Thursday, 12 October 2017

On "Kristin Lavransdatter 3: Korset" (1922) by Sigrid Undset (1882-1949)


"All fires burn out sooner or later." So runs a refrain - almost a leitmotif - in this third and last volume of Sigrid Undset's masterpiece, Kristin Lavransdatter. Highly apt, too, given that we see the lead character slowly lose more and more of what matters to her as she herself slides inexorably towards her death. Yet far from burning out, Korset ('The Cross') is the most powerful, affecting, and dramatically satisfying instalment in the entire trilogy, a rare case of an author delivering the goods and then some when it comes to wrapping up a magnum opus. In the way Undset evokes and deliberately invites contrast with the first volume, she is clearly inviting us to view the two as book-ending and framing the middle section, bringing us full circle to "second childishness and mere oblivion". This is clear in a number of ways: less prominence is given to the cluttered political content seen in Husfrue, Kristin returns to her childhood home of Jørundgard, a more demarcated parent/child dynamic throughout reflects that of Kristin and her own parents in Kransen, and of course the paralleling of 'the wreath' with 'the cross', two objects of enormous import in Kristin's life which together form a chiasmus around her life as the wife of Erlend Nikulaussøn.

By the time the reader reaches the end of Kristin's life they have been in her company for 1,124 pages - not much less than Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace, but with the vast majority of our time spent following Kristin rather than, as is the case there, a huge cast of characters. That is not to say that Undset has not fleshed out her supporting cast. Quite the opposite, in fact: Erlend, Simon, Gunnulf, and in Korset the addition of Kristin's various sons, remain fascinating, flawed figures, figures of sufficient complexity and contradiction that the majority of them could sustain a novel in their own right. And yet here they are merely satellites orbiting around of the woman anchoring this great saga, Kristin Lavransdatter; caught, one could say, in her gravitational pull. We travel with her from the age of seven until the very moment of her death at the hands of the Black Death. She has become so iconic a figure in Norwegian literature that her statue at Sil (pictured above, it is the centre of a literary pilgrimage undergone by the novel's many fans) has become a kind of shrine in itself, one accorded a status not a million miles away from that which the shrine of Saint Olav would have had in Kristin's day.

Saturday, 7 October 2017

On "Kristin Lavransdatter 2: Husfrue" (1921) by Sigrid Undset (1882-1949)

Ahh, the difficult second album. Just ask the Stone Roses, the Clash, or Joseph Heller, none of whose second efforts ever quite lived up to the hype of their barnstorming debuts. Once you've delivered, on your first go, something rich and profound and quivering with the joys and pains of what it means to be human, you're risking setting yourself up for a fall at the second hurdle. Inevitably you disillusion your initially wowed fanbase as you seek to woo both them and the as-yet-unconverted, leading to loud, enraged cries that you have "sold out".

Fortunately, the second volume in Sigrid Undset's Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy - Husfrue ('The Wife'), published in 1921 - does not quite suffer from these traditional symptoms of Difficult Second Album Syndrome. For one thing, it is not intended as a 'follow-up' to Kransen, the first volume; it is rather the second volume of the same novel. In many respects it is a richer, still more developed narrative than Kransen; there is a much more pervasive sense of death and loss, as well as of birth and new life; seasons seem to whip by with greater speed as we race through Kristin Lavransdatter's adult years; and the vast political and religious canvas of Norway and Sweden in the 1330s comes under much greater scrutiny. It is a knottier, more complex book; gone is that streamlined simplicity with which Undset told the story of Kristin's youth and early courtship. This is a deliberate aesthetic choice, of course; as the lead character grows more into the ways of the world, suffers the ups and downs of a complicated marriage, lives with and moves among major political players, and experiences contradictory vacillations of the heart first in this direction and then in that ... it is no surprise that as Kristin's life has become harder still, the narrative which relates it needs must expand and become a more complex affair. And yet at points as I waded through political discussions, I found myself yearning for the sheer beauty of that first book, which was by no means innocent or naive or free of pain, but had a certain simple unclutteredness to it which was like a breath of fresh, unpolluted Scandinavian air. Husfrue is considerably more cluttered, and this can offend one's aesthetic sensibility, but then again, life becomes more cluttered as we move ever onwards, does it not? Perhaps our literature needs must become more cluttered, too.

Monday, 2 October 2017

On "Kristin Lavransdatter 1: Kransen" (1920) by Sigrid Undset (1882-1949)

Hers is not a name which will meet with much recognition in the Anglosphere, albeit perhaps a little more in the USA. But Sigrid Undset, a 20th century Norwegian novelist, was the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1928, the culmination of a decade in which her two grand literary projects had been rapturously received. Both are set in medieval Norway: the Kristin Lavransdatter trilogy, published between 1920 and 1922 (consisting of Kransen 'The Wreath', Husfrue 'The Wife' and Korset 'The Cross'), and the Olav Audunssøn duology published in 1925 and 1927 (Olav Audunssøn i Hestviken and Olav Audunssøn og Hans Børn, released in English as a tetralogy with the umbrella title The Master of Hestviken and the individual names The Axe, The Snake Pit, In the Wilderness and The Son Avenger). Of the two, it is Kristin Lavransdatter that is the more celebrated - the story of a life of a woman named Kristin Lavransdatter in 14th century Norway, the story of her childhood and adolescence; her relationship with her parents and her husband; her marriage and children; her religious faith; right up to her death. The life of this individual, spanning the years 1302-1349, is set against a tumultuous political backdrop of knights, lords, kings and priests, and in a society with sharply defined ethical codes and expectations about how people (particularly women) should behave.

