The Woman in White - Or 'Marian Halcombe - star in hiding'

One night Walter Hartwright meets and helps a strange woman in white, this chance meeting leads to a melodrama of intrigues and investigation: The Woman in White has many of the traits of what would become the 'mystery novel' and is widely recognised as a classic.

Several things are bound to annoy me in the average Victorian novel. You can probably guess them; casual racism, anti-semitism and the eternal misogyny. The Woman in White is short on the racism (although the Italians are a somewhat stereotyped) but it's the portrayal of women is an eye opener. I was unsurprised when the genial Walter Hartwright met the mad Woman in White on a dark lane and acted as a gentleman should, with typical Victorian patrony towards the weaker sex. But I was strangely delighted when several pages later, Marian Halcombe was seductively introduced - for the next chapter Marian continued to delight me with her competence, sensibility, resilience, charm and intelligence. Then Laura Fairlie, Marian's sister was introduced. I was instantly aware this was the heroine, she was so perfect, so winsome, so willowy, so utterly and completely without personality, talent or ability (other than loving everyone just too much) What else could she be? And so it proved.

Laura is such a pathetic Victorian Idyll of womanhood it's painful - she is an asexual useless child, incapable of looking after herself. In fact her childishness is disturbing and perplexing to the modern reader. Whilst Marian Hartwright is just awesome.When faced with an angry husband the drip (Laura) faints, sobs and becomes ill. Meanwhile Marian clambers about on a veranda at midnight, wearing her underwear in torrential rain attempting to overhear two men who can destroy her entire life and everyone she loves in a few words. Marian - what a (Victorian) woman! And that (Victorian) is necessary, for she isn't a modern woman, quite frankly if she had acted a little less properly at several points in the book she would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

The characters are a strange mix. The romantic protagonists Walter and Laura are really quite bland but everyone else is wonderfully sketched; especially Fosco, Mr Fairlie and Mrs Catherick. The duel of wits between foreigner Fosco and the woman Marian is far more distracting than the cold war between British Gentlemen Glyde and Hartwright. Irratatingly plot points and assumptions are repeated often and discussed too much, I assumed this related to the book being originally published in sections, but perhaps a Victorian audience was less used to picking up on the little details and intentions than modern thriller readers and needed to be pummelled with the importance of every discovery. The scenes are well set and atmospheric and thankfully pages are not set aside for describing how pretty the countryside is. The Woman in White is action packed, exciting and maintained my interest. If you can get your head around the women's real dilemma (No they can't just hit people with the poker, steal the carriage and get divorced) and care for that ridiculous waif Laura and her suitor it carries even more tension.

The Moonstone is the first proper detective novel and The Woman in White is it's forerunner. But most importantly The Woman in White contains Marian. Glorious strong Marian. Possibly the first Victorian heroine I have ever appreciated*. Marian - I love you! If your creator wasn't dead I'd be demanding you get a sequel.

*Jane Eyre is pretty good but putting out flaming beds only looks impressive if you know that every other woman in the building would've fainted. Marian has Laura to continually make her look good

Bitten again

I'm a Kelley Armstrong fan. Her supernatural books are my easy reading of choice; fast, funny and reasonably exciting. Plus they don't smack of desperate chaste teenage lust like some supernatural books out there. I picked up Frostbitten at an author signing in Manchester. The first I've ever attended. I was mostly facinated by the staff telling me how impressed they were with Kelley's down-to-earth nature. What are these authors normally like? Does Harlan Coben insist on only red smarties?

Frostbitten is a return to Kelley's first (and probably best) protagonist, the werewolf Elena. It's also a return to form, after the 'meh' of Broken. Elena and her wolf pack are doing what they do best; violently dealing with non-pack wolves. I think the improvement is due to the absence of the other supernatural species (witches, necromancers and half-demons) who have filled previous books. The story is purer and wilder without their cosmopolitan influence. Naturally Elena has some emotional turmoil to deal with as well as homicidal mutts, but Elena wouldn't be half as appealling without her issues. Blonde, beautiful, strong, clever, married to the werewolf version of brad Pitt, getting endless amounts of athletic sex, financially secure and blessed with beautiful children with live in baby sitting, she should be very easy to hate. Instead her worries and mistakes make her more accesible.

