work--for one reason or another.

Castle ran with this trope quite often. My favorite is Beckett's marvelous beaded red dress in Season 1. She is wearing it on a "stake-out" at a charity shindig for high-rollers (Castle gets them in). I don't normally like sleeveless dresses (seriously--they always look like they are about to fall off, even on royalty), but boy, Stana Katic wears it well! 

When she shows up later at the station in her normal clothes, the boys are disappointed. She merely rolls her eyes. 

The 1970s episode is another of my favorites: everybody at the station gets to dress up!

And Major Crimes offers a great moment when Tao shows up to a crime scene in a tux. 

Tao is a consultant on a show called Badge of Justice, and it just won Best Teleplay for Non-serialized 60-minute episodic Police Procedural on Basic Cable.  

He arrives in a limousine and he is dressed to the nines. Michael Chan looks sharp!

Books to Movies: Is the Flawed Character Likable?

The issue for this post is:

Can a a movie help us audience members love a flawed character?

Loving a flawed character is is not quite the same as loving a villain. Lots of viewers love villains! Fredric Lehne from Supernatural discusses how Supernatural fans adore him. In fact, he has been treated better as a fantasy villain than he has as a "realistic" villain, proving (once again) that fantasy and sci-fi fans are much more level-headed than people who favor "true to life" drama.

I personally am endlessly amused by Cigarette Smoking Man in X-Files. Good villains are rather easy to love. 

But--can people love the hero who not only makes mistakes but is not always entirely appealing?

We forgive Darcy for being rude because he later helps. But I think viewers also forgive Darcy not just because Colin Firth is handsome but because he captures the self-conscious uncertainty of a guy at a party he would rather leave. 

That is, movie/television can go a long way towards selling a character who is not entirely appealing on paper. 

When I read The Warden by Trollope, I honestly thought the author was being more sardonic than supportive regarding the titular character, Mr. Septimus Harding. There is a very funny sequence in the book where Harding sneaks around to avoid his family members; he is worried that they will overbear him with their arguments before he can make the right decision. Trollope uses a slightly aloof tone--he comes across as not entirely sympathetic to Harding though he entirely sides with Harding at the end.

In the BBC production, Harding is played by Donald Pleasance! I mean...it's Donald Pleasance! He is totally adorable. Go, Harding! The audience WANTS him to get away from his overwhelming family. 

Likewise, Sean Bean in Lord of the Rings is a far more sympathetic character as Boromir than the book Boromir.

This issue may be one where movies have an edge over books--as long as one can get the right actor!

Books to Movies: The Desolation of Smaug, Mirkwood, More on Pacing, What to Keep, What to Ignore

The Mirkwood scenes keep the fairy-tale dreamlike tone from the book while moving much more quickly. They also link the spiders more directly to Dol Gulder, underscoring Thandruil's failure to act. 

And they introduce the Tauriel/Kili romance. I have mentioned elsewhere why I'm a fan--though I wish the movie had paid the romance off better (not necessarily happier, just better). I will discuss the trilogy's ending more later. 

The Wood Elves are great characters in general: "less wise and more dangerous," as both Beorn (in the movie) and the narrator (in the text) state. The Elf King, Thranduil, played by Lee Pace, is a fantastic damaged leader. 

The conflict between him and Thorin is more direct in the movie than in the book but the dispute over gems is there plus the sense of long-held grievances and lifelong distrust: "Take him away...even if he waits a hundred years...I'm patient. I can wait."

In the book, Thorin and the other dwarfs are separated during their imprisonment. The others don't know what happened to Thorin, and Bilbo carries messages between him and the others. He also reconnoiters over several weeks and waits until the feast to free the dwarfs. 

The movie speeds everything up.

Frankly, the Mirkwood sequence is one of the best in all the films with excellent pacing. It also has one of my favorite "nope, Martin Freeman doesn't need a voice over" scenes when Bilbo realizes he failed to get a barrel for himself. 

Even the chase-chase-chase scene doesn't bother me. The dwarfs escape; the elves chase them; Azog and his people join in to get the dwarfs but end up inviting the elves' ire. The sequence is engaging, has a point, has mini-emotional arcs, and is actually fun to watch. It also brings several plots together, and there's no breakaway until the dwarfs get free. Then, the movie cuts to Gandalf.

Generally speaking, the action from Beorn through to the barrels is some of the best in the trilogy! The choices of what to keep and what to discard and what to speed up are very smart.