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

On "Candide, ou l'Optimisme" (1759) by Voltaire (1694-1778)

Candide, ou l'Optimisme - normally just Candide - is a strange, slippery work to have as totemic a place in world literature as it does: not quite a novella, not quite a short story, it usually gets classed as a 'conte', for which the best English word is probably 'tale'. It's short and slight (often printed with fewer than 100 pages), and yet it traverses the globe, taking in locations as wide-ranging as Westphalia, Portugal, Spain, Italy, Morocco, Turkey, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Russia, Latvia, Germany, Holland, Argentina, Paraguay, Eldorado, Surinam, France, and, erm, England. It's simultaneously absurd yet realistic, picaresque and satirical yet deeply serious, farcical yet full of rape, murder, slavery, and disembowelling. It's timeless and fantastical in many respects yet also deeply rooted in the current scandals, controversies and events of the mid-18th century (set, as the novelist Julian Barnes puts it, "among the headlines of the day"[1]). Despite - or perhaps because of - these contradictions, it lasted, and continues to last, to the impressive extent that the reputation of François-Marie Arouet (better known as Voltaire), for many people in the English-speaking world, rests almost entirely on this single, slim book. Martin Seymour-Smith listed it as one of The 100 Most Influential Books Ever Written; it forms a part of Harold Bloom's Western Canon; it has gifted us the word 'Panglossian' and iconic phrases such as 'le meilleur des mondes possibles' or 'il faut cultiver notre jardin'.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

On "The Life & Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman" (1759-67) by Laurence Sterne (1713-68)

Some early drafts of this review.
[Nota bene, reader: this review is not simply written about Tristram Shandy, but very much also in the style of Tristram Shandy. If it pleases you not, the book is probably not likely to be one of your favourites either.]

How, I beseech you, does an (almost, or as good as) penniless young man, faced with a book as rich and complex and difficult as The Life & Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, - a book which has gifted to this our formerly-Anglo-Saxon tongue such words as disparate and IDIOSYNCRATIC, to be sure, as "Cervantic" and "Shandean", not to mention a film written by Frank Cottrell-Boyce, directed by Michael Winterbottom, and starring Messrs. Coogan and Brydon, - surely one of the greatest cultural artefacts of the as-yet-admittedly-still-green 21st century[1], notwithstanding the apparent lewdness of said film's title, A C*ck and B*ll St*ry - when faced with such a book, I say, how does such a young man have the slightest chance of knowing where to begin? 

"At the beginning!" ---suggests the indignant bookseller who sold that young man the book, or, perhaps, speaking more strictly, as if I were a schoolmaster, in the mood subjunctive as opposed to the mood indicative: he would have sold that young man the blessed tome, were it not the case that the young man purchased the book via the ever-more-popular medium of Kindle. 'Tis the latest in a long string of benighted attempts to usurp the goodly book - not to be confused with the (less general but more capitalized) Good Book, that which was long-ago-usurp'd, and is now yclept the Not Bad But Still Quite Problematic Book -, said string of benighted attempts including the theatrical extravaganza, the film, the television serial, the peculiar evil of the short story, the blog (heaven help us!), the soap (so-named, for the subject matter is always clean, and never bawdy), and the social media, which last is most goodly of all, for in the act of writing it everybody is allowed a turn. To the detractors of this last, I say "Honey's Sarky, Malley Ponce", as they seem to put it in the Twitter's Sphere; you and I, naturally, as devout Francofiles Phrancofiles  Phrancophiles, content ourselves with honi soit qui mal y pense, to wit, "may he think badly on it when he is a-shamed", commonly prayed in nunneries.

Monday, 11 September 2017

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 6 (13 May 1967)


What can we say after six episodes of The Faceless Ones? It never exactly set the world alight; it never even really set Doctor Who fandom alight for that matter. Ironically for a story all about identity theft, it has had its central premises done many times since, and often much more memorably or enjoyably, leaving their initial use here looking rather, well, faceless. The Doctor figuring out how to interact in the present day? The Web of Fear, The Invasion, and most of the Pertwee era for starters. Doctor Who does Bond? The Enemy of the World ... and most of the Pertwee era for starters. Bad guys who aren't all evil? Doctor Who and the Silurians, The Curse of Peladon, and Frontier in Space. Evil doubles and aliens disguised as humans? Terror of the Zygons, The Android Invasion (okay I didn't say they were all good)... Simply put, this story's USPs at the time have all been rather undermined by what came after, which is a pity, because much of what The Faceless Ones has done well has been rather enjoyable. 

Sunday, 10 September 2017

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 5 (6 May 1967)


"Remember the teaching of our Director: the intelligence of Earth people is comparable only to that of animals on our planet." At the risk of repeating myself, it's one of the funniest aspects of The Faceless Ones that, of all the races the Doctor has fought, the Chameleons must rank both down there among the stupidest and up there among those who go on about their own intellectual superiority the most. Every other line they're saying something about stupid humans or about how clever they are and how assured they are that their plan will work (the silliest bit is where the Director tells Jamie about how brilliant his own mind is, but he does so in third person, because he's pretending to be Crossland at the time). It's so ridiculous that, even though the production is played almost entirely straight, I have to wonder if the whole thing has a significant tongue-in-cheek element, to be honest, particularly because of how frequently, bananas-ly absurd the Chameleons seem to be much of the time: they don't come across as master-planners at all. "It was a pity that the Chameleons themselves were a bit unbelievable," wrote then-fan, later-playwright-and-Doctor Who-scribe Robert Shearman in Cloister Bell 6/7 in 1983, adding that "they .. weren't as clever as they imagined themselves to be". Spot on. It's such a shame that they're as daft as they are, because the make-up work is really good (the stuff of nightmares) and they're responsible for some genuinely intriguing, nasty images - Jamie discovering miniaturised people inside a drawer being another icky highlight. And, more importantly, there's a genuinely tragic dimension to them that's somewhat hampered by the silly 'evil bad guy' pretensions.

