Reading/Watching Log #104

What do you do when you run out of Robin Hood related material? You watch Ivanhoe!

Having read Walter Scott’s famous novel last month, I was enthusiastic about tracking down the three most popular film and television adaptations (released in 1952, 1982 and 1997 respectively) especially regarding each one’s portrayal of Rebecca and Rowena, who are going to be the subject of a forthcoming post.

It also being a story that heavily features Robin Hood, I made the time to watch several old-timey Robin Hood films that have been lurking on my hard-drive for a while now – most of them downloaded from YouTube and therefore very low on quality. Though oftentimes, that’s what makes them so entertaining.

All this was perfectly timed with me finishing up The Adventures of Robin Hood (1955 – 1959) which I must have started sometime last year, as well as my concurrent rewatch of the BBC’s Robin Hood with a friend. We’ve just started the trainwreck that is series three, and at some point I WILL finish that retrospective on the show in its entirety. A lot of it has been written already, the problem is it’s not even remotely coherent at this stage.

Reading-wise, I ended up churning through many of the Apple paperbacks I read as a kid, simply because I felt like a trip down memory lane. However, many of them ended up being supplementary books to the overarching series, and therefore the ones that I missed while growing up: tie-in novels to stuff like K.A. Applecraft’s Animorphs, John Peel’s Diadem, Caroline Lawrence’s The Roman Mysteries, the Spirit Animals saga (though those latter two came a little later in life) and of course, my two usual Babysitter Club books. I’ll read some proper literature soon, I promise. Maybe.

And I played King’s Quest V: Absence Makes the Heart Go Yonder over the long weekend, so there’ll be a writeup on that in the near future. It’s so good in some respects, and yet so terrible in others.

Captain Underpants and the Invasion of the Incredibly Naughty Cafeteria Ladies from Outer Space (and the Subsequent Assault of the Equally Evil Lunchroom Zombie Nerds) by Dav Pilkey

For some reason I am still reading these, even though they are completely at odds with my sense of humour. Okay, so the reason is so I can have informed conversations with the kids at work, who love these sorts of books, but I have to admit that even when I was that age, I probably would not have liked Captain Underpants.

One night in Ohio, a meteorite streaks over the skies of Piqua and lands on the roof of Jerome Horowitz Elementary School. The following day, nobody even notices the “big spaceship thingy” or the three aliens within: Zorx, Klax and Jennifer, who have arrived to take over the planet.

Meanwhile, our protagonists George and Harold have just tricked the school lunch ladies into making cupcakes with vinegar and baking soda (having just seen a homemade volcano explode in science class) which results in a giant green explosion. The lunch ladies resign in disgust, though their positions are very quickly filled by the aliens in disguise, whose special recipes turn the entire student body into zombie nerds.

Yes, it’s very silly, and yes, that’s the whole point. Captain Underpants is summoned to defeat both aliens and zombies, and my edition had the extra bonus of a Dog Man comic at the back. At some point I’m sure I will continue with the Captain’s further adventures. I’m doing it for the kids.

The Bad Guys: The Furball Strikes Back by Aaron Blabey

The third book in the far more amusing saga of the Bad Guys (Wolf, Shark, Pirahna, Snake and newcomer Tarantula) who are attempting to mend their ways and become the Good Guys by helping those in need – whether they like it or not. To be more specific, Wolf is determined to become a hero, and his friends are dragged along for the ride.

In the wake of the last book’s chicken farm jailbreak, the Bad Guys are on a roll, answering a distress call from the forest, asking them for help in repelling the bulldozers coming to destroy the homes of friendly wood-dwelling critters. On arrival, they realize it’s a trap: the bulldozers are made of cardboard, and Wolf, Snake and Shark are promptly captured by Doctor Marmalade, a psychotic billionaire mad-scientist guinea pig furious over the loss of his chicken farm.

Pirahna and Tarantula manages to avoid capture, but glimpse a ninja entering Marmalade’s secret facility, just as they mount their own rescue mission.

As usual, it’s funny stuff, with great illustrations by the author, who imbues so much humour and expression into each character. Some panels are LOL-level funny, such as when a furious Wolf eats Snake, and then an equally fed-up Shark eats Wolf. Then Snake cries: “that means I’m inside a wolf AND a shark!”

Or how Shark is a master of disguise, rendering himself unrecognizable to his own teammates while inside their car, simply by donning some bunny ears and teeth. Or Pirahna confidently stating there aren’t any ninjas while one clings to the wall behind him.

This particular instalment is notable for introducing a new character (a sexy foxy secret agent that Wolf naturally falls instantly in love with) and a cliff-hanger ending, in which Doctor Marmalade unleashes zombie kittens on the world. Between this and Captain Underpants, unusual variations of zombies were certainly a theme for each series’ third offering.

Dawn and the Big Sleepover by Anne M. Martin

I was obsessed with this one as a kid. As it happens, my copy isn’t even my copy – it belonged to a friend that lent it to me, and I obviously never gave it back because her name is still written on the inside cover. (To be fair, she split chocolate milk over one of mine).

As I’ve mentioned before, books in this particular series can be broadly divided into three categories: problems with family/friends, mysteries, or childcare problems/projects. This belongs to the last type – as does the next in the series, giving us two “babysitters take on a big childcare project” in a row. Given the similarities, it’s perhaps not a coincidence that the titular big sleepover is a success, while the baby parade (see below) is an abject failure. They had to distinguish between the the two somehow.

Stoneybrook Middle School has a pen-pal programme that we’ve never heard of before, and never will again. Plenty of the babysitters’ charges are involved in writing letters to the Zuni tribe in New Mexico, though a couple are rather insensitively disappointed that they’re not more “Indian” looking. Yes, that’s the term they use. It’s pretty rough, even if it’s a realistic depiction of how a bunch of white kids would feel.

Soon after, the babysitters learn that the school most of the pen-pals attend caught fire and burnt down, along with several nearby homes. On hearing this, Dawn (not Kristy) comes up with a Great Idea... though in all honesty, it’s just a fundraiser to get some supplies to the community. No offence Dawn, but that’s hardly an ingenious concept.

In any case, she assembles the babysitters, calls her brother’s old SMS teacher, and is soon enough standing in front of an assembly of kids telling them that they’re going to be collecting cash, canned goods, used clothing and other useful items to send to the victims of the fire. And as a reward (and incentive) for participation, the school is going to host a giant sleepover in the school auditorium.

Personally, this would have been an absolute nightmare for me as a kid. I got terrible homesickness, and to this day I hate sleeping anywhere that isn’t my own bed, in my own house. But the Stoneybrook kids are excited, and the fundraising schemes begin.

Despite the title, most of the book is taken up with the kids coming up with ways to make money for their pen-pals, including Haley Braddock dressing up as a fortune teller, a food/clothing drive held in Dawn’s barn, and a carnival in the Pike’s backyard (I was obsessed with this chapter as a kid, and I couldn’t even tell you why). A couple of funny chapters are also based around the schoolkids bringing donations to Dawn’s house, and the babysitters realizing that a lot of the stuff is way too nice for the adults to have signed off on.

Yet having realized their children are stealing from their own homes to raise money for a good cause, the parents either let some of the stuff go, or buy it back again. As Dawn says: “they may have been annoyed, but they acted like... well, adults.” (That said, the children are definitely not pilfering things out of the goodness of their hearts, but because those that raise the most money get the best prizes at the sleepover. Just like complaining that their pen-pals aren’t “Indian” enough, it’s deeply realistic).

The sleepover itself is fun to read, and it’s a feel-good instalment all-round, from Kristy letting Dawn have the spotlight (since the fundraiser was her idea) to the reactions from the Zuni tribe when the money and donations are forwarded to them. It’s all a bit condescending, but its heart is in the right place.

