It was historical epic movie month at my place. I don’t talk about this genre often, but I love a good historical epic, provided they capture the essential balance: deeply personal stakes set against a grand backdrop of historical import. Too many don’t realize that this is the secret ingredient, and it’s easy to pinpoint the great epics from the lesser ones based on this criteria.
The Woman King revolved around the relationship between a mother and her daughter. Arn has the love story between its leads. Red Cliff went for the genuine camaraderie between the allied forces. The emotional stakes of Gladiator were spread a little thin, with Maximus’s bond with his dead family, Lucilla, Caesar Aurelius and his fellow gladiators all vying for space, but the culminative effect does the job. Kingdom of Heaven... has none. I’ll have more to say below the cut.
If it looks like I managed to watch a lot of television this month, it’s more accurate to say I finished a lot of television this month. I started the third season of Elementary back in January (it went on hiatus for my three-weeks leave) and I’ve been watching one episode of The Gilded Age per week with mum since last year. It all just happened to conclude in March.
And I am slowly but surely plugging away at my stack of library books. Once they’re done I’m going to be concentrating on my own damn books for a change.
Oh, and look at that – this is my one-hundredth reading/watching log! I probably should have done something special to commemorate the occasion. Probably.
Murder on the Orient Express (Court Theatre)
As soon as I heard the Court Theatre was staging Agatha Christie’s most famous murder-mystery, I booked my ticket. They always put on a great show, and this was no exception, capturing that very particular ambiance of the novel in its set design, and ensuring that all the characters were suitably larger-than-life. Which makes sense, as most of them are playing characters who are themselves playing parts.
Although it started on somewhat unsteady footing, with an audio rendering of Daisy Armstrong’s kidnapping (it was let down by the fact that Daisy’s voice was clearly that of an adult pretending to be a child) everything snapped into place when Poirot’s unmistakable silhouette advanced from behind a screen and addressed the audience regarding the case about to unfold. The actor had clearly studied David Suchet’s performance, as he even had that fastidious way of walking nailed down.
We move from the hotel in Istanbul to the train station to the carriages of the Orient Express itself, and everything looked fantastic. At different points the set could be an interior view of the carriages, an exterior view with the characters looking out the windows, or the luxurious dining car. By the time I saw it, the performance was about halfway through its run, so the choreography was a well-oiled machine.
Of course, I’m always interested in the way in which Christie stories are adapted (what’s omitted, what’s changed) and Orient Express in particular is a surprisingly tough nut to crack. Many of the clues are finicky or deliberately confusing, and even having read the book multiple times I’ve still no understanding as to how Poirot derives the “remember Daisy Armstrong” clue from the scrap of paper and the hat-box frame. Stuff like the handkerchief and the attempt to conceal Helena’s name on her passport get a bit lost in the shuffle, and Poirot never figures out who was wearing the red kimono.
This adaptation had its work cut out for it, trying to streamline a very complicated mystery into something a theatre audience could absorb in a single sitting. The red kimono is gone, as is the fuss around the empty sleeper that the conspiracy had booked to prevent any outsiders from taking it. Gone too is the whisper from Cassetti’s compartment (designed to confuse Poirot as to his time of death) though this production added an interesting link between the names “Linda Arden” and “Helena Andrenyi” – Poirot notes that the given name of the first and the surname of the second are taken from Shakespeare, suggesting a connection between them (like say, an actress deriving her stage name and her child’s name from the same source. It’s a bit of a reach, but hey, it was something new).
The most notable change is that the pool of suspects gets whittled down from twelve to eight (technically from thirteen, since in the book Rudolph Andrenyi acts as a stand-in for his wife). This is understandable given stage restrictions, though it loses the symbolic gesture of “twelve jury members” that’s so intrinsic to everyone’s motivation. In any case, Antonio Foscarelli, Edward Masterman and Rudolph Andrenyi are entirely absent (leading to an ill-advised flirtation between Helena and Poirot), Cyrus Hardman has been merged with Pierre Michel (both men were on the train for the sake of Susanne), as is Greta Ohlsson with Hildegarde Schmidt (she’s Greta’s personality with Hildegarde’s occupation).
Doctor Constantine is gone too, though his expertise is given to Helena Andrenyi, who also gets Mary Debenham’s role as “lead female” – assisting Poirot in his investigation and dropping red herrings where she can. This character is usually a cypher in most of the adaptations, so it was nice to see her spotlighted a little. In comparison, this Mary Debenham is short, loud and plaintive, not the cool mastermind behind the whole thing that so many adaptations make her out to be.
All the actors have fun with their accents (many of which are dropped when the truth comes out) and Bouc provides comic relief as the hapless train director who has very little idea of what’s going on.
In all, a great night out.
California Girls! by Anne M. Martin
We’re up to the fifth Super Special already! Having already covered a trip to Disneyland, summer vacation, winter vacation, and being stranded on a deserted island, Anne M. Martin (or whoever was ghost-writing these books at the time) remembers that Dawn’s father lives in California – making it a convenient destination for the Babysitters’ next big adventure (and yes, the fact that Stacey’s father lives in New York is picked up for the next Super Special).
How the plot gets the girls there is pretty hilarious – they win lotto. According to Dawn’s framing chapters, Claudia has been buying lotto tickets for years – though this is the first we’ve heard of it – and when the jackpot climbs to twenty-three million dollars, all the girls get a ticket, agreeing to split it seven ways if they win. Don’t worry, they don’t actually win the twenty-three million, but Dawn gets five of the six winning numbers, and that gives them enough for a trip to California.
As in all the Super Specials, the girls have absolutely no interest in spending their vacation together, and end up splitting up into their own subplots. Kristy is introduced to the We [Heart] Kids Club, a babysitting service run by Dawn’s Californian friends, which naturally makes her feel proprietary about the concept. While sitting in on one of their meetings, she offers to take a job that nobody else wants since the children involved are little horrors (because sure, who doesn’t want to babysit during their vacation?) Though warned, Kristy is convinced she’s the Babysitting Expert and can handle anything these laidback Californians can throw at her. Naturally, the two boys she’s saddled herself with end up being an absolute nightmare, and she learns a valuable lesson about how she’s not, in fact, the smartest person in the world.
Mary Anne also gets a regular babysitting gig for a little girl called Stephie, who suffers from asthma. This subplot has Very Special Episode vibes, since Mary Anne is terrified her charge is going to have an attack if she exerts herself just a little bit, but it turns out she’s not made of glass – it’s only when she gets emotional at the thought of Mary Anne going back to Stoneybrook that she needs an inhaler (or as this book bafflingly calls it, an “inhalator”). Again, I’m not sure why Mary Anne choses to spend her vacation babysitting, but at least she’s not as insufferable as she usually is in this plot.
Mallory demonstrates why she’s everyone’s least favourite sitter by blowing all her money on hair dye and makeup, which makes her look terrible, only everyone is too polite to tell her so. When a casting director tells her she doesn’t have the right “look” for the scene he’s shooting, she spirals into a prolonged sulk and opts out of going to Knotts Berry Farm so she can stay home and wallow in self-pity. Oh Mallory, this is why nobody wanted to be you.
Meanwhile, Jessi catches up with Derek Masters (from Jessi and the Superbrat, which is a nice bit of continuity) and is taken by his parents to the studio where his sitcom is being filmed. She doesn’t get to do much besides go through the exact same scenario that she did in the above-mentioned book: having to decide if she should pursue a career in modelling/acting despite ballet being her great passion – and she comes to the exact same decision as she did last time. Amusingly, even Derek seems nonplussed by it, as here is Jessi describing his reaction: “I said goodbye to Derek and told him my decision about ballet. He just shrugged.”
Stacey falls in with a surfboarding crowd who are rather wild, and ends up being involved in a car accident. Claudia meets a boy called Terry who is so academic that it makes her feel uncomfortable, though her so-called friends keep pressuring her to go out with him anyway (again, I’ve no idea why she choses to spend her vacation doing something she doesn’t want to do – just tell the guy you’re busy, for heaven’s sake!)
And Dawn – technically the main character as she’s the narrator of the framing device, even though she also had this privilege in the last Super Special – spends the holiday fuming about her father’s girlfriend Carol, who is committing the heinous crime of being friendly and chauffeuring the girls everywhere. In a fairly nice twist, Carol ultimately wins Dawn’s respect when she behaves like an adult and insists on Stacey fessing up to being involved in a car accident to Dawn’s father (though honestly, as the Adult In Charge, shouldn’t he have vetted those teenagers before one of the girls in his care took off with them?)
This is one of the books I owned as a child, and it’s battered enough to tell me that I read it frequently. I actually have some fond memories of the chapters that recount the girls going to places like Universal Studios and Knotts Berry Farm, since I went to California with my family when I was twelve and (thanks to this book) had a decent idea of what to expect.