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 4 (29 April 1967)


One oddity about the Chameleons that seems, if truth be told, rather born out of the necessity of padding a story with a four parter's worth of ideas out to six parts, is the sheer variety of the technology they seem to have available to them. If that seems like an odd complaint, I suppose what I really mean is that none of their weapons or abilities seem to have much to do with one another. They have frozen ice gas but don't do anything to do with temperature or deep-freezing elsewhere, nor are they reptilian which might account for cold-bloodedness or hibernation. They have ray guns but only use them intermittently when they're not using strange pen-like devices that make people immobile. This seems like a rather impractical weapon that fails to kill somebody and leaves them handily lying around to recover later exactly when you don't want them to; why not just use your ray guns on them if they're somebody you want disposing of? Then there's the ridiculous matter of the button that's actually a grenade that Meadows slips onto the Doctor's back (and which Jamie pulls off him, easy as anything), which feels a lot more like a Bond gadget than anything else. Even sillier is the great big whopping laser they have on the wall in this episode, nicked straight from Goldfinger (it's a budget imitation of that famous scene, but the resolution is cleverer). They've tried to kill the Doctor and co. over and over again with all these rather different methods, failing each time; I almost wonder if the Chameleons are meant to be A Bit Crap?

Saturday, 9 September 2017

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 3 (22 April 1967)


I don't want to talk too much about Malcolm Hulke's Pertwee stories here - there's a time and a place for that (probably some time in the 2020s...) - but many of their hallmarks are things one can spot here, even if merely in prototype form. We've already discussed the modern-day setting, but it's also worth drawing attention to the fact that the Chameleons are distinctly characterised as individuals rather than as a gestalt - not just presented as mindless creatures stealing identities. Meadows, Blade and Spencer are all quite distinctive, with different attitudes towards the situation at hand, meaning there's potential for conflict on the opposing team as well as on "ours", so to speak. This is something of a step forward in the portrayal of alien species for Doctor Who, and we'll only see it develop with Silurians, Ice Warriors, and others during the Pertwee years. It helps, naturally, that the Chameleons are, well, chameleonic, and that they look just like us because they've stolen human bodies; it's much easier for us to think of them as individuals with whom we can negotiate. But it's one step towards thinking of monstrous-looking reptiles in battle-scarred armour as individuals with whom we can negotiate, too. The whole point of much of Hulke's writing is this expanding of our frame of reference.

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 2 (15 April 1967)


The Troughton era, more than the Hartnell era I would argue, makes more effort to be outright, explicitly scary in the way that later phases of Doctor Who will also prioritize.  The stock music here is creepy as anything, going out of its way to unnerve and alarm; the whole thing is so beautifully atmospheric; Gerry Mill shoots it with Hitchcockian suspense and the close-ups of the scorched, veined face of the Chameleon aliens are really unpleasant (Polly lying comatose inside a packing box, her eyes wide and staring, is another good reveal). The Faceless Ones will never go down as the best Doctor Who script ever but, damn it, it's really nicely made. And the villains are basically Ryanair, which, well, yes.

Friday, 8 September 2017

035. The Faceless Ones by David Ellis & Malcolm Hulke: Episode 1 (8 April 1967)


Season Four reaches its penultimate story in the form of The Faceless Ones, probably not one which ranks as anybody's favourite story (unlike, say, The Moonbase or The Macra Terror, both of which have their devoted admirers) and now more of a forgotten curio than anything else, akin perhaps to The Highlanders and The Underwater Menace. The main thing to note about it, in the context of Season Four at least, is that it takes place in our world - and crucially, in what is recognisably our world. Not just in the sense of The Underwater Menace, which was an alien story in present-day Earth where the location just happened to be "the depths of the ocean". Not just in the sense of The Macra Terror, which was aesthetically a 1950s holiday camp and thus imported some degree of social realism into Doctor Who, even if the story was technically set in the far future. No, this is a full-blooded successor to The War Machines, that infamous late Hartnell story which broke the show's mould by being set in what was clearly, unmistakeably 1960s London, complete with the Post Office Tower being part of the story-line. 

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

034. The Macra Terror by Ian Stuart Black: Episode 4 (1 April 1967)


"Stop! You're breaking the law!"/"Bad laws are made to be broken." This is a tight and pacey final episode, which brings The Macra Terror to a fairly strong close; it's good to see Peter Jeffrey get a little more to do as the Pilot, too, including questioning his orders and defying Control even in the face of Chief of Police Ola's narrow-minded authoritarianism. It's a bit late in the day for the Pilot to properly 'come good' and save the day in a moment of self-sacrifice, and though thankfully the story never quite goes for as obvious a conclusion as that, it's hardly unpredictable that it is Ben who 'comes good' and sorts everything out at the last minute. There's a bitter irony in the fact that just as Innes Lloyd was deciding that Ben and Polly weren't really working and they should be written out in the next story - David Ellis and Malcolm Hulke's The Faceless Ones - Michael Craze turned in some of his best work as Ben, in probably the character's most important story to date. But it is clear that the talented Frazer Hines is more than ready to take up his mantle and become Troughton's definitive companion.

