Reading/Watching Log #60

Last batch of the year!

I didn’t do so great with my New Years’ Resolution of focusing on female-centric stories and female creators: for the most part I managed it, and the quality of stories definitely went up, but during lockdown and in some other areas I just let myself watch or read what I wanted, such was my worry about anxiety levels.

Bu to wrap things up, I went back to the female-focus well, with three period dramas involving three very different queens, books about witches and writers and detectives, and the long-awaited offering from Cartoon Saloon: Wolfwalkers, which is the most gorgeous fairy tale I’ve seen in a long time, starring two imminently loveable heroines.

I took my niece to see the Cinderella pantomime, which was great fun, and secured tickets for two more ballets in the coming year, which is something to look forward to. And I’ve had the last three weeks off, and am well into my “sleep till ten and stay up all night reading” part of the holiday.

I’m very aware that Christmas around the world was a very different experience from what we were allowed to enjoy in New Zealand, and even though the vaccination process has started, we’re still a long way from collective normality. I hope you were able to have some degree of fun over the break, even if it was just cuddling up with a cat in front of the television.

Cinderella (Isaac Theatre Royal)

I don’t think I’ve seen an old-fashioned pantomime since I was a kid, so it was a great treat to take my best friend’s daughter to this production at the Isaac Theatre Royal. She’s a pretty introverted kid, but even she was pointing and shouting at the inevitable: “look behind you!” scene.

This was Cinderella with a deeply kiwi flavour: she lives in Hoon Hay for a start, with ugly stepsisters called Fendalton and Cashmere that have just come out of Mike Hosking’s finishing school for girls, and a father played by Mark Hadlow (he regales the villagers with stories of how he flew on an eagle’s back, fought giant spiders, and finally reached the Lonely Mountain). Most of these references went way over the kids’ heads, but there were plenty of adults in the crowd who knew that crowd participation is an essential part of any pantomime, so there was enough cheering, singing and laughing to tide us all over.

To my mind, any pantomime must include three essential things: men dressed in drag, the aforementioned “look behind you!” scene, and of course the “no it isn’t/yes it is!” exchange between actor and audience. Bonus points for a Christmas song during the final bows (check, and I wasn’t sure we’d get one!) and a magical clothing transformation when Cinderella is sent to the ball (there are some truly incredible dress designs out there, though this one took advantage of a big bathrobe and some dry ice effects).

We’re profoundly fortunate down here in New Zealand to be able to enjoy a pantomime at Christmastime, with the theatre at full capacity and excited families mingling in the foyer. For this reason, it’s right that the biggest laugh of the night went to the stepsisters fantasizing about their dream man, and concluding that it was Ashley Bloomfield.

Enola Holmes: Book 1 – 6 by Nancy Springer

After being deeply charmed with the Millie Bobby Brown’s performance in The Case of the Missing Marquess earlier this year, it was interesting to read Nancy Springer’s original books with a mind to the potential continuation of the series on Netflix. Given the success of the first one, I’m assuming that they’ll continue with the adaptation process, though I’m skeptical that they’ll make it to six movies.

Which is a shame since books four and five are easily the best, and the second arguably the weakest. That said, reading The Missing Marquess made it very clear that drastic changes were made in the adaptation process (just off the top of my head, the titular marquess is much young than Enola, the motivation and culprit of his attempted murderer is completely different, and she never actually finds her mother, who leaves her for entirely selfish, rather than noble suffragette-related, reasons).

So for all I know, The Case of the Left-Handed Lady will go through similar changes, while still maintaining the original gist of the plot.

These books are also a lot darker than the film we saw (though admittedly, that did involve a grown man making a very serious attempt on a teenage girl’s life) and depict of the true depths of poverty in the London slums, not to mention prostitutes, mutilations and capital punishment. I don’t think Netflix is going to go there.

But Springer’s gift is in crafting mysteries that could only ever be solved by a teenage girl with an insider’s knowledge of ladies clothing, the ability to listen in on woman’s gossip, and permission to enter female-only spaces. There are places Sherlock cannot go, and feminine things he simply cannot understand, and that’s where Enola gets her edge.

Most of her stories involve her helping other women – clients that are overlooked by other private detectives – and using her gender to go unnoticed by society at large. I personally can’t wait to see who they cast for Lady Cecily Alistair, for despite setting up a romance with Viscount Tewkesbury in the first film, there are some undeniable Sapphic undertones between Enola and Cecily in books two and four.

Other things to look forward to: Florence Nightingale, Enola switching places with a bride, absolutely NO Moriarty at any point, and Enola throwing a cat at the back of Sherlock Holmes’s head in order to cause a distraction and make a getaway. Let’s hope there’s some announcement as the to the future of this franchise soon…

Emily of New Moon trilogy by L.M. Montgomery

I can’t remember if it was L.M. Montgomery herself or some other commentator who said that Anne Shirley came from her heart, whilst Emily Bryd Starr came from her soul. I’ve said it many times before that without Montgomery’s wry sense of humour, Anne of Green Gables would be sentimental glurge. You couldn’t say the same about Emily of New Moon, as right from the get-go it announces itself as a much more serious work, with the first chapter ending on young Emily being told of her father’s impending death.