It also features a fairly amusing running gag in which each chapter opens with a babysitter’s postcard to their friends/family back in Stoneybrook, which become more and more generic as the book goes on, demonstrating how the girls have gotten deeper and deeper into their Californian shenanigans. Eventually one of Stacey’s chapters begins with: “I think we were all editing our postcards, some of us more than others.”
Usborne Illustrated Stories of Mermaids by Lan Cook, Susanna Davidson, Rachel Firth and Fiona Patchett
I wouldn’t have picked this up were in not for Margarita Kukhtina’s delicate illustrations, which are stylized but realistic at the same time; definitely for children due to their soft edges and bright colours, but still lovely to look at. It’s not a surprise she gets her name on the front of the book and the writers don’t.
The stories total nine in number, all of which are based on pre-existing mermaid stories from around the world: “The Mermaid of Zennor” (Cornwall), “The Sea Princess” (Middle East), “Mama Dlo” (Trinidad and Tobago), “Jiang and the Pearls” (China), “Sirena” (the Philippines), “Alonzo and the Yara” (Brazil), “Melusine” (France), “The Seal Catcher” (Scotland) and a retelling of “The Little Mermaid” (Denmark).
There are some nice cultural indicators in the pictures, rendered in the wildlife, architecture and skin tones, but for the most part these are fairly simplistic retellings – though credit due to the collaborators thanks to the fact that I’d only ever heard of two of the stories before (“The Little Mermaid” obviously, but also “Alonzo and the Yara”, which was also retold in A World Full of Spooky Stories).
However, there’s a good chance that a lot of them have been very loosely adapted: even though “Melusine” is accorded its bittersweet ending, “The Little Mermaid” is completely reimagined. The titular mermaid is given the name Vella, and after she falls in love with a human prince, the sea witch’s price for a pair of legs turns out to be not her voice but her hair – no other clauses or catches necessary. Ultimately, the central conflict is whether Vella should stay with her prince on land or return to the sea after her sister tells her she’s willing to give up her voice for a spell that will change Vella back into a mermaid if she so wishes.
In other words, nothing whatsoever to do with either the original Hans Christian Anderson story or the Disney movie (apart from the fact Vella is rendered with very red hair). It’s a little odd.
The book also stretches the definition of “mermaid” a little – one story is about selkies, and another about Mother Dlo, a half-woman, half-snake goddess. And there’s at least one merman, which is rare! But it’s interesting to see the different types of mermaid stories: some start in the water and end up living on land, at least two are about girls who eventually turn into mermaids, and of course – cross-species love stories are always popular.
I also ended up doing a deep-dive on “The Mermaid of Zennor,” and it turns out there really is a church in Cornwall that features a mermaid carving on one of the pews in St Senara’s Church.
It’s a very attractive book, one that reminded me a little of Once Upon a Hillside and Eight Princesses and a Magic Mirror.
The Girl in the Tower by Lisa Schroeder
I read this one of the same reasons as above: the illustrations. Nicoletta Ceccoli is known for her doll-like figures that always have a whiff of the surreal about them, as seen here. "Uncanny porcelain" is the best way I can describe it. Even in this, a very gentle book for children, there’s something in the eyes...
The story itself is pretty bland: there’s an evil queen who wants to complete a spell that will make her beautiful, which requires a hummingbird’s feather and “a strand of hair the colour of darkness plucked from the head of a girl with eyes the colour of lavender who had lived at least eleven years but no more than twelve.”
When a pregnant minstrel goes into labour while at the castle, the queen provides assistance, only to throw both mother and infant into a tower when she realizes the baby’s hair fits the conditions for the spell – or at least it will in eleven years’ time. As such, Violet has grown up in captivity, with only her mother and a few servants for company, completely unaware of her own importance. It’s like the children’s fairy tale version of Room.
The best part is a twist towards the end, in which Violet realizes what the queen wants from her and so shaves her head – a nice commentary on the true nature of beauty while simultaneously denying her captor what she wants. But all things considered, I can’t really offer any meaningful critique on this book, since I am not the target audience in any way, shape or form.
Halloween Rain by Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder
With great franchises come cheap paperback tie-ins. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The first in the series will always be a novelization of the pilot episode, and the rest will be network-sanctioned fanfiction.
I’m very confident in saying that none of these books were ever considered canon. Obviously the show’s main characters are involved, but any OCs or major events are never mentioned in the show’s continuity – which is a good thing, since nobody was doing due diligence with consistency in these stories (for instance, this one has Buffy getting worried about Halloween, even though the show’s lore states that it’s ironically a very quiet time for the undead).
That said, they’re at least meant to be beholden to canon, which means we get actual stories and not just shipping drama. Furthermore, many of them contain premises that I’m surprised never made it into actual episodes – a living scarecrow for example, or a travelling carnival.
Halloween Rain covers the first October 31st that Buffy spends in Sunnydale, in which she expects a lot of supernatural drama, only to be surprised that the vampires and demons are laying low. In a conversation with Willow and Xander, they tell her that things will be fine unless she happens to wander into a field while it’s raining. Buh?
Turns out that Sunnydale has a local legend which states that if a scarecrow is soaked with Halloween rain, it’ll come to life and start a slaughter. That’s a good hook for a Buffy story, though for some reason frequent collaborators Christopher Golden and Nancy Holder spend the first chunk of the book describing Buffy fighting zombies at the local cemetery and Willow/Xander being hunted by a couple of vampires outside the Bronze. The scarecrow doesn’t get involved until over halfway through the story.
When it does, things pick up and Golden/Holder incorporate some actual Celtic mythology into the proceedings, linking their scarecrow idea with the spirit of Samhain and the origins of Halloween. Turns out that a demon who was once worshipped as a god is the source of the Sunnydale legend, and it comes back to life when Halloween rain begins to fall...
In the seven-year run of the show I never once noticed a cornfield in Sunnydale, but there are some other cute little nods to canon strewn throughout – early on, Buffy has a run-in with a student called Aphrodesia, who was one of girls who gossiped about her in the show’s first episode, and poor Mr Flutie is glimpsed as one of the zombies that rise in the cemetery (guy just can’t catch a break). We even get introduced to the manager of the Bronze, someone we never meet in the show itself, but who could have been a fun character.
I also appreciated the fact that Giles discovers that a prior Slayer once went up against the Samhain demon, an Irish girl called Erin Randall. For unknown reasons, the show never fully utilized what could have been a rich history of past Slayers and their Watchers, so I’m always eager to gobble up whatever bit of Slayer lore the franchise deigns to give me.
These books are more of a curiosity piece than anything, especially this long after the show concluded, but I’m finding them fascinating. More Buffy content to enjoy! Bring it on.
Utterly Dark and the Heart of the Wild by Philip Reeve
When reviewing Skye McKenna’s Hedgewitch, Reeve said: “There are only two sorts of fantasy story: the ones that feel fake and the ones that feel real. It's hard to explain the difference but you know the real ones when you read them.” He would know, because he manages it too. His depiction of Faerie – like McKenna’s – captures the mystery and beauty and danger of the place, as it also exists in books like Lud-in-the-Mist and The King of Elfland’s Daughter and Jonathan Strange and Stardust, told with Reeve’s elegance of plotting and richness of character. Inject it into my eyeballs!
Some time after the events of the first book, Utterly is celebrating the wedding of her uncle Will and the troll-woman Aish with the rest of the island of Wildsea. But even as she begins her honeymoon with her new husband, Aish is aware of an ancient power that has recently awakened, one that takes the form of a great black stag. Sensing the danger it embodies, she leaps at the chance for Will and Utterly to travel to the Isle of Summertide at the behest of Will’s cousin, who has invited Will to investigate an ancient stone circle there.
Little does Aish know that she’s sending them into the very heart of the problem, and it’s only a matter of time before ancient doors are opened, priceless treasures are found, an unscrupulous villain makes a terrible mistake, and Utterly discovers more about her relationship with that other, shadowy world.
It’s not quite a puzzle-box plot of the kind I love, but everything fits together very elegantly, and there’s even a touch of folk horror when it comes to the great horned Hunter, with his spear and horn, and the chalk drawing of him up on the hillside. Reeve also captures the ways of Faerie, from how time passes differently there, to how one loses their recollection of it, to its denizens’ love of cake, among other echoes of our ancient tales.
As ever, everything is described so clearly and concisely. Take this scene, for example:
As [Utterly] watched, a new toadstool pushed its way up through the skeleton leaves that lay like lace upon the surface. Corpse-white like the rest, but soon far larger, it shouldered its neighbours aside. As it rose, its domed top spread out into a parasol three feet across, perched like a broad brimmed hat upon a slender white stalk twice as tall as Utterly. In the shadows beneath the hat, two jet-black eyes opened, and regarded Utterly beadily... slender arms split from the toad’s stalk with soft tearing sounds. Delicate white hands reached out to Utterly, beckoning her forward into the waiting ring.