034. The Macra Terror by Ian Stuart Black: Episode 3 (25 March 1967)


In this episode, we see a fair bit more of the hard labour colonists are forced to do, specifically mining for a toxic gas that slowly permeates your lungs and kills you. While this feels a little like filler at points, it also introduces a new character into the mix, Officia (could they have made the word any closer to "Official"? Well, one letter closer, I suppose), played in lovely, understated, businesslike fashion by John Harvey. A figure named Officia watching over people mining  a gas which kills them and the purpose of which they do not know and never learn is perhaps the most explicitly Kafkaesque part of the story, along with giving people titles instead of names - Pilot, Controller, even Doctor - and ensuring the colony name and planet and even the year in which the story takes place all remain unknown. Very like old Franz; I do wonder if Ian Stuart Black had recently been reading In der Strafkolonie ("In the Penal Colony"). Officia's no-nonsense approach - he's just a cog in the machine after all, following orders - is another brilliant example of the way the story approaches its politics, rather than giving us villain after villain. "What's it all for?" Polly asks with regard to the toxic gas, and nobody has an answer. They just do what they're told.

034. The Macra Terror by Ian Stuart Black: Episode 2 (18 March 1967)


"NO ONE IN THE COLONY BELIEVES IN MACRA! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MACRA! MACRA DO NOT EXIST! THERE ARE NO MACRA!" These deluded ravings, the words of the Controller whose handsome face is projected, Orwell-like, onto screens throughout the colony, are among the most electrifying in the story, and a peak attempt at double-think. It's a brilliant little sequence, as his voice gets more and more hysterical and the electronic music gets more frantic. Brainwashing and mind control (in this story, symbolized by the "hospital for correction") are crimes the Doctor is particularly loath to forgive, in all his incarnations (see the way he responds to the Silence, or the Mandragora Helix, or the Editor, all examples for which I am grateful to Hugh Sturgess for raising): the very worst thing you can do is control how somebody else thinks, deny them the individuality of their own mind and the freedom to make their own decisions, make them all uniform. This is the same threat the Cybermen pose to people, making this a relatively good pairing with The Moonbase, for all that I think it's a far greater story, though it's also an excellent successor to The Power of the Daleks in that it's about power struggles in an Earth colony, deceit and lies, and things not being what they appear. 

Monday, 4 September 2017

034. The Macra Terror by Ian Stuart Black: Episode 1 (11 March 1967)


It's appropriately muddled and in keeping with Season 4's flailing around that the new title sequence debuts not for The Moonbase, the story which seemed to establish the Troughton-era template (that is, claustrophobic base-under-siege stories with armies of monsters forcing their way in, in case you need reminding), but for the following story, Ian Stuart Black's The Macra Terror. I rather like the ripple effects and general tone of the Troughton title sequence, introducing as it does the idea that the Doctor's face should be a key feature, but it's also fair to say that it loses some of the magnetic simplicity of the original. Regardless, I'm glad that it happened this way, because The Macra Terror is much more the kind of thing I want Doctor Who to be than The Moonbase. The former is a stone-cold brilliant Doctor Who story, boasting more in common with the experimental, anarchic tone of Sylvester McCoy era tales like The Happiness Patrol and The Greatest Show in the Galaxy than with much of the rest of the Troughton era. As Hugh Sturgess says, "a Troughton era that took its cues from The Macra Terror instead of The Moonbase would be so much stranger, so much darker, so much madder and so much better". The key difference between the two stories is this: in The Moonbase, the monsters are out there in the dark and they're coming to get you. In The Macra Terror, the monsters have always been right here with you, ruling over you, telling you when to go to sleep, and now you need to kick them out.

Saturday, 2 September 2017

On "Yerma" (1934) by Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)

The twentieth-century Spanish writer Federico García Lorca was known for his association with the Generación del 27 (Generation of '27), a group of poets and artists in the 1920s who deliberately courted the avant-garde, but, like every great figure in an artistic movement, he cannot be easily categorized or pigeonholed. He was both poet and playwright, though he moved from the former to the latter over the course of his life, predominantly because of his rather Brechtian belief that the theatre was the more dynamic art form and had a greater chance of changing people's lives - as he said himself, "the theatre is a school of weeping and of laughter, a free forum, where men can question norms that are outmoded or mistaken and explain with living example the eternal norms of the human heart... theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair." Sure enough, the revolutionary plays he wrote in the 1930s - categorized by some as his 'Rural Trilogy' and consisting of Bodas de sangre, Yerma, and La casa de Bernarda Alba (English: Blood Wedding, Barren, and The House of Bernarda Alba) - are all impassioned crusades against the norms of bourgeois Spanish society, questioning its treatment of women, homosexuals, and the lower classes. All three are among his best-known work; of the three, I am only familiar with Yerma.

Thursday, 31 August 2017

033. The Moonbase by Kit Pedler: Episode 4 (4 March 1967)


In this episode we reach the peak of the "under siege" part of the Base-under-Siege construction, what with an army of Cyberman on the march across the Moon's surface, surrounding the Moonbase with sophisticated weaponry and cannons with which they threaten to blow it into the sky. The heroes are surrounded, their armoury is inferior, their communications are jammed ... how will they get out of it? It's a classic set-up. The stage is set up for an epic showdown - and what actually happens? We get such deeply naff silliness as Evans creeping around with the Neurotrope X virus all over his face but not being spotted just because he's wearing a uniform that says "Beckett" on it; a deeply shoddy-looking spaceship-landing where you can still see the wires holding it up; we get the patching up of an oxygen breach in the base's hull with, yes, a tea tray (cue Cybermen: "We shall retreat. We do not know how many tea trays they have"); and best of all the Gravitron is used to send the Cybermen spiralling off into space, looking like they're doing a dance routine in the air (again with the Fish People comparisons!). But far from ruining the story, this amiable silliness actually goes some way to redeeming it for me: it's about a deliberately silly resolution being used as the charming end point of what's so far made pretensions to be "hard SF". It's a move that shows there's life yet in the same eccentricity that animated The Underwater Menace, and that's a very good thing indeed for the Troughton era moving forward, which we don't want to become all po-faced and military and dominated by monsters-in-bases. 