If the Anne books are largely uplifting, Emily’s story is shot through with a deep sense of melancholy. I was in tears by the second chapter, in which her father tries to prepare his only child for his early death, and Emily herself is moonlight to Anne’s sunbeam. She’s introverted and proud and solemn where Anne was open and humble and cheerful, and the obstacles she faces feel much more harrowing and traumatic, whether it’s her father’s death, her treatment at the hands of her new guardians, the agonizing love triangle she ends up in, or – and I kid you not – the physic visions she has, one for each book.

The likes of Aunt Elizabeth, Aunt Laura and Cousin Jimmy aren’t anywhere near as lovable as Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert (Laura is kind, but also a complete non-entity) and there’s an astonishing interest in non-Christian religion, with mentions of Allah, Buddhism, atheism, reincarnation and the possibility of Emily marrying a Japanese prince, with passages such as: “I don’t believe the woods are ever wholly Christian in the darkness. There is always a lurking life in them that dares not show itself to the sun but regains its own with the night. It was that fascinating whisper of something unholy. I was afraid of it – and yet I loved it.”

The Emily trilogy is set apart from Anne’s ongoing series in two crucial ways: the first being that it was specially designed to be a trilogy (whereas Anne’s story just kept going till Montgomery ran out of steam) and second that the main thrust of the plot is very much based on Emily’s ambition to become a writer. One can’t help but suspect Montgomery drew heavily on her own experiences, from Emily’s childhood scribblings and the encouragement she receives from trustworthy adults in New Moon, her early successes and setbacks in Emily Climbs, and finally reaching the summit with a published book in Emily’s Quest. It’s the strongest narrative thread in the trilogy, and captures the joys and agonies of writing like nothing else I’ve read.

It’s a shame then that so much else of the trilogy’s content is taken up with interminable love triangles. Ilse loves Perry, who loves Emily, who loves Teddy, who has a jealous mother that refuses to let him form a connection with anyone. Then there’s Dean Priest, a thirty-something year old man who saves Emily’s life at age twelve and decides to wait around till she’s of marriageable age, despite having been friends with her father in high school and lying about the quality of her first manuscript so that she’ll give up her ambition and focus all her attention on him.

It would be easy to condemn Montgomery for this plot were it not for the fact that Emily doesn’t go through with marrying him, and that she reacts negatively to several of his creepier comments (after saving her life he tells her: “your life belongs to me henceforth… since I saved it it’s mine,” something that Montgomery clearly frames as not okay). But Montgomery has written some dubious love stories before (one short story has a girl marry the man who was once in love with her mother) and in this case it’s hard to know just how much she disapproves of Dean.

I suspect it’s not the age difference but the possessive nature of Dean’s love that she objected to (one that very much parallels Mrs Kent’s jealousy of Teddy) though it’s not helped by the very thinly-sketched character of Teddy, who never really comes alive as a character. Emily’s obsession with him seems to rival Dean’s for her, and she often thinks of herself as belonging to Teddy in a way that’s not quite healthy. That there’s a contest between her writing ambition and her love interests is a subtext that doesn’t go away even after Dean is out of the picture, and her final reunion with Teddy is so vague and hurried that it can’t hold a candle to the rapturous triumph of Emily’s published novel, and her visceral sense of victory that the long-disapproving Aunt Elizabeth is thrilled with it.

On the whole the third book in the trilogy is a step-down from the first two, and occasionally reads like a first draft. It’s considerably shorter than its predecessors (easily half the size) and its reliance on absurd melodrama threatens to destroy one’s suspension of disbelief – on the day of Ilse’s marriage to Teddy, she overhears that Perry has been killed in a car accident and escapes out the window in her bridal gown to find him. Reducing the trilogy’s second-best character to this nonsense is a disservice, and since it happens so close to the end of the book, you don’t get much feel for the emotional fallout.

See also: Emily’s physic premonitions (she appears to Teddy and warns him not to get on a doomed ship) and her finding of the lost family diamond. First seeded in the first book, Emily’s discovery of it is described within a single paragraph and then never mentioned again. What should have been a moment of revelation and joy, a sign straight from God Himself, is treated as a throwaway event.

But on the whole, the trilogy is a beautiful piece of writing that I loved coming back to after so many years away. Emily Bryd Starr is an evocative heroine, even if Montgomery is on firmer ground when writing about her literary ambitions as opposed to her romantic turmoil.  

Hollowpox: The Hunt for Morrigan Crow by Jessica Townsend

This is the third book in Jessica Townsend’s Nevermoor series, and the most amazing thing about it is how closely it reflects current events, specifically in the way a deadly pandemic provides the main conflict of the story. In the realm of Nevermoor there are many citizens known as Wunimals, who are essentially humanoid animals of varying degrees, with the ability to talk and a tendency to wear clothing, have jobs, and be active members of society.