And here are the requisite funny/odd bits. On hearing that the Zuni school has burnt down, Richard Spier states: “maybe they didn’t have a good sprinkler system,” which is not only victim blaming, but also just a weird comment to make (even Dawn thinks so in her narration). When the babysitters are called out of class on the intercom system to make the trip to Stoneybrook Middle School and present their idea, one of the other students says: “Well, excuuuuuse me! If I join the Babysitters Club, will I get a day off too?” It cracks me up that the girls have this level of notoriety amongst their peers.

This book features Betsy Sobak and Carrie Addison sightings, two characters that haven’t been seen for a while, and at one point Dawn pokes through some of the donations and thinks to herself: “why would anyone send hot cocoa to people who live in the desert?” Um, huh? Even putting aside the fact that deserts can get really cold at night, why would it be out of the question to send cocoa there? Hot places can enjoy hot drinks!

During the distribution of prizes, the Pike siblings have to end up sharing a croquet set (“to spread the gifts to as many kids as possible”) which would have infuriated me as a child, while one of the teachers at the school has this to say to the babysitters: “would you mind staying exactly the same age for a few years until I have a child old enough to be baby-sat for?”

Well lady, you’re all living in a time-flux in which absolutely nobody ever ages, so I doubt that will be much of a problem.

Kristy and the Baby Parade by Anne M. Martin

If the Big Sleepover was a rousing success, then the Baby Parade is a complete failure. And you know what’s not fun to read? Complete failures.

It’s also a badly structured narrative, with the first few chapters taken up with a childcare programme that the babysitters attend together, a subplot in which Mrs Prezzioso acts more deranged than usual when she pays Kristy to help her prepare baby Andrea for the titular baby parade, and the girls acting completely out of character when it comes to (not) unifying their efforts to pull off their project. It’s especially weird on the heels of the well-oiled sleepover.

Anyway, the gist of the plot is that Kristy reads an advertisement in the local newspaper about Stoneybrook’s bi-annual baby parade, in which various babies are dressed up and put on floats that trundle down the main road. This hurts to think about, as floats are generally quite large, and babies are extremely small. How does anyone plan to SEE these infants while standing on the side of the road? (Though according to Anne Martin’s afterword, it’s a real thing in her hometown, so what do I know?)

Kristy has one of her “great ideas” (sarcasm) and decides to sign up Emily Michelle and some other neighbourhood kids for the parade. Unfortunately, the babysitters struggle with teamwork and communication, leading to mismatched costumes, a float that doesn’t look anything like it’s supposed to, and a slow march of humiliation in front of all their friends and family. Fun, huh? 

And much like the concept of a baby parade, so much stuff in this book just doesn’t make sense. For instance, Claudia is the one responsible for building the float. Yes, a thirteen-year-old has built a float. Let’s just... try and visualize that for a second. Floats are large platforms on wheels, strong enough to carry several people, and generally hitched to the back of cars. No explanation is given as to how Claudia has made a float – is it on the back of a trailer? A wagon? How big is it? What is it made of?

At one point we’re told: “Claudia had realized that we would need something to keep the babies from falling overboard. She had built a little guardrail around the float.” BUT HOW? HOW HAS A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD BUILT THIS?

Here’s a list of all the other weird and/or stupid things in this book:

In chapter two, the exposition chapter, Kristy describes Nannie and says: “She was tired of living alone. Her husband died years ago.” Er, her husband? You mean – your grandfather?? Even if he died before Kristy was born, as mine did, it’s an odd way to describe him.

“I don’t want to sound conceited, but Kid-Kits are another of my great ideas.” Too late, you definitely sound conceited.

“I really liked what Dawn had to say about her new technique for dealing with temper tantrums. I never would have thought of tucking children into their beds and talking gently to them until they felt calmer.” Really? You never would have thought of that very basic method of handling a tantrum??

“Mary Anne, quit staring. You’ve seen pregnant woman before.” “Yeah, but only one at a time. A whole room full of them is different.” Uh, what?

“You use cloth diapers. Great. So many parents are switching to cloth these days. They are much better for the environment, if you’re willing to do just a little more work.” Oh, you sweet summer nineties child.

At the “graduation” ceremony of the childcare class, Nannie and Charlie are in attendance (CHARLIE? This guy has NO life) as well as Jessi’s little sister, who gets a ride with the Pikes. Baffled.

Here’s a sample question from the exam given for those attending this class: “You are changing a diaper for a six-month-old Rebecca when you hear the phone ringing in the next room. What do you do? A) run to answer it. The call could be important, and Rebecca’s comfortable on the changing table. She’ll wait. B) Grab Rebecca and make a run for the phone. You might still get there before it stops ringing. C) Let it ring. You can’t leave Rebecca alone on the changing table.”

Gee. How does anyone fail this class? Kristy gets a perfect score on the exam, surpassing almost all of the adults, because of course she does. The other graduate with perfect marks is a man, which everyone is stunned at. I just... what is this book? Why is it so shocking that a man is good at childcare?

“‘I’m going to be a pumpkin for Halloween,’ Jamie said. (Halloween is about three million months away, but you know how kids are. They like to plan ahead for their favourite holidays).” I mean, they’ve already celebrated three Halloweens in only two years, so perhaps a time flux of some kind is responsible.

“His favourite character is this little guy Elmo, who isn’t on the show very often, so Squirt has to watch carefully in order to catch him.” HAH! This was clearly written well before Elmo’s hostile takeover of Sesame Street.

“Slim Peabody was supposed to be a celebrity, but he sounded like an old has-been to me. Why couldn’t they have gotten somebody like Cam Geary to lead the parade?” I dunno Kristy, maybe because Cam Geary is a Hollywood A-lister in this universe? Why the hell would he want to host a smalltown baby parade?

Claudia’s signs are spelt thusly: “Their was an old womann who lived in a sho.” And “Thair was an old womann who lived in a shue.” No one was on hand to supervise her spelling? And why is she depicted as so idiotic that she manages to misspell the same words in completely different ways?

Bagpipes? Really? In a baby parade? Mary Anne described as having: “her hands over her ears.” Um, isn’t she supposed to be holding a baby at this point?

“Babies were crawling all over the float. None of them wanted to stay put. As soon as Stacey or Claudia got one settled, another one would start to take off.” HOW IS THIS SAFE??

There’s not much to say, only that this is the first book in the series that I’ve flat-out disliked. There’s something about its tone that’s just off, and it’s frustrating to watch the girls mess up in such stupid ways. To top it all off, they don’t even come together in the eleventh hour to pull a last-minute victory out of their hats.

As pointed out, this is the second book in a row to feature the girls taking on a big child-related project, and it speaks volumes that the Big Sleepover was for a worthy cause, whereas the Baby Parade was based on stupid beauty pageantry. Clearly they didn’t learn their lesson the first time they took on a beauty pageant, so as far as I’m concerned, they deserve the humiliation they suffer here.

Diadem: Books 1 – 3 by John Peel

I’m going to discuss the first three books in this series as one large volume, because there’s no way I’m doing each one separately. Clearly designed to springboard off the success of Animorphs, though also with a hefty dose of Doctor Who (unsurprising since Peel has written several novelizations for that show) Diadem was (eventually) a twelve-book series about three young people thrown into a sci-fi/fantasy/pulp blender of magic and adventure, which contained an assortment of cyphers and riddles for both the characters and readers to solve.

This element actually reminded me of LOST, in that they’re strewn throughout each book rather haphazardly. Some are resolved in the same book they’re introduced, others are left for later instalments. Some, I’m sure, are never explained at all. The series in its entirety reads rather like a series of little mysteries within one larger overarching mystery, and given that LOST is what immediately came to mind, I’ll leave you to consider whether this made for a rewarding reading experience or not.