It is a large sentient mushroom, who goes on to tell her:
“These woods are very big, and my empire extends through every part of them. I have my outposts in the south-country where great armoured lizards lie dozing in the warm pools, and in the north, where the trees are all hard green needles and the wolves howl all night long. Deeper than the deepest roots my pale children serve, and my lookouts keep their garrisons on the heights of the highest branches.”
This? Is MY JAM. It was written specifically for me, just as The Daughters of Ys and Spinning Silver were last year. So thanks for that, Mr Reeve. I have the last book at hand, Utterly Dark and the Tides of Time, but I don’t want to read it yet because I don’t want it to be over! That said, the sooner I do finish, the sooner I can read the trilogy all over again. Ah, the struggle.
Rule of Wolves by Leigh Bardugo
First things first, this duology really should have been a trilogy. There is so much going on here, and three books would have made for nice symmetry with the original Shadow and Bone trilogy, as well as giving this story more time to breath, more time to move between the various POV characters.
Instead, Rule of Wolves squeezes in the return of the Darkling, an attempt to flesh out Shu Han, attacks from Fjerda, Nikolai getting in control of his inner demon, Zoya gaining mastery over her inner dragon, Nina’s undercover mission and burgeoning love affair with Hanne, and Mayu’s attempt to find her brother. There are secret weapons developed by the Shu and the Fjerdans, and a blight that’s taking out vast swathes of Ravka, and Nina finally identifying Matthias’s killer, and the whereabouts of Nikolai’s biological father, and cameos from Alina, Mal and the Crows... Bardugo even manages to squeeze in a heist.
Unsurprisingly, none of it really gets the depth that it’s due. It’s just too much, and stuff like David’s death and Nikolai’s demon get lost in the shuffle, with no resolution or emotional heft. Nina and Hanne probably should have been a Maybe Ever After, because I cannot see that girl thriving in Fjerda, and Bardugo definitely breaks a few of her established world-building rules in order to get her characters where she wants them to go (Hanne tailors herself into a completely different person within the space of a few minutes, when it took Nina several hours, on jurda parem, to do the same to Wylan back in Six of Crows).
But it’s a big chunky book and I got through it in no time, which is a testament to its readability. A lot of YA books these days are frankly awful, and though Bardugo isn’t creating high literature (and I can tell she’s ready to leave the Grishaverse behind her) I can appreciate what she’s writing isn’t just a checklist of fandom’s favourite tropes. Compromises are made, people are killed, endings are bittersweet.
But there are definitely some problems here, and as usual, it has to do with authors being too self-aware of fandom and trying to address their complaints. I can always tell when an author is responding to or being guided by their fanbase, and Bardugo is clearly aware of the complaints made that Alina gave up her powers to become Mal’s kept woman, even though that’s not what happened, and is largely the argument used by shippers to justify their anger that she didn’t end up with the Darkling instead (see also, Zutarians complaining that Katara became a “voiceless prize” and a “broodmare” for Aang. It’s laughably untrue, but is taken as objective fact among shippers to elevate their disappointment into a moral argument).
So we get a clumsily-inserted (and rather pointless) scene in which Alina meets with the Darkling in order to carefully lay out her thoughts and opinions on the matter, making it very clear that readers who have that point-of-view are wrong. Which they are, but they’re not going to change their minds just because the character in question appears out of nowhere in order to school them on the subject.
(I also feel that where Zoya ends up is a deliberate response to the choices that Alina made – whereas she opted for anonymity and peace, Zoya is granted ultimate power, sovereignty over Ravka, unheard of Grisha powers, and crowds of people chanting her name [insert “yaaas queen!” gif].
But girl power rings a little hollow when your female character is given absolutely everything with no strings attached, which means you probably shouldn’t try to “rectify” any accusations made in bad faith attacks. Shippers didn’t care that Alina chose a life of anonymity instead of power, any more than they’re mad that Katara became a wife and mother – the source of their grievance is that these girls didn’t end up with the male character they preferred. Any and all other complaints are just there to cover up their disappointment in shipping endgames; it has nothing whatsoever to do with “what’s best” for the female character in question, or how much girl power she wields by the end of the story).
It’s also well-documented that Bardugo is frustrated that on having written a handsome, powerful, charismatic, violent, traumatized white guy villain, a fair number of fangirls went feral for him, and to this day insist that he never did anything wrong. It’s a bit like throwing chum into a tank of sharks and getting confused that they engage in a feeding frenzy. But instead of just ignoring them, Bardugo goes to all the trouble of resurrecting the Darkling in order to address the list of concerns that she has about fandom’s reaction to him.
The problem is, that despite his return being the big cliffhanger finish for the first book, the Darkling’s return is ultimately a wet squib. He does nothing particularly interesting or important at all. And yes, I know this is the part where someone tells me that he stops the remnants of the Shadow Fold (or whatever the heck that was) by sacrificing himself, but that only ignores the fact that this threat was also completely pointless, and in hindsight, clearly inserted just to give the Darkling a sort-of redemption/punishment mash-up in the book’s final chapters.
Heck, no other character even seems to notice that great swaths of the world are being destroyed, let alone consider it any sort of actual threat, during the course of the story. It happens a couple of times, and is then largely ignored in the text until the time comes for the Darkling to stop it while declaring that he doesn’t regret anything he did in life. His presence here seems to exist only as a chance for Bardugo to clarify who he is and how readers should feel about him, with speeches from Alina, Zoya and Genya (arguably the people he hurt most) that condemn him.
And hey, it’s not like I have any interest in defending the guy, but ultimately the fangirls haven’t changed their minds about him and the regular readers are fairly nonplussed by the whole thing. So what was the point? I’m not sure why Bardugo didn’t just leave him dead.
Just to drive her dislike of this character and the way he’s treated by fandom home, Bardugo makes it clear he’s not going to just die, but suffer in stasis for all eternity. Then Zoya comes up with a potential way to save him, and geez – just let it go already. From the depths of this blog which is read by approximately ten people, please – ignore your fans. They will stan for shitty dudes, every single time. They will project their own romantic notions onto him no matter what he does. I have seen them defend or justify every depravity under the sun: rape, torture, murder, cruelty. There is nothing you can do with or to these characters that will make fangirls change their minds, they’ll only dig in deeper.
It’s annoying as hell, and I do my fair share of complaining about it on this blog, but don’t let your work become a soapbox. Just tell your story, and if they don’t like it, they can write their own – that’s why the YA market is flooded with so much crap these days. Most of it are knock-offs of your work.
***
Having said all that, you might be surprised to hear that I did generally enjoy this book – possibly because I’m not all that super-invested in what’s going on, possibly because I just like spending some time with these characters, in this particular world. And look at that cover art. Gorgeous!
I liked the glimpse into Shu Han’s matriarchal system of ruling (even if it’s difficult to care about Mayu’s chapters considering she’s only just been introduced) and the main characters all get some solid material. Nina’s espionage/undercover plot was probably my favourite, especially the elements that intersected with Nikolai’s (his biological father bridges both subplots) and not even the incessant banter was that annoying this time around. The updates on what the Crows have been doing was fun.
Still, as someone who’s always been interested in the political/religious landscape of these books, and who has generally appreciated the way Bardugo ascribed various traditions and belief systems to its peoples, I remain very confused about the Grisha and the worship of the Saints. One of the things I’ve always liked is the implication that the Saints are exaggerated stories of real Grisha that existed in Ravka’s ancient past, and yet the lack of a monotheistic God has always been the elephant in the room when it comes to this religious setup. I mean, saints are saints because they’re martyrs... but who exactly are they martyring themselves to? What cause? What deity? It’s always been a sticking point to me. Imagine the Catholic Church with all the Saints but not the God. Weird, right?
Perhaps the answer can be found with the Fjerdans, who are obviously an analogy to fundamentalist Christians, worshipping a singular deity called Djel. King of Scars introduced the strategy of trying to win over these people by staging fake miracles and ascribing them to Grisha (who are referred to as “living Saints”), which made for a fascinating concept: the intersection of the Fjerdans’ faith in the divine clashing against their religious prejudice against the Grisha. I love the irony inherent in this sea change: that the intolerant fundamentalists are being drawn into the worship of equally flawed, ordinary people, but Rule of Wolves doesn’t do much with the continuation of the idea.
Granted, this is largely because Bardugo was focusing on other areas of plot and characterization, but I would have loved to have seen it explored more fully. When a late-in-the-game character says: “all stories come from somewhere, all gods are the same,” I wanted to know how exactly that matched up with the variety of belief-systems we’ve been exposed to across the last six books. In a series in which so many characters are moved or defined by their faith, it feels like there’s a huge chunk of it missing.