But then a strange affliction begins to turn these Wunimals into wild beasts, causing serious harm to themselves and others. Wunimals begin to face prejudice and persecution, with restrictions put on their movements and fearmongering preached on the streets.  It’s basically a blend of Zootopia (intelligent animals revert back to feral beasts) and Wicked (talking creatures are persecuted despite their integration into society).

It certainly feels very timely, touching on a pandemic, and misinformation, and fearmongering, and how all these elements can collide to create absolute chaos.  Our heroine Morrigan Crow has several Wunimal friends, and is increasingly desperate to find a way to help them… even if it means turning to Ezra Squall, the Wundersmith that came before her.

Some backstory: Morrigan is a Wundersmith – that is, a person possessed of great magic that can be used for either good or ill, which in turn makes her a target of fear and hate. Or at least it would if anyone outside her immediate circle of friends knew who she really was; a conundrum not helped by the fact that the last Wundersmith was a cruel and evil man, responsible for the death of thousands.

There are two fairly thick books preceding this one, that contain all the relevant information a reader needs to properly understand this one, and most of the twists and surprises featured in Hollowpox won’t land properly if you don’t have the necessary context provided in the first two books. By this point we’re in Goblet of Fire territory: you can’t read them out of order anymore.

These books are often compared to Harry Potter, and I can see why given the subject matter (a young person learning about magical abilities in an equally magical world) and the general tone (quite light and quirky, but with several dips into real darkness) but in many ways I find that Nevermoor is more emotionally mature. There are insights and comments regarding Morrigan’s psyche that are quite fascinating (how she often pretends she’s doing something for the right reasons, when actually she’s doing it to sate her curiosity, or gain power, or get her own way) and more of an in-depth look at the nature of good and evil (let’s be honest, Voldemort was never a very complicated villain, whereas Ezra Squall most certainly is).

The stories are also very much written as mysteries, with a number of strange occurrences that need to be solved by the book’s end. In this respect, I’d lean more towards J.K. Rowling as the superior “puzzle-box plotter”, as much of the time all the clues and red herrings in a Morrigan Crow book are seeded a bit too late in the game for the reader to get a fair shot of figuring out the mystery by themselves. But they’re great stories, and I’m looking forward to the next book.

The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman

As with the first season of His Dark Materials, I read the relevant chapters that made up each episode as it aired, which resulted in an interesting reading/viewing experience. Most of the time the old adage proved true (“the book was better”) but there were some intriguing little changes here and there, usually in dramatizing stuff that was only related third-hand in the novel.

As it happens, this is my favourite book of the trilogy, though I couldn’t tell you why. I think I preferred Will to Lyra as a protagonist – even taking into account the switch in gender and the annoying way in which Lyra now plays second-fiddle, I had more in common with the introverted Will. His relationship with his mother was heartrending, and the way he had mastered the art of blending into his surroundings… well, let’s just say I was also a pro at that.

It was also the locations that sparked my imagination, particularly Cittàgazze and its terraces, cafés, streets, towers, and promenades. There’s something about the way Pullman describes its architecture and layout that just transports me there. I remember as a kid just reading those opening chapters and imagining myself wandering those streets.

And even having read it for the millionth time this year (I did my thesis on this trilogy back at university) there were still new things I picked up on, such as the careful seeding of points as minor as the bloodmoss that John uses to heal Will’s injury, or Pullman’s audacity in deliberately not explaining things such as how John came into possession of Lee Scoresby’s mother’s ring.

So I’m not looking forward to The Amber Spyglass quite as much as I was this middle instalment, as it heralds the arrival of Pullman’s message coming to the fore in a not-particularly-elegant way, and chapters such as the Suburbs of the Dead and Lyra and her Death, which never really interested me that much. All we can do is wait…

Elf (2003)

It was a quiet Christmas Day for me, so on realizing that this movie was on Netflix, I had it hooked up to the television set within seconds. It really is my favourite Christmas movie, possibly because I’ve only watched about five Christmas movies in my entire life (Home Alone, It’s a Wonderful Life, various takes on A Christmas Carol and an assortment of Muppet Christmas Specials), but it does have an undeniable charm of its own.

While going about his annual Christmas duties one Christmas Eve, Santa Claus stops at an orphanage, only to arrive back at the North Pole with an extra bundle in his sack – a stowaway baby that the elves decide to call Buddy and raise amongst themselves.

Thirty years later, Buddy is an enthusiastic toymaker, but not a very good one. Despite towering over every other elf in the village, the fact that he’s a human is something that needs to be spelt out to him – after which, Buddy decides to take the journey to New York and meet his real father (who just happens to be on the naughty list). Hijinks ensue.

Will Farrell is a touch-and-go actor for me, but he plays Buddy with nary a hint of cynicism or adult humour. He’s a pure innocent from start to finish, and like Pollyanna and Anne Shirley and countless other Blithe Spirits before him, his brand of naivety and childlike wonder changes the lives of those around him (whether they like it or not). Highlights include discovering the joy of revolving doors, singing loudly in public, pouring maple syrup on spaghetti, going all-out with Christmas decorations in the toy section of a department store, and confronting the Santa impostor that visits the very next day: “you sit on a throne of lies.”