The book is like a ticklist of fan wishes. The introduction of new werewolves are sketched vaguely enough to wet fan's appetites, Nick finally has something to do other than look suave and Elena is back to silently muttering to herself about not being treated as a threat - but as a lust object (kind of hard when she is the only female of the species). Frostbitten is one of Kelley's best and her style really shines when she writes as Elena. I just wish that half the silly Twilight addled teenagers out there would stop dreaming of being useless Bella and start dreaming of growing their own claws and saving themselves like Elena.

Forgettably nameless

A Nameless Witch by A.Lee Martinez
After the horror of trawling through 600 pages of pretentious Norwegian post-modernism I was delighted to read this book that the ringbearer bought for me at Powell's City of Books. In short a witch with the terrible curse of being beautiful and ageless goes on a quest with her broom, a white knight and her familiar a duck named Newt. The part where I wrote 'a duck named Newt' should give you a hint as to where this book is pitched. Firmly into the fantasy comedy genre that Terry Pratchett presides over.

Its an easy read that rolls nicely along. The world building isn't oppressive and nor thankfully is the humour. (There are just too many Pratchett wannabes out there who feel that every sentence should be crammed with cleverness and include a witty comment). This book however has little original to add to the comedy fantasy genre. The situation isn't unique, nor is the author's voice or the characters (although Newt is fun). The author doesn't take the opportunity to add any depth to the gentle mockery he applies to the fantasy genre and it leaves the book toothless. The plot is very basic and only just holds the book together. However the book has some nice touches that made me smile, like Penelope the broom sweeping the road and the heroines efforts to be 'witchly'.

To be honest I'd recommend this to an adolescent, who needs something easy and enjoyable to ease them into reading. Or alternately someone who is suffering from Wergeland exhaustion. A nameless witch isn't unique, but it's fun and (very) easy on the brain.

Not very seduced

The Seducer by Jan Kjaerstad (English translation)

I ordered this book many months ago in order to take some Norwegian literature with me on a cruise in the Arctic. Sadly the book arrived late and I have been struggling my way through it for nearly 6 months. Essentially the plot is thus: Norwegian TV documentary producer Jonas Wergeland comes home to find his wife murdered. As he responds to this event we hear about the many disjointed events from his past. Circling around, the plot is non-linear; each chapter covers a different stage in Jonas' life and they gently reflect on each other. It's a nice motif and would be fantastic if it didn't last 600 pages.

And Kjaerstad needs 600 pages to even touch on Wergeland's life and his accomplishments. Of Jonas's many achievements he invents the Fosbury flop before Fosbury, he creates peace in the Middle East by moving a small stone, he saves an African country from a school debating podium and scares off a polar bear with his penis. I'm not joking about the last one. Jonas was so unrelentingly marvellous that it set my teeth. To add insult to injury Kjaerstad hammered home just how brilliant Jonas was, how unique and completely at odds with Norwegian conservatism with a frequency usually reserved for 13 year old's writing fanfiction that includes themselves. Jonas Wergeland never has to try to seduce any woman; they just throw themselves at him (they all go on top too). In fact by sleeping with these all incredibly talented women (politicians, lobbyists, composers, artists) Jonas, by some freaky sex-talent-hoover picks up some of their talents, such as fishing or mathematical comprehension. Jonas you see has a 'magic penis', I won't go into the details- something to do with the angle apparently but it's in line with a family fascination , his Aunt Laura's main artistic outlet is keeping a diary of sketches of all the penises she has 'encountered'. The worst that can be said of Jonas is that he isn't well read - managing to get straight As and hoodwink the entire Norwegian educational establishment, politicians, artists and leaders with just 20 quotes written in a little red book. But that's it. The book isn't meant to be a satire on how the untalented can become great ( like Forrest Gump), Jonas is just as fantastic as he seems and he gets everything that he deserves.

Pretentious doesn't quite cover the nature of 'The Seducer'. I'm fine with an intense barrage of references to scientists, quantum mechanics, Shakespeare and even Norwegian writers such as Hamsun and Ibsen. But there was plenty in the deluge I didn't recognise, I only got through several pages of a student baiting a teacher, which was already boring me (I get, he's clever and arrogant) by asking my brother in law what dialectic materialism was. I would like to assume all this is just to remind the reader how unworldly and untravelled they are compared to the Sydney Opera House Organ playing, Communist China visiting, Cruise ship collision surviving Jonas Wergeland. But no, I fear the author is just too enamoured with his talent to trim it. Jonas is made famous (not for all the other incredible feats) but for his famous documentary series, which is is just so orgasmic that people watch it like Brits would watch the royal wedding. It isn't hard to spot that Wergeland's incredible, life affirming (yes really, 'life affirming') documentaries are meant to mimic the book itself. But true to form Kjaerstad felt the need to defend them (and by very obvious extension) himself by filling the final chapters of the book with a televised debate about them.