033. The Moonbase by Kit Pedler: Episode 3 (25 February 1967)


Back during The Power of the Daleks, I made much of the key moment where the Dalek identifies the Doctor, toward the end of the second episode: vital in assuring audiences that this is the same character. The equivalent here is much more throwaway ("you are known to us", a Cyberman tells him, and he replies "and you to me", and thus the events of The Tenth Planet are tacitly acknowledged but not dwelt upon), surely a sign of the increasing confidence the show had in Troughton's portrayal and in the new direction the show was taking: the Doctor versus the monsters. These are the new big bads (the things which "must be fought"), the monsters that killed the Doctor last time they showed up. Now, there's nothing wrong with having the Cybermen perform a similar function in a story as the Daleks (especially if you can't actually get your top billing monster); at the same time they're best when they're doing their own thing - which is why they're so good when the show remembers their body horror roots (World Enough and Time/The Doctor Falls). But in fairness, they aren't as Dalek-lite here as one imagines - they talk of "conversion" (not a million miles away from KGB sleeper agents and moles and talk of "switching sides" in the manner of John le Carré's novels), they want to turn humans to their cause, and they are happy to control humans in unison, all part of their MO... but then it all seems to fall apart once they start calling us "stupid Earth brains" (far too passionate a phrasing for Cybermen), mock us with "clever, clever, clever", and reveal they want the Gravitron so they can destroy the Earth's surface and kill everyone on it. Why? That just doesn't seem a very Cyberman plan to me; it's not about making more people like them, which is what they want.

033. The Moonbase by Kit Pedler: Episode 2 (18 February 1967)


Much has been written about how it's The Moonbase in which Patrick Troughton really works out how to play the Doctor, and I think that's mostly fair, especially here in Episode 2 (where he's very strong indeed). We get the first sense of his resigned but determined moral duty ("there's something evil here, and we must stay"), the meddling adventurer slowly becoming more of a crusader who puts a stop to evil at all costs ("there are some corners of the universe that have bred the most terrible things. Things which act against everything we believe in. They must be fought!"). Philip Sandifer is exactly right to claim this famous line is more of a weary acceptance of his duty to fight evil than it is a triumphant call-to-arms, and that's key to how Troughton plays the role over the next two and a half seasons. Also of note is that he's much more of a doctor here, actively combatting disease, using microscopes, examining patients, and name-dropping Joseph Lister, while his charmingly impish nature is also at the fore: witness the bit where he creeps around the base taking hair samples from the oblivious crew, or the moment he complains about dust getting into his slides, or his and Polly's repeated "excuse me, please"s to Hobson when he's in the way.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

033. The Moonbase by Kit Pedler: Episode 1 (11 February 1967)


Ahh, The Moonbase. A story that does, at least, seem to know what it wants to be, after the surreal floundering-around on display in The Highlanders and The Underwater Menace, both of which are - to put it kindly - far from being fan favourites (though I think redemptive readings of both are possible). As I see it, Season 4 (1966-7) can be divided into those stories which are wildly throwing around concepts with reckless abandon in the hope that something will stick and provide a template for the series going forward in its post-Hartnell uncertainty, and those stories which play it safer and attempt a kind of "new normal", as discussed when covering The Underwater Menace. Here we have a story which clearly falls into the latter camp, in that it is the most straightforward and least inexplicable Troughton story so far; furthermore, it does minimal messing around with genre. The mode here is predominantly "hard SF", or what Doctor Who thinks "hard SF" is (often deeply silly and necessitating implausible solutions involving tea trays). But, as bridging different genres goes, that's a much easier sell than "hi-jinks and cross-dressing meets Culloden" or "Fish People and Atlantis meet Indiana Jones meets a mad scientist", while the first post-regeneration story, The Power of the Daleks, brought with it a unique kind of strangeness. That's not to say there aren't some surreal moments here too, mind - the off-the-wall design of The Underwater Menace continues, with some beautifully retro space suits for our adventurers as they cross the Moon's surface, while even the fun little moon-jumps at the story's beginning resemble the Fish People's dancing.

"The Other Side of Silence": On the Novels of George Eliot (1819-1880)

with gratitude to Bethan Hughes

A while back I did a "marathon" of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's major novels, which was a lot more fun than most people I spoke to seemed to assume it would be. Before that (we're talking 2008 or so) Dickens was my Purist Obsession of Choice. This year it was George Eliot's turn, and as such I've read seven of her major works over the summer - Adam Bede; The Mill on the Floss; Silas Marner; Romola; Felix Holt, the Radical; Middlemarch; and Daniel Deronda (though I didn't read them in quite that - chronological - order, thus making the more pedantic part of my brain recoil in horror, but it's a part of the brain one should frequently ignore). I've also missed off Scenes of Clerical Life (1857-8), which will no doubt annoy other subscribers to the Purist Obsession of Choice weeklies (and, funnily enough, Dickens, who wrote 'the exquisite truth and delicacy, both of the humour and the pathos of [these] stories, I have never seen the like of'), but, in any case, to err is human and there's something rather healthy about limits, loose ends, and frayed edges. As many of George Eliot's books illustrate, in fact.