I can’t say I’m that taken with the romance between him and a young Zoe Deschanel (when will Hollywood realize that grown woman are NOT attracted to man-children, no matter how desperately their movies try to sell it?) but his interactions with his newly discovered family (including his extremely chill stepmother and more cynical half-brother) not to mention Santa and Papa Elf are pretty delightful. Best of all is the depiction of the North Pole and Santa’s workshop, which comes straight out of a Rankin/Bass holiday special, complete with Sam (or in this case, Leon) the Snowman and detailed snowflakes perpetually falling from the sky.

Stardust (2007)

I can’t believe this movie is over ten years old. Based on the book by Neil Gaiman, it’s one of those rare occurrences in which a movie adaptation elevates the source material: remaining faithful enough to appease its original fans, but also expanding and exploring certain undeveloped areas of the story (it’s hard to believe, but the sky pirates are just a throwaway line in the book).

The village of Wall exists on the outskirts of Faerie, and occasionally denizens from the rural English settlement make their way into the magical realm, despite the best efforts of the man who guards the boundary. Such was the fate of Dunstan Thorne, who crosses the Wall, meets a beautiful young woman, and nine months later finds a package at his door: a baby boy called Tristan.

He grows up with his head in the clouds, and on falling in love with the beautiful Victoria, promises to bring her back a falling star in exchange for her hand in marriage. Off he goes, into the Faerie realms, unaware that he’s not the only one after the precious star… the younger sons of a great king are hunting for her, eager to claim the necklace around her neck that will make them heir to their father’s throne, and a powerful, terrifying, beautiful witch, who wants to steal the star’s life-force in order to reclaim her youth.

It’s an adventure for which the word “rollicking” was invented, with all these interested parties racing across the countryside in pursuit of the star, leading to all manner of chases, traps, escapes, disguises, and lucky coincidences along the way.

As fun as it is, there are a few things that niggled this time around. The film’s treatment of Victoria isn’t as kind as it is in the book, and I’ve no idea why they jettisoned the Prophecy Twist regarding a “week when two Mondays come together,” especially after establishing that Tristan works in a place called “Monday and Son.” Also, the “glass snowdrop” that acts as a protective measure is clearly made out of plastic (they couldn’t have splurged on a slightly more convincing prop?) and after introducing Tristan’s uncanny ability to know exactly where he’s going in Faerie, they end up dropping this talent in the very same scene.

Furthermore, the Belligerent Sexual Tension between Tristan and Yvaine involves too much belligerence and not enough sexual tension. It’s not a particularly convincing love story, and the two spend too much time yelling at each other for it to be that heart-warming when the declarations of love inevitably begin. And to be frank, I’m not sure Claire Danes was the right choice for Yvaine. She’s just not otherworldly enough.

But the cinematography is gorgeous, Robert de Niro puts in an unforgettable performance as Captain Shakespeare, most of the twists and set-pieces land triumphantly, and this is surely Michelle Pfeiffer at her most beautiful. A lot of people compare to it The Princess Bride, and though it doesn’t have as many quotable lines, it definitely vibes with it in terms of action, adventure and fairy tale ambiance.

Son of Batman (2014)

In terms of release date (and therefore viewing order) I got this and the last month’s Throne of Atlantis mixed up, but never mind. The best stories in this particular branch of the DC universe are the ones that centre on Batman and his extended family – in this case, learning that he fathered a son with Talia al Ghul. The details of the conception are extremely dodgy, with talk of Talia slipping Bruce a narcotic and forcing him into a sexual encounter – but then, isn’t that exactly how Talia (and her father) would have organized the act of conceiving a child with Bruce Wayne? It tracks.

After Ra al Ghul’s citadel is attacked and the man himself murdered, Talia brings Damian to his father in Gotham City, in the hopes that he’ll be safe there. Though there’s a wider plot about Deathstroke waging war on the League of Assassins, with various kidnappings and assassinations, the real focus of the story is Bruce grappling with the reality of being a father.  

I’m as astonished as the next person when it comes to the fact that I like Damian Wayne. Usually I can’t stand swaggery little shits who think they’re God’s gift to us all (think Disney’s animated Mowgli, Prince Corin from The Horse and His Boy, Dash from The Incredibles) and yet something about this furious little child got under my skin. It’s no doubt to do with the fact that the writers know that Damian is inevitably going to be an arrogant little shit, and that this is the first step on his journey to becoming… less of an arrogant little shit, and I’m looking forward to how he develops.

I can’t actually remember what my reaction was when I realized Bruce Wayne had a son – I think I first saw the character in another of these animated films, and at that point he was already so integrated into the action that I couldn’t really connect the dots properly. I’ve no idea when or how he appears in the comics, so these animated films are my first introduction to the character, and it makes perfect sense that the ah Ghul family would use underhanded tactics to introduce Batman’s DNA to their precious bloodline.