In sum, I think there are several reasons for the apparent seamlessness: 

1. What happens next is naturally what would happen next, including Tauriel and Kili's conversations. 

2. The characters' personalities--specifically Thranduil, Thorin, and Bilbo--are well-established enough to explain certain actions and reactions. Everyone behaves believably. 

3. The main characters remain the center without feeling "showcased," so Bilbo's reaction to the ring in Mirkwood--a scene where he is separated again from the others--feels in pace with the rest rather than a breakaway. 

4. The barrel-chase scene, again, highlights personality rather than being just a bunch of people getting felled by axes and falling into water. It even has some humor, as with Bombur's barrel act! 

Consequently, The Desolation of Smaug, extended version, is the one DVD set of Jackson's movies I purchased for myself. I consider the piece fairly high quality as an actual movie.

All the Ms: MacKay to Mackenzie

Mackay, Malcolm: How a Gunman Says Goodbye is a hitman story in Glasgow. Gangs/assassins with noir nobility. Engaging. But the truth is, “gangs” and all related topics are kind of a blind spot in my brain. I can't locate my interest. (I did enjoy Red though!)

Mackay, Shena: A collection of short stories. From Dreams of Dead Women’s Handbags, I read “The Stained-Glass Door,” which is depressing modern life made poetic. And I began to ponder if short story writers inevitably write depressing short stories with contemporary settings. There are plenty of sci-fi and romance short stories out there, but frankly, it is harder to write a short story with plot than a rambling depressing story with supposed meaning. 

Mackel, Kathy: Alien in a Bottle is a book about a kid who wants to blow glass and gets help from aliens. Not a plot I ever would have thought of!

Makechnie, Amy: Ten Thousand Tries has a great first-person narrator in the person of a twelve-year-old boy with attitude who wants to be the best soccer player ever. The book starts out strong and is one of those I can imagine coming back to.

MacKenzie, J.R.: A Temptation Tale: A Father Tom Novel is a novel about Catholic priests in which a cat plays a character.

Despite being a cat-lover, I don’t really get these types of books, books where felines tell part of the story or provide reflections. I adore A Man and His Cat, the manga series, but I think the reasons for my adoration are two: (1) the cat is not a reflective human in cat skin; the cat is a weird cat that does weird things, even scattering its litter and poop on the floor; (2) the series, by the second volume, expands to cover the main character’s entire world: his best friend, his rivals, his students, his children, his past—including his dad and, most importantly, his wife who has died. Everyone bonds over cats!

In fairness, A Temptation Tale is also about a community. But the cat seems oddly irrelevant, and I moved on.  

MacKenzie, Ian: Feast Days is contemporary self-awakening in Brazil (Americans in Brazil). The writing is very contemporary: vignettes as story, at least in the beginning. I did like the line in the first chapter, “Every man tells himself he could have been a spy in another life.” 

Mackenzie, Jassy: Random Violence begins with the death of the victim. Although Columbo episodes start this way (or rather with the murderer’s plan), I don’t care for the approach in books. And even with Columbo, I sometimes just skip to the parts where Peter Falk shows up. The actual investigation interests me more (even with Matlock, I sometimes skip the court scenes–again, the actual investigations interest me more).

Chivalry: Bert and Lydia in Murdoch Mysteries

A great example of chivalry occurs in one of my favorite Murdoch Mysteries, "Dead End Street." An autistic woman has created a cityscape, specifically of her street, including clues to a murder. 

The autistic woman is cared for by her brother, Bert. And I love Bert's chivalry. What I like is not that Bert is "look at me as I swoon over my sacrifices." Other people on the street imply that Bert's wife left him because he cares for his sister. But Bert never makes that argument. Nor does he act put upon or burdened. He makes no excuses. He deals with issues as they arise. His sister's condition is a reality, no more, no less. 

He doesn't come across--as some Murdoch characters do--as enlightened. He comes across, rather, as entirely matter-of-fact. 

And the episode makes great points, including a point about "political correctness." When the inspector uses the term "imbecile," Crabtree replies, "I believe such people as Lydia are no longer referred to as imbecile. It's felt to be demeaning. The correct term nowadays is moron."

Bert amused by Lydia contradicting Murdoch.

Crabtree isn't being a jerk. He is generally a totally nice guy (and actually one of the most enlightened). The point is: terms change. And what we deem enlightened today may not appear so enlightened tomorrow. Or even accurate. 