Living across three different worlds are three very different teenagers: Score is a street kid living on the streets of New York, Helaine, a noblewoman in a medieval feudal society, and Pixel, a blue-skinned elf-like boy whose entire world revolves around virtual reality. Despite the “past, present, figure” vibe to their backgrounds, no time travel is involved, these are just the different worlds they inhabit.

The first three chapters of the first book detail how each one is chased by strange shadow creatures, approached by a mysterious man who speaks in rhyming couplets, and rescued by shapeshifting beings that usher them through a portal into a world called Treen, where they’re to be trained to use their innate magical abilities by a wizard called Aramath.

Yeah, it really rips through the plot. A blend of sci-fi, a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, a coming-of-age story, several videogame-like battles, all those LOST-like riddles and puzzles… it seems like a match made in heaven for the pre-teen reading demographic, and yet the series never really took off.

There are a couple of reasons for this, one being that the story doesn’t pop in the way it should, with rather stock characters, bland prose, and a somewhat overly-complex premise (again, compare to Animorphs, where “kids gifted with the ability to shapeshift have to fend off an alien invasion of slugs that can take over people’s bodies” is pretty concise and stimulates the imagination pretty well).

The other is the confusion surrounding the publication itself. From what I gather, the first six books were published by Scholastic, then the next four by Llewellyn over a decade later – which may explain why the amazing cover art by Michael Evans was dropped and replaced with rather awful cartoonish ones. Finally, the last two books were self-published by the author himself, in an attempt to wrap everything up.

That’s quite a publishing journey, and I fear that no one is going to have much luck reading this entire saga these days. I only have the first five books, and no idea how to get my hands on #6. And I’m definitely not going to pay the exorbitant prices online for out-of-print books.

In any case, it’s Helaine and Pixel who end up having the most interesting storylines; Helaine, who spends most of the story as “Renard,” has to hide her gender in order to escape the repressive gender roles of her world, while Pixel has lived most of his life in virtual reality, only for a dream to compel him to leave his home for the first time and explore the real world (there are some fascinating elements to his storyline, everything from “are my on-line friends even real?” to the realization that his cushy existence has been built on the back of slave labour, but we whizz through the revelations and implications too fast for them to have much of an impact).

In comparison, Score is the typical wiseguy street kid who uses sarcasm to mask his insecurities. (Going back to the topic of cover art, the Score one makes me laugh. He’s meant to be a teenager, but that guy is in his late twenties at least. Why does a teenager have chiselled abs??)

Yet I have a soft spot for the series, and for the oddest of reasons: that aforementioned incredible cover art. It might be hard to tell from the featured image, but if you were to line up all the books in a row, they would create a connected collage, with details on one matching up to details on the next. I have vivid memories of putting them all down on the floor of the local bookshop to see how they matched up. And the images were so captivating! The wolves, the unicorns, the main characters – they promised an adventure so much more captivating than the one the story actually delivered on.

It's one of those rare examples of media when you absorb what you THINK a story is, or could be, with those impressions becoming more memorable than the story itself. But it’s still there, in the recesses of my mind: the notion of what this saga might have been, and I recall being so entranced that I ended up writing my own stories based on that artwork.

And to be fair, there are plenty of clever ideas throughout. As mentioned, the main trio neatly embody past, present and future, and the gradual way in which they learn to trust each other, manage their magical abilities, and work as a team is rewarding, and very much plays out like an old eighties/nineties serial. It’s also neat that the concept of “true names” becomes an important component in the story, and that those of our protagonists are cleverly concealed through the use of a nickname (Score), an alias (Renard) and a username (Pixel). Naturally, an indication of their growing friendship is when they decide to share their true names with each other.

I also have to further discuss the character of Helaine, who is a glorious embodiment of what I can only called “nineties feminism.” These days, you could only roll your eyes at this characterization, but as a relic of the time, she’s delightful.

You see, there’s a type of female character I’m inordinately fond of that is very specific to the late nineties/early noughties, as she’s such a perfect snapshot of feminism at the time: writers were clued into the idea that girls should be strong and assertive, while simultaneously not quite grasping some of the finer nuances of their portrayals. For instance, there was usually only one of them (no female friendships in sight), they hated makeup and other girly pursuits (but were still gorgeous) and were constantly rolling their eyes and criticizing the inferior men (usually completely unfairly). And they were stubborn. So very stubborn.

She’s the Nineties Tough Girl who don’t need no man, throws femininity out the window, is a staunch tomboy, spurns girly things, is wildly beautiful, has an abrasive, borderline obnoxious personality, and will almost certainly be introduced arguing with her widowed father over her impending arranged marriage. You know exactly the type I’m talking about.

She’s dear to me because I grew up with this prototype of female character. Think Sonya from Mortal Combat, Calla from The Gummi Bears, Maeve from Sinbad... and here, Helaine fits the description to perfection. Look at the cover art! That stance, her expression, she’s this type to a T.

The Roman Mystery Scrolls by Caroline Lawrence

Between 2001 and 2009 Caroline Lawrence wrote The Roman Mysteries, which are absolutely essential reading material for any child. Buy them, borrow them – if you have kids, just get your hands on them. After their completion, she wrote a sequel series and a smattering of short stories, as well as four slender books known as The Roman Mystery Scrolls. Unfortunately, the library only stocked three of the four.

Our protagonist is a boy called Threptus, who I’m safe to assume was a character introduced in the main series (though I’ve no memory of him – it’s been a while) who lives with a soothsayer and is learning his craft as an apprentice. His master has a good heart, but often relies on get-rich-quick schemes and wastes money on gambling and wine, which means that Threptus is often called upon to save the day after his impulsive ideas go wrong.

Aimed at a slightly younger audience than the main series, these mysteries are much shorter and simpler, and contain far more potty humour, with plenty of fart and toilet jokes. When it comes to integrating actual history into the stories (which The Roman Mysteries excelled at) Lawrence leans more towards exploring the day-to-day lives of Roman citizens – hey, if you ever wanted to know how they wiped themselves in public toilets, these books have the goods!

The Book of Shane by Nick Eliopulos

Looking back over my reading logs, I can see that I initially read the seven-part Spirit Animals series back in November 2022, and as a result of that hiatus, have lost track of some of the saga’s finer details. I remember that various children in a thinly-veiled facsimile of our own world (Euros for Europe, Arctica for the Arctic, etc) were capable of summoning spirit animals when they came of age, and that the protagonists ended up bonded to some of the most famous creatures of their history, who returned after many years of a mysterious absence.

This heralded a shift in the ongoing tensions between their homelands and... um... a conquering nation of some kind? Which was led by other animals known as the “fallen beasts,” called as such for having betrayed their own kind? Who were creating forced bonds between people and animals through the use of a potion called “the Bile”? I’m afraid my recollections get rather vague at this point.

Though I do remember the character of Shane, an anti-hero/antagonist of the young heroes, whose integration amidst the team lead to a fairly good twist when his true nature and intentions were finally revealed.

Originally published as four e-books, this publication collects them all in a single volume, set before, during and after the events of the seven-book series. Aside from providing a little insight into Shane’s background, as well as his aims, motivations and justifications for the litany of crimes he committed, the stories are clear set up for the second Spirit Animals series. We also get some reappearances from a collection of minor characters, whose fates might have gone unrevealed in the original series, and a chance to get inside the titular anti-hero’s head.

There’s not a lot more to say, only that Tui Sutherland gets her name on the cover in big letters, despite only writing the introduction, while the actual author, Nick Eliopulos, is featured in a much smaller font. Rude. In any case, all you really need to know is that anyone who hasn’t read the original series, or forgotten most of it, will find this volume incomprehensible. It definitely assumes familiarity with what’s come before.