Also, how perfect a name is Damian for the son of Batman? It simultaneously conjures up connotations to Saint Damian and Damien Thorn from The Omen movies – an angel and devil wrapped in one.

The story itself is pretty basic, with so many action scenes compromised by the fact that the animation isn’t exactly great, and Talia is forced to wear a truly ludicrous low-cut top. But it’s a good introduction to Damian, and one that’s built on nicely in the next film: Batman vs Robin.

Spies in Disguise (2019)

I can’t resist a brand-new DVD from the library, which is honestly the only reason I brought this home in the first place. It’s… fine. Will Smith is a suave secret agent called Lance Sterling (great spy name) who gets framed for a terrorist attack. During his escape he ends up at the house of Walter Beckett (Tom Holland), a young weapons designer who wants to arm all the secret agents with non-lethal gadgets, his motivation being that his mother was killed as a child, yadda yadda, no one cares about his backstory.

One thing leads to another, and Will Smith is turned into a pigeon via Walter’s latest invention. Now the two of them have to team up to find the real culprit (Ben Mendelsohn, who is way too good for this material) while avoiding the agents tasked with bringing Lance in. It’s basically a riff on every James Bond film in existence, sometimes predictably, sometimes in fun and inventive ways. There is a great line-up of female supporting characters though: Rashida Jones, Reba McEntire, Karen Gillan – all in leadership and/or STEM roles. There’s really not a lot to praise or object to with this: it’s a harmless enough diversion with some great visuals and voice-acting.

Wolfwalkers (2020)

WATCH THIS MOVIE. I’m not going to say much about it since I really want to devote an entire post to how beautiful and brilliant it is, but since 2017 when the concept trailer was released, I’ve been desperately looking forward to the latest offering from Cartoon Saloon.

Song of the Sea is genuinely one of my top five movies of all time, and knowing that this completed the unofficial “Irish triptych” (the other being The Secret of Kells) my expectations were sky-high… and surpassed. The story is engrossing, the animation is stunning, the score is beautiful and the two main characters will steal your heart. There are gentle Sapphic undertones (you can’t have a girl with a secret identity without a LGBTQ subtext) and scenes that run the whole gamut from joyful to harrowing to tear-jerking.

One particularly clever conceit is how the city is depicted with straight lines and hard corners, whilst the forest regions are rendered in circular strokes, sometimes even leaving the sketch marks visible on the characters to give them a deeper sense of movement and humanity.

But my favourite thing about this film’s release are all the male commentators on Youtube waxing lyrical over this girl-centric children’s story, though it really is deserved acclaim. Treat yourself and watch it, with as little foreknowledge about it as possible.  

Trollhunters: Season 2 (2017)

Before watching the second season of Trollhunters, I settled down and rewatched the first – not because I had forgotten its content, but because I just really enjoyed it the first time around. It’s not ground-breaking or mind-blowing, but it has a strangely comforting vibe that I love sinking into. It reminds me of the early days of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, complete with high school shenanigans, suspicious teachers, oblivious parents, books of arcane knowledge, wise and worrisome mentors, a best friend squad fighting evil…

It also has a great aesthetic, with a truly beautiful colour palette. But its biggest strength is the way it’s structured. As far as I know, Buffy was the first serialized television show to really nail the art of the seasonal arc, with Big Bads, character development, Monsters of the Week, relationship dynamics and filler episodes dispersed throughout each season, and Trollhunters builds on that format, masterfully unspooling its plot-points, shifting its goalposts, raising its stakes and revealing its twists at exactly the right time and place. Though all of its stories have been seen in any number of other magically-themed shows, these guys know how to perfectly calibrate the familiar beats.

The second season opens with Jim Lake, our titular Trollhunter, in the midst of the protagonist’s “I must do this alone” mentality that all such heroes go through sooner or later, having disappeared into the Darklands in the hope of rescuing love interest Claire’s kidnapped baby brother. Meanwhile, best friend Toby, aforementioned Claire, and mentor Blinky are trying to find and assist him by utilizing a range of magical artefacts.

Such is the opening act of season two, which goes on to include genre favourites such as “alternate reality where hero was never chosen”, “multiple versions of protagonist, each embodying a distinct personality trait, cause hijinks", and “side characters get A Day in the Limelight.” You’ve seen it all before, but this is a trope-heavy formula that’s been structured and polished with great skill and panache.

Although there’s not much of Barbara Lake (and Jim breaks his promise to tell her the truth about his Trollhunter activities), Claire gets more focus this season, as well as a pretty cool power-set, and it looks as though Miss Nomura will have a bigger role going forward (I had assumed they’d forgotten about her halfway through season one).

They’ve gathered together some great voice talent as well: Kelsey Grammar, Clancy Brown, Angelica Husten, Mark Hamill, Jonathan Pryce, Lena Heady, and of course the late Anton Yelchin, all of whom elevate the material to convey genuine life-or-death stakes. I’m moving onto season three soon, which coincides with the show’s first spin-off: 3Below.