And one last thing: surely this book should have been called Queen of Storms (or something) to match King of Scars, especially since Zoya ends up being the real protagonist of the piece. The “rule of wolves” seemingly refers to the Fjerdans, or is perhaps an allusion to “the hour of the wolf” (a bit of Swedish folklore which describes the early hours of the morning where the most deaths are said to occur) but neither really matches the content.
Dragon’s Lair by Sharon Kay Penman
I had a short hiatus, but now I’m back with the third book in the Justin de Quincy mysteries – but it’s less a mystery than a quest this time around, set in 1193 during King Richard’s stint as a hostage in Austria. Under the direction of Queen Eleanor, England is scrabbling to put together the substantial ransom, while the duo of Prince John and King Philippe are just as eager to keep Richard where he is: in chains and far away.
A ransom payment from Wales goes missing, and Eleanor entrusts Justin to find out who stole it and (if possible) return it to English coffers. After a few brief cameos from the supporting cast – Claudine, Luke, Nell, Durand – our protagonist heads on to North Wales to begin the investigation, becoming embroiled in court life amidst a range of colourful characters: an arrogant English earl, a Robin Hood-like Welsh prince, a cold and calculating highborn lady, and a knight who is perhaps a little too friendly.
You can tell from the afterword that Sharon Penman loves Welsh history, particularly that concerning Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, who she has already written about in Here Be Dragons, and so her depiction of this particular time and place is on-point. Her writing style is very neat and clean, which captures the normality of day-to-day life in the 12th century without pouring in reams of the research she’s accumulated over the years. You’ll pick up a few interesting factoids about this particular place and time, but (unlike so much historical fiction) it’s a story, not an essay.
The mystery itself isn’t as rewarding as those in the previous books, as Justin seems to spend just as much time catching up with old friends as he does looking for the lost treasure, and given the change in location I ended up missing many of the supporting characters – though I’m sure they’ll be back for the fourth and final book. We get a little bit more information about Justin’s unknown mother (he’s illegitimate and his father, a bishop, is desperate to keep him a secret) and some nice framing scenes with Queen Eleanor.
Hopefully I’ll get to the last book soon, though who knows with my schedule.
Unspoken by Sarah Rees Brennan
Okay, no more YA for me. There are about three more in my TBR pile and then that’s IT. I have officially grown out of the demographic and now I just find it irritating. I don’t even know how this one ended up on my reading list, though I like the general premise.
Kami Glass is growing up in a small English village called Sorry-in-the-Vale, having spent her entire life up until that point mentally communicating with a boy called Jared. She has no idea if he’s a real person or just a figment of her imagination, only that he’s been with her for as long as she can remember.
The start of this particular story coincides with the return of the Lynburn family back to their ancestral home: twin sisters Lillian and Rosalind, and their sons Ash and... Jared. Yup, no prizes for guessing who Jared turns out to be. As a reporter for her school newspaper, Kami is determined to investigate the family and the strange hold they have on her town and its inhabitants (including her mother) only to discover that she’s bitten off more than she can chew. These people are dangerous. But also sexy. Of course.
On paper, it all sounds great. A mystery family with a sordid history no one wants to talk about? A quaint little town with dark secrets? Tons of weird phenomena that confounds the protagonist who spends the book gradually discovering what it all means in the context of her life? The vaguely Gothic veneer? I’m totally down for all that! But it didn’t work for me. Because I’m not a teenager.
And then there was the banter. The banter. I’ve complained about the incessant banter in Leigh Bardugo’s books plenty of times, but this... this was on another level. There is not a single line of dialogue that isn’t witty repartee or a snappy comeback. And it is a NIGHTMARE. I wanted to kill everyone. If I was trapped in a room with any of these characters I would have gone stark raving mad in seconds. NOBODY TALKS LIKE THIS. NOBODY!!!
Here are some examples, and if you’re not in tears by the end of it, you’re a stronger person than I am:
“He’d be an excellent decoration for our headquarters. You have to admit, he’d very good-looking, and I need a photographer, so can I keep him, please, oh, please?”
“Kami, you know I hate guys being around all the time. They won’t stop staring and bothering me and giving me the sad, sad eyes like a puppy dog until I just want to kick them. Like a puppy dog.”
“So you have some puppy issues.”
[they’re having this conversation in a cupboard because they’re *just so quirky*]
***
“I called the police as I was running to the well. I’m sure they’re coming.”
“Did they say they were coming? Or did you shout ‘Kami’s in the well!’ and then jump in the well too, thus losing your phone and making sure that the police think it was some kids playing a dumb joke?”
“Alternate plan. Do you have a very intelligent collie who might communicate through a system of barks to your parents that little Kami is in the well?”
“We’re going to die. And where is your shirt?”
“Let me explain. I had just gone to bed, like a reasonable person, when you decided to get tossed into a well like a crazy person. And then it was a matter of some urgency to reach you. You’re lucky I tripped over my jeans on the way out the door.”
“You’re messy on top of everything else? This day just keeps getting worse.”
[yes, this is how people talk when they’re pushed into a well at night by unseen assailants, have no visible means to get out, and are struggling against hyperthermia]
***
“Don’t try to eat five things at once, Tomo – remember the time you sneezed lemon meringue. And please just stay clear of him.”
“Whoever he is, I agree with your mother. Stay away from him. Stay away from them all until you’re of marrying age. Once you reach a nice, mature fifty-four, gentleman callers will be welcomed here. Camilla, Henry, Thomas [not their real names]. Not a crumb left for your father? That’s it, you’re not my children. You’re just sad, bald monkeys I won from the circus folk in a poker game.”
[These are Kami’s parents and they Do. Not. Switch. Off]
Reading all this is just exhausting. I wanted to scream every time someone opened their mouth. But let me reiterate: I am now a grumpy old woman. This was not written for me. It was written for me back in 2003, when I was nineteen. It stands to reason that today’s nineteen-year-olds would love it, and everyone else should just read a Margaret Mahy book instead. The Tricksters or The Changeover should do it, as they essentially contain the same plot.
Gladiator (2000)
This movie is like Titanic in that it took home the Academy Award for Best Picture and has since been fending off accusations of not deserving that honour ever since. It’s not quite as bad as the case of Titanic, which was a global phenomenon and therefore garnered twice the level of backlash, but in both cases, people like to conveniently forget that these are in fact, good movies.
Yes, I know “good” is subjective, but both have the right blend of sympathetic protagonist, larger-than-life ensemble cast, intelligent dialogue, epic backdrop, soaring score, emotional heft... seriously, what more are you looking for in a movie experience? That’s the key word: experience. These movies don’t want you to think so much as they want you to feel.
Like Rose Whittaker, Maximus Decimus Meridius is a person none of us will ever be, living in a time so far removed from our own it might as well be a different world, and yet each manages to forge complete simpatico with the viewer. There is simply no way we can’t root for either of them, and both are in possession of a similar desperation: Rose’s was for freedom; Maximus’s is for home.
It’s neatly divided into the three-act structure, with the first elegantly drawing up the characters, their relationships, the conflict and the stakes. General Maximus has just won a decisive victory against the Germanic tribes and is now looking forward to returning home to his wife and son, only to discover that Emperor Marcus Aurelius – who has always looked upon him as a son – has one last task for him to perform. In order to restore Rome to its original state as a Republic, and to prevent his unworthy son Commodus from ascending the throne, Aurelius intends to make Maximus his heir, long enough for him to give power back to the Senate, and therefore the people of Rome.
Unfortunately, Aurelius makes the mistake of sharing his plan with these two men separately, and in private. So when Commodus kills his father in order to seize the power he believes is rightfully his, Maximus has no witnesses to back up his side of the story. Given no time to plan or regroup, Commodus orders him executed, along with his family.
Maximus escapes, but doesn’t reach home in time to save his wife or son, who have already been crucified by Roman soldiers. Taken captive by slave traders, he’s sold to the gladiator trainer Proximo. Cue act two, in which Maximus uses his combat skills to rise up through the ranks, reluctantly learning how to play the crowd and lead his fellow gladiators to victories in the arena – which eventually takes him back to Rome, where Commodus has organized one hundred and fifty days of gladiatorial games in the Colosseum to honour his father, the prime venue for Maximus to seek revenge.
Naturally, the third act involves the political intrigue that moves between the Senate and the arena, pitting Commodus and his supporters against those willing to back Maximus in the attempt to overthrow the new Emperor and see Marcus Aurelius’s final wishes fulfilled.