Tales of the Fallen Beasts by Brandon Mull and others

As with the above, this volume exists as a series of short stories that exist as a sequel to the original Spirit Animal books, with plenty of setup for the forthcoming second series. Hopefully, if I ever get around to reading said series, I’ll be able to better retain the contents of this book in order to follow what goes on, as I feel like there’s some pertinent stuff here. As it is, I’ve little idea of what the fallen beasts are actually trying to do, and this is not much of a reminder.

Authors Brandon Mull, Emily Seife, Nick Eliopulos (who also wrote The Book of Shane), Gavin Brown and Billy Merril each focus on a different Great Beast, who are now bonding with unsuspecting children in an attempt to reestablish their power and influence on the world. Returning character Zerif is in league with a young girl called Raisha, who are forcing this bond through the use of a strange worm creature, with or without the chosen child’s consent.

As the title suggests, we get return appearances from the likes of Halawir, Rumfuss, Suka, Arax, Kovo and Gerathon, and each story is told in a different part of the world that was established and visited in the original series, with all the culture, history and prejudices still intact. Many end on cliffhangers that are clearly going to be picked up later.

Most interesting for me was the one about Devin Trunswick, a minor antagonist of the previous series and cast-out son of his wealthy family, who returns home only to find that his younger brother has bonded with a powerful animal spirit in his stead. As with Shane, there’s the sense that the series is setting up a possible redemption for his character.

On the whole, these books reminded me a little of Avatar: The Last Airbender. There’s just something about their tone: the emphasis on spirituality, on the power of animals, on children saving the world on a global scale... In terms of quality, that’s rather like comparing a Porshe to a tricycle, and it’s a little exasperating that the on-line game, which is promoted all over the covers of these books, now seems to be completely defunct. Not even the webpage remains, and I can’t find any archived information on it either.

Though the sequel series has been out for some time, I’ve little idea what it’s about, though this collection suggests it’s a “good guys and bad guys must team up to fight a great primal chaos” situation, with this volume and The Book of Shane putting the pieces in place for that conflict. We’ll see how it pans out when I get to the second series. Fair warning, that could be years from now.  

The Andalite Chronicles: Elfangor by K.A. Applegate

Remember Animorphs? Everyone was obsessed with them when I was a kid, though I tapped out pretty early – I’ve only got seven of the fifty-four books in total, plus one of the super specials. In a nutshell, five friends come across an alien crash site on their way home from the mall. The dying alien inside tells them that their planet is under threat from another species known as the Yeerks (slug-like creatures that are essentially body snatches) and that the stealth invasion of Earth has already begun.

Before this alien – an Andalite known as Elfangor – dies, he passes the gift of morphing to the five teens, giving them the ability to morph into any animal whose DNA they acquire through. This is the moment where their story begins, though this book takes us back to fill us in on Elfangor’s history. Apparently, this was originally published in three separate volumes, which you can discern in the writing itself – the start of each new story repeats exposition that’s already been established in the prior instalment.

That aside, it’s a pretty good prequel to the original series, not only providing insight into Elfangor, but also the war with the Yeerks, Andalite culture and warfare, and the events that led Elfangor to that fateful night in which he passed on the gift of morphing to five teenagers. I’m not entirely sure how much of this is explored further in the main books (like I said, I only read seven of them) but I get the feeling that stuff like the Time Matrix and the Ellimists become important factors of the series as a whole.

As ever, Applegate doesn’t stint on the difficult questions when it comes to matters of war or the compromises it demands of a person – nor the heavy cost it extracts from those caught up in it. Throughout the story Elfangor has to make impossible choice after impossible choice: obey orders or follow his conscience? Save a single life or serve the greater good? Bow out of the fight or chase one’s own destruction? These are the types of moral conundrums that set the tone for the Animorphs saga in its entirety.

One thing that bugged me regarding the book’s design was the flip art at the bottom of the pages. These were a consistent feature of every book in the series, in which the reader could flip through the pages and see a small image of one of the protagonists shapeshift into an animal. They do something a little different here, with images like one spaceship chasing another into a black hole – the problem is that the movement starts on the left-hand side of the page and moves to the right, making it absolutely impossible to actually SEE what’s going on when you flip the pages. Talk about a design flaw!

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee

The third book in this midquel-but-not-really quartet now has an established formula to work with: the character that was introduced in the previous book becomes the protagonist of the next one. As such, we’ve moved from Naia to Kylan to Amri, a cave-dwelling Grottan who goes through a similar journey of discovery as his predecessors, in overcoming his insecurities and using his unique strengths to help the Gelfling cause.

As ever, I’m bemused at the differences between these books and Netflix’s The Age of Resistance, as although these stories were commissioned first (and as the afterword reveals, were written as an entry for a competition) they were ultimately used as a blueprint for the show: taking clan-names, character types, unique locales and the general premise and shape of the story to form the ten-part series.

Except in the case of poor Amri, who is the only protagonist of these books that has no direct counterpart in the show itself. I can only assume he was replaced by the character of Deet, who is also a Grottan, and roughly takes over his role as the representative of that particular clan.

But reading these books allows you to see how the plot might have developed had the show continued. Following on from the previous book’s dictum to “light the fires of resistance,” the trio of Naia, Kylan and Amri attempt to raise awareness of the Skeksis treachery and their betrayal of the Gelflings to the rest of their people. In this volume, they grapple with three of the seven clans: the Sifa (coastal), Dousan (desert), and Vapra (mountainous), facing various obstacles and dangers in each one – most notably the Skeksis known as the Mariner.

I say most notably because this character, and her organic submersible ship, appeared in one of the official graphic novel prequels, and has an interesting role to play as a Skeksis that seems to genuinely want to protect the Gelflings by having them leave the land of Thra and take to the open ocean. I’ve no doubt that she (and her urSu counterpart, the Swimmer) would have featured on the show if it had been renewed.

As a result of its storyline, the book is rather neatly divided into three, as our heroes travel from the sea to the desert to the mountains, making the whole thing a tad repetitive as they integrate themselves among the locals, try to warn them of the impending danger, and then win their allegiance by lighting the very literal fire of resistance. It all plays out a little differently here than in the show, since these books utilize the concept of “dream-etching,” in which images appear engraved on flat surfaces that depict the past, present and future. Your ears may have pricked up at this, so let me confirm that yes – the carvings in Stone-in-the-Wood, as seen in the original film, are formed in this way.

This is possibly the weakest of the four books, more interested in ticking off some locations on its checklist and setting up for the final book than telling a good story in its own right (not helped by the fact that Amri is not quite as compelling a protagonist as Naia or Kylan). As is the way of penultimate stories, it ends on a cliffhanger, though not one that’s poised on the brink of our heroes’ darkest hour, as is usually the case when it comes to cliffhanger endings for penultimate books.

(Yet that’s the strangest thing about this prequel project in its entirety. No matter how many “wins” our protagonists get, we can’t rid ourselves of the fact that whatever else they do, it’s all going to end in near-total annihilation for the Gelfling race).

Though we catch a glimpse of the seafaring and desert-dwelling Gelflings in the show, the book does better in exploring their culture and day-to-day lives, and once again leaves me desolate that the show was cancelled before it got the chance to delve more fully into this beautifully rendered world. It’s a crime!

Flames of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee

I’m still intrigued by how much J. M. Lee did or did not know about what Netflix planned to do with his commissioned stories, and how they end up either merging or disconnecting with the finished result. For instance, Lee establishes that the All-Maudra has three daughters, though only Tavra ends up being an important character in these books. Seladon and Brea are barely glimpsed on the page, even though in the show Brea ended up being one of its three main protagonists. Conversely, the likes of Kylan and Onica are important characters in Lee’s books, though have only very minor roles in the streaming show.

