The Wodehouse Itch

I go through kicks with things, as you well know. I get stuck on an actor, a director, or, most relevant to this post, an author.

I'm of the generation that obsessively steamrolls through whole series on Netflix. I perseverate. I devour.

And nothing, nothing is more addictive than when I get the P.G. Wodehouse Itch.

Remember in my last monster movie post when I expounded on the various TV/movie media that I frequently while away my blues with? Wodehouse is that in literary form. "From the very first sentence of my very first Wodehouse story," Jeeves & Wooster star Hugh Laurie says in his article Wodehouse Saved My Life, "life appeared to grow somehow larger. There had always been height, depth, width and time, and in these prosaic dimensions I had hitherto snarled, cursed, and not washed my hair. But now, suddenly, there was Wodehouse, and the discovery seemed to make me gentler every day."

Laurie started out with Blandings, but I began with Jeeves, the best of the best, and I've been always cautious to tread outside that comfortable little zone. Like Bertie Wooster, I'm helpless without that gentleman's personal gentleman whose head bulges in the back. Yet I finally decided it was time to stop fooling around and see what more there was to life. I took a plunge.

Well, my friend did. She purchased The Most of P.G. Wodehouse for me, essentially a sumptuous samples platter of Wodehouse's array of works.

I'd of course tried to read Wodehouse stories that weren't Jeeves-centric in the past, but maybe I wasn't ready for them yet. The Adventures of Sally was a little too cute. I never finished Damsel in Distress because it was a little too twee. Ukridge just plain didn't grip me. So I had shrugged in a grotesque nonchalant way and simply buried myself in the Jeeves Omnibus again.

But recently--before my friend's present--I picked up Wodehouse's biography Wodehouse: A Life by Robert McCrum. I learned that although I could probably not agree less with the master on subjects of politics and taxation, he was a very amiable bird who stumbled almost Wooster-like into his WWII broadcasting downfall. Yet more importantly I learned that there was probably never an author whose life was so consumed by writing.

There was little else for him. His social life, his marriage, his continent hopping, his daily dozens, all of his life had to adjust to his writing schedule, which--each day--took up most hours. Get up at six, daily dozens. Write to lunch. Swim. Write. Walk dogs. Write. Dinner. Write. Bed. He wrote as a bank teller. He wrote in internment camps. He wrote in hospitals. He wrote, wrote, wrote.

And what makes this so absolutely amazing was that he wasn't set on fire by some fervent revolutionary cause, some vital social or political topic that he felt must be shot to the masses before it's too late.

He wrote farces about fops in late Edwardian English country houses and London clubs. The biggest conflicts never surmount escaping unwanted marriages or purloining cow creamers from the local magistrate. The only political figure of note is a caricature of British fascist Sir Oswald Mosley, a character who secretly designs women's underclothing. The biggest menace is the specter of the disapproving and pushy aunt.

Yet these characters, this universe, consumed Wodehouse's thoughts, so much so that visitors often recalled that he was not truly present, but off inhabiting the next story hatching in his hare-brained brain. He wrote his characters in their late 1910s-roaring '20s setting until 1975, the year he died. The doctor found him hunched over his typewriter.

And so, of course, it's only appropriate McCrum includes hundreds of excerpts of these writings--the centers of Wodehouse's existence--throughout the biography. It was eye-opening for me to read samples from non-Jeeves stories, stories that made Wodehouse so much of what he is, and that I had hardly delved in.

So my friend was very, very kind in her gift.

I've barely made a dent in the book. It's huge. Wodehouse basically wrote non-stop once his career started, save for a dry spell in the early '50s as he was recovering from his war scandal and the shifting tastes in his post-war audience. As for myself, while I happily concede that Wodehouse's Jeeves stories really are the cream of the crop, I've finally come around to the fact that Wodehouse tales can exist without J&W, and be quite damn good at that.

He's been called the most asexual of writers, and while the down and dirty act is indeed hardly ever alluded to, that's not to say there is no romance. His stuff is chock-full of romantic love. I'd been so used to Bertie's devoted bachelordom in the Jeeves stories that I was a bit taken aback by the way Wodehouse's other Drones fall to pieces for their femmes.

True, Wodehouse romances are often fleeting and superficial, but sometimes the divine pash proves to be the real thing. The couples in question may be frivolous down to the bone, the situations they find themselves immersed in ludicrous, and their volcanic arguments about hat sizes hilarious, yet what really sells them is the loving, poetic touch Wodehouse lends these ridiculous scenarios.

For example, let me spoil "The Reverent Wooing of Archibald" for you. Archibald Mulliner, nephew to the eternal narrator Mr. Mulliner, is besotted at first sight by the regal, statuesque, and brilliantly dignified-looking Aurelia Cammarleigh. Yet what keeps Archibald from professing his admiration is the fact that, according to his loving uncle, "had [Archibald's] brain been constructed of silk, he would have been hard put to find sufficient material to make a canary a pair of cami-knickers." Like the majority of male Wodehouse protagonists, he's a thoughtless, amiable chump. Meanwhile, from his sight of her across the street, Mulliner believes Aurelia's haughty gaze and upright demeanor a sign she'd turn down the advances of a frivolous goof like him.

And so he endeavors to improve his image. He cozies up to her eccentric and studious aunt, engaging in complicated and dithering mathematical discussions about how Bacon really wrote Shakespeare's plays. Archibald pretends not to drink or smoke. He scoffs at the rumor (which is true) that he is the best imitator of a hen laying an egg in London.

Yet he's shocked by a revelation. He visits the aunt's country house, and at night as he eavesdrops on a conversation Aurelia has with her girlfriend, he learns his refined image is actually putting her off; even though she's "rather an outsize and modeled on the lines of Cleopatra" she's in reality the giddy flapper type whose ideal man is, ironically, someone who can do the best imitation of a hen laying an egg in London.

Archibald gets his chance to do what he will with this information when she sneaks onto his balcony to place her chronically snoring bulldog within his hearing, for a laugh.

And here is a golden example of not only a fine non-Jeeves work by Wodehouse, but a fine slice of writing no matter how you take it. Archibald knows how to woo his Black Bottom dancing Cleopatra.

Archibald's imitation of a hen laying an egg was conceived on broad and sympathetic lines. Less violent than Salvini's Othello, it had in it something of the poignant wistfulness of Mrs. Siddons in the sleep-walking scene of Macbeth. The rendition started quietly, almost inaudibly, with a sort of soft, liquid crooning--the joyful yet half-incredulous murmur of a mother who can scarcely believe as yet that her union has really been blessed, and that it is indeed she who is responsible for that oval mixture of chalk and albumen which she sees lying beside her in the straw.

Then, gradually, conviction comes.

"It looks like an egg," one seems to hear her say. "It feels like an egg. It's shaped like an egg. Damme, it is an egg!"

And at that, all doubting resolved, the crooning changes; takes on a firmer note; soars into the upper register; and finally swells into a maternal paean of joy--a "Charawk-chawk-chawk-chawk" of such a caliber that few had ever been able to listen to it dry-eyed. Following which, it was Archibald's custom to run round the room, flapping the sides of his coat, and then, leaping onto a sofa or some convenient chair, to stand there with his arms at right angles, crowing himself purple in the face.