It was Andor (are you sick of me mentioning that show yet?) which recently drove home the importance of dialogue for me – specifically to master the magical formula of conversations that a. sound natural, b. provide information about the characters that are talking, and c. require a degree of effort from the audience to glean what exactly is going on. For instance, it’s not immediately apparent in their first scene that Commodus and Lucilla are siblings, but the script is in no hurry to force that understanding. It could have easily (and awkwardly) had one refer to the other as “brother” or “sister”, but the way the movie initially keeps us on our toes as to what exactly the rapport between them is works extremely well when it comes to the disturbing angle that Commodus takes towards his sister later in the film.
More impressively, no one can finish this movie without rightly assuming that Maximus and Lucilla were once romantically entangled, even though there’s NO explicit mention of it in the dialogue. Instead, it’s all to be inferred by passing comments from other characters, their body language when they’re around each other, and by what is conspicuously NOT said between them. It’s beautifully done, and the absence of an overt love story only makes them feel more tragic – they never had the chance to act on whatever degree of love they once felt for each other.
Also, it’s so blissfully refreshing to watch a mainstream Hollywood action-adventure film that nevertheless assumes its audience is comprised of intelligent adults. Which is to say, it’s all in stark contrast to what Ridley Scott had to work with in Kingdom of Heaven, which is full of clunky dialogue that’s either too anachronistic, explanatory, or pretentious to take very seriously.
In defiance of Simone Weil’s words on how “imaginary good is boring,” Russell Crowe infuses Maximus with an innate decency that is both compelling and alluring, while Joaquin Phoenix is equal parts fascinating and repugnant as the increasingly unhinged Commodus. They make perfect foils for one another, and I find that it’s easier to find a measure of sympathy for villains when the director (or screenplay, or fandom) doesn’t insist upon us feeling sorry for them. Commodus is a monster, but a pitiable one, even though his cruelty, insecurity, narcissism and desperation for approval brought to mind Trump on more than one occasion.
Connie Nielson gets what would otherwise be the thankless role of “love interest,” were it not for the fact she’s one of the key players in the plot against Commodus, and the cool regalness with which she plays the part – walking a terrifying line between protecting her son Lucius and attempting to nullify the threat that her brother poses: to herself, the Senate, and the entirety of Rome. She’s the only female character of note in the entire film (passing the Bechdel Test is out of the question; the closest the film gets is her asking a handmaiden where her son is and being told he’s with his uncle) but in her case it’s a case of quality over quantity.
And naturally, the rest of the cast is stacked with respected thespians and solid character actors: Richard Harris, Oliver Reed, Djimon Hounsou, Derek Jacobi, Tomas Arana, John Shrapnel. Keep your eyes peeled and you’ll also spot Omid Djalili (essentially playing the same guy as he did in The Mummy), David Schofield (a sleazy bad guy as per usual), and even Tony Curran as the Praetorian Guard tasked with executing Maximus. I don’t think he gets a single line, but it’s definitely him.
If I could point out one flaw, it’s that the film leans heavily on our modern assumption that “Empires bad, Republics good”, without bothering to depict any on-screen difference between the two states, or why the average Roman citizen, for whom all this bother is ostensibly for, would care whether they’re being ruled by an Emperor or a Senate. And of course, the idea that any highborn aristocrat of this time would hold the lofty goal of “giving Rome back to the people” is almost endearingly nonsensical.
But it’s Gladiator. There’s spectacle, there’s tragedy, there’s pathos, there’s even a little humour. Does anyone not get a little shook up when Maximus gets his first glimpse of the afterlife? Or when the first strains of “Now We Are Free” start playing? Or that final stunning pan-up from the arena to the sunrise over Rome?
I ended up watching the extended edition, and though my memories of the original cut are a little vague, it does include some interesting scenes, such as Lucilla reaching out to Senator Gracchus and Gaius to plot against her brother, Commodus forcing Quintus to execute the men who failed to bring him word of Maximus’s escape (which provides a better setup for Quintus refusing to give him a sword in the climatic scene) and a few extra bits and pieces of Maximus’s training among the gladiators. It’s worth seeing, but doesn’t drastically improve the film in any way.
Kingdom of Heaven: Director’s Cut (2005)
Oh, this movie. What a conundrum. A lot of people will rave about how the director’s cut is the most a film has ever been improved upon by such a thing – which may well be true, but it still doesn’t make Kingdom of Heaven all that great. It’s reasonably compelling, and beautifully shot, and thought-provoking in many ways... but the characters are deeply uninteresting and stereotypical, and (as in Gladiator’s depiction of Rome and the tension surrounding whether it should be an Empire or a Republic and what difference it makes) nothing profound is said about Jerusalem: what it means to its people, why it’s so important, or whether Christians, Muslims or Jews should be in charge.
The difference is that Gladiator had characters we cared about and a revenge scheme we wanted to see fulfilled – Kingdom of Heaven has no real inner drive to it at all. Instead, we get stock characters: the noble, forward-thinking protagonist, the remote queen who falls in love with him because reasons, the corrupt and venal churchman, the greedy warmonger... all of whom just move about the board with no clear purpose or motivation (besides Jerusalem, which as I said, isn’t really explored as a concept in anyway that isn’t a vague dream of “peace between the faiths” – which is laughable in context).
Then there’s stuff like how Balian knows how to dig a well better than the people who have lived in the desert all their lives, or how the Muslims are underdeveloped and the Jews non-existent, or the veneer of anachronistic modernity that undermines the whole thing (Balian’s speech to the troops essentially amounts to: “why can’t we all just get along?”... ouch). And don’t get me started on the dialogue. When Sybilla has her first conversation with Balian she tells him: “A woman in my place has two faces. One for the world, and one which she wears in privacy. With you, I will be only Sybilla.” This is their first meeting, and these words come out of nowhere.
Later, when she makes her move on him, she says: “I’m not here because I’m bored or wicked. I’m here because here in the east, between one person and another, there is only light.” Girl, what? Still later, she asks Balian: “What will become of us?” He tells her: “The world will decide. The world always decides.” Wow. So profound.
It’s even more pronounced watching on the heels of Gladiator, where people spoke like actual people and not characters in a Very Important Epic Movie That Wants to Impart Profound Ideas.
For those not in the know, Orlando Bloom plays Balian d’Ibelin, a French blacksmith mourning the loss of his wife who has recently killed herself after a miscarriage. Yes, it’s fridged woman syndrome, and to be fair – Gladiator did this too. And yet, somehow we feel Maximus’s loss more than Balian’s. Perhaps because the murder of his wife and son occurs during the course of the film, perhaps because Russell Crowe is simply a better actor than Bloom, but the loss of Balian’s wife has no emotional weight to it whatsoever. She’s glimpsed only briefly in a misty flashback before she’s resigned to the part of “dead woman that motivates hero,” and (again like Maximus’s wife and son) we don’t even learn her name.
On learning that the local priest desecrated her body before burying her at a crossroads, Balian kills the man before galloping after his recently-arrived-and-departed father Sir Godfrey, a knight in search of his bastard son; the only person left to inherit his estate in Jerusalem. A skirmish with local law enforcement sees Godfrey mortally wounded – he lives long enough to knight his son and pass on his worldly goods, imploring him to journey to the Holy Land to serve the king there.
To honour his father and receive absolution for the sin of murder and his wife’s suicide, Balian goes. Once there, he becomes enmeshed in Jerusalem’s political arena: the wise but leprous King Balwin IV, his beautiful sister Sybilla, her ambitious husband Guy of Lusignan, and the world-weary Marshall of Jerusalem, struggling to keep the fragile peace between the various factions rubbing shoulders in the city. But vying ambition and calculating greed has made the city a tinderbox, and Saladin’s troops are mustering in the desert, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Let’s make one thing clear: Balian is a complete Gary Stu, who constantly fails upwards despite being only mildly proactive. Things happen to him, solutions fall into his lap, the Queen of Jerusalem falls in love with him for no discernible reason, his most important plot-relevant decision is NOT to take action at a crucial moment, and he eventually surrenders Jerusalem in a scene that’s more about Saladin than him. He speaks out against slavery, wins the respect of the Muslims, and is somehow is possessed of familiarity with engineering and battle tactics despite being established as a blacksmith. Even the cool horse is just his for the taking.
Bloom’s wooden acting doesn’t exactly help, though the character stands as a prime example of how male characters will never be criticized to the same extent as female ones are if their abilities far exceed their backgrounds.
Eva Green’s Sybilla doesn’t fare much better. Although the director’s cut gives her a huge subplot involving her son from a first marriage, whose leprosy diagnosis leads to her euthanizing him with poison in order to spare him any suffering (which has the unfortunate side-effect of handing Jerusalem on a silver platter to her husband Guy – couldn’t she have just waited a few years before pulling the plug on the poor kid?) she still falls into the “has the screenwriter ever met a real woman?” category of female character, where her attraction to and love affair with Balian just happens because... well, why else would a beautiful woman exist if not to sleep with the hero?