This fourth and final book was published in 2019, the same year that the show was released, and so I have to believe there was a lot of overlap between what Lee was writing and what the showrunners decided upon for their own storylines. I’m still pondering the possibility that Lee wrote with the assumption that his stories would follow some of the minor characters and their side-quests while the show fleshed out the more important adventures of Rian, Brea and Deet, which he deliberately left opaque so as not to contradict anything. Perhaps the original plan was that the YA novels and the show would supplement each other, before the showrunners discovered that this would be too difficult to maintain.

In any case, the point of view of Flames returns to Naia, and covers lighting the final fires of resistance in the remaining three Gelfling tribes: the Drenchen (swamp), Spriton (grasslands) and Stone-in-the-Wood (forest), before facing down the Skeksis themselves. There’s the inevitable passing of the torch when Naia becomes maudra in her mother’s stead, as well as the blossoming romance between herself and Amri, and finally the inconclusive ending, in which the Gelfling race faces an uncertain future.

There are also a few irritating bits. Ask yourself this: if an enemy army was marching on your lands, and the twin children of the woman leading said army were literally standing right next to you, what would you do? Take them hostage, you say? Send one twin to talk their mother out of attacking your village while keeping the other as collateral? Pretty standard stuff, really.

But not only does Maura Mera not do this while Maudra Laesid is threatening to attack, but there’s no explanation given as to why she doesn’t. The whole issue is resolved a few pages later, but nothing would have been lost if this very obvious strategy had been taken.

The second problem is that by this point, Naia is very well aware of the fact that the urRu and Skeksis are mystically conjoined with each other, and that harming one will inflict the same injury on the other. This raises an ethical concern: do they have the right to kill the Skeksis, even in self-defence, if it means also killing a harmless being? Unfortunately, nothing is really done with this premise, and it’s never fully discussed or thought about – mostly because Naia inexplicably keeps this information to herself until the most dramatic (and inopportune) moment instead of at the first available opportunity.

But I was intrigued about how Lee was going to handle his ending, given what we know about what eventually happens to the Gelflings. As it happens, the story more or less ends in the same place that the show does: with the Skeksis attacking Stone-in-the-Wood, the united Gelfling clans forcing them into a retreat, and the discovery of the crystal shard in the Glaive. The Hunter is still killed when his urRu counterpart kills himself from afar (though in this case, it’s by stabbing himself instead of deliberately plummeting from the cliffs in the desert) but whatever the heck was going on with Deet and Aughra in the show (the former suffering strange visions and wandering off alone; the latter appearing in the place of the Hunter after his demise) is omitted.

In fact, Deet gets little more than a cameo here, and I suspect it’s just an attempt by Lee to give the character’s importance in the show a brief nod.

But there are some interesting tie-ins with the show and the movie, namely that the surviving Gelfling chose to abandon their homes in the swamp, plains and Stone-in-the-Wood to find safer refuge in the desert and/or ocean, which suggests that maybe the show was going to forego a total genocide and allow for a few pockets of Gelfling civilization to survive, ones too isolated and remote for Jen or Kira to know about.

Furthermore, the collective “dream-etching” of the Gelfling clans leaves behind the carvings in Stone-in-the-Wood, as featured in the original film. Kylan, Onica and Tavra opt to stay behind in order to interpret their meaning, believing them to hold a prophecy, while Rian and Gurjin make plans to take the crystal shard back to its place of origin in the Castle of the Crystal in order to heal the Dark Crystal.

But given that the Dark Crystal still very much exists in the film that’s set hundreds of years later, it’s a rather grim prospect. Clearly, they must fail in this endeavour. (And how the shard goes from their possession to Aughra’s in the interim remains a mystery).

Still, I can’t blame Lee for wanting to end the story on a hopeful note (there is no stinger involving the Garthim as there was in the show) and all things considered, this quartet was happily free of too much Skeksis action. A little goes a long way with those characters, and I can’t say I was too fond of seeing so much of them in the Netflix show. Instead, these books keep the perspective firmly on the Gelflings and how they respond to the belated realization that their world has been invaded by malevolent forces, and are all the better for it.

In all, I’ve enjoyed this added insight into the world of Thra. The franchise is so dependent on rich visuals to strike its tone, and Lee did an excellent job in capturing the beauty and mystery of this vividly imagined world in his prose. The quartet’s relationship with the Netflix show is as fascinating as it is frustrating, but having completed both, you know what that means – the movie that started it all is next!

The Bandit of Sherwood Forest (1946)

Back to my ongoing project of tracking down every single obscure Robin Hood movie that ever existed! This one is based on a novel called The Son of Robin Hood by Paul Castleton which I’d never heard of before, and just to make things more confusing, is also the name of another film I watched this month, which has absolutely no relation to this one, or the book of the same name.

This takes place after King John’s death, in which Robin Hood and his Merry Men are now in their twilight years, and new enemy the Lord of Pembroke poses a threat to the young heir to the throne, Henry III. He wants to repeal the Magna Carter and take the crown himself, and he’s gathering loyalists to aid him in this cause.

The first scene is the film’s best one, in which the former outlaws of Sherwood Forest are mustered to hear Robin’s news, and we get some cool shots of various men on horseback galloping through the forests and rivers to hear him. Who doesn’t love watching horses gallop around? The familiar faces are all there: Little John, Will Scarlett, Allan-a-Dale and Friar Tuck, though there’s no mention of Marian at all. Rude.

Pembroke takes Henry into custody, though his mother (who is never named, but has to be Isabella of Angoulême) and her handmaiden Catherine manage to escape the castle, and go in search of Robin Hood for assistance. They find Robin Hood’s son Robert first – or rather, he finds them. More specifically, he finds Catherine bathing in a pool of water, and promptly assaults her.

Yeah, the main issue with this film is that its main character is an absolute douche: hassling old ladies, ridiculing the Merry Men, negging Catherine every chance he gets, and easily baited into acting without thinking. My favourite part is when people keep praising him for being “observant” whenever he states the obvious. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s got honest-to-God sequins on his tunic.

So it’s a fairly middling effort, with gaudy costumes, modern hair and makeup, and a castle set that looked very familiar (turns out it was later reused for The Prince of Thieves in 1948, which I saw first, so I can’t accuse this film of recycling on that account). But there’s a surprisingly large role for Allan-a-Dale, a traditional character who’s usually on the sidelines, and Catherine is a reasonably good character, despite her “romance” with Robert being one-sided harassment for most of the run-time. But she’s motivated by her loyalty to the queen mother, and even gets to pass the Bechdel Test.

Tales of Robin Hood (1951)

This one takes us back to Robin Hood as its protagonist, initially introducing him as a child. His father is the Earl of Chester, and we’re back to the Saxon/Norman conflict as the film’s historically inaccurate backdrop (Ivanhoe has a lot to answer for). Immediately after a stirring speech about his son’s inheritance, the Earl is assassinated, and Robin whisked out of a secret passage to live out his childhood in Sherwood Forest.

Years later, Robin is doing the usual stealing from the rich to give to the poor routine, while the villains of the piece (Sir Gui de Clairmont, Sir Alan de Beaulieu, and the inept Sheriff of Nottingham) are engaged in standard evil overlord business. Their latest scheme is to draw Robin Hood out with an archery tournament held at Locksley, with a golden arrow as first prize.

The story begins properly when Robin runs across Little John in the forest for the first time. They have their traditional quarterstaff fight over the river, and are then promptly called to the aid of Maid Marian (here a ward of Sir Gui after her father’s death, and unwillingly betrothed to Alan) and Friar Tuck who have been attacked by bandits. So, quite a big day for Robin.