All these things he had done many a time for the idle entertainment of fellow members in the smoking room of the Drones, but never with the gusto, the brio, with which he performed them now. Essentially a modest man, like all the Mulliners, he was compelled, nevertheless, to recognize that tonight he was surpassing himself. Every artist knows when the authentic divine fire is within him, and an inner voice told Archibald Mulliner that he was at the top of his form and giving the performance of a lifetime. Love thrilled through every "Brt-t't-t' t" that he uttered, animated each flap of his arms. Indeed, so deeply did Love drive in its spur that he tells me that, instead of the customary once, he actually made the circle of the room three times before coming to rest on top of the chest of drawers.

When at length he did so he glanced toward the window and saw that through the curtains the loveliest face in the world was peering. And in Aurelia Cammarleigh's glorious eyes there was a look he had never seen before, the sort of look Kreisler or somebody like that beholds in the eyes of the front row as he lowers his violin and brushes his forehead with the back of his hand. A look of worship.

There was a long silence. Then she spoke.

"Do it again!" she said.

Re-Reading Dracula: Was Mina Murray Harker Always This Kickass?

 

Because I don't remember being as impressed by her in middle school, the first time I read Dracula. 

It's not that her character isn't problematic. She is, certainly. Mina is obviously a literary example of "The Cult of Domesticity," a campaign started by Queen Vee herself to make women feel special and empowered that they were so able to be protected and sheltered by the menfolk, while still finding time to do the darning. In the early sections with Lucy, Mina makes snide little remarks about the New Woman.

Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the "New Woman" won't condescend in future to accept. She will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it too!

The copy I picked up at the library is apparently from the Young Adult section, and has some "Questions for Discussion" in the back. One of them is "How are Mina Harker and Lucy Westenra similar? How are they different? Can you see how they are friends? Do you relate to either one of them?"

Well, let's break this down. How are they similar? Well, in their sections together at least, they are the same character--virtuous, noble, beautiful, well-mannered, beloved, proper. How are they different? Lucy's rich, Mina's middle-class. Lucy doesn't work, Mina's a schoolteacher, thus she's probably a bit more educated. Oh, and Lucy sleepwalks.

All these are characteristics that differ only in the sense a brunette is different from a blonde; all surface.

So can I see how they are friends? Obviously, yes. They're the same person, after all. Do I relate to either of them? At this stage in the story, not very.

It's a sad, sorry road to go down to tear down female representations in this book; let's face it, save for Van Helsing, the male characters are all the same, too. Yes, even Quincey Morris, for all his American slang, is just like the others: virtuous, noble, brave. No one has a temper. No one cracks silly jokes. But you're missing the point attacking the story on this level, since it's all part of the allegory jazz Stoker was going for: virtue, though maybe not as exotic or enticing as the evil Dracula represents, wins every time and should win. Whether or not that makes you barf, it's how most stories end, even if they're not as black and white about it as Stoker.

Yet somehow, once Lucy dies and the characters team up to hunt down Count D, Mina is able to break through her revered angel role to take action that most heroines of her ilk would swoon at. She's still nauseatingly revered, but at least she earns it big-time. More than anything, she slowly reveals some god-damn depth.

Mina is incredibly intelligent and crafty. Who comes up with the idea to hypnotize her once Dracula does that voodoo he does so well on her, the hypnotic sessions thus enabling everyone to know where he's headed? Not Van Helsing. She does. She takes that very trauma and victimization Dracula wielded on her and turns the tables on him. That's frankly badass.

And who knows the train schedules by heart, so they can beat Dracula to his final destination? Mina. Yeah, she memorized it originally so she could faithfully trail her man, but she uses that knowledge for a higher purpose once the fight commences. Who organizes all the notes and transcribes everything into one fluid report? Muh-Muh-Mina. And who joins the gang in toting a gun and pointing it at the Count's purveyors at the end, standing in the bitter cold, Dracula's mark on her forehead? Wilhelmina.

That's all pretty revolutionary for a female character in 1897. So what happened to her character once women's rights got more into gear in the 20th and 21st century? No guns, no organizing search parties. She becomes instead Dracula's romantic interest, his mistress. What the hell?

Dammit, Coppola! And everyone else!

Frankly, I'd rather see her priggish and uptight, and remain that way. That may play right into her role as the Angel of the House, but at least she doesn't also become Angel of the House and Poster Child for Undead Erotica. In other words, modern interpretations such as Coppola's make her a victim not only of Dracula, but of the Madonna/Whore complex. This isn't sexual liberation here, since many times she's still hypnotized and manipulated by Dracula's power.

Stoker's Mina is far more effective, because she shows sympathy for Dracula without lusting for him. After displaying her wicked intelligence and hot secretarial skills, she then turns around and makes what I find a genuinely moving speech to the men, regardless of the Little Eva Syndrome that surrounds her character.

I know that you must fight. That you must destroy even as you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live hereafter. But it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your hands from his destruction.

And at the bloody end, as she's poised with gun pointed at the gypsies, as she watches her husband brutally destroy Dracula:

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in [Dracula's] face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there before.

To me, that impartial empathy for the Count speaks worlds more about her character, and makes her far more endearing, than any romance with him would have. And believe me, this is coming from someone who usually eats shit like that up. Yet this empathy never weakens her resolve, either.

Just as much as the shotgun and the leadership skills, I think her ability to understand there's a trapped soul within Dracula is Mina's most shocking and refreshing trait in this genre. Someone as deliberately malicious as Dracula is not supposed to earn any sympathy--not from a late Victorian audience, and certainly not from the leading lady. A well-meaning Quasimodo, yes; not a lecherous Claude Frollo. As for contemporary audiences, we've disappointedly proven that though we're more accepting of that kind of sympathy now, the lady can only feel it if she's also sexually attracted to the villain in question.

Mina's not a perfect representation of a female with stamina and brains, not by a long-shot. She still considers herself subservient to the strong menfolk for defending her, and her everyday interactions aren't what you'd call dynamic. But frankly--and hopefully this isn't equatable to turning a blind eye to racism in early Hollywood--she's the best you could ask for at the turn of the twentieth century, so far as literature of this type goes (remember, even the feminist Ann Veronica of H.G. Wells' book by the same name isn't all that much better).

So, graphic novelphiles, should I read League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? I love the idea of Mina leading the League, especially if it's mostly by her wits instead of any superpower. However, I find it too much an easy way out having Jonathan dump her and all that; in the original novel, he's completely devoted to her. Still, props to Alan Moore for recognizing Mina's potential. Plus, y'know, Invisible Man and Dr. Jeckyll/Mr. Hyde. That's cool, right?

Literary Rant: In Defense of Dolores Haze

 

She's really the tease, you know. It's not that Humbert is a totally innocent party or anything, but she's the one who seduces him, lies to him, and sleeps around. And what about that annoying temper? Really, what a little brat, not to mention a precocious minx. She doesn't seem all that pretty, either, and is overall kind of average, nothing to write home about. How are we supposed to sympathize with her when she actively sought out sex with her stepfather, had it coming, and we don't even like her?