Fleabag: Season 2 (2019)

After watching the first season last month, I wasn’t going to let 2020 end without wrapping things up. As it’s clear that there will only be two seasons of this show, it’s interesting to note the structure of a duology. The first usually takes the protagonist to their lowest point, the absolute nadir of their existence, and the second builds things up again, both on an internal and external level. (Off the top of my head: Terminator ends on a broody, tragic note; Terminator 2 is comparatively a lot more upbeat).

In this example, Phoebe Waller-Bridger’s unnamed protagonist has reached rock-bottom: her family hates her, her café is failing, and (as we find out in the final episode) her best friend is dead because of her. There’s nowhere to go but up, and that’s where things start with season two: her café is doing well, she starts to repair her situation with her sister, she finally gets some therapy (though alas, it’s only one session) and she even finds some semblance of peace with her godmother/stepmother.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Fleabag without some bittersweetness, and the romance with Hot Priest obviously can’t last. But… well, here’s my unpopular opinion: I wasn’t all that moved by it. To be frank, I have no idea what we were meant to get out of it. It’s clearly a bad idea, it’s not hugely romantic, and Fleabag’s need to unburden herself to him never goes to the obvious place (confessing and working through the situation with Boo). They have sex, and the next day he tells her he can’t see her again. Um… are we sure he was a good guy?

Perhaps it was meant to demonstrate that she can walk away from a relationship and still be okay? That she’s no longer defining herself through sex? Does anyone want to help me out here? (Hey, maybe it was just overhyped, as Hot Priest was all anyone could talk about for a while there).

It doesn’t matter really, because my favourite rapport is between the two sisters, and they’re very much the focal point of the season. Claire has some fantastic lines/scenes, and the conclusion of her story – in which she leaves the wedding to fulfil the romantic-comedy cliché of running through the airport after her love (which takes place entirely offscreen) – the highpoint of the episode.

Olivia Colman is still brilliant, playing a woman so loathsome that you’re almost impressed, and there are some fun cameos from the likes of Kirsten Scott Thomas and Fiona Shaw. It’s a fantastic bit of a television, and definitely something that should be watched more than once just to catch all the nuances (maybe next time around, I’ll get the appeal of Hot Priest).

The Crown: Season 4 (2020)

The fourth season of the tenuously-based-on-facts family-that-just-happens-to-be-the-royals drama is interesting in that it focuses for the first time on a triumvirate of women: Queen Elizabeth, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, and Princess Diana, the character who (let’s face it) we’ve all been waiting for since the inception of the show.

Though Thatcher and Diana never once interact, they provide a fascinating commentary on the role of women in power and ways in which femininity is judged by the public eye: Thatcher commands hard power, and tries to embody strength and masculinity (I found out while watching the show that she deliberately deepened her voice) while Diana wields soft power, wooing crowds with warmth and compassion and an array of glamourous frocks. One became the Iron Lady, the other the People’s Princess; once was loathed and the other adored, as seen in the profound contrast in public grief (or lack thereof) at their funerals.

Though Morgan perhaps goes a little easier on Thatcher than I would have liked, he does a good job of capturing her internalized misogyny: her barely-veiled contempt at any woman who isn’t herself, the way she diligently cooks for the other MPs whenever they dine at her house, and the frankly embarrassing way she fusses over her spoiled, selfish son while her daughter stands awkwardly by. And of course, despite trying so hard to be one of the boys, they throw her under the bus as soon as she becomes a liability.

Any woman who thinks institutionalized patriarchy is her ally, let alone something she can control or command respect from, is a damn fool. Margaret Thatcher was no exception.

And then there’s Diana, who took the exact opposite tact, finding her power not in strength but vulnerability, acts of compassion, glamour and motherhood. Whatever you may think of her, it cannot be denied that her charity work made real and substantial change in the world, whether it was AIDS, landmines, or children’s rights. And yet the world killed her just as surely as it hated Thatcher.

Now that the events of the show have entered living memory, there was unsurprisingly more of a backlash against perceived inaccuracies and injustices, largely in regards to Prince Charles, who does not come off particularly well here. For what it’s worth, I thought Morgan managed a fairly even-handed depiction of Diana and Charles’s disastrous courtship and marriage, demonstrating that Diana was neither a perfect angel nor a naïve child when it came to her behaviour (their first meeting is essentially her flitting about in a leotard saying: “oh dear, you’ve caught me in this beguiling little outfit when I’m trying so hard not to let you see me”). Later the Queen gently accuses her of playing to the crowd, and it’s hard to argue with that observation.

But to this day it has always bewildered me that the royal family never really seemed to understand or appreciate what Diana brought to the table: a bridge between their cold, stand-offish personas and the people who were wild over a charismatic, fashionable, empathic princess. And let’s face it: it would have been well-nigh impossible for Charles to come off in a good light when it comes to the undisputed facts of the marriage: that she was nineteen to his thirty-two, that he made that awful “whatever love is” comment when asked if they were in love, that he remained in contact with Camilla during the years of his marriage (eventually cheating with her), and that Diana was driven to an eating disorder due to the complete lack of support from her husband and the monarchy.

These are things that happened, and there’s no way to spin any of that in a positive light.