There are some interesting details strewn throughout the film, from the use of the Blue Boar Inn (this was a recurring locale in the 1950s The Adventures of Robin Hood, which this film clearly predates, so I’m left wondering if the show borrowed it from here, or whether it was an even older element of the legends that I don’t know about) to the familiar monikers of Gisborne and Huntington being replaced with Clairmont and Chester. Will is not Scarlett, but Stuteley, and an old retainer of the Locksley family. Much is present, but in a tiny role.

There are also plenty of glaring flaws. Everyone says people will be “hung” instead of “hanged.” Marian is wearing the exact same dress with the exact same hairstyle in scenes that are clearly meant to take place some time apart. When the bad guys ambush the camp, they leave Allan-a-Dale behind in order to tell Robin what happened... which seems pointless considering they also left a note, detailing exactly what they’ve done. At one point Tuck points out the Big Dipper constellation (I’m extremely sure it wasn’t called that in twelfth century England). 

The acting is considerably subpar, and it’s also an incredibly short film, clocking in at just under sixty minutes.

These decades were really into Slap-Slap-Kiss when it came to depicting romantic relationships, and sure enough, this Marian goes straight for the slap when Robin gets smart with her. Still, it’s not as bad as what precedes and follows in The Bandit of Sherwood Forest and The Son of Robin Hood, and despite the insta-love between the couple, they’re still kind of sweet. More importantly, Marian is given a brief moral conundrum when she overhears Gui and Alan’s plans for luring Robin into the open, and so must then make the decision on whether or not to warn him about it.

The actor playing Friar Tuck (Ben Weldon) is deeply unsettling, with a permanently dazed smile and a soft, ingratiating voice that really creeped me out, and I would have appreciated the ending more, in which the two sides come to a truce rather than a victory/defeat, were it not for Robin being told: “it’s what your father would have wanted” when Gui asks him to pay his taxes. Not wanting to pay Norman taxes is precisely what his father DIED for!

But the most noteworthy thing about the film is that by this point, Robin Hood was being used by Hollywood much like superheroes or James Bond are used today: an iconic character that studios could structure any number of stories around. This one is different in that it actually tries to incorporate many of the familiar legends (the archery tournament, the quarterstaff fight with Little John) into the story instead of finding a brand-new angle in order to set it apart from the rest. Today we’d call it a failed reboot.

Ivanhoe (1952)

Having reread the book last month, I set time aside to delve into the cinematic and televised adaptations of Walter Scott’s seminal novel – or at least the three most famous ones. This clocks in as one of the earliest adaptations, which utilizes all the pomp and pageantry of the Golden Age of Hollywood.

Naturally it changes the original story a lot in order to fit the limited time-frame, but for what it’s worth I felt the film successfully streamlined a lot of material, nicely knitted together all the main plot-points, and made coherent threads out of everything left over. For instance, the film jettisons the subplot of King Richard riding incognito around the country entirely, and instead uses the historical context of his imprisonment in Austria to provide Ivanhoe with a new motivation: to raise the ransom money to secure his release.

(In fact, Ivanhoe's character ends up being combined with Blondel the troubadour of all people, dramatizing the apocryphal account of him wandering around the castles of Austria, singing Richard’s favourite ballad, until he discovers the king’s location on hearing him sing the lyrics back to him).

 It’s always fascinating to see different takes on the same story, and how they handle the change in medium. Of course, several aspects are inevitably cut, and here we lose the characters of Athelstane, Ulrica, Gurth and Reginald Front-de-Bœuf (amongst the most notable). Neither do they bother with trying to keep Ivanhoe’s identity a secret from anyone for very long, and the likes of Brian de Bois-Guilbert and Maurice de Bracy are virtually interchangeable.

Furthermore, the kidnapping of Cedric’s party as they travel through the forest is actually done on Prince John’s orders, who wants to secure control of those raising money for his brother, and in the film’s third act he claims Richard’s release from imprisonment is part of a Jewish plot to exert control over the English king, with Rebecca as the ungodly instigator of it all. Again, it’s a nice way to streamline the story and to connect the three distinct acts.

But this being Hollywood, they do expand on the love triangle between Ivanhoe, Rowena and Rebecca. The two women interact with each other far more than in any other adaptation I watched this month, and even part on amicable terms (in fact, they’re the only versions of these characters who actually embrace each other). But then, I’ll have more to say about all this in my post on the subject.

There is also a sympathetic treatment of Isaac of York, though I suppose the film does lean into the idea that the Jews are sitting on a secret fortune, and are happy to finance Richard’s release from captivity in return for safety and privileges. Still, Isaac is allowed to point out that their synagogues were looted during Richard’s reign (this is true) and is given the line: “I am allowed no king as I am allowed no country.”

The way in which they’re woven into the storyline is quite elegant, with Ivanhoe presenting himself as Richard’s envoy (“it is Richard’s hand you touch”) and promising that the king will deliver them from persecution, having written down their terms and signing it in Richard’s name. Furthermore, the likes of Cedric and Wamba are kinder to the Jews than their book counterparts (antisemitism is demonstrated only by the villains here) and there’s an interesting wrinkle towards the end: having gained custody of Rebecca from Brian, Prince John tries to ransom her back to her father – for the exact price of the ransom. Isaac is willing to sacrifice her in order to secure the safety of their people, and so when Ivanhoe rides in her defence, there’s more riding on it all than just her life.

Robin Hood is present and accounted for, though he’s never called anything but “Locksley” (apparently to avoid confusion/legal trouble with The Adventures of Robin Hood, released by another studio at around the same time) and set pieces like the tournament and the siege are given all the pomp and circumstance they deserve (even if many of the arrows look as though they’ve just been thrown from off-screen). And of course, it goes without saying that there’s a proper duel between Ivanhoe and Brian at the film’s climax, as opposed to Brian just keeling over from internal confliction. Shout-out to his truly terrible helmet:

On that note, there are several really lovely shots throughout this film, from our first panning shot of the outlaws watching Bois-Guilbert and de Bracy on the road:

To Ivanhoe glimpsing Rebecca in Isaac’s house:

It ends with the resolution of the love triangle and the triumphant return of King Richard, who orders his people to rise not as a divided nation, but “as one” (I’ve no idea if this includes the Jews, who are last seen exiting stage-left). But it’s a solid take on the novel, even if Robert Taylor plays Ivanhoe with all the range and interest of a plank of wood. It’s Joan Fontaine and Elizabeth Taylor as Rowena and Rebecca respectively that carry the film, and both of them provide very interesting interpretations of their book counterparts. But I’ll get to that in good time...

Son of Robin Hood (1958)

This one takes us even further along the timeline of Robin Hood’s life, with the first few minutes establishing that he’s been dead for the last ten years. Cheerful! As with The Bandit of Sherwood Forest, it picks up after the death of King John, with Henry III’s reign once more being endangered by a greedy lord (now called Des Roches) wanting to seize the crown for himself. Now it’s up to the next generation and the aged Merry Men to help out the Regent, who is trying to secure Henry’s throne by mustering the former outlaws.

Well, most of them. In a skirmish that sees the Regent taken prisoner, Will Scarlett is killed off pretty quickly, leading to Little John (the irony of his name now referring to his weight rather than his stature) coming up with the idea to send away for Deering Hood, Robin’s only son, to rally the men and lead them to victory. Again, Marian has no part in this story, and is never even mentioned.

Which brings us to the scene in which a debonaire young man rows ashore and is promptly attacked by enemy soldiers. He’s helped out by a cloaked figure, soon revealed to be a girl. So, here’s the plucky love interest, I thought, right on cue.