And thus the majority of opinions out there concerning 12-17-year old Dolores Haze, also known as Dolly, Lo, Lola, Carmen, Carmencita, but every so often she's called Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov's nymphannical anti-protagonist, Humbert Humbert.

Lolita is not only my favorite novel. Yes, it has the greatest prose I've ever read, with phrases that sort of come at me in my eerie, spectral day-to-day life. Yes, it has a little bit of everything--satire, suspense, mystery, depravity, comedy, abstraction, tragedy, violence, beauty, and oh, yeah, romance. But it also hosts my favorite heroine in brave Dolly Haze, for all the terrible press she gets.

Some feminists defending her character may be tempted to blame Nabokov for choosing not to include her side of the story, and to paint her at times as the most excruciating of teeny-bopper harpies, out of some misplaced, misogynistic sympathy for his antihero, Humbert Humbert. I call, "nope." Nabokov knew exactly what he was doing. He fully realized he was creating the world's most unreliable narrator in Humbert Humbert. But more than that, Nabokov understood that Lolita's actions are only treacherous in the eyes of a child molester desperate to keep her by his side at all times. Nabokov placed us so skillfully in Humbert "the pentapod monster's" shoes that we unwillingly and unconsciously start relating to him, and start seeing his world through his own filtered, cynical lens.

What Nabokov does to Lolita, without explicitly outlining it for the reader, is make her a precocious, courageous, tragic child who loses control of her life, but struggles to regain that control even after repeatedly being broken and abused. And although she ultimately fails in her efforts to rebuild a healthy life for herself, she still triumphs by keeping intact a small, careworn, but still faintly, faintly throbbing store of empathy, compassion, and childlike optimism inside of her.

I don't want to go too far in the other direction of her critics by idealizing her. No, it certainly isn't normal for a preteen to put the sexy moves on her stepfather. And yes, by novel's end, she most definitely is emotionally stunted. But the fact that she is picking herself up and moving on at all, with a minimum amount of bitterness, is inspiring when you consider that no one would expect that from a child who'd been through what she endures--losing a father, losing a brother, losing her verbally abusive, unstable mother who always resented and demeaned her, getting repeatedly raped and entrapped by the one adult figure she believed valued her, then falling in love with a wretched pedophile who abandons her when she refuses to "souffler his beastly boys."

And no, she isn't insane after all this. She maintains a personal dignity and unflappable will, which readers insist on chalking up to cut-and-dried snottiness. Some of her actions are indeed snotty, sure. She is a teenage girl, after all. But why, if she's nothing but a shallow slut who beds her stepfather and then quickly tires of him, won't she participate in that porno? Why, when at the end of the book when she's living in poverty and Humbert asks her "to leave [her] incidental Dick, and this awful hole," does she stay, and not just play along with Humbert and then abandon him when she has enough money? And why, after the way Humbert has mangled her life, does she pat his hand and call him honey?

Because underneath all the "awful juvenile cliches" and the various temper tantrums and changeful attitudes, Dolores is a good person. Tarnished, yes. Super nice? Not all the time, no. But she's good, and she's strong, otherwise there's no way she would adorably chant, "Good by-aye!" from her doorway when Humbert forces himself to leave her that last time, a wide, hopeful smile on her face as she waves to him enthusiastically.

I don't think any of us can judge Lo until we've been raised by Charlotte Haze. She might not beat Dolly with a wire hanger (that we know of), but when your mother has an insidious and unshakable jealousy and distrust of you, that's really gonna mess you up some. Imagine yourself, an impressionable, cheerful kid of twelve, overhearing your mother airily telling your crush that she sees you as "a sturdy, healthy, but decidedly homely kid." (There's no proof Lo actually overhears this, but Charlotte's never delicate about when and where she says shit). Oh, and she suspects you of ruining her back by spitefully throwing toys out of your crib when you were an infant, forcing her to bend over and pick them up. You basically feel like she hates you, and that she's competing with you. That last one especially, without an understanding paternal figure to help counterbalance Charlotte's influence, will most likely sexualize a girl before she's mentally and physically ready.

Now imagine having that mentality and then a handsome stranger enters. Because--and going by the evidence, I think we can trust Humbert's self-assessment here--Humbert is a handsome man. Movie star, dashingly handsome. And he's charming, and he shows an interest in Lolita that isn't centered around highlighting her faults or putting her down. He flirts with her. Lolita responds. How many of us at age twelve wouldn't if a magical Johnny Depp figure actively engaged us and teased us gently? And add that to the age-inappropriate, hostile environment she's grown up in, and the peer pressure she experiences at camp, then yes, it's a little logical that she might play the wayward temptress. She truly doesn't have a better model or life experience to base her behavior on.

But what I really love about Lo is how she maintains, through all the crap thrown her way, a brilliant sense of individuality. Even Humbert, at the height of his hurt-lover spiteful descriptions of her, can't stifle the unexpectedly delightful traits in Lo's character. Take Chapter 27 in Part I, where she brilliantly and sardonically describes her time at summer camp, displaying a wonderfully intuitive intelligence and wacky sense of humor. Some of that may be Humbert's witty embellishment, but you get the feeling the general opinions and spirit are uniquely hers. And she keeps that fighting spirit, up till the bitter end. Preserving some of her compassion and endurance makes her an admirable character, but also preserving her wit and spunk are what make her a likable character in My Humble O.

So what do I think of the two movin' pikchers? Overall I prefer Stanley Kubrick's 1962 version, starring James Mason, Shelley Winters, Peter Sellers, and Sue Lyon in the title role. Adrian Lyne's 1997 version is technically the more faithful adaptation of the book, but Kubrick wins on tone. He keeps the manic, comical, and dark edge that Nabokov wrote, and for me, I'll take faithful tone over faithful storyline any day. Besides, it's not like the Kubrick film deviates all that wildly from the set-up, just taking minor liberties in setting. And I'd just like to point out that while Sue Lyon certainly doesn't look twelve, she does pass for 15-17, which accurately depicts part of Lolita's age range. Plus, James Mason and Shelley Winters are Humbert and Charlotte. Straight out of the pages. I haven't seen either actors perform better in any other movie, though they're always great. Meanwhile, I simply cannot stand Melanie Griffith as an actress, and her Charlotte in the 1997 version looks stiff and miserable, instead of loud, phony, and flamboyant as Charlotte should be. And Jeremy Irons's Humbert looks the part, but is so muted and gentle that you feel too much sympathy for Humbert, and you lose his biting contempt, his monstrousness. In fact, that's how I feel about the whole 1997 movie: too delicate, too lyrical. That actually dampens the tragedy and pathos, because we don't get the violent suspense that darkens the beautiful ride.

Except I will give the 1997 movie this: they do the best job at making Lolita's plight poignant. If Lyne hadn't filmed Humbert so sympathetically, I think there'd be no question who the strongest, best character in the story is. There's a scene soon after Humbert abducts her where Lolita's goofing around with him, playing the wisecracking, carefree moll. But then we cut to her in bed alone. She's crying. Not in imitation of a delicate Victorian girl's quiet, long-suffering sniffs, but in childish, panicking, defeated wails, sounding all the world like a baying moose. It's a harrowing scene, and one that's repeated later in the film when Humbert strikes her in the car. Swain (who I think did a wonderful job) stares at him for a split second afterward. Her expression is a strange oxymoron: resigned disbelief. Then she snaps and returns to the moose tears, running clumsily out of the car, Humbert at her heels. He forces her into his embrace, and what does she do? Buries her face in his chest. What other option does she have? "You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go."
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Humbert really does love Lolita, I believe. He is a work of fiction, so we can risk romanticizing him just a bit more than we would your average grungy pedophile. But I also believe he truly loves her because he portrays her ugliness, her strident flaws, yet always through the lens of adoring her all the same, and acknowledging that she magnifies this behavior out of necessity, in response to his crushing obsession.