And yet on reflection, I wonder if the true problem with the film lies with its lack of a strong supporting cast. It’s certainly packed to the gills with talent: Jeremy Irons, David Thewlis, Brendan Gleeson, Edward Norton, Liam Neeson, Alexander Siddig, Michael Sheen, Marton Csokas... but all of these characters flit in and out of the story without warning, denying the audience the chance to get invested in their lives. This is especially true of David Thewlis’s Hospitaller, one of the few genuine Christians in the entire film, who doesn’t even seem to exist unless he’s required for a philosophical talk with Balian.
(Admittedly, this might have been by design. I was a little astonished to read up on the film afterwards and learn that the Hospitaller was meant to be an Angel Unaware – that is, a character who is implied to be a supernatural being in disguise, a guardian angel who subtly preaches peace and harmony between the three faiths. I have to admit that subtext was completely lost on me).
Again, compare this to Gladiator, where the likes of Juba, Hagen, Cicero and Quintus provide meaningful support to the main action, and were in the story long enough for the audience to get interested in what would become of them. Kingdom of Heaven has characters like Kevin McKidd’s unnamed knight, who is with Balian onboard the ship taking them to Jerusalem, only to be lost in the storm and never mentioned again. They replace him with Amalric, one of Godfrey’s servants, who makes no impact at all, even though Balian bequeaths the estate to him at the end of the film. In the film’s climactic battle sequence, Balian crosses paths with the gravedigger (another unnamed character) who was the first character to appear on-screen, tasked with burying Balian’s wife. Er... okay? I suppose it’s meant to give the story a “full circle” quality, but honestly it just comes across as random.
For the life of me, I can’t understand why Ridley Scott didn’t let Godfrey’s fellow knights stick around, an interesting and colourful group of men comprised of McKidd’s general, the German Odo, and the Moorish Firuz, who are introduced only be killed off a couple of scenes later. Let them go to Jerusalem and act as Balian’s posse! Let them provide opposing points-of-view on how he should proceed with the upkeep of his new estate and his love affair with Sybilla. Have them fight in the siege of Jerusalem, thereby giving us some familiar faces to track through the action. It’s a bewildering creative decision to have them removed so early.
As stated, the director’s cut does improve upon the theatrical release, adding a whopping fifty minutes to the film. Sybilla benefits the most from the longer cut, and there’s more breathing room to establish the political landscape and to enjoy the glorious scenery porn (I especially liked the stark contrast between snow-covered France in winter and the heat of the desert surrounding Jerusalem).
And as ever, there are plenty of familiar faces among the minor characters, which in this case includes a substantial number of Game of Thrones actors: Iain Glen! Robert Pugh! Bill Paterson! And is that... Nikolaj Coster-Waldau??
In conclusion, Kingdom of Heaven is a mess... but an interesting mess that I’m engaged with every time I see it (this was my third viewing, and my second of the director’s cut). The dialogue is too clunky, too explanatory and too unnatural at the same time. The script is frustratingly obtuse when it comes to the subject of Jerusalem and what it means to the people fighting over it (in one of the final scenes, Saladin describes the city as “nothing... and everything,” which just seems to be a way for the script to opt out of answering the question entirely). The lead character is flat and the supporting cast denied any substantial involvement in the plot. And of course, it’s far too anachronistic at times, including the frankly hilarious idea that the Crusaders are in the Holy Land to build “a kingdom of conscience.”
But there are scenes of intrigue and beauty at work, from Ridley’s depiction of a medieval world to the gorgeous costumes and sets, to scenes such as Sybilla imploring Balian to “do a little evil to do a greater good” (he’ll commit adultery no problem, but murder a psychopath to save the lives of thousands of soldiers? Well, that’s just a step too far! Sarcasm aside, it’s still a compelling ethical challenge, and I wish the film had included more of them). I doubt this’ll be the last time I watch it, and I’m sure I’ll be just as frustrated and engrossed the next time too.
Arn: The Knight Templar and Arn: The Kingdom at Road’s End (2007 – 2008)
The last time I watched this, it was the highly abridged version that combined both these films into a single one (much like they did with Red Cliff, below). But you could tell that a lot of material had been chopped to bits, and I always planned to track down the original cut.
Which I now have, though surprisingly it’s not markedly different from the abridged version. There are no drastic changes to plot or characterization, and some characters still abruptly fall out of the action (like Cecilia’s sister, who accuses Arn of sleeping with her to spoil her sister’s happiness, and is then never seen again). Unlike Kingdom of Heaven, or even Gladiator, the added length doesn’t add a lot that we didn’t already know from watching the theatrical version – though the added depths that comes with the additions are always welcome.
Arn Magnusson is the ambidextrous son of the Folkung dynasty who suffers a fall in his youth, only to survive after his mother promises him to the local monastery. On his recovery, she fulfils her vow by leaving him among the Cistercian monks, where he’s trained in the ways of combat by a retired Knight Templar.
On returning home, he quickly makes a name for himself with his battle prowess, and falls in love with Cecelia Algotsdotter, the daughter of a neighbour. The two jump the gun and sleep together, resulting in an out-of-wedlock pregnancy and a harsh punishment: twenty years of penance for each of them. Cecelia is sent to a convent while Arn joins the Crusade, each one promising to wait/return for the other, and the rest of the film covers Arn’s experiences in the Holy Land (which includes an encounter with Saladin, and fighting in the Battle of Montgisard).
The Kingdom at Road’s End picks up after the Battle of Hattin and Arn’s honourable discharge from service. He returns to Sweden and to Ceceilia, who is on the brink of permanently entering the convent as its Mother Superior, having believed Arn to be dead. While he was away, she gave birth to their son Magnus (though was not allowed to raise him) and befriended Cecilia Blanka, the future queen of Sweden.
The reunited lovers are finally allowed to wed, though six years later the ongoing skirmishes over the Swedish throne once again call Arn to battle.
It’s a relatively simple story compared to the others on this list: neither Arn nor Cecilia go through meaningful character development or are required to navigate any murky ethical waters (their only mistake was sleeping together before they married, and there’s a chance their enemies would have found another way to separate them even if they hadn’t) but it fulfils the requirements of any self-respecting historical epic: larger-than-life characters, gorgeous scenery, big badass battle sequences, and a bittersweet ending.
This is one of those rare historical epics that finds room for a meaningful female friendship – which comes as a relief after Cecelia is betrayed by her sister and tortured by the Mother Superior. In this case it’s between Cecelia and Blanka, who bond over their shared misery and hope for the future. Even after Blanka’s release from the convent, the women retain their friendship and look out for each other in the ensuing years.
In short: I enjoyed, but I’m surprised at how difficult it was to tell the difference between the two original films and the combined shorter cut. In Gladiator it was obvious what scenes had been deleted from the theatrical version (though admittedly, I’ve seen that film a lot more times). Here, not so much.
Red Cliff: Part I and II (2008)
As with most of the films on this list, I saw the abridged version before catching up with the extended original cut some years later, and as always, the improvement between the two is obvious. I have vague recollections of watching this at the cinema and grappling with characters abruptly falling out of the action, daylight breaking seconds after the middle of the night, and Sun Shangxiang’s entire arc with Pit in the enemy camp being excised.
Set in 208AD during the Han Dynasty, it’s based on Romance of the Three Kingdoms, which is itself based (lightly) on real history. The young and inexperienced Emperor gives reluctant permission to his ambitious Prime Minister Cao Cao to march his armies south against the independent kingdoms of Wu and Shu, ruled by warlords Sun Quan and Liu Bei. According to Cao Cao, these “rebels” must be punished for their treason against the empire, though our introductions to these men (who are about to be on the receiving end of the imperial armies) depict them as heroic figures who just want to live in peace. Heck, one of them gets assisting a horse’s breech-birth as their Establishing Character Moment.
The main players are Sun Quan, the young and untested ruler looking to prove himself, his sister Sun Shangxiang, the tomboy princess who is determined to fight alongside the men, Zhuge Liang, a master strategist who uses cunning and guile to forge alliances between the disparate forces, Zhou Yu, the noble and stoic general who can be counted on to put honour above all else, and his beautiful wife Xiao Qiao, with whom Cao Cao is obsessed.
On that last note, there is a definite Helen of Troy wrinkle to the proceedings, with many of Cao Cao’s men floating the possibility that this entire war is being waged because of their leader’s lust for Zhou Yu’s wife (which apparently requires at least one sex scene between husband and wife that is so awkward it’s almost endearing). But although this plot-point makes up a crucial part of the film’s climax, during which Xiao Qiao pulls off an incredible dice-roll of strategic calculation, there is thankfully more at stake here than just one old man’s lust for a younger woman.