Yet I do recall Morgan being surprisingly kind to Charles in The Queen (depicting him as the only member of the family who truly understood what Diana meant to the public, and why the family’s comportment after her death was going to have hugely negative ramifications) and whether or not you agree the portrayal was unfair here, I do understand what Morgan was going for: that Charles – unloved and neglected for most of his life – becomes resentful and impatient with a young wife who effortlessly wins people’s love, making him look bad in the process. As they say: hurt people hurt people, and Charles is what happens when entitlement, envy and self-pity converge. It’s an important reminder that power dynamics can very easily turn a victim into an abuser.

In the midst of all this, Olivia Colman as the actual queen gets rather lost in the shuffle, though in fairness her arc is pretty much over. She’s a mature woman now, heading towards old age – she’s learned all her life lessons and mostly serves as a contrast and sounding board to other characters. It’s a bit of a shame, as Colman is obviously a gem, but again – I can see the challenges Morgan faced.

As usual I enjoyed watching: the production values and performances are as impeccable as ever, and each episode flew by. There’s not much in the way of story arcs, leading to several characters disappearing or reappearing at random, so it’s better to think of the show as a series of little movies rather than an episodic story.

And I’m curious to see how Morgan will handle upcoming events, simply because they’ve already been covered fairly comprehensively in 2006’s The Queen. Since he already rather shamelessly plagiarized himself with the stag metaphor in the episode that introduces Diana, there’s a chance her death and the aftermath will be a truncated version of that film, or else he’ll chose to skip it entirely… though I’m not sure if that’ll be possible with such a massive milestone. Time will tell.

The Spanish Princess: Season 2 (2020)

Look, everyone knows that Phillipa Gregory adaptations are stupid with a side of sexist (seriously, for someone who claims to want to tell women’s side of history, she seems to loathe just about every woman she writes about) but we keep watching them anyway don’t we? It’s the costumes, dammit.

This series is interesting in that it’s the first one to act as a true sequel to its predecessor, keeping its main cast intact instead of switching them out as The White Queen and The White Princess did. A lot of credit must go to Charlotte Hope as Catherine; she has both a lot (in quantity) and very little (in quality) to work with, but does so with plenty of aplomb and an accent she just manages to keep a handle on. And she acts rings around the guy playing King Henry, who certainly looks the part, but doesn’t capture any of the mercurial nature of a terrifying man with absolute power.

The story is a little scattershot, covering the waning years of Catherine’s marriage, but stopping just short of the Great Matter and the arrival of Anne Boleyn (she’s present, but minor). And as ever, the writing is hopelessly confused when it comes to its take on feminism. An interesting Tumblr post is going around at the moment which points out that historical “feminism” should be about women negotiating the period-appropriate expectations and restrictions placed around them, as opposed to single-handedly overhauling the system with the strength of girl-power.

The writers of The Spanish Princess are… unclear on this issue. We have Catherine overstepping her boundaries numerous times, often in deeply absurd ways, and Margaret’s storyline is just baffling. Her ill-fated secret marriage to Angus Douglas is depicted as something that eventually drives her mad, and she’s last seen laughing maniacally as she instructs her men to open cannon fire on him. Uh… okay.

Occasionally some interestingly nuanced situations emerge: like how Catherine realizes that she can’t condone Margaret’s desire for a divorce (despite feeling sympathy for her) due to her own precarious position as Henry’s wife, which ultimately costs her an ally and friend in her sister-in-law. It’s a clever way of portraying how patriarchal systems tear women apart.

But for the most part, this level is nuance is lost on such writers, and there’s always an uncomfortable imbalance between affording these women “agency”, and having said agency result in astoundingly bad decisions that they’re duly punished for. (Why did Margaret marry Angus Douglas and thereby endanger her own regency? It probably had something to do with a profound sense of vulnerability and a belief that pro-English male protection would strengthen her powerbase in Scotland; here it’s just because she has the hots for him).

Phillipa Gregory’s stories always somehow come back to women making bad choices and paying for them. This one infamously posits that Catherine lied about (not) consummating her marriage to Prince Arthur – I’ll leave you to decide whether or not Catherine, a devout Catholic, lied on oath before God and Church to her last breath on this issue – and furthermore has Lady Margaret Pole spill the beans about what really happened between them. Because it’s not like the King of England was perfectly capable of coming up with this slander on his own; it has to be spoon-fed to him by a treacherous female so that he can be depicted as the injured party in the marriage.

Just…why? In keeping with this clumsy attempt to bestow a faux sense of feminism on the women, the show ends by shakily reaching for an “empowered” Catherine, who leaves court of her own volition and declares that she has no regrets over any of the choices she’s made. She also monologues about how Princess Mary is the future of England, finding some element of comfort in that – but we all know that the two were forbidden from seeing each other after the divorce, and that even when Mary ascended the throne, she wasn’t exactly a particularly good Queen. So THAT falls flat as well.

It’s a silly way to try and eke some degree of agency for her. Her life was a terribly sad one. It’s okay to just depict the rampant cruelty and unfairness that women faced in the sixteenth century, truly it is.