After all, though it is love, it is a terrible, unhealthy, corrosive love, that literally destroys everything and everyone around it. He may be a romanticized pedophile, but the most romanticized love of a pedophile is still detrimental, acidic and awful.

Yet through this acidic narrative, Lolita's small voice is nevertheless heard, lingering even after (A MAJOR SPOILER!) she dies in childbirth.* From her shaky beginnings Lolita manages to become, before she dies, "brave Dolly Schiller": a supportive wife and expectant mother, making ends meet for her and her husband. I, like Azar Nafisi (author of Reading Lolita in Tehran), agree with Vera Nabokov's take on Lolita's character. Vera, of course, was Nabokov's wife, and to whom this book and many others of his were dedicated. She's the likeliest candidate to know what truly went on in that butterfly-obsessed, staggeringly brilliant author's mind, and probably understood his literary intentions better than anyone.  Nafisi quotes her diary entry, written in response to the reception not only the book received, but also the eponymous girl herself received:

They all miss the fact that the 'horrid little brat' Lolita is essentially very good indeed--or she would not have straightened out after being crushed so terribly, and found a decent life with poor Dick more to her liking than the other kind.

Mrs. Nabokov caught that gleam of goodness immediately, privy as she was to the author's intimate thoughts. The skeptical reader can find that goodness as well, but probably with a bit more digging. The true genius of Lolita is that for all its many intricacies and verbal traps, the most subtle part of the book is the heroine herself, whom the book is allegedly all about. Her goodness and her strength are there, as frank as her pregnant stomach. Unlike Humbert, however, she does not advertise it as a "tangle of thorns" for the "ladies and gentlemen" of the jury to gawk at mercilessly.
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*MORE SPOILERS, FOR LOLITA AND DAVID COPPERFIELD: I'm still trying to work out if there's any deep, meaningful connection to why I'm so drawn to two literary ladies who die from complications in childbed, Lolita and Dora Spenlow. I'm guessing they both meet their ends this way because they're spiritually children, and making them successful mothers would undercut their tragedies as characters. They are forever unwilling female variations of Peter Pan, denied adulthood by their creators. Sucks, huh? Either I'm attracted to the pathos of it all because I'm a staunch feminist...or I just like goofy, childlike characters. What that says about my maturity? Uhhhh....never mind. So, what about that Batman? You know what would be neat? Casting a Batman movie with Disney characters. Batman would totally be Beast, Catwoman would be Nala, and....

Sympathy for the Non-Threatening, Well-Meaning Devil: The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Mrs. Dalloway

****SUH-SUH-SUH-SPOILERS!****

So I finally sat down the other day and watched The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) for the first time. It was very singy, soft, and frothy. IN A FRENCH FILM?! After recovering from my scathingly sarcastic shock, I ruminated about it for a little while.

The two young lovers, Genevieve and Guy (the very blonde Catherine Deneuve and the very there Nino Castelnuovo), are star-crossed and giddy, full of vivacious passion for each other. When Guy reveals he's been drafted into the army, the gorgeous, heart-rending "I Will Wait For You" plays as they walk broken and dazed down their favorite streets in Cherbourg. Then--woe!--even their great, eternal love cannot keep them from falling, during Guy's absence, into other arms.

And you know what? After careful meditation, I discover I much prefer those other arms to the principal lovers.

Maybe I'm wired wrong. Maybe Guy and Genevieve's love isn't a deliberate spoof on swoony, semi-queasy infatuation that I secretly think director Jacques Demy was hinting at, and their devotion is instead "The Real Thing." Maybe I should approve of their teeny-bopper spurts of poetic song-speak, and be genuinely touched when Genevieve buries her pale face into Guy's strong hands, begging him not to leave her.

But...well...like I said, I'm wired wrong. Them two don't grab my sympathy nearly as much as Genevieve's older, devoted suitor Roland (Marc Michel), or the pining, hardworking Madeleine (Ellen Farner), who nurses Guy's ailing godmother and provides moral support for them both.

If I were Genevieve, I would have chosen the older, sophisticated, quietly wistful Roland in a heartbeat, whether or not there were certain circumstances that kind of demanded I did. I mean, he doesn't do a lot for me, but neither does Guy. My faulty wiring dictates I choose weirdos to crush on, and neither men are spooky or off-kilter enough for my tastes. But Roland's story appeals to me more than any of the other characters'. Despite all the duets Guy and Genevieve volley back-and-forth, I find Roland's brief, melancholic solo about his lost love Lola the most intoxicating moment in the film.

I acknowledge it's wrong in a lot of ways. He's older than Genevieve. And his unrequited love for Lola could foreshadow vague shades of Vertigo in the future for Genevieve--although I don't see how anybody could even attempt making over Deneuve to look like Anouk Aimee. Y'see--and this might be part of what's so fascinating about Roland to me--after watching the movie I toddled on over to IMDb, as I always do, and scouted out the trivia. The "Lola" story is from a previous Demy film called Lola (appropriately enough), in which Aimee stars as the titular showgirl, with Michel in the same role of Roland. Only Lola's Roland is apparently much more of a rebellious firebrand than the somewhat stiff and moody jewelry salesman we see in Umbrellas.

The invisible evolution of this character from Guy-like ragamuffin to staid, reliable bachelor with a hidden store of passion is tantalizing to think about. And at the core of this passion is nothing but a noble regard for Genevieve. More than any of Guy's impassioned oaths never to forget Genevieve, I found Roland's curiously calm and detached profession to her mother that he lives for Genevieve far more romantic. Plus, there's the scene when he first sees her which I find ever-so sweeping: he's bartering some gems with the local jeweler, flippantly comparing them to what Sleeping Beauty wore, when he happens to look up and his blue eyes grow misty with tender surprise at the sight of the taciturn Genevieve shuffling quietly into the shop.

Nothin' quite like instant, unwavering, unrequited love to make a movie memorable.

As for Madeleine, I guess you could write off my sympathy for her as part of my crusading bid to root for the underdog, the plainer girl in painful love with the strapping protagonist. I mean, let's face it, that's probably the only reason why I'm a Spock/Chapel fan, for example. And yes, despite everything, deep down in my core I'm still a House/Cameron fan (YEAH THERE I SAID IT WHUT! OPPOSITES ATTRACT FTW!). But that's not always the case with me. Like I said in my Dora Spenlow post, I'm much more a fan of her character than I am of the long-suffering Agnes, and my heart goes out to the beloved, distraught Lucy rather than the hilarious but quite demented Mrs. Lovett in Sweeney Todd. Maybe supporting unpopular pairings is another of my inexplicable tics.