And then: the twist. In the aftermath of the scuffle, the young man heads off, and the girl is approached by Little John. It turns out that Deering is Hood’s daughter, while the man we’ve been following and led to believe is his son is actually Jamie, the Regent’s brother, called home by his parents in the wake of their elder son’s arrest. What is happening? It was a truly masterful bait-and-switch.

Unfortunately, this high doesn’t last long. Little John is gobsmacked that Robin sired a daughter, and immediately shuts down the possibility that she might lead the men. According to him, they won’t take her seriously. Instead, he enlists the help of Jamie to pretend that he’s the sent-for son of Robin Hood, while poor Deering is forced to take the role of a squire (and weirdly enough, still has to put up with being sexually harassed, despite being in the guise of a boy).

Basically, the entire cause is based on a lie, especially since Jamie is only onboard because he wants to find out what happened to his brother. He gets the cheers, and Deering gets slapped on the ass. Where’s the justice in this world?

The story then takes another turn when Jamie and Deering are forced to take on the identities of a marquess and his wife in order to infiltrate their enemy’s castle and figure out who is leaking information to Des Roche. Yes, now we’re in “there was only one bed” territory. This at least gets Deering closer to the action, but make no mistake – this is ultimately Jaime’s story from start to finish. He gets the action sequences, does all the decision-making, rescues his brother, and wins the final showdown with the bad guy. He even gets first billing in the credits!

Deering is not wholly pointless; she gets into some fights, shoots down a messenger falcon at a critical point, and successfully pulls off her ruse as a marchioness, but ultimately, her role is a massive letdown. What could have been a story about how she wins the respect of the menfolk is instead about how her love interest becomes a good man and tames a wildcat. Yeah, there’s more of that Slap-Slap-Kiss dynamic between Deering and Jamie, with a prolonged physical tussle between them that culminates with him throwing her onto a bed. Romance!

And the more I think about it, the stranger it all seems, especially since the film isn’t at all squeamish about Deering getting involved in the battles. On two occasions, she straight up kills a guy. And has no qualms about it at all! At one point, Little John tells her “you’re truly your father’s daughter,” which is bizarre in context since she’s dressed as a fine lady at the time (was Robin renowned for crossdressing or something?) and she’s eventually revealed as Hood’s daughter to the men without any fanfare whatsoever. On expressing relief that she’s got her true name back, the Regent then jokes that she’s about to lose it again upon her marriage to Jamie. Bleh.

Some of the scenes are pure Narm (there’s a torture scene where Robert is seemingly gently touched by a hot poker, after which he immediately faints) and not for the first time, there’s no sign or mention of Marian (or Tuck either, in this case). Yet for all of the film’s issues, it’s probably the one I would be most interested in rewatching: not only a fascinating look at a very confused attempt at gender equality in the 1950s that fails miserably, but also a surprisingly well-structured film.

As stated, the lead-up to the reveal that Deering is a girl is masterfully handled, as are other important plot-points. The traitor in their midst turns out to be the Prioress, which is not only a nod to the legends, but nicely foreshadowed when the messenger who always brings news from her is constantly seen with a falcon on his wrist. When the reveal comes, it’s staged as the Prioress moving into a back room where the falcon is waiting for her on its perch. Likewise, things like Jamie’s familial connection to the Regent or the role of Lady Sylvia are seeded early and paid off later.

It's very cleverly plotted, in ways that aren’t immediately obvious, and makes me want to see it at least one more time.

The Scarlet Pimpernel (1982)

This may seem like an odd viewing choice in the midst of Robin Hood month, and yet Sir Percy Blakeney is almost the precise inversion of that character, working on behalf of the other end of the social-spectrum: saving the rich from the consequences of their own actions.

The Scarlet Pimpernel poses a fascinating question in a lot of ways, one that’s brought on by extremely current discussions about revolutionary action versus incremental change. Is upheaval and violence worth the improved social changes that they eventually bring about? Can there ever be such a thing as a bloodless revolution? Is the killing of innocence ever justified if it leads to benefits for a greater number of people?

Who is even responsible for something like the French Revolution – the desperate peasants who demanded change, or the aristocrats, who didn’t listen until it was far too late? Is a democratic Republic worth killing for?

That’s heavy stuff to bring to a relatively light-hearted affair like this crowd-pleasing film, and a few lines of dialogue very much try to have it both ways before the plot feels comfortable turning to more fun stuff, like disguises and espionage and swordfights. The first and only conclusion drawn on the subject of the Revolution was that it was a nice idea in theory, and yeah, the aristos probably should have been a little more generous with their excessive wealth while people were starving in the streets, but it’s ultimately gone too far, and the bloodthirsty mob is now totally out of control.

(I mean, this could have all been avoided if everyone had just read the Bible properly, which makes it very clear that rich people go to hell and that wealth should be distributed amongst the needy. Just saying).

Enter Sir Percy Blakeney, an English aristocrat who darts across the channel to rescue imprisoned aristocrats and whisk them away to safety, often utilizing elaborate disguises and clever schemes in order to secure their escapes.

More interestingly, Percy conceals what he’s up to by projecting a foppish persona, making those around him believe he’s nothing more than an English nitwit who cares for nothing but fashion and gossip. This is fascinating when placed in the context of the superhero genre, for it might very well be our first literary example of a double-identity, in which one half is played up in order to conceal the truth of the other (think Bruce Wayne as a playboy, or Clark Kent as an awkward nerd).

Is the Scarlett Pimpernel our first example of a modern-day superhero? I love the way old stories and concepts flow into the new like this.

While he’s busy rescuing aristocrats, Percy also finds time to fall in love with the French actress Marguerite, played by the beauteous Jane Seymour. It’s easy to see why, though what she sees in him remains a mystery, as he’s constantly putting on the mincing, preening act around her. The romance is fairly inexplicable, not to mentioned poisoned on their wedding day when her former lover Chauvelin (played by Ian McKellan!) contrives to make Percy believe she deliberately sent an aristocratic family to their deaths after denouncing them to the revolutionaries.

Percy himself is played by Anthony Andrews, and you can tell he was having a lot of fun switching between the dandified version of his character and Percy’s true self. This was quite a year for him as 1982 also saw him playing Ivanhoe (see below). Two iconic heroes in one year!

There’s a lot of double-crossing and elaborate swordfights and clever subterfuges to enjoy – though a part of me found it difficult to put the complexities of this period aside and just shut my brain off. I mean, the fact remains that I’m all in favour of overthrowing the monarchy and establishing a Republic! It’s hard to forget that Percy is technically on the wrong side of history, especially when the final shot of the rescued dauphin has our heroes promising they’ll help him reclaim his rightful throne. Which would inevitably lead to more fighting, more battles, more death...

But hey, it’s more proto-superhero story than historical fiction. Questions like “is our hero technically on the wrong side?” or “what is the moral cost of fighting evil?” or “can a revolution ever be brought about peaceably?” are better left to less lightweight stuff.

Oh, and Julian Fellowes of all people is in this as the Prince Regent. That’s just funny.

Ivanhoe (1982)

The most striking thing about this version of Scott’s tale is the colour. Glorious, beautiful colour! And it’s all so rich and vibrant! It just drove home for the umpteenth time how utterly bereft we are of colour in our visual media these days, in which it seems to be the prerogative that everything be as washed-out and drab as possible. But here, the verdancy of the grass and the forest, the brightness of the heraldry – it was quite astounding.

This was the second time I’ve seen Anthony Andrews playing a heroic character this month, and I suspect he enjoyed being the Scarlet Pimpernel more than Ivanhoe, as... well, trying to make the story’s titular character interesting is surely any screenwriter’s most difficult challenge. Especially when he exists opposite Olivia Hussey’s Rebecca and Sam Neill’s Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who are probably the best versions of those characters.