I like history that does what the episode does here: presents a modern issue within the context of its time. People only know what they know. And they do the best they can. 

In the context of his time and now, Bert is a great guy.

The Violence of Back to the Future

As many people doubtless remember, one of the objections to the first Back to the Future was that it teaches violence as a solution. I've always considered this a rather petulant objection.

1. The movie isn't about violence. It is about assertiveness. Marty's dad is a wimpy guy who gets some spine and voila, it changes his future. Spielberg carries the theme into the next two films, although he changes it slightly (possibly in answer to the objectors) by making Marty's assertiveness a matter of "Just saying, 'No'." But it's the same idea in different form.

2. However, let's suppose that the film is a kind of Hamlet meets Rambo declaration regarding the uses of violence to improve life...what is the answer? When the bully starts harassing the girl is Marty's dad suppose to call the police, lecture Biff on his non-PC behavior, write a strongly worded article, try a diplomatic solution? And when Biff starts wrenching on his arm, should Marty's dad have called a cease-fire and asked the UN to get involved?

Now, granted, movies set up their own problems or strawmen. Which is why evil capitalist businessmen abound in droves in Hollywood. Set 'em up, kick 'em down, shake your finger a lot. And Biff is an over-the-top villain.

But the basic problem remains. This guy is a bully who pushes people around. A martyr would take it. A Rambo would shoot his head off. In a fantasy, he would be turned into a frog. In a Disney movie, he would fall on his own sword or off a cliff. In an Anne Perry novel, he would suddenly confess and tell you all about his bad relationship with his evil father. Jean Luc Picard would lecture him about free will before blowing up his ship. The Vulcan would have nerve-pinched him. 

But the easiest solution is just to hit the guy. Yet the objectors never seem to stop to think about the problem as an actual problem. Here's a situation: what do you do about it? Which question is, I think, one purpose of fiction.

I suppose what the objectors dislike is that Marty's family benefits from this punch, which, as I've noted in my (1) response kind of misses the point of the punch, or what the punch represents. It's a kind of weird literalness which insists on taking the action literally but subjectifying the result to a bizarre degree. So, the movie was JUST about the punch, but the viewers won't understand that it's JUST about the punch; they will extrapolate the punch for use in their own lives. So viewers are too left-brained to see the punch as symbolic but too right-brained to say, "Hey, this is just a movie."

When, the fact is, standing up for yourself violently can make a difference in the future, good or bad. The whole point of turning the other cheek isn't that the Rambo approach doesn't work. Jesus Christ was advocating an alternative for entirely separate reasons from the effectiveness of violence. He was saying, "Let it go, even though you could take the guy's head off." Which is very different from saying, "Hey, this doesn't work." The Romans believed bulldozing Palestine would solve their problems in that area, and it did (temporarily). It didn't solve them for anybody else, but it certainly solved them for the Romans. (Their particular end-of-the-line came from an entirely different direction.) On the more positive side, the Revolutionary War worked too. Of course, the French Revolution didn't, but Waterloo certainly worked for the British.

I will agree that protestors behaving violently is pointless and chilling. But again, it isn't because violence doesn't work as a statement. A number of academics have complete bought into it, much as they bought into riots during the lockdowns. The question is, Should violence be used? and Is it effective in the long-run? But those questions can only be asked if violence is realistically addressed, not turned into something entirely metaphysical (bad for you but good for me).

Regarding the Futures, I will admit, I think the truck is a bit much. I can well believe that Marty's dad learning to stand up for himself and not get pushed around could result in a slightly nicer home and a better relationship between the parents, a writing career for the dad, and more motivated kids. I don't see how any of that translates into a new truck. After all, a more assertive father might decide that Marty shouldn't have any kind of car ("Pay for it yourself, son. I did when I was your age.").

I will also admit that there is value in Marty's final insight--when faced with Old West Biff, instead of reacting with a gun fight, he throws up his hands and goes, "Are you kidding me?" 

But suppose he had needed to face off Biff in a high-noon situation? Hey, Star Trek: TNG solved that problem with technology! But Worf still shot his gun. 

Sometimes, one does have to handle a physical confrontation. Better to do it well than not. 

Books to Movies: Plays are Not Movies Either, Shaw's Pygmalion to My Fair Lady

The position I maintain in this A-Z list is that books are not movies. When an artist switches mediums, that artist needs to be prepared to make changes. 

Agatha Christie understood this truth very well. The plays she wrote of her own books are not the same as the books. In one case, she actually changes the identity of the murderer. In another, she changes the love interest. In another, she leaves two people alive. And so on...