The real emotional centre of the film is between Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang, the aforementioned Noble Stoicism and Cunning Smarm. The camera pans between the two of them, closes in on their profiles as they stand nose-to-nose, and constantly returns to their proximity to each other, either physically or in regards to their similar intellect. Their dialogue is leaden with in-jokes and subtext, and their bittersweet teasing makes a lot more sense when you take into account the historical framework around them: in the years to come they will once more go into battle – but against each other.
Like all the best epic directors, John Woo knows how to take his time with the material, fleshing out characterization and motivation (there’s an actual guqin-off between the characters at one point). More interestingly, he’s deeply interested in the logistics of war and the differences between the two armies and their strengths/weaknesses. Men of the north favour horseback, to go with the flat, harsh plains on which they live, and are unfamiliar with naval warfare (cue a bunch of soldiers getting seasick). Their close-combat is all about the legs and feet, and even their extracurricular activities – an extended game of football – reflects this.
In stark comparison, men of the south have been raised in river country, with a greater understanding of how they can use waterways to their advantage, whether it’s for concealment or easy transportation. Zhuge Liang’s big scene demonstrates how he expertly commands both in order to gather supplies for his troops. Naturally, southern combat style is all to do with fists and jabs, their arm muscles having been strengthened through lifetimes of rowing up and down rivers.
At one point Cao Cao weaponizes the bodies of soldiers who have died of typhoid, relying on psychological warfare to lower the morale of his enemies, while Zhou Yu responds by stating: “This is a battle of honour. Even war must be fair,” and cementing the bodies respectfully. In a further comparison, our heroes often make use of the natural world around them, not only basing one of their strategies on the shape of a tortoise’s shell, but also relying heavily on mist, fire and the wind at various points of their campaign. (It reminded me a little of how the Rebel Alliance in Star Wars did the same, by utilizing the flora and fauna on different planets to their advantage).
Sun Shangxiang also gets a neat subplot, in which she infiltrates Cao Cao’s encampment in the guise of a foot soldier (which is amusing given that this actress would go on to play Hua Mulan a year later) and befriends one of the enemy. It ends precisely as you’d expect, with the two of them coming face-to-face as their true selves in the final battle, at which point our Mulan becomes an Éowyn, forced to reckon with the true cost of war.
If the first half is all setup, largely comprised of Zhuge Liang sweettalking potential allies into joining his alliance, then the second is all payoff. There’s cavalry charges, catapults, sea battles, massive explosions, heroic sacrifices – the whole shebang. Even better, Woo keeps tight control of his visuals, and a blend of overhead shots and visceral closeups allow the audience to feel the chaos of battle while still grasping where everyone is at any given point. But as cool as it all looks, the film also attempts to take the glamour out of war, with Zhou Yu eventually intoning: “there are no victors here” as he looks over the post-battle carnage.
It’s not perfect. The reveal of a spy in Zhou Yu’s camp is inexplicably played for comedy instead of betrayal and suspense, and Zhuge Liang’s obvious interest in Sun Shangxiang never goes anywhere.
But those are just quibbles. Red Cliff is everything you could possibly want from a historical epic, right down to the perfect balance between massive battle set-pieces and the intimate human touches which exist between the bombast. Even Cao Cao gets a moment in which he wistfully thinks about his thirteen-year-old son that he hasn’t seen for years, and how the boy always pretends to be stronger than he really is.
Margrete: Queen of the North (2021)
I made Margrete my Woman of the Month for March, so there’s not a huge amount to say about the film I watched her in. Forty years after a young Princess Margrete witnessed the horrific bloodshed at the Battle of Visby, this wise and canny leader – now Queen – has successfully brokered peace between Denmark, Norway and Sweden. They’ve all enjoyed a decade of peace thanks to her hard work, and her adopted son/nephew King Erik is about to be betrothed to Princess Phillipa of England, to further improve relations across the allied forces.
This is naturally the point where the spanner in the works makes itself known, and it comes in the form of a man claiming to be her son Oluf, believed to have died fifteen years earlier. The provocative news soon spreads, and leaves Margrete in an impossible situation: recognize the man she believes to be her son and endanger the peace she’s worked her entire life to secure, or turn her back on motherhood and throw this broken young man to the wolves.
What I enjoyed most about Margrete was that the story is simply allowed to unfold without commentary or self-consciousness. As with Gladiator, it’s nice to be treated as a grownup while watching a story of this nature, without any overtly anachronistic ideas or mindsets intruding on the narrative.
It made me wonder if I’ve been a bit addled by YA fiction lately, as although Margrete doesn’t have to face any overt misogyny across the course of the film, neither are there any “yaas queen!” or “girl power!” moments. Instead, the precariousness of Margrete’s situation is obvious: if she’s too hesitant, the men will assume she’s soft and womanly. If she’s too assertive, they’ll get antsy about the fact that a woman holds authority over them. The audience is very well-aware that this time period would suck for women, especially for one that wields power, and so the twofold threat she faces is there, baked into the story’s context, rather than (say for example) discussed at length in a self-aware monologue.
The boo-hooing about “woke” storytelling is always tedious, but it’s also a relief to see a story play out without the need to draw attention to the inherent unfairness of the situation Margrete finds herself in, or the gender double-standards she’s subjected to. As such, I doubt the usual complainers would be able to raise any protests against it, simply because the film doesn’t give them any kindling. It just concentrates on telling its story, and Margrete’s combination of strength and vulnerability is shown, not stated.
Plotwise, the film unfolds very neatly and elegantly, with all its myriad of plot-points clicking together nicely. There were also some lovely details throughout, from the candlesticks covered in wax to Margrete taking note of how much wine a political delegate has drunk (while the cup is fill, he’s working; when he takes a sip, he’s starting to relax). And hey, it’s Paul Blackthorne!
Only one thing bothered me: the lack of resolution given to the character of Astrid. This is a slave girl that Magrete rescues from captivity by putting her to work as a servant... with a side hustle of keeping her eye on King Erik. Astrid reluctantly but dutifully passes on information to Margrete about what her foster son is up to, though naturally it’s just a matter of time before he realizes that the girl he’s seduced is actually working for his mother. And after the truth comes out... Astrid completely disappears from the story. This is after a lot of screentime has been devoted to the precariousness of the position that Margrete put her in.
For a film that’s so interested in exploring the interiority of its lead character, it’s rather baffling that the only other female character of note is thrown to the wayside so thoughtlessly.
Elementary: Season 3 (2014 – 2015)
Watching this show is like sinking into a hot bath, or wrapping yourself in heated blankets, or taking the first sip of a spiced chai. It is the epitome of comfort viewing, and right now it’s getting me through the cold weather and some very long days at work. I can tell myself that when I get home, I can watch Holmes and Watson solve an impenetrable case and bring a little bit of order back into this chaotic world. What a relief.
This season was especially interesting to me, as it was the one I never completed. Maybe about a third of the way through its original run on New Zealand television, I got distracted by other things and lost track of what was going on. (Those were the days in which you actually had to schedule your television viewing, as things aired only on certain days at certain times).
So, I knew about the introduction of Kitty to the proceedings, though I can imagine she wasn’t a popular addition at the time. Every new season so far involves the arrival of an important guest-star: the first had Irene/Moriarty, the second was Mycroft Holmes and the fourth (that I’m currently halfway through) is Holmes Senior. All of these obviously come from Arthur Conan Doyle’s canon, but I’ve no idea who Kitty is meant to represent, if anyone. One of the Irregulars, maybe? As a street-smart teenager that Sherlock takes under his wing? Was that ever a thing in the books?
After the estrangement between Sherlock and Joan at the end of season two sees him return to England to join MI-5 and her to start a private investigative service back in New York, Sherlock takes Kitty on as a new prodigy. Initially rude, hostile and more than a little bit obnoxious, the writers set up Kitty to fail, as naturally all the audience wants is to see Holmes and Watson mend fences and resume their partnership in the brownstone. Kitty is a rather petulant obstacle in the way of that, though she does get more understandable as the episodes go and her backstory is revealed – though considering it involves being the victim of a horrific crime, the writers definitely walk a fine line there.
In any case, I didn’t dislike her as much as I’m sure fandom did, but I can’t say I was too upset when she took a flight back to England either.
Raza Jaffrey also turns up as a love interest to Joan (was this why he left Spooks? I’m unclear on the dates) only to suffer the expected fate of all love interests in these types of roles: a fridging. As with Kitty, it’s difficult to really care, as all I wanted to see was the core partnership of the show: Holmes and Watson, back together, doing their thing. Thankfully, at around the halfway point of the season, Joan moves back into the brownstone and the duo returns to form.
There are plenty of interesting mysteries this time around, from the zebras kidnapped from the local zoo to the murder victims who are left with large envelopes of cash on them. Guest-stars like Gina Gershon and Stuart Townsend turn up for a couple of episodes, and there’s also some coverage given to minor characters like Gregson’s daughter Hannah (another cop who proves that the apple did fall far from the tree) and Alfredo, Sherlock’s sponsor.