George Eliot, of course, was the nom de plume of Mary Anne Evans (1819-1880), born in Nuneaton in Warwickshire to a father who managed the 300-acre Arbury Hall estate and a mother whose father had been a local mill-owner. It is no surprise, then, that rural life dominates her works, with all but two of these seven set entirely in provincial England, while one of the two outliers, Daniel Deronda, is at least partially set there. In this respect she more closely resembles Hardy than she does Dickens, for she has none of the latter's irrepressible love of cities (by which I really mean 'London'). And yet it is not, primarily, the rural landscape in which she is interested, as Hardy is; for Hardy - and we must use the old cliché, I fear - the landscape is a character, and a vividly alive one, not simply a backdrop against which the lives of complex individuals play out (see the storm sequence in Far from the Madding Crowd, to give one example). Eliot's fascination is with rural lives, in which she (like Wordsworth) saw beyond what polite society thought of as the inanity of yokels, unearthing a whole treasure trove of emotional and psychological insight.

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

Gallifrey 3.5: Panacea by Alan Barnes (August 2006)

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ozymandias" (1818)

Alan Barnes doesn't half get lumped with the task of tying up behemoths of story-lines (Neverland, Zagreus, The Girl Who Never Was, and now Panacea). Though I suppose he has to take some credit for usually being the one who starts them, and so in that light there's a certain pleasingly circularity that he comes back to the range he launched to pen Panacea, Chapter Fourteen and the end of Gallifrey (for now). What I like most about Panacea is that it wallows in a tangible sense of decay that Series 3 could perhaps have focussed on a little more. Gallifrey is suffering "the privations of a ruinous war", all power cuts and overfull hospitals; Romana is an outcast in the Outlands, even lower than the prisoner and usurped President she has been in earlier releases; and her ancestral house, Heartshaven, is now dilapidated and desolate, overrun with vermin, soon abandoned to the flame (I'm a sucker for all this lyrical, wistful nostalgia: "When I was a Time Tot the lamps of Heartshaven lit up when the heirs to the house crossed the hall, and the paintings would whisper their welcome").

Sunday, 20 August 2017

Gallifrey 3.4: Mindbomb by Justin Richards (July 2006)

"So everything is back to normal," a character observes early on in Justin Richards' Mindbomb, the thirteenth chapter in the Gallifrey series and penultimate of Gallifrey III. And, in a way, they're right: we have moved past civil war and are now in the more familiar milieu of political machinations, hotly contested elections, and pomp and ceremony. Not to mention plenty of Legalese, though I have to say I actually find the way the writers have dealt with Gallifreyan Legalese to be surprisingly engaging - all the ins and outs of who is or isn't eligible to stand for election, or who does or doesn't have power over whom. It helps that the characters are all so terribly manipulative and back-stabbing, of course, while the series has its tongue firmly in its cheek at the same time - much like the original House of Cards in that respect (and "think about that" isn't that far away from "you may very well think that; I couldn't possibly comment"). Matthias' sudden and unexpected betrayal of Romana, resulting in her impeachment and imprisonment, is an immediate way of raising the stakes in exactly this vein, whilst simultaneously proving almost funny given the tortuous twists and turns we've taken to reach this point, and Matthias' own narcissistic insistence (try saying that when you're drunk) on shooting down Darkel's attempts to oust Romana only to do it himself anyway.

Friday, 18 August 2017

"The Antipodean Excursion" 5: Nelson, Franz Josef, Wanaka, Queenstown, Milford Sound, Dunedin, Christchurch

We left Wellington on the InterIslander ferry in the soft pale glow of an early morning. The weather clouded over and the waves got choppier as we went further out to sea, but whatever the gusts there's no feeling quite like feeling the wind whip through your hair and snatch your breath away as you stand up on deck, so I was sure to pop up top every so often. It's a long journey between North and South Island - through Cook Strait and the Marlborough Sound, the ferry weaving its way down different waterways and between steep, forested hills. Upon arrival at the small town of Picton we disembarked (with a strange sense of déjà vu, in my case at least, of arriving at Tarbert on the Isle of Harris off the west coast of Scotland), and were just in time to catch our InterCity bus to Nelson.

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Gallifrey 3.3: Appropriation by Paul Sutton (July 2006)

Gallifrey III has gone for a pretty unusual structure: all-out civil war for its first two stories, then three stories dealing with the aftermath. It doesn't strike me as a completely cohesive arc in the way Gallifrey II got more or less spot on, but the sudden swerve that Warfare took in its climactic moments - it felt much more like a finale than an Episode 2 of 5 - means that I'm properly in the dark as I head into these last three stories (Appropriation, Mindbomb, and Panacea). Where could the writers possibly take things from here? Well, as Matthias observes early on, "the war may be over, but the real fighting is about to begin". Appropriation sees a return to the first two series' focus on political infighting over Gallifrey's future - but this time taking place in the wake of a devastating conflict which saw much of the Time Lords' history and culture destroyed in a single stroke. 