It starts and ends with a voiceover narration, which first points out that the loves, hates and prejudices in this story are still prevalent today, and concludes with a more bittersweet take on the central love triangle. Unlike in 1952, which makes it very clear that Ivanhoe’s heart always belonged to Rowena, this one plays up the connection between Ivanhoe and Rebecca, with the two parting on deeply regretful terms.

At a whopping two-and-a-half hours long, this adaptation can certainly fit more material into its run-time than its predecessor, though it makes the interesting choice of skipping the introductory scenes at Cedric’s hall, going straight to the tournament at Ashby instead. It’s a shame to lose all that juicy banqueting hall interplay between the various characters, but having recontextualized the meeting between Isaac and Ivanhoe on the road (with the latter saving the former from Normans lying in wait) it works pretty well.

Again, the film knows that pageantry is the key to this particular story, but where as the fifties version accentuated the love triangle, this one focuses more on the politics, from discussion over who should be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty and the implications of each potential choice, to Ivanhoe being well aware of Richard’s presence on English soil, riding out as a sort-of envoy in advance of the king making himself known to the court.

Several more details are brought in from the book that the fifties movie had no time for, such as Tuck getting into a punching competition with Richard and Cedric escaping Torquilstone by disguising himself as a priest, but other elements remain absent. The likes of Gurth and Ulrica are once again missing, though Athelstane has been tweaked from the foolish-albeit-jovial fellow in the book, to a more gormless rendering whose relinquishment of Rowena’s hand is more sardonic than genteel.

But perhaps in lieu of this, we do get a possible Maid Marian sighting! She has no lines and no attention is drawn to her, but look at this screenshot of the Merry Men in the forest:

That’s got to be her right? There are several other women included in the outlaw encampment, but she’s the one that most looks the part.

Oh, and do you recognize the guy playing Robin Hood? It’s Doctor Clarkson from Downton Abbey!

There are a couple more familiar faces – I spent the entire film thinking that King Richard was played by Jared Harris until realizing it was actually Julian Glover (best known as Walter Donovan in the third Indiana Jones movie) and de Bracy is played by none other than Stuart Wilson (you know, Anthony Hopkin’s sworn nemesis in The Mask of Zorro. I found him so familiar, but had to consult IMDB to figure it out). Oh, and John Rhys Davies is here too, because of course he is. 

Plenty of other details and motivations have been tweaked to one extent or another: de Bracey conceals Ivanhoe’s presence in Torquilstone not to save his life, but to blackmail Rowena, and the ambush on Cedric’s party by the trio of Norman knights is more spur-of-the-moment than something carefully planned out with paid mercenaries. Most interestingly, Bois-Guilbert deliberately throws the fight with Ivanhoe in order to save Rebecca’s life.

In fact, it was fascinating to watch all three adaptations one after the other and note what was kept and what omitted. For instance, the first film is the only one to keep one of Rebecca’s accusers insisting that she changed in to a black swan during the siege and flew about the parapets in that form (as was mentioned in the book). This was the only film that depicts Isaac’s bodyguards abandoning the Jews for fear of bandits in the forest (in the fifties, they set out with Cedric straight from Rotherwood; in the nineties, they suffer a broken wagon wheel). And the nineties version is the only one that keeps the detail of Brian having Saracen slaves in his retinue.

But of course, every director knows how to stage the witch trial: by putting Rebecca in a white dress, placing her the centre of a large room, surrounding her with unfriendly people (mostly men on higher tiers) and letting the visuals of this intimidating atmosphere tell its own story.

Most interestingly, watching these three Ivanhoe adaptations in succession really highlighted the cynicism that creeps in with each new generation (not that Walter Scott’s novel was entirely without it – there are some stealth passages in it that speak very sardonically of war and violence). But whereas the fifties version had nothing to say about the Crusades, this version includes some critique straight from the mouth of Ivanhoe himself, who is also more self-aware of his own helplessness during the siege (back in the fifties, Ivanhoe is healed enough to engage in the combat, and gets to rescue Rowena from her captivity). It's a trend that continues into the nineties miniseries.

As a final note, this film also had some insane helmets on display. George R.R. Martin would weep with envy:

Robin Hood: Prince of Sherwood (1993)

Well, I did it. I found the worst Robin Hood movie ever. It’s not The Siege of Robin Hood, or Beyond Sherwood Forest, or The Adventures of Maid Marian, but this – a movie filmed on a camcorder in the early nineties by complete amateurs. It was written and directed by the same individual, who also stars as the titular character. That’s never a good sign, and it’s amazing.

The guards have tiny plastic shields. There are light switches visible on the walls. One of the characters is wearing a Hiawatha costume. The dungeon walls are made of canvas, with painted-on bricks. The Sheriff has a hilariously fake stick-on beard. You can watch it yourself on YouTube.

Okay, I already feel mean, because this was clearly a labour of love, not something put together to be ridiculed – and yeah, for an amateur production it’s passable. I mean, you can grasp the fundamentals and follow the action. And hey, they have real horses! A lot of the dialogue is completely swallowed up by the soundtrack or the distance between the actors and the cameras, and clearly no one had ever heard of a tripod in order to stabilize the shots, but at the same time, it doesn’t get close to Tommy Wiseau’s The Room levels of inanity.  

It was also very obviously based on 1991’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves – Little John has a son called Wulf, there’s a witch-crone who can see the future (by cracking eggs, wouldn’t you believe) and the final act involves Marian being kidnapped by the Sheriff and forcibly married in a quickie ceremony that Robin has to rescue her from.

But it’s pretty fun to watch: the terrible fight scenes, the equally terrible acting, the awful costumes, the money shot of a villagers’ hut blowing up for no clear reason, but also the fact that everyone seems to be having a great time. Behold, the screencaps:

The Adventures of Robin Hood: Seasons 1 – 4 (1955 – 1959)

I finished it. I finally finished it! I’ve been making my way through this series, which is comprised of one hundred and forty-three episodes in total, for the better part of six months. It’s a relief to finally wrap it up – though that said, I will miss it!

The reason I watched all four seasons in one go is because my download didn’t label each individual episode, and so were all completely out of order. I had no idea where one season ended and the next began, so I ended up having to rename all the files as I went, matching the contents of each one with episode summaries I found on-line.

Despite that minor headache, there’s a lot to enjoy from this series, especially when it’s viewed within the context of the vast scope of Robin Hood retellings. I’m always interested to know what they’ll keep, what they’ll add, and what they’ll change from our traditional understanding of the folk hero, and The Adventures of Robin Hood is one of the most influential additions to the canon.

The pilot involves several tried-and-true Robin Hood story beats, though because the episodes are only twenty minutes long, the writers had to stagger many of the important plot-points across a number of episodes. There’s no sign of Maid Marian or Little John in the pilot, nor of the familiar “rob from the rich to give to the poor” adage, and the Sheriff of Nottingham and Robin Hood himself are the only main characters that are introduced.

Robin arrives home from the Crusades, having served there under King Richard, to find that his estate of Locksley has been taken over by a Norman lord who refuses to acknowledge his claim. After saving a poacher from some overzealous soldiers, Robin confronts the Sheriff who agrees to bequeath his land and titles back to him, while secretly laying a trap. On realizing this, Robin takes to the forest and joins up with the outlaws already living there, vouched for by the poacher he rescued earlier in the episode.

That’s the setup, and it’s a decent springboard from which to start the show in its entirety. Despite Robin’s first adversary being a Norman lord, the whole “Norman versus Saxon” conflict is dropped fairly quickly, perhaps because the writers clearly did their homework when it came to depicting eleventh century life, incorporating such things as “raising a hue and cry” or allowing serfs their freedom if they’re able to evade capture for a year and a day. One episode even takes the time to demonstrate how wool was spun.

The show also