Or maybe, just maybe, I find Madeleine's character more likable than Genevieve. Simple as that.

We can rule out my natural inclination as a brunette to demonize the lovely blonde--remember, I side with yellow-haired Lucy over Lovett. But unlike Lucy and Dora, Genevieve is too icy. There's nothing warm or cuddly about her--too aloof and French valley-girl for my tastes, even in her scenes with Guy. Again, this might be intentional on Demy's part, and it may be how he directed Deneuve to act. I think he knew what he was doing. But Madeleine in her few scenes is a woman replete with warmth. That can be suffocatingly cloying, or it can be endearing. Ferner manages to imbue Madeleine with the latter trait without making a show of it; in other words, while Deneuve is off in beautiful-ice-queen-twinkly-land, Madeleine captures the role of the insecure, shy, but ultimately strong woman more capable of long-lasting love. And unlike David Copperfield's Agnes, Madeleine is a bit dowdier and mousier, which makes her angelic qualities more palatable, and her all around character more relatable.

She ends up the epitome of the underdog who I want to shake by the shoulders and say, "it'll be okay! He has to love you eventually! I mean, you're sweet and junk! So he has to! Right? Right??"

She--and to a certain extent, even the dreamy Roland--anchor the movie with loves far more enduring than the white-hot blah blah of Genevieve and Guy. Roland and Madeleine might not seem as conflicted on the surface, or demand as much, but their comparatively simple and frank desires are in stark relief to the raging, outsized hormones wafting from our leads.

Which brings me to Richard Dalloway and Lucrezia Smith in Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.

I've read the book twice--first in an airport, crankily waiting for a flight, so I didn't really take it all in at the time, then later in a Virginia Woolf class, where the professor actually made us think about what we were reading. I liked it much better then. One of the most enjoyable parts of that class was our required participation on an online message board, where we could basically just expound on whatever facet of the book we found interesting.

One topic I brought up was that Rezia and Richard are the only purely good and likable characters in the novel.

Woolf is a great writer, but she's not always a  fun writer. You could argue that's not the point of reading her. The point is to find a human truth at the center of her characters' inner monologues, facing things they don't want to face, and consequently, that the audience doesn't want to face. She accomplishes this like nobody's bidness, yeah.

But not everyone on the planet has the luxury to allow such upper-class, wistful, deep thoughts to pervade his or her consciousness, or the erudite education to make those thoughts read beautifully even as they reveal the ugliness creating them. And after awhile, Clarissa Dalloway's uptight repressed lesbianism, Peter Walsh's grandiose self-pitying, and Septimus Warren Smith's agonizing madness can grate on one's nerves with how self-centered and overwhelmingly complex their inner conflicts are.

I start to crave comparative bores like Richard and Rezia. Now Rezia isn't hard to sympathize with, so I realize this is no shocking announcement. She's the displaced, unloved wife of Septimus, torn away from her native Milan in order to join her beloved husband in a cramped apartment in London. She's there with only him, and then he rapidly presents symptoms of shell-shock having survived the horrors of WWI. And as no one at the time would admit shell-shock was a real outcome of having bombs constantly exploding right next to you, Rezia is pretty much brushed off and left alone to care for her husband. She carries the brunt of his madness on her shoulders alone. She lacks much imagination, and maybe that's why she sticks it out with Septimus--or perhaps she takes the bonds of marriage seriously, and has sympathy and respect for the turmoil he endured. She does what she does and feels what she feels without shrinking into self-aggrandizing reverie, and for all her plainness of manner and appearance, I think that makes her a truly beautiful, uncorrupted character when compared to the society surrounding her.

To a lesser extent, I feel the same toward Richard, though it's harder to explain why. He's certainly got it better than poor Rezia. He's well off, well respected, and is, well, comfortable. But the thing is he realizes this, and appreciates it without aching for past regrets. His biggest conundrum is expressing his love to Clarissa, but let's face it: Clarissa doesn't exactly inspire one to pour out loving confidences, so maybe it's not all due to Richard's so-called stale personality. Richard's not bombastically, daringly original like Peter, but he does love and he does feel--much more genuinely than Peter, in my book. He loves his daughter Elizabeth. That the cynical Sally Rosseter nee Seton acknowledges this at the story's end and says, "Richard has improved," is evidence enough for me that Woolf creates a good, solid character. A character Clarissa probably needs and relies on more than she, or possibly even Woolf, realizes.

And we readers too need these predictable, blessedly sane characters to keep us afloat amongst breathtaking prose and starry musical romance. Complexity and overwrought emotions are part of what make art great, but if we have no oasis of calmness and sincerity, we have nothing to fall back on, nowhere to catch our breath.You can't have one extreme or another. Nothing but mousy shyness, unrequited love, and well-adjusted gentlemen would induce yawns and impatient punchiness after awhile. On the other hand, nothing but eccentricity and wildness in a piece would soon become self-defeating, since unique is only unique if it has something normal to compare itself to.

Balance is necessary in any medium. Characters like Roland and Madeleine in Umbrellas and Richard and Lucrezia in Mrs. Dalloway illustrate not only this rule, but also that still waters run deep. Their emotions are undoubtedly just as strong as those expressed in unending song or verbose inner monologue. But instead of indulging in those two venues, characters like the above know their feelings and desires down to their bones in ways those other characters may not, therefore feeling little need to magnify their emotions. The sheer, glossy entertainment factor might not be as present in these characters, but in retrospect, their plights might get to you a bit more once the story ends.

Genevieve Bujold as Cassandra in The Trojan Women (1971)

I knew there was a performance I was forgetting in my Totally Awesome Performances post. It's Genevieve Bujold as literature's favorite psychic nut-job, Cassandra, in Michael Cacoyannis's 1971 film The Trojan Women. Silly me.

Appropriately enough, I saw this film in a college class on world literature when I was a freshman. An ambitious subject for a class, huh? While we didn't manage to read every single great piece of literature from every single corner of the globe, we did manage to read Euripides's Women of Troy. While I liked it and respected its message like a good little freshman with literary pretensions should, the play never came alive for me until I saw it acted out. Which I hear is quite true with most Greek Dramas, since that was their whole point, hurr.

Critical accolades abound for the great Kate Hepburn as Hecuba in the film (and play's) starring tole, and for Vanessa Redgrave's bleak and statuesque Andromache. But because this great, eerie little film does have "Women's Lit" written all over it, it's not really relished today like other classics.

A cryin' shame for poor Ms. Bujold.

In the midst of all those greats, she's the standout for me. One of the qualms I have with the movie is that in Edith Hamilton's translation we lose much of the mythological elements, the allusions to the gods--including leaving out a prologue with cameos from such guest stars as that brainy dame Athena and her wet, wacky uncle Poseidon. I know bringing them in would seriously hamper the film's realism, the "this-is-really-what-happens-after-a-war-ravishes-a-country-and-its-women" thang Cacoyannis was going for. But a little supernatural pizazz might not have hurt the film's sometimes lagging energy, and might have given it an even eerier boost.