I enjoyed learning about Norway and it's recent past and the change in small communities as Norwegian oil money flowed in. I also enjoyed hearing about how Norwegians began to alter their world outlook and their role in Europe. The book made me feel that I genuinely had a better picture of Norway and it's interests (even abroad Jonas finds connections to Norway). The Norwegian interest in winter sports, schools, languages and the sea really rang true for me and I wish I had read the book lying on the sun deck on last year's Arctic cruise. But that is why the book is perfect for a very long holiday with a lot of spare time, because the book drags under the weight of it's pretensions and masturbatory enamour with it's protagonist.

Not-so-Fantastic Mr Fox

Fantastic Mr Fox was the first book I read on my own and is very special to me. It was therefore with no small amount of trepidation that I approached Wes Anderson's version of Roald Dahl's classic book. However, I quite like Wes Anderson's movies, their gentle touch, sumptuous visuals and unabashedly slow and odd dialogue. So how bad could it be?

Well, pretty bad. Fantastic Mr Fox looks beautiful. It's just a shame that Anderson has shoved American and British culture together with little thought to his source material- one of the most British stories possible. The bad guys have British accents (awesomely played though) whilst the animals are voiced by Americans and include several animals native to America. The music is nearly all American. Anderson even takes the fantastic distinctive British stylings of Mr Jarvis Cocker and gets him to sing an American country fireside song. The British pub, town and train seemed incongruous on what appeared to be a very American countryside, whilst the dialogue was full of American terms and ideas. Did Mr Anderson think we wouldn't notice? Or was his only thought that the cultures would blend seamlessly as far as less internationally culturally aware US audiences were concerned? Why did he even bother with the small whiffs of Britain?

This is not a children's film. Sure, it lacks violence, swearing and sex , but it's dialogue - laden with adult psychology and Latin jokes is too cumbersome for children. Somehow the tale of an arrogant, cunning fox became another of Anderson's stories about a loving dysfunctional yet indie-cool American family. Not exactly something to keep the kids' attention. In extending the book to film length Anderson has naturally made some embellishments. Plot-wise these are still in keeping with Dahl's premise, but his world-building is somewhat strange. His animals inhabit a human-like world of clothes, professions and chemistry lessons, but yet the rules of this world are never fully explained or adhered to. Most annoying for me was the inclusion of Kylie, an opossum (not native to the UK) who fulfilled the standard Anderson role of platonic, odd pseudo family member. Why did soft spoken Kylie join in the raids and not -as-in-the-book- Mr Badger - an equally well developed character? In short Dahl's story lost out to Anderson's sense of style and snail pace.

Fantastic Mr Fox is a lovely Wes Anderson film about indie-American family values, portrayed in a beautiful environment, rich with style and pathos. A Roald Dahl film for kids it is not.

Madame de Pompadour - Nancy Mitford spreads the aristocratic love

Madame de Pompadour is one of the most fascinating women in French history. A King's mistress with massive influence, which she maintained even after the physical element of her duties subsided. A woman of charm, beauty, artistic appreciation, imagination and intellect. A jumped up commoner, she was (like marmite) both hated and loved. An excellent introduction can be found here. I find I can despise Madame de Pompadour for spending the starving peasants' money on nothing, making important political decisions based on how charming a noble was but also appreciate the incredible longevity and influence in the snakepit of Versailles of a commoner. Therefore as far as I'm concerned anything about the Pompadour and her position is fascinating, and I cheerfully picked up Nancy Mitford's biography of her. Nancy's Mitford's biography is quite biased (although she does admit some of Madame de Pompadour's faults) and makes for a sympathetic read. I almost felt sorry for Madame Etoiles as she made her first haphazard forays in to the French court (It took her several months to learn how to walk, talk and curtsy - and this was a woman considered to be at the apex of Paris society) The biography is gossipy and touches on enough of the greater political and social economic issues of the day to appreciate the importance of Madame de Pompadour's actions, although it barely glances at her legacy (if any).