I’m now currently halfway through season four and still loving it.
The Spanish Princess: Season 1 (2019)
This was my second watch of Starz and Phillipa Gregory’s unique take on Catherine of Aragon, mostly because I’m prepping myself for my first watch of The Tudors. And yeah, it was just as bonkers the second time around.
As a follow-up to The White Queen and The White Princess, it’s a little more overt about being a direct sequel to its predecessor, with at least one flashback to Patrick Gibson’s Prince Richard getting executed, though the recasting makes a lot more sense this time since a substantial amount of time has passed between The White Princess and the events of this miniseries. King Henry and Queen Elizabeth are now in middle age, their sons Arthur and Henry are young men of marriable age, and Margaret Beauford is making the most out of being Queen Mother (this is the least justifiable casting change, as Harriet Walters plays the character as more of a stern housekeeper than a royal matriarch, entirely without the barely-concealed fanaticism that Michelle Fairley brought to the role).
Charlotte Hope plays Catherine of Aragon, who travels from Spain to England on the behest of her mother to marry Prince Arthur and become the future Queen of England. This involves the usual round of posturing and bluster as various factions try to assert their dominance over others, but Catherine’s plans for her future come to an abrupt end when Prince Arthur dies of an illness, leaving her without an heir, a dowry, or any long-term value to the royal family.
Desperate to hold onto her position, she turns her attention to Prince Henry, now heir to the throne. One problem: a man cannot marry his brother’s widow, and Catherine has already consummated her marriage to Arthur. The solution? Lie through her teeth.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that Phillipa Gregory never met a malicious bit of slander levelled against Tudor-era women that she didn’t embrace whole-heartedly as the absolute truth, so we’re suck with this interpretation of Catherine doing whatever she must in order to marry Harry. At this point, you just go with it and try to enjoy the pretty costumes.
There are also subplots for her ladies-in-waiting: one who gets pregnant out of wedlock, and the other who falls in love with a Muslim soldier. Neither are very compelling, but both are more interesting than the faux-history lesson with Catherine, perhaps because they’re based entirely on fiction and can just exist without any eye-twitching at the liberties taken with historical personages.
Now that that’s out of the way, I can look forward to the first season of The Tudors, seventeen years after its original airdate.
The Gilded Age: Season 2 (2023)
I’ll say it bluntly: this was not that good. It’s Julian Fellowes, concentrated. Everything you want (and to be fair, expect) is here, wrapped up in its attractive package, delivered by talented performers in pretty costumes – but it’s so predictable that it’s borderline enraging. It may well have been written by an AI text generator, with Fellowes giving it a quick skim afterwards and a veneer of vaguely witty dialogue. Even if you wanted the lightest of candyfloss fluff, this is too much and not enough.
Our main cast of characters are thrown into another round of period-appropriate hijinks, most of which have no long-term consequences at all. Remember how the first season ended with Peggy realizing that her son was still alive and leaving the employment of the van Rhijn house to track him down? Well, at some point Fellowes obviously decided he wasn’t interested in that plot after all, and so poor Peggy learns that her son died of an illness before she ever gets the chance to meet him. An episode later, she’s reinstated back in the van Rhijn household.
That’s just cruel, but it doesn’t matter – she’s shoved full-speed ahead into her new plot as a reporter for a Black newspaper, which is itself cut short when she finds herself inappropriately attracted to her new boss, and quits in the final episode.
Both Larry and Marian end up in relationships that clearly aren’t going to last, which are allowed to stretch on for some time before Fellowes inevitably pulls the plug and they end up kissing each other for no real reason. Oscar pursues Gladys, only for her father to forbid it... so he turns to someone else, who ends up being a con-artist who tricks him out of the entire van Rhijn fortune. Luckily, Ada has married a local minister, who leaves her a fortune that saves the household from destitution (his incessant coughing throughout the season was an indicator of his imminent death, even though he had cancer).
So, no long-term consequences there either. There’s really no point in investing in any of these stories, as Fellowes is bound to get bored halfway through and abruptly segue into something else. Here is an actual exchange of dialogue from the final episode: “But doesn't this mean we won't have to sell the house, the servants won't lose their jobs, and nothing needs to change?” “Exactly, nothing needs to change.”
YES FELLOWES, WE GET IT. NOTHING WILL EVER CHANGE IN THIS SHOW. WE’VE JUST SPENT AN ENTIRE SEASON WATCHING ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HAPPEN.
One of the footmen invents a better alarm clock. He sends away for a patent, doesn’t get it, tries again, and gets it. Another servant realizes his daughter is married to an aristocrat. His son-in-law forbids him from seeing her again, he contacts his daughter directly, and they reconcile. The cook and the housekeeper bond over opera. I don’t think I’ve ever been less interested in anything in my entire television-watching life.
Things are slightly livelier when dealing with Bertha’s “opera war” against Mrs Astor, two powerful women vying for control over New York’s social scene. Bertha is sponsoring the new Metropolitan, while Mrs Astor stays loyal to the Academy of Music (which is designed to keep the hoi-polloi where they belong – somewhere else). The coveted prize for both groups is an opera box, but the old guard are getting a little twitchy that the social upstarts are becoming increasingly less interested in begging for a box at the Academy, and shifting their attention to the Met.
An extra spanner in the works is the reappearance of Bertha’s former lady’s maid, now married to a wealthy gentleman and eager to flaunt her newfound wealth, as well as the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham, who all three women want to acquire as a sign of their dominance. It’s an interesting angle for the old-money-versus-new-money conflict to take, if not just because it’s based on historical precedence. And Nathan Lane is involved.
Plus, it ends on a genuinely shocking note. To consolidate her power and influence, it’s heavily implied that Bertha has promised her daughter (and her fortune) to an unworthy man. Finally, some bite! It’s a bit like what Mon Mothma does in Andor, but for far less noble reasons. I just sincerely hope the whole thing isn’t going to be brushed under the rug fifteen minutes into season three.
Perry Mason: Season 2 (2023)
I was really looking forward to watching this one, and then mildly devasted when news broke that it had been cancelled. A great cast, solid plots, noir ambiance, a vivid look at life in 1930s Los Angeles – why wouldn’t you cancel it HBO, or whatever the heck you’re calling yourself now?
I still know next to nothing about the original Perry Mason character, but Matthew Rhys’s take has him as a very tired war veteran who is somehow not an alcoholic, has a good relationship with his ex-wife and son, and respects his work colleagues. It’s like they tried to make him the stereotypical grizzled sourpuss who treats everyone like shit, but then... somehow didn’t end up doing that. I mean, he looks like he’s on the verge of falling off the wagon, but the guy is surprisingly well-adjusted.
(However, they do cheat a little when it comes to his attractiveness to the opposite sex. At one point he punches a fellow dad when picking up his son from school, and that ends up being the teacher’s impetus to go to his apartment that night and sleep with him. Guys, please know that this will never happen in real life).
This time around his clients are two Mexican brothers charged with the murder of Brooks McCutcheon, a wealthy white oil scion who was nevertheless a rather hapless businessman, especially in comparison to his successful father. The evidence points to Mateo and Rafael Gallardo as the prime suspects, but Perry is all about defending the underdog, especially when the prosecutors come to him with an astonishingly generous deal. It would seem that somebody doesn’t want him looking too closely at what should be an open-and-shut case.
So, the investigation begins – but with a few interesting twists (or untwists) along the way. SPOILERS. It’s revealed reasonably quickly that the brothers were McCutcheon’s killers, but that they were hired by some shadowy figure behind-the-scenes. Perry realizes that if they can identify this individual, they can get a better deal for their clients. The writers also avoid the obvious reveal of the less-talented brother taking the rap for the more promising but guilty one – turns out that the guy who confesses really is the one who pulled the trigger. It’s a neat little subversion of expectations.
There are a few bits and pieces that I didn’t like: it turns out that Emily Dodson has killed herself in the gap between seasons, the glorious Lupe is reduced to a brief cameo, and Della ends up cheating on her adorable girlfriend with a less-enjoyable replacement (not cool, Della). Shea Whigham’s Pete Strickland is a recurring character instead of a main, but Drake at least gets a neat little subplot, and his wife Clara nabs the most riveting sequence of the season – it’s as simple as knocking on a door to ascertain who lives in a certain house, but I was on the edge of my seat.
Altogether, it’s not as good as the first season (it’s hard to top the emotional stakes of a murdered child) but the most disappointing thing about it is that the show was clearly gearing itself up for a third season, one in which Perry, Della and Drake would have faced a terrifyingly insidious foe that’s vowed vengeance upon them. But that’s a premise which has now been consigned to the “what might have been” pile. It’s a damn shame.
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