This eerie boost is only truly present, I think, in Bujold's Cassandra. Her first scene remains vivid in my mind, though I saw it now almost five years ago. While the action up to this point has taken place out in the blaring sunlight of Troy's ruins, with shell-shocked-before-there-were-shells women wandering numbly about emitting low moans, Cacoyannis takes us into a dark cave to meet Cassandra. She's wielding a torch, and her flashing dark eyes are...well, they're kinda mad. I guess you don't really need a lot of mythology to appreciate Bujold here, since it might be overkill: we can readily imagine without godly embellishment that her madness could be inhuman.

While it cuts me to the quick to disagree with my bestest gal pal Polly Kael, I, well, disagree with her when she says that while Bujold is riveting, her performance "doesn't quite come off." What I will agree with is that it's at total variance with the rest of the movie's tone and characterizations. She's vibrant and sizzles in the lens, when everyone else is morbidly stoic. When Redgrave breaks down, she's brilliant and gives one shudders because she's so real; however, what I like about Bujold is how stylized and unreal she appears. Her movements and histrionic speeches are theatrical, yes--but not of a theater we're used to like The Old Vic. But more like some groovy, bohemian, indy beatnik java house on another planet in the galaxy of the super-deranged.

I guess when push comes to shove, my tastes run more toward the distinctive than the realistic. That's not to knock the other performers, like Redgrave--hell no would I criticize her. But Bujold is what remains with me, and if I read one more Voyager fan berating her scrapped scenes during her failed bid to play Captain Janeway, I swear I'll morph into a mad seeress and curse Apollo for man's folly.

Literary Rant: In Defense of Dora Spenlow (SSSSPOILERS for David Copperfield)

Great Expectations is my favorite Charles Dickens novel, and probably also one of my favorite books, period. Yet strangely enough, it's David Copperfield I find myself thinking of the most, and coming back to time and again–and really, that one is not my favorite, because for some reason I find it lacks the excitement and immediacy I felt while reading Expectations. We finicky lit nerds, amiright?

So, if I don't think David Copperfield is in the same class as Great Expectations, why did I sign up for an account over at The David Copperfield Site at Dickens On-line Resources to shoot my mouth/fingers off about the thing?

The answer wasn't difficult for me to uncover. It's because of Dora Spenlow.

Modern readers hate her. She's called an anachronistic mess, a throwback to the sort of helpless girls detrimental to any momentum to the women's rights movement in London at the time. She's clingy, dependent, and woos the titular character away from the steady and discreet Agnes Wickfield, marrying him and then letting their house fall apart. She's childish, whiny, and prone to hysterics. She's a disgrace to strong female characters everywhere. She's popularly believed to be the original source for the term "Dumb Dora."


She's one of my favorite characters in anything ever.

Because she's also wacky, funny, playful, none too bright, but earnest and loving. She's ecstatically devoted to her dog. She's basically everything I value in a heroine.

Some of–okay, a great deal of what they say above is true. She starts out as the archetypal spoiled princess, daughter to the affluent and slightly crooked businessman, Mr. Spenlow. He in turn is boss of the young, strapping David Copperfield. The young Copperfield falls hopelessly, consumingly in love with Dora at first sight. They marry, but he soon finds out that not only is Dora incapable of looking after the house or the accounts, but that she'd rather sit around playing with her dog and singing along to her guitar all day.

But what, dammit, is so terribly wrong with that?

Now, I know, I know. Dora's behavior is far from good. As I conceded to someone on the IMDb boards of the 1935 movie (I'm everywhere I'm everywhere auuuugh!), no one should have to coddle his spouse the way David does Dora. And BOY, does that girl fly off the handle and whine herself up a storm when she wants to.

But before we cast Dora as anti-feminist, let's reverse the gendered role, here.

 Let's say the man is the one who'd rather play guitar, sing, and hang out with the dog than work for the man and keep house. Would he be labeled as a disgrace to his sex, or would he be touted as a charmingly eccentric free spirit? Hell, look at Micawber, the lazy con-artist who befriends David--he's just as helpless and idiotic as Dora, but he's rewarded with an intensely devoted wife and, ultimately, riches in Australia. True, he stood up to Uriah Heep, but he had plenty of help there, and I didn't notice it stem his dependency any. So, what, when you're Micawber it's all right to BS your way through life and work, as long as you have the proverbial heart of gold? But Dora, who also has a good heart (a great heart), is still a failure of a woman? Because she can't keep house? Double-You Tee Eff, everybody!

A lot of the book's fangirls (yes, even Dickens books have fangirls, thank you) despise Dora for serving as angelic Agnes's inadvertent romantic rival. I, too, like many fangirls, tend to sympathize with misty-eyed girls deeply in unrequited love, but not so much here. This might be the pot calling the kettle black, since I'm dissing everybody who disses Dora, but I'm not that wild about Agnes, or at least not wild about the way she's portrayed and the way people react to her. Here's what I say about her on the David Copperfield site:

I, like VIRGI, have a problem with Agnes, not only Agnes herself, but the way that Dickens so shamelessly gushes over her. It came to a point where I felt such dread whenever she came into events, because I knew a conversation between her and David couldn't occur without David prefacing every comment with something like, "My dear good angel without whom I can't make a single decision, I so cherish the sight of your soft seraphic eyes, o sister of my boyhood...." Blech! Many people consider Dora insipid, but I'm afraid Agnes is more so in my eyes. I tend to enjoy characters with a bit more...I don't know...personality? Character flaws? Temper tantrums? I guess it comes down to "round vs. flat" characters. I know some people argue that Agnes's one big redeeming flaw is supposed to be having hidden her love for David, but even this seems more like just another long-suffering, saintly virtue of hers, waiting patiently in the wings for her true love. It's all too saccharine for me.

I realize preferring Dora to Agnes, or vice-versa, is the result of sheer personal taste. Agnes is basically a Jane Austen heroine, as intelligent and strong as Elizabeth Bennett, and as composed and long-suffering as Elinor Dashwood. Dora is Gracie Allen and Carole Lombard. Really, judging by my previous posts, who do you think I'm going to dig more? After all, even if I wasn't such a fan of the screwball comedienne type, I've never been as crazy about Austen girls as other readers are ('cept Catherine Morland. She's rad).

Agnes isn't real to me. She's everything men are supposed to want: beautiful, wise, motherly, great housekeeper, angelic, and endlessly patient. Pfft, who's like that, really? Dora, for all her many many faults, is at least real and understandable in her imperfections. I truly don't want this post to turn into a diatribe against Agnes, since my secret effort is to get people to stop doing so with Dora. After all, the two girls themselves adore each other. But I just want to point out that if you're going to label Dora as anti-feminist, you can't dis-include Agnes from that label, either. She's the man's idealized woman; she has little function throughout the novel save for serving as David and her father's silent support system.

But to return solely to Dora: she really does have a good heart, and wants what's best for David. She tries to learn how to master the demanding art of being the good little Victorian wife. She really does. But it's just not in her personality's makeup to learn all the ropes involved in housemakerdom. Is she supposed to be permanently barred from marital happiness because of this?  We all have our flaws; as I point out in another thread on that site, better for David to marry someone like Dora than a cruel, heartless dictator like Miss Murdstone. It would be one thing if Dora never made the effort, but she did and only made things worse. She feels terrible about it. Yet she still tries: she wants to hold David's pens while he writes.

'Will you mind it, if I say something very, very silly? - more than usual?' inquired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face.