The point here is that a movie is ALSO not a play (and, to make things more complicated, a stage drama is not a musical). One of my favorite Hitchcock's, Rope, points the difference. Based on a play, it was filmed in several long takes in a single location, like a play. I think it is a great experiment, but I can also see why it is seldom repeated. Although the film mimics a play, the elements that benefit a play are missing: spectacle and context.

Musical productions such as Webber's Phantom and Les Miserables the Musical provide continual spectacles--almost a series of magic tricks--while the songs perform the same function as soliloquies: they encourage the audience to invest in specific characters. 

A stage drama relies far more on context, the overall experience. The eye can roam more naturally than it does with film. The result is about the drama's overall impact or purpose, though the stage type itself can make a difference. I saw Ian McKellan live in both Richard III and The Cherry Orchard during a study-abroad Theatre in London program. Richard III was captivating but mostly I remember it as a series of images. Cherry Orchard, which was performed in a smaller theater with audience members on three sides (a thrust stage), was gripping. I still remember hanging over the "standing room only" area watching Ian McKellan WALK. I was utterly captivated. 

I would have yet a different reaction to a movie version of either play. 

Shaw's Pygmalion and then My Fair Lady showcase the changes that occur when a story moves from stage drama to musical to movie. 

One major change is who Eliza ends up with. In the stage drama, she ends up with Freddy, not the professor. Shaw provides a long explanatory essay at the end of Pygmalion regarding Eliza and Freddy's future. Their ineptness at running a flower shop leads to the couple being continually supported by the Colonel and Higgins. Shaw remarks, 

"And it is notable that though she never nags her husband, and frankly loves the Colonel as if she were his favorite daughter, she has never got out of the habit of nagging Higgins that was established on the fatal night when she won his bet for him. Galatea never does quite like Pygmalion: his relation to her is too godlike to be altogether agreeable."

Shaw is right at the human level. A movie, however, creates investment at the personal level. In My Fair Lady the movie, the camera focuses on the professor--the audience is drawn to him (quite literally) and invests in him. Since the couple have chemistry, the audience can "buy" into Eliza returning to him rather than going off with Freddy. (The musical numbers further that bond. Besides, in a musical, the leads always end up together.)

On stage without music, Freddy is one of several people Eliza can go off with. He isn't really the point anyway. Professor Higgins isn't either. The point is the scenery or--if the director goes in for bare bones--the lack of scenery. It's the costumes. It's the cast. It's the banter at full volume. It's the entire stage.

On the same study abroad when I saw McKellan, I saw Heartbreak House (another Shaw) with Paul Scofield, Vanessa Redgrave, and Felicity Kendal (Good Neighbors). It was a fantastic production with the addition of music (the director was Trevor Nunn). What I remember now is the main characters standing about the sumptuous drawing room in the final scene. The combination of set and lighting created a portrait. (I remember equally sumptious sets from a production of The Importance of Being Earnest staged by SPAC's in-door theater.)

Back to My Fair Lady: despite my deep love and admiration for Julie Andrews, I do think Hepburn was the right casting choice for the movie. Hepburn pulls off waifish half-orphan. Andrews to me is way more put-together. That nearly queenly persona works on stage--it may even be necessary on stage. But it would have changed the movie's tone--THIS Eliza wouldn't marry either Higgins or Freddy. She would go on tours to America and become a hit in her own right (while outwitting the Nazis).

Prevent the Christie Murder: Save the Teenage Girl

*Spoilers*

One of the saddest deaths in Agatha Christie books--and proof that she was capable of great pathos--is the teenage girl in The Body in the Library, the one who is used to replace the target and confuse time of death. 

She is young, pretty, and utterly taken in by the slick bad guy who persuades her that he is an agent looking for upcoming stars. It is the wildly implausible, wished-for idea--the equivalent of winning the lottery: "She was strolling along the boardwalk, an agent spotted, her, and she became an overnight sensation."

That type of thing does happen--but an examination of stars' backgrounds indicates that many more of them have networks already in place when they arrive in Hollywood. The rest scrimp and save and take whatever jobs come along until they get their breaks. 

But the myth of the "Instant Star" is a popular one, and the young girl falls for it. The 1984 Pamela Reeves is presented as excited and innocent and completely trusting in her good fortune. She tells her friend who is excited on her behalf but keeps her secret. Pamela goes to the hotel, expecting to be chaperoned while she is made up for a screen test...