It wasn’t all bad (within the context of reasonable expectations). I’m glad that Lina and Oviedo made it out alive, and how rare it is to see two Black people in a period drama enjoy a happy, sexy romance together (the only other one that comes to mind is Georgiana Lambe from Sanditon, though that didn’t get a chance to end well). I was surprisingly touched by the return of Rosa, now a wife and mother, and how happy both Catherine and Lina were to see her. And with the events of the show catching up with The Tudors, it was interesting to see the differences in how each one handled the material. (Back in 2007, would we have ever imagined The Tudors doing anything better?)

Honestly, I think the whole thing can be summed up in the poster. It’s a beautiful image: the colouring, the hair, the curve of the pregnant belly – but the moment you look closer, it becomes patently absurd.

Bridgerton (2020)

This just sneaked in as my last show of the year, watched between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve.

There is an interesting debate currently doing the rounds about the value of woman’s power fantasies, which inevitably gets wrapped up with the arguments surrounding Mary Sues and wish fulfilment and self-insert fan-fiction (all of which are generally considered to be cringy and puerile).

I can see both sides. For one thing, so many terrible stories are power fantasies for men, involving action heroes running around killing bad guys and screwing beautiful women with no strings attached (basically, nearly every single James Bond movie). But because such stories are so prolific, no one bats an eye, even though the likes of Bond and Bruce Wayne and even Harry Potter (youngest Seeker in a century? No way would a female character get away with that) definitely tick the boxes of Gary Stu-dom.

So why can’t women enjoy similar stories in which female characters get to enjoy male attention and material wealth and extreme superpowers and abject adoration? Standard female fantasies aren’t quite the same as male ones, and a lot of them are wrapped up in the tropes that appear frequently period dramas, specifically regarding romance. Some people enjoy Jane Austen for her wit and biting social satire; others just like fantasizing about marrying a hot guy and getting laid in every room of his giant mansion while the servants tend to all the menial labour. And hey, that’s not a crime.

On the other hand, self-indulgent fantasies don’t make for good stories. Even the Twilight fans eventually got wise to the hollow victory of getting everything you want handed to you on a silver platter with no consequences whatsoever by the time Breaking Dawn rolled out.

My point in all this is that Bridgerton is a female fantasy. Aside from a few obligatory remarks about how women are raised for marriage and money troubles are always dangling above their heads, this show exists as pure, unadulterated, wish fulfilment… with a few extremely dodgy creative decisions along the way.

The Bridgerton and the Featherington families have come – as have so many others – to London for the season, where their oldest girls are to be introduced to society and start hunting for suitable husbands. Riling things up this year is the distribution of pamphlets from an anonymous gossip columnist (voiced by Julie Andrews), who seems to know everyone’s secrets and isn’t afraid of sharing them.

There’s a multitude of subplots that are woven throughout the season, though what passes for the main story is the courtship between Daphne Bridgerton and Simon Basset, Duke of Hastings. He doesn’t plan on marrying and she needs more romantic options, so they concoct a plan: they’ll pretend to be an item so that eligible women will stop pestering him and suitable men will start paying more attention to her.

This set up would make a LOT more sense if Daphne was the one who didn’t want to be married (her ruse with Simon making her appear off the market) and Simon was the one who was looking for more attention from wealthy young women (the ruse making him unattainable and therefore more attractive), but then that’s not how power dynamics in these sorts of stories go. Wealth and status must always be in favour of the man so that the woman has something to conquer and attain.

In any case, they pull out two of fandom’s favourite tropes: Enemies to Lovers and Fake Dating, with the two of them eventually falling in love and living happily ever after – with one very questionable hiccup along the way. I’m too tired to form a coherent opinion on it, but you can read the details here.

With the exception of that scene (and its lack of fallout) it’s a pretty frivolous (to the point of vacuous) viewing experience, but it’s never not engaging. I always love watching the indominable Polly Walker, and Golda Rosheuval is a lot of fun as perpetual grump Queen Charlotte. I liked Daphne’s little sister Eloise (even though she’s been given the most hideous hairstyle known to man) and her determination to uncover the identity of the mysterious Lady Whistledown.

Nicola Coughlan is extremely cute as the overlooked, lovelorn black sheep of the Featherington family (though I had cooled on her a bit by the end) and surely there’s more to come with Marina Thompson? She's the only notable woman of colour in the whole thing (Lady Danbury and Queen Charlotte don’t get arcs or storylines) and she's treated pretty abominably.

The costume design is pure eye-candy, with hilariously garish gowns given to the Featherington girls, and of course everything is “fantasy Regency” in which hair is glossy, teeth are white, and everything is suspiciously clean.

It’s an easy show to watch, but like all wish-fulfilment fantasies, pretty vapid. And my God did it make me miss Still Star-Crossed. It wasn’t as well paced or written, but there was no denying the chemistry of that show’s leads or its ability to sell an Enemies to Lovers arc that didn’t involve lies or disrespect or weird consent issues between the relevant parties.