Saturday, 5 August 2017

Gallifrey 3.2: Warfare by Stewart Sheargold (June 2006)

Warfare focuses further on, and more or less resolves, the ongoing Gallifreyan Civil War which we saw begin in Imperiatrix and really kick off in Fractures. As already identified, this is a war of individual psychological identities as much as - if not more than - it is a war of laser guns and barricades. Two sides of Gallifrey clash, with Romana in the centre of it (twice) and the pressure cooker is tearing both planet and president apart. That's an undeniably epic premise woven from appropriate bits of Doctor Who mythology, and as such the story has both a forward momentum and a sense of import to it. Warfare also dwells on the fragments of different voices heard in the minds of both Romana II and Pandora, still using the body of Romana I. In the latter's case, this allows Mary Tamm the opportunity to play the actual Romana I (or at least her voice... no, really, I mean her voice in-story), which distinguishes her from Pandora, makes Romana I more active in the story-line, and generally keeps things clearer than they were last time round. There's a fun moment where President Romana realises that her past self is actively working on her side against Pandora. Mind you, I still don't think this series has made very good use of Tamm, and I'm itching to actually hear her do a full Big Finish story as her proper character in the future. Time for the allegedly "weaker" incarnation (and I still don't know what I think of that) to get a crack of the whip!

Meta-Metamorphosis (2010)

The first drama script I ever wrote, when I was about 15. I've just discovered it on my hard drive, much to my surprise, so here it is, ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting and mostly indifferent world... (How weird a thing it is to read one's juvenilia back! I have, at least, retained my affection for all things Kafka, theatrical, and metafictional, so I am consistent if nothing else...) The script version of Kafa's "Metamorphosis" used here is that of Steven Berkoff and I cast myself in the part of the rather inhuman director, described here as "the git": something of an ego-trip with a sprinkling of self-deprecating humour. 

Also, when I was 15 apparently I didn't know how to spell "Gary", so at least I've learned something.

“Meta-Metamorphosis” 

SCENE ONE. 

A black stage; a curtain, chairs, etc. The rehearsal space/studio of a Theatre Company, although when the lights come up they are reddy-green, with shadowy edges...surreal, unnerving. It is as if the play is real, and the studio is a dream. 
There are three characters on stage: JAN, EFFY and GARRY, the three members of the acting company. The director, MARK, referred to by the others as MR MILLIGAN, is sitting with the audience.
 Jan is playing the part of GREGOR SAMSA, the main character in the play they are rehearsing, ‘Metamorphosis’. Effy is playing the part of GRETA SAMSA, Gregor’s sister, and Garry is playing the FATHER of the family. When playing the ‘Metamorphosis’ parts, it would be good if the actors do it with as much conviction as possible, almost as if this were the play, but the parts should be clearly distinct from their own roles.  
Cue creepy music. 

Thursday, 3 August 2017

"The Antipodean Excursion" 4: Himatangi Beach, Otaki, Whanganui, Tongariro, Wellington

This update covers the rest of our activities on the North Island right up until our departure from Wellington on the morning of August the 2nd, bringing our time in the North, our time with Steve, and the first four weeks of our holiday to a close, so it seems as good a point to break off as any. Most of this time we spent at Himatangi Beach (or in the near vicinity, e.g. Palmerston North) but we certainly had the occasional opportunity for excursions away, some of which were among the most memorable on the entire trip so far. It's reached the point where I think the two of us could just sit around doing nothing for our two weeks on the South Island and we'd still be pretty content with one of the most active holidays we've been on!

Wednesday, 2 August 2017

The Memory of Grass

The surface of the Earth is just 1% postcard:
Everywhere else has been pillaged and spoiled.
Nowhere looks like it did in the 'zines.

But it perseveres,
That 1%, oases in a post-oasis world
For all who remember things as they were
When 'desert' mostly meant 'Sahara',
When oceans were small and unambitious,
When not all green was artificial.
The most untouched of all is Urupukapuka,
Or, as some folk called it, Little Eden.
I don't get it.

Sunday, 30 July 2017

International Date Line

On days
Of silliness
I idly think
What if
It really were
A line
Of international dates
Where Kazakhs
Meet Fijians
And Chileans
Meet Swedes
And every face
Finds another
But you -
You settle for me.

30 July 2017

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

Gallifrey 3.1: Fractures by Stephen Cole (May 2006)

The third season of Gallifrey brings to an end the opening phase of the spinoff's existence (and, for a good few years, it was thought that after Gallifrey III, that was it - no more). Stephen Cole's season opener, Fractures, is thus in some ways 'the beginning of the end' - we'll forget about anything from Gallifrey IV onwards for now. Fractures sees Gallifrey plunged into the civil war which the Season 2 finale promised, both a large-scale conflict of different factions and a more interpersonal war between Romana II and 'Romana I', or at least the latter's body as worn by Pandora, the embodiment of all future Time Lord evil. K9 serving on Pandora's side is another indication of how split and, well, fractious everything is. This is a war over what kind of society Gallifrey would like to be, perhaps even over what kind of series Gallifrey would like to be. Unsurprisingly, then, there's a bit of a struggle in Fractures with regard to what kind of season opener it would like to be. Following up the series' most self-consciously "epic" tale so far, Imperiatrix, is a tough ask. Trying to one-up its grandeur is tricky, but so is going too small and introspective (which turned out to be Cole's strength in his contribution to the previous season).

Saturday, 22 July 2017

"The Antipodean Excursion" 3: There and Back Again

Bit of a mega-post, this, mostly because I haven't got round to updating anything at all over the last couple of weeks, so there's lots to catch up on.