Only to be drugged and then killed. 

Agatha Christie mentions in several books the importance of a young woman having reliable adults who look out for her. Christie's position is far less sermonizing than she sounds. She was a concerned but not hovering mother. She also believed quite firmly in young women taking chances and leaving the family nest--parental figures who can't let go also come in for her criticism. And she shows great compassion to the parents in Body in the Library, who cannot have foreseen their child's willingness to ignore "Don't Talk to Strangers" when the pay-off was so alluring. (Likewise, children stop considering a stranger a stranger if that "stranger" asks them to help find a pet.) 

The mother and daughter relationship

in Bertram's Hotel is characterized

primarily by abandonment.

Christie's point is that there is little to protect this young woman EXCEPT savvy (which Pamela Reeves does not have) and a culture that keeps its eye out. 

My murder prevention detectives would be able to easily protect Pamela--warn her parents, scare off the murderer, distract her--but not if she gives them the slip. They are dealing with a potential victim who is truly that self-defeating, as many parents have discovered. 

There's a reason teenagers are considered borderline nuts.

Watch the Skyscraper Land!

It's astonishing--absolutely astonishing! (Scroll down in Free Press's article for the video.) 

Books to Movies: The Desolation of Smaug, Sometimes the Movie Can Explain Things

Jane Espenson supplies a great piece of commentary during an Angel episode: she notes a continuity error and then says something to the effect of "oh, well, the fans will explain it away."

The beginning of The Desolation of Smaug explains a great deal. For one, it establishes a more political subtext for the dwarfs' return to Erebor than occurs in the book (though political subtexts are implied in the book)--as well as the need for the Arkenstone. And quite frankly, the movie additions make more sense than Tolkien's "uh, we're going to get some treasure" quest. A burglar was never going to steal 14-people's worth of stuff! But a burglar could retrieve a jewel representing kingship.

Arguably, Tolkien didn't need to explain the quest in the book. As Tanith Lee points out in The Dragon Hoard, going to face down a dragon and recover treasure is as much a given as looking for a pirate hoard. The book is about Bilbo going on an adventure in which expected (and well-crafted) fairy tale tropes appear. 

Regarding those fairy tale tropes, I get the impression that Tolkien enjoyed writing Beorn and his house and his folktale persona more than just about every other part of The Hobbit. He spends a fair amount of time on Beorn, just as he spends a fair amount of time on the folk/mythical character Tom Bombadil in Fellowship.

Jackson skips Bombadil. He keeps Beorn, for good reason. Great character! In addition, in the movie, this character furthers Jackson's plot points. Beorn helps the dwarfs. He also gives Gandalf information that increases Gandalf's worries about Azog and the Necromancer, who is directly linked to Azog. Gandalf's necessary departure from the dwarfs and Bilbo is established. 

A book can spend more time exploring the world rather than moving through it. A movie needs to quickly establish WHY the moving-through-it needs to occur.  

What are the stakes?

Humans Connect Emotion to Everything

Humans have the capacity to anthropomorphize EVERYTHING and ANYTHING. Years ago, when I worked at the University of Maine Law School as a receptionist/copy monkey, instructors would swear to me that the huge copier in the building disliked them. It chose THAT moment--THAT moment 5 minutes before class--to stop working. And I came to believe that the machine could sense rush (the logic side of my brain pointed out that rushing led instructors to do dumb things like not remove staples from pages about to be copied). 

The Baskerville robot dog in Elementary--that falls through a tarp and injures its leg--always makes me very, very sad. Poor killing machine! Poor, limping, killing machine! Someone take it home, fix it up, and give it a bath...in motor oil, of course. 

Books to Movies: Damon Runyon and Can a Movie Capture the Narrator?

Can a movie capture the narrator?

Damon Runyon's tales are quite reliant on the narrator. "Madame La Gimp," specifically, is funny precisely because of the deadpan narrator.

The short story has been made into several movies, two by Frank Capra: Lady for a Day and Pocketful of Miracles. Pocketful of Miracles is way too long, so much so the joke gets lost (a bunch of gangsters pretend to be high society folks to fool Spanish nobility who come from a small town and don't care).

But Pocketful has Peter Falk as Joy Boy, the head gangster's factotum, who watches the  wild pretense with insouciance while delivering deadpan reactions. In fact, early on, Joy Boy has a voice-over which dryly establishes the premise.