'What wonderful thing is that?' said I.

'Please let me hold the pens,' said Dora. 'I want to have something to do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the pens?'

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings tears into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connexion with my work, and her delight when I wanted a new pen - which I very often feigned to do - suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear to other men.

That and her endless, unwavering love for David are what she offers him.

Let's ignore, for the moment, the "correct post-modern reading" of this excerpt-–that David humoring Dora is little more than a condescending ruse, sappy and insulting. I know their dynamic is not exactly what you'd call absolutely healthy. But let's focus instead on what most readers refuse to acknowledge these days: the two truly, purely love one another. Dora keeps trying, in her own way, to help her husband. And he tries to make her happy.

And then Dickens kills her off. The understood belief is that she died from complications delivering a stillborn babe, a death rife with sexist symbolism: she failed the ultimate test of a woman's worth, motherhood. To soften the blow, Dickens has her give Agnes her final blessing, and lalala David goes onto wedded bliss with kids and a homey hearth where he can write as Agnes distracts the kids with stories. Whee, bully for him!

Of course David deserves happiness after Dora. But it's all just too neat and tidy for me. What would have happened had she lived? Most assume he would have stopped loving her entirely, that her quirky charms would have worn thin as she aged and lost her youthful beauty (as it apparently did with Dickens's real-life Dora, Maria Beadnell).

But because I love Dora's ding-a-ling sweetness, I like to think they would have ended up as a law-abiding version of the Micawbers, genders reversed. A perfectly healthy relationship? Hell no. But I'm sorry, no romance is perfectly healthy. And those depicted in fiction are dull and lifeless. I'd much rather read about David and Dora's good-natured bickering in their declining years, coupled with them still occasionally playing the love-sick, soppy teenagers, than contemplate a wise, harmonious couple quietly holding hands before a roaring fire.

Then again, that's just me. And George Orwell.

Great What-Ifs: Far From The Madding Crowd starring Vivien Leigh

Shame-faced at calling myself an English Major after failing to read certain classics, I made it a priority this summer to at least read some great literature I hadn't before, in between job hunting. And as always, I was more successful on that front than in actually securing something that could make me money. Feh. But anyways! Stop being bitter, you guys.

One of the books I absolutely fell in love with was Thomas Hardy's Far From The Madding Crowd, which is well known for being one of his only cheerful books--as in, cheerful for a Thomas Hardy novel. There's still death, destruction, and heartache, but you actually don't feel like your soul has been sucked out by some sci-fi leech/vacuum hybrid by story's end. A quick, inadequate summary: pretty girl named Bathsheba. Turns down nice guy Gabriel. She inherits a farm. She's a kickass womyn, not taking no guff. Except she isn't that kickass; she can't run the farm without Gabriel. Hires him, he's head shepherd. Bathsheba drives Mr. Boldwood, elegant next-door neighbor, mad with the love-crazies. She herself is driven love-crazy by dashing man-whore Sgt. Frank Troy. Oh, it's in Wessex, the fictional English county in pretty much all of Thomas Hardy's books. Lots of colorful commentary from farm workers. There's sweeping romance and bloated sheep having to be poked in the tummies to breathe.

It's great! But I have as yet to see a filmed version that's really blown me away. The 1967 film was a huge disappointment, except for Peter Finch's bang-up job as Boldwood (and poor, nuttier-than-a-can-of-cashews Boldwood is my favorite part of Crowd, so his performance did go a long way toward redeeming the movie for me). The 1997 BBC version was okay, but the casting was iffy. Like I hear with Dark Shadows, however, little rumors tell me there will be a new cinematic version out sometime in the nearish future. I've toyed with the idea of casting that one in my head, a fond hobby of mine, and you'll probably see it often here. But because I love classic movies and vintage stars so much, I figured, hey! Why not cast a version with the actors from yesteryear, by golly? The production values back then and the more overt acting styles would better fit the epic, romantic mood Hardy establishes. I'm helped in this noble endeavor by something I read on a message board once: Vivien Leigh was once signed on to play Bathsheba in a version that was dropped for unknown reasons. Well. That sucks. I would have loved, adored, and eaten up with a spoon any version with Vivien Leigh in it. True, she'd basically just be playing an English country-girl version of Scarlett, but who freaking cares? It's Vivien. In Far From The Madding Crowd. I'm sold!

So, let's cast this imaginary movie filmed sometime in the forties, and...why don't we just cast the five principal leads, since it would take a whole plethora of old-timey character actors to portray all the local color in the thing? Here we go, gang! C'mon, Scoob!

Vivien Leigh as Bathsheba Everdene

There's no way this is not perfect. Now, I admit that I'm more than a little biased when it comes to Vivien. She's just my favorite actress, is all. I like to put on my fancy film buff pants and go, "I knew she was the greatest actress ever from the moment I saw her in A Streetcar Named Desire when I was only a little kid," thus sticking it to folks who know her primarily as Scarlett O'Hara. But while that's all very true, I didn't really become actively addicted to her until middle school, when I, like many privileged, white, ignorant brats before me, became simultaneously addicted to Gone With The Wind. But I do still maintain that her Blanche is probably the greatest performance I've ever seen. I'll probably post more on that some other time. HOWEVER: why's she perfect for Bathsheba in particular?

Well, like I said, it's a no-brainer. Beautiful? Check. The ability to play a petulant brat who means well, but is mired down by her ambitions and vanity? Double check. Dark-haired?! YES, CHECK. Sorry, but that's what really pissed me off with the '67 flick: Julie Christie, aka Blondie McBlonderson, as Bathsheba? No no no. Look, I'm not one of those book traditionalists who flies off the handle if a character's physiology deviates slightly; after all, Vivien's eyes are blue, while Bathsheba's should be brown. But Bathsheba's hair color is a freakin' plot point in one scene, for cryin' out loud. Christie was so miserably miscast.

Even though I compared the idea of Vivien's Bathsheba to an English version of Scarlett, I actually look at her performance in That Hamilton Woman as definitive proof that she would, no doubt, own the role of Bathsheba. In that film she starts out as a giddy little social climber, motivated in equal parts by misplaced love for an unseen rich git and a desire to lead a finer life than that of a chorus girl. Later, after earnestly falling in love and realizing what a shallow lie her life is, she becomes more jaded and wise, more melancholy. And she plays both these facets of Lady Hamilton's character flawlessly--I'd even venture to say it's a technically better performance than Scarlett, though few portrayals can ever touch the fiery charm she achieved in Gone With the Wind. But her ability to play both young/frisky and staid/wise is vital to playing Bathsheba accurately, since Bathsheba has far more of a conscience than Scarlett ever did, though she makes similar mistakes.

Robert Mitchum as Gabriel Oak

"His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration....He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated...."

           --Thomas Hardy on Farmer Oak

Ol' Bobby Mitchum is another of my favorites. He was wildly versatile. He could chill you to the bones in Cape Fear and The Night of the Hunter, but it's his gentler, subtler, and more stoically rustic work in The Sundowners and Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison that convinces me he would be the ideal Gabriel, maybe the book's one truly morally conscientious character. I couldn't help myself: he's who I pictured almost immediately I started reading, and there he stayed in me head. He's stoic, physically imposing, good looking but not conventionally gorgeous, and just watch the way he looks at Deborah Kerr in Mr. Allison: without making a big fuss, his eyes register painful, frustrated, steadfast adoration, combined with determination to help his lady out no matter what the cost. But nooooo, stupid Kerr had to be a stupid nun, ruining everything! Dumb bint.