Instalment 3 begins on the 7 July, with possibly the most exciting day on our entire trip so far (disclaimer: anyone whose interest in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and other associated Tolkien works is that of a normal person rather than an obsessive fan might want to skip this next part). It was on that day, of course, that Simon and I visited Hobbiton of the Shire, the fabled location used in Peter Jackson's film adaptations of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. The place itself is accessed via buses from Matamata: it's part of a huge rolling green landscape belonging to a farming family called the Alexanders. Peter Jackson discovered it in the late 90s and decided that the area was perfect for Hobbiton; their 3 main requirements in terms of the place's "look" (besides the obvious green hills and undulating scenery) were a huge tree that could represent Party Tree, a lake (with a bridge), and a big lawn in front of the tree where Bilbo's party could take place. The Alexander farm location had two of these three features - there was a swamp where the lawn should have been, but that was easily fixed. So Jackson makes The Lord of the Rings, both he and Mr Alexander make lots of money, Hobbiton gets pulled down, and everyone goes home happy. When Jackson returned to the site to film the trilogy that makes up The Hobbit, he and the Alexanders agreed to leave the set standing so fans could visit it and enjoy the experience of seeing such an iconic film location. God, I'm glad they did.

Thursday, 13 July 2017

Gallifrey 2.5: Imperiatrix by Stewart Sheargold (August 2005)

The finale of Gallifrey II, the 100-minute-long epic Imperiatrix, is assigned to Stewart Sheargold, so far responsible for the delightfully trippy Seventh Doctor story Red. The result is clearly the range's most ambitious story to date, as the major strands running throughout this second series - and even further back to Gallifrey I and Neverland, the first instances in which Romana was referred to as 'Imperiatrix' - are all woven into a heady cocktail. There is no messing around in Imperiatrix, which kicks off energetically right from the off with an explosion in the heart of the Time Lord Academy, follows up with all manner of consequences and ramifications, and pits Romana against Darkel in a gripping battle of wits - all before we've reached 15 minutes in. The stakes remain high throughout, with another almighty explosion at the story's midpoint, one which kills off K9-I, no less - and we get a few more such moments before the end. This structure strongly recalls The Deadly Assassin in my view: starting early on with a climactic event, then letting the investigation spool out whilst building up other threats alongside it. Unsurprisingly, given his good work on Red, Sheargold acquits himself well with a story full of twists and turns; Imperiatrix sees this second season back on solid form after last time's weaker effort.

Monday, 10 July 2017

"The Antipodean Excursion" 2: Paihia & the Bay of Islands, Waitangi, Cape Rienga, Tauranga

One thing which has struck me several times whilst travelling around New Zealand so far is that its Tourist Marketing Board really ought to make more use of the slogan 'A Greener, Pleasanter Land'. It's not particularly original to observe that, in its undulating green countryside, pastures full of grazing sheep and cows, New Zealand resembles the United Kingdom - but a UK that is somehow cleaner and more unspoiled. Less prone to traffic jams. Less industrialised and exploited and full. Like all unoriginal observations, though, it's not the whole story: for in its longitudinal and latitudinal position New Zealand doesn't map onto the UK, in point of fact, but rather Spain. So it would be more accurate to describe it as a Spain unwarmed by the Atlantic Gulf Stream, a more temperate Spain, but still with a climate that's plenty warm enough to support forests of subtropical plants. Combine this with rolling English landscapes, quasi-Saharan sand dunes, snowy mountain ranges, and volcanic formations, and you're onto a pretty unique combination.

Saturday, 8 July 2017

"Laughter is the Best Medicine (3)": On absurdist portrayals of Scandinavian kings in "Heimskringla" by Snorri Sturluson (c.1230)


‘…let us sit upon the ground 
And tell sad stories of the death of kings.’1  
– William Shakespeare, Richard IIIII.ii. 


Ynglinga saga, the first saga in Snorri Sturluson’s thirteenth-century chronicle of the kings of Norway (and the one whose first words ‘kringla heimsins give the larger work its name, Heimskringla (HK)), is concerned with the early Scandinavian monarchs that make up the Yngling dynasty.2 In outlining each individual king within this genealogy, Snorri draws on the Norwegian skald Þjóðólfr ór Hvini’s late ninth-century poem Ynglingatal as a historical source. Like the majority of skalds, Þjóðólfr seems to have composed the poem in praise of a contemporaneous king – in this case gnvaldr heiðumhár’, most likely gnvaldr Óláfsson of Vestfold; rather than eulogizing the living monarch, however, Þjóðólfr’s focus is on the preceding twenty-seven generations, thereby ascribing to gnvaldr an extensive and noble heritage. However, as modern readers accustomed to jingoism, propaganda, and the familiar historiographical notion of poets portraying kings in as positive a light as possible, we are struck by Ynglingatal’s subversive undercurrent of absurdismÞjóðólfr mostly limits himself to discussing the circumstances of each king’s death, and yet, especially in the first half of the saga, these are often deaths which are not exactly steeped in nobility, as would be expectedGro Steinsland writes most of the kings die in a rather strange way, without glory, a feature which scholars have found difficult to explain.3 As we read the frequently grotesque or ridiculous events that unfold in Ynglingatal – elaborated upon and retold in Snorri’s Ynglinga saga – we might be surprised by the dearth of stately, solemn reverence of the kind Richard II ascribes to ‘sad stories of the death of kings’ in the epigraph from Shakespeare above. A closer examination of the bleakly humorous fates of these early Scandinavian monarchs as Þjóðólfr and Snorri tell them will lean on an understanding of the power of incongruity in humour, and in particular how this incongruity can produce an effect of pathos in the audience, however absurd the event in question.4 In studying individual instances, we must also discuss what separates these distinct portrayals and why Þjóðólfr and Snorri have treated them the way they have.