I found Mitford utterly condescending in insisting on quoting people and maxims of the time in French. Occasionally she translates but mostly expects her reader to follow the archaic French and in doing so she often completely undermines her points. I know that a hundred years ago or earlier every educated person spoke a second language but this is really unacceptable for a book written in the 50s designed for a wide and not purely academic audience. I was left wondering whether the author had assumed French speaking or a certain level of education/class were a pre-requisite for an interest for reading historical biographies about the French or if she was just lazy. Nancy Mitford's well known tendencies towards self aware snobbery would imply the former. She also brazenly assumes her audience are British frequently referring to the French equivalent of 'Our' Knighthoods or 'Our' House of Lords.

Mitford's plummy upper class style is apparent throughout the book, to begin with I was annoyed at her inability to avoid personal opinion and use colloquial phrases. She variously accuses historical figures of being 'a dear old bore', 'tiresome', 'dowdy' and 'simply delicious' . She describes the Queen's social abilities with the assertion that, 'Nothing is so frumpish as last year's gambling game', and 'we must beg leave to doubt' another noble's opinion of the Queen's personality. Her greatest adjective for a minister is his notable 'goodness'- whatever that might objectively be. However after a while, I found I quite enjoyed Mitford's tone and felt I was on a tour through an aristocrats world with an aristocrat. What she thought was important for posterity was probably not far off what her subject's peers thought.

I'm not sure Mitford's biography is the best that can be found to cover the fascinating subject of Madame de Pompadour nor the French court, but is certainly unique and if you can forgive the lack of translation and aristocratic tone an enjoyable read.

EDIT: Grammar, spelling, uselessness

Being MISERly about the programme brings many problems

This Saturday I went to see the matinee performance of Molière's Miser performed at the Royal Exchange in Manchester. The tale of a miserly father trying to make money from marrying off his two children with somewhat predictable twists, misunderstandings and revelations. I'm very fond of the Royal Exchange. The theatre's futuristic pod squats brilliantly beneath the Victorian building's domes and columns, like a Dr Who Villain in it's non-contemporary lair. The pod itself is a glass multi-levelled piece of beauty that encloses a stage surrounded 360 degrees by seats that reach up to the ceiling. It is always fascinating to see how the players adapt and utilise the space to accommodate an audience that surrounds them. Personally I love seeing plays there, it's like looking down into a goldfish bowl at some very dramatic postulating fish.

Until I walked in to the matinee I knew nothing of Molière or his play 'The Miser'. What I did know within 3 minutes was that the production design was bold and brilliant. The cast all wearing a strange punk-17th century cross, with the miser's household covered in splashed white paint and dust. The stage itself was also white, filled with dripping pipes, occasional bare metal furniture and plastic sheeting that managed to be both modern and period at the same time. A brilliant touch was the gold barely hidden beneath the floorboards and visible only to those audience members willing to tilt their head and squint.

The performance combined some excellent bouts of choreographed chasing and comedic action, that suited the quick fire dialogue. The mime background of the movement director Julian Chagrin being very evident and an excellent addition to the play. Derek Griffiths[1] naturally excelled as Harpagan the Miser and was well supported by the younger cast. Other performances I enjoyed were Helen Atkinson Wood providing an excellent robust Frosine and Simon Gregor as a physically hilarious La Fleche. I laughed continuously and I even enjoyed when Harpagon interacted with the audience; a situation that normally makes me squirm. I found some fault with the actresses, who upon being given hooped dresses to wear all seemed to believe that their character's mannerisms should include unnecessarily grasping their skirts and swinging them about, but I was mostly entranced by their quick banter and comedic timing. Unfortunately the quality of the acting seemed undermined by the performances of Jaques and Signor Anselme. Jacques failed to sparkle or even keep up with his part of any interaction, providing a plodding delivery that seemed to be out of pace with everyone else, perhaps indicating an unfamiliarity with the role or the line's delivery. Signor Anselme was really quite awful, providing some of the most stilted line delivery I have ever seen and quite damaging my enjoyment of the last scenes.

This led me to be suspicious that the two actors might be understudies. However, I had not purchased a programme leaving me with no idea as to what the actors should look like. This led to some frantic internet searching and desperate face recognition but I struggled to draw conclusions. I just about confirmed that Signor Anselme was not played by the well known cast actor (Tim Barlow - him with the long coat in Hot Fuzz), but Jaques's portrayl remains something of a mystery. I therefore feel a little uncomfortable criticizing performances that might have been last minute additions. So I will still recommend the play as a very enjoyable few hour's entertainment. Sumptuous to look at, inventive, funny and somehow making 17th century dash-about, twisty comedy accessible and new.

Plus a note to myself: Buy the programme.

[1]He was the voice of SuperTed! Not that I could tell