Only qualm I have is his ability to pull off an English accent. How'd he handle an Irish brogue, people who have seen Ryan's Daughter?

George Sanders or Claude Rains as Mr. Boldwood

I know in my first post I cast my vote solely in Sanders' favor for this role, but that's simply because he's my current cinematic fixation, thanks to my wee brain's tendency toward perseveration. However, Claude Rains was my initial choice when reading the book (y'see, I hadn't yet watched Village of the Damned, the film that really sparked my Sanders mania). Why? Well, first, watch Notorious. Then watch the 1943 Phantom of the Opera. Then read Hardy's description of Boldwood here: "If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow.  He was always hit mortally, or he was missed." Now apply that to a portrait of a refined, middle-aged, elegant bachelor whose frigid indifference to women is turned upside-down into a consuming obsession by a flighty girl's practical joke, and you have the ideal role for Claude Rains, what-ho.

But Sanders shouldn't be discounted yet. He's not as obvious a choice as Rains, no, but don't let his caddish ways mislead you. Actually, he could take that ruthless, careless front of his and use it to his performance's advantage, illustrating just how deeply Bathsheba uproots Boldwood's life. Sanders is refined and elegant, and he can play obsessive. Don't believe me? Watch a strange little flick called Summer Storm. He does exactly this; plays a thoughtless but respectable cad until Linda Darnell shoots seductive glances at him through sooty lashes and YOWZA. Brother gets it bad. I feel like a louse saying this, but even in the midst of my admiration for the man, I had no idea he could act so damn well. I was mostly infatuated with his attitude, his man-about-town, rakish persona. But this movie schooled me. Schooled me good. There's a particularly unsettling scene where he drowns his sorrows in a pub/cafe/cabaret type thing after Darnell gives him the cold shoulder, and he gets so sloshed George Sanders actually lets loose! Only in a really demonic, scary way! Someone begins singing some sentimental twaddle that starts hitting too close to home, and his eyes blaze and he shakes in his seat. So he abruptly stands and fumbles his way to the stage, trying to rouse everyone into a more chipper chorus. Then he stops short, staring at his reflection in a large mirror, where he sees, cruelly, what a mook he's become. He's fallen so far from the dignified dandy he was at the start of the picture that his fury just builds and explodes, and he hurls his drink at the glass, shattering it.

That's Boldwood-type manic behavior right there. Trust me.

(I'd also direct you to 1952's Ivanhoe as further proof that Sanders could play unrequited, desperate love well, but nobody should have to sit through that turd. No actor came out well in that, save maybe Liz Taylor. And I forgive no movie that makes our Sanders parade around in baby blue tights and wear a bright auburn wig and mustache. Yeah, we get it, it's technicolor! We've seen it before, don't blind us! And don't get me started on that idiotic helmet with the weird bird tacked on it that he wears in the jousting scene. Nonsense.)

But if you really can't get away from the cad thing, there is another role he and some guy named Archie Leech could contend for....

George Sanders or Cary Grant as Sgt. Frank Troy

Why do I believe Sanders has the ability to play both the proper, repressed Boldwood and the n'er-do-well ladykiller Troy? Because Sanders has always reminded me in equal parts, both physically and in his manner, of a tiger and a penguin, that's why. And he can play both the ferocious predator and tuxedoed bird interchangeably. He'd make a very slick Sgt. Troy, and his age in the 1940s might have been a wee bit more appropriate for Troy than for Boldwood. While Boldwood is only supposed to be forty, an older actor--say, fiftyish?--might better capture the age gap between he and Bathsheba on film (besides, in this my little fantastical version filmed in the '40s, Vivien would already be in her late 20s/early 30s. You might need an older actor to play her Boldwood). However, a part of me can't help but think that Troy is too predictable a role for Sanders, and he might be sorely tempted to fall back on tricks he's played before.

That's why I prefer Grant. He was chiseled out of his bad guy role in Suspicion, and while he played a similar role in 1932's Madame Butterfly (above), I don't think he ever tackled an all-out cad once he became uber-famous. And because Grant is so innately likable, Troy's few soft moments would be more believable, and keep his character from traveling too far into one-dimensional, dumbass jock territory. Just as Sanders often played the Sanders role, so did Grant play the Grant role: a happy-go-lucky hottie who casually gets the girl while ultimately doing no harm. A character like Troy who's mostly a dick but has a few surprisingly redeeming qualities would give Grant an opportunity to flex his skills outside of his usual type. Would he be capable of playing not only a despicable scum-bag, but also a poor schlub sobbing while trying weakly to plant flowers on the grave of a certain character? Maybe we could have gotten a good taste of just how far Grant's range as an actor extended. Plus, he's handsome and jaunty, and just as pretty as Vivien. They'd make a good onscreen match.

Joan Fontaine as Fanny Robin

Remember I mentioned Troy's soft spots? Dear, pathetic Fanny Robin is one of them, though the softness she inspires in him is fickle and rather faint. She's a housemaid at Bathsheba's farm who loves Troy despite the fact he's Troy, and tries eloping with him in the beginning. Under hilariously lame circumstances, that's stalled, and before they can try again....

Joan Fontaine is an actress familiar to anyone who reads the fabulous Self-Styled Siren, where Fontaine is a frequent favorite. I doubt producers in the '40s would have been keen for Fontaine to jeopardize her prim, delicate English rose image by playing a working-class, uneducated, fallen girl like Fanny, though by far Fanny is the most innocent and delicate character in the novel. That's precisely why I think Fontaine would be so effective in the role. She was so enchanting as the shy second Mrs. DeWinter in Rebecca that I honestly believe her performance there could be the most touching display of timidity I've ever seen on screen. This gift of hers, playing fragile girls realistically and adorably, would make Fanny's plight all the more poignant. Can you imagine that sweet, nameless girl from Rebecca half dead on the rural streets of the English countryside, struggling down endless roads in the rain to get to a hospital, helped only by clutching the coat of a passing dog? If that image wouldn't strike straight to the hearts of indulgent housewives in '40s movie theaters, I don't know what would.

 Like I said, there are a menagerie of other roughneck extras hanging out in the book, and it would take stronger powers than even my majestic ability to babble on and on to cast each one. However, we're talking about the Golden Age of Hollywood, and in the Golden Age of Hollywood, when you need a likable character actor to play a blustering farm hand, you'd most likely get in touch with this guy:

 Thomas Mitchell as Jan Coggan

You like sprawling epics, the kind you'd only see in full, corny, wonderful detail way back when, in the tradition of William Wyler's Wuthering Heights and that one movie about the Old South that chick Leigh was in? Then I'd recommend reading Far From the Madding Crowd. It's about as close as you can get to that sweepy feeling in classic novel format.

And after you've read it, you can answer the question nagging me now, and will keep me sleeping only fitfully tonight:

Who the heck could have played Liddy Smallbury in those days?