Unfortunately for the movie, the voice-over rapidly disappears. Voice-overs are their own problem area since explaining is the opposite of showing (and a movie is all about showing). In this case, I think the lack is regrettable. Every time Peter Falk shows up on the screen, he is hilarious, even if he is just standing there and rolling his eyes. He has a Charles Grodin ability to evoke the audience's sympathy as the observer. His facial expressions and tone match Runyon's written narrator, and Falk was nominated for the role of supporting actor.

But again, unfortunately, the story and story's voice is sacrificed to...I'm not sure what. Capra reputedly wasn't as directly involved in Pocketful as in his other films, precisely because of all the big names. The lack of a strong story arc run by a single strong main protagonist (with the narrator dragging us back to the strong story arc) shows.  

The nurse is in the movie--she plays a

a very minor role

My overall thought regarding the question is that the scriptwriter(s) and director have to value the narrator if the movie is going to have the same tone (and the scriptwriter of Pocketful is very confused). I've always consider Murder in Mesopotamia one of Christie's best Poirots, precisely because the nurse narrator has such a strong character and voice. The reader sees everything and everyone, including Poirot, through her eyes. 

The Poirot movie moves her to the sidelines, possibly to highlight Suchet as Poirot. The plot is mostly kept. But is the plot what makes the story so fantastic? 

Hmmm--maybe. But without the narrator, it's another Poirot movie--with the wonderful Suchet--not that story with the idiosyncratic narrator.

"You're Not God" the Cliche

But Morgan Freeman should be God!

"You're not God!" is one of those cliche lines that gets really old really fast. It almost inevitably shows up in medical shows:

"You shouldn't have risked that procedure. You don't have the right to play God."

 

"It's not your fault the patient croaked. We're not God."

 

It may have its origins in jokes about doctors and God (What's the difference between God and a doctor? God doesn't think he's a doctor.)

 

Cliches are not automatically bad, but this one is fairly meaningless. "You're not God" seems to be shorthand for "How dare you make life and death decisions about people!"

 

Presumably anyone who makes decisions about people's health & safety is acting like a god: homecare workers, DMV driving test examiners, insurance agents...

 

And since such decisions these days are hemmed about with dozens of regulations, the ability to actually carry out those decisions (as people who make decisions for elderly parents can attest) is less godlike and more bureaucratic rabbit-hole-like.

 

The accusation has more meaning when it focuses on crimes committed by doctors. But even there, it pales. The Closer's Season 6 episode "Heart Attack," which leads up to a confrontation with a criminal doctor, is a tad less complex in terms of its understanding of human nature than most of its episodes.

 

However, it does have one good pay-off for the cliche:

 

"Where's the line?" Brenda demands of the death-dealing/organ-stealing doctor. "Who gave you the right to play God?"

 

"The position was vacant," the doctor replies after a pause.

 

He later chides Brenda, "Well, well, look who is playing God now."

 

It's better than the usual dialog that contains this accusation (and the actors do as well with it as they can). 

 

But still...

Don't Entail Smentail, Me! The Difficulty of Entails in Persuasion and Persuadable

Money plays a big role in classic English literature, from Austen to Trollope. And it matters. Money may be about greed. It is primarily about survival, marriage prospects, and identity. In addition, money isn't a simplistic matter since money matters are complicated by debt, inheritance, financial opportunities, financial risk, and entails.

The ending of my book Persuadable is a rebuttal to the ending of the Persuasion (2007) film.

At the end of Persuasion (2007), Captain Wentworth buys Anne's family home. The film correctly indicates that part of Anne's attraction to Mr. Elliot, or at least her attraction to marrying him, is that she will be able to live in her family home. By buying her family home, Captain Wentworth resolves that dilemma (Anne doesn't have to give up anything for love!).

Unfortunately, having Captain Wentworth buy Kellynch Hall makes mincemeat of the plot.

If selling Kellynch Hall was this easy, why didn't Sir Walter sell it to begin with? That would be the easiest way to clear his debts.

An argument could be made that Sir Walter's vanity won't allow him to give up the manor; the solution still begs the question: Why would he suddenly be willing to sell at the end of Persuasion (2007)? (There is a possible explanation; the film just never supplies it.)

A possible Kellynch Hall from JASA.

In Austen's tome, Mr. Elliot wants Kellynch Hall because he is tired of being "Mr." and wants to try out being "Sir." He will be "Sir" without Kellynch Hall, but not to the same degree. And, in the book at least, there's no financial reason for him to give up the hall.

To explain Mr. Elliot's behavior, many movies make him (relatively) poor/in need of funds. This, of course, begs the question of why a poor Mr. Elliot would be chasing after women with small dowries and an estate encumbered with debt. However, even if we assume that Kellynch Hall, unencumbered, could bring in a decent income, there is still an underlying problem:

THE ENTAIL

Sir Walter's vanity is not the sole block to a sale anymore than Mr. Bennet's passivity is the sole block to his disposing of Longbourn. Both estates are entailed; they can only be passed on to the nearest living male relative: Mr. Elliot or Mr. Collins. And entails in the 19th century were rather difficult to break.

They can be broken, which the passage below discusses in some detail. However, Persuasion (2007) makes no effort to explain how the entail was broken, leaving the viewer to wonder what everyone has been fussing about for 120 minutes. Captain Wentworth just, you know, walked into an estate office one day and, like, said, like, "Oh, hey, I'll buy that."

My primary problem with Persuasion (2007)--which does have some redeeming points--is this assumption of dumbness by viewers. The writers come across as people writing for Austen fans, not as fans themselves: Oh, those Austen fans are silly airheads who only read Austen for the cutesy romance and the girl-talk and don't pick up on anything else.

Sites like The Republic of Pemberley and JASA (above) disprove this cynical painting of such fans. Jane Austen fans (and romance writers/readers) are remarkably well-informed.

I would have preferred Persuasion (2007) to have been written by true fans rather than by people-trying-to-make-the-fans-happy.

Setting aside the film, if you want to know how to really break an entail, read the following passage from Persuadable!

Captain Wentworth eyed [Will and Penelope] as they entered [the drawing room of their house]. Anne curtsied; Penelope responded quickly. Will returned Captain Wentworth’s curt bow, then stood behind Penelope’s chair. His stance mirrored Captain Wentworth’s. His use of mimicry, Penelope had learned in the last three years, was a protection against outsiders. She was an insider.

“You received my letter,” Captain Wentworth said to Will.

“You wish to discuss breaking the entail to the Kellynch Hall property.”

“Sir Walter’s health is failing. He has moved permanently to Bath. He is willing to break the entail for his daughter’s sake.”

Penelope scarcely believed it—the man’s self-love was so bound up in his ancestry—but then she realized that his self-love had always been as much for the form as for the substance. All said and done, Kellynch Hall was a means to an end.

Besides, attempting to break the entail would spite Will: Better his daughter in Kellynch Hall than the despised cousin.

“Are you committed to inheriting Kellynch Hall?” Captain Wentworth asked Will.

“It’s a pleasant area,” Will said.

“You don’t strike me as a countryman,” Captain Wentworth said.

No. Will was no countryman. After all, Penelope remembered, Captain Wentworth manages men on his ship; he isn’t lacking in perception.

Captain Wentworth continued: “Are you sure you would be accepted in Kellynch?”

His eyes didn’t flicker towards Penelope, but Will said sharply, “I believe the populace would be well-satisfied with the Hall’s lord and lady.”

Across from Penelope, Anne tilted her head. For the first time in their acquaintance, she looked at Penelope with real interest. Her eyes drifted to Will who had slouched to a half-seat on the arm of Penelope’s chair. So, her gaze seemed to say, you are not just opportunists.

Penelope said smoothly, “Town life certainly has more to offer.”

“We are country-folk,” Captain Wentworth said and settled into one of the armchairs. Apparently, he had decided that Penelope and Will were sensible people who would listen to reason. “Once I leave the navy, my wife and I would prefer a country residence. Kellynch Hall would be very much to our taste. We want to acquire it.”

Penelope silently applauded Captain Wentworth. Any other husband of a baronet’s daughter would have kept up the pretense of a friendly, non-financial visit for hours. The horror of appearing vulgar!

Captain Wentworth continued, “Since the entail has to be renewed in your lifetime, Mr. Elliot, this is a chance to review your options. And since renewal may not be possible—”

Because Will and Penelope currently had no son, and Jennie [Will and Penelope's daughter] could not inherit. The Wentworths weren’t fools; they were going to press their advantage now, even if it meant dancing around their dislike of Will and Penelope. At least, Captain Wentworth disliked them. Anne seemed more curious than disgusted.

“My husband will not give up the title,” Penelope said.

She felt Will’s bright gaze on her, but she didn’t look away from Captain Wentworth’s speculative stare.

“Do you think of yourself as a baronet?” Captain Wentworth said to Will in a tone that suggested he didn’t think Will merited any title, including “captain.”

“Of course Sir Walter’s cousin should inherit the title,” Anne said quickly. “You are my father’s heir, Mr. Elliot.”

To give the Wentworths credit, Penelope doubted they cared about the title. In the City, however, a title could open doors for Will. And Penelope saw no reason why he should give up what was rightfully his.

Will said, “Penelope’s father, Mr. Shepherd, should be kept on as manager.”

“He’s too good to let go,” Captain Wentworth said. His tone added: Despite his daughter’s scandalous behavior.

Penelope resisted rolling her eyes. She knew how to play this game. Everyone brought deficiencies to the table and every deficiency had a cost. My scandalous behavior versus Anne’s non-male gender. Anne’s lack of maleness cost her more than scandalous behavior ever cost Penelope; Penelope didn’t see why she should allow anyone to forget that.

She said, “Since only my husband can break this entail, we expect to be compensated. The property is nearly disencumbered of debt. It will make a tidy profit in a few years’ time.”

Anne leaned forward, her eyes filled with the quiet speculation that marked this middle Elliot daughter. Anne knew that Penelope had no real tie to or love for Kellynch; Anne would remember how quickly Penelope left it behind the first time.

For Will, Penelope might endure it. But Will had no interest in playing squire. However much he liked the idea of a country estate, he’d never bother with the day-to-day. He would hire a qualified agent (who only skimmed slightly off the accounts) and move on to another endeavor.

Penelope could direct his energies better elsewhere. The Wentworths would get all the unpleasant noblesse oblige of being estate landlords while Will and Penelope stayed in London and watched its neighborhoods grow. The Wentworths would thrive, Penelope assumed. Kellynch Hall was their type of place.

She thought fiercely: I want Will to thrive.

She turned back to Anne. Anne, still leaning forward, gave her a seraphic smile, and Penelope realized, Sir Walter’s unappreciated daughter is getting everything she wanted. Well, well, Miss Anne Elliot. Good for you.

Captain Wentworth said, “It is still encumbered, however. That should be a consideration.”

Will laughed. He tapped Penelope’s shoulder, rose, crossed to the decanter, and poured himself a glass. He held out another to Captain Wentworth who took it after only a slight pause.

Détente.

Books to Movies: Acting is a Job

Acting is a job.

I can never forget this fact. It's one reason I often feel bad when an actor is dropped from a series. I can't forget that the actor has just lost income.

 

I can also never forget that actors are always looking for work. 

 

The Bridgerton series on Netflix, based on the same novel series by Julia Quinn, uses the premise that George III, played sweetly by James Fleet, married a woman with possible African ancestry. This possibility is highly unlikely. However, it expands casting to black actors.*

 

I have mixed feelings about these types of changes. They rarely happen in the other direction. And I get irritated when critics accuse anyone who balks as "racist." I thought people who wanted The Little Mermaid producers to cast a Danish girl with red hair as Ariel had every artistic right to want that. I didn't mind the casting (the far-too-long script suffers for reasons that have nothing to do with the casting), but objections to casting aren't automatically about politics. They can, in fact, be about imagination. (See post about Cadfael.)

 

Regarding Bridgertons, I mostly don't mind. I thought that Regé-Jean Page made a great Darcy-type (the Simon Bassett character). I think Adjoa Andoh makes a fantastic Lady Danbury. If the British ARE going to keep producing these Jane Austen-type pieces, might as well expand them so more people can get work.

Of course, another approach would be to develop stories about black members of the middle class at that time period. There were not very many, but there were some. Just as there were Black Boston Brahmin in America by the mid-eighteenth century.

 

Does a made-up history result in people missing THOSE stories?

 

From the point of view of employment, I suppose what matters is that parts are out there.

 

*Murdoch Mysteries and Sister Boniface take an interesting approach here--they increase the percentages. Many Sister Boniface episodes involve celebrities visiting the small village of Great Slaughter. And in truth, in the 1960s, many black actors and actresses and singers were television celebrities (see Sidney Poitier, Nichelle Nichols plus performers, including Nat King Cole, on the Ed Sullivan Show). And, regarding Murdoch Mysteries, there were in truth far more black doctors and dentists and business owners in the early 1900s than current histories of the Western world might suggest. The numbers are greater on Murdoch Mysteries and Sister Boniface but historical reality is not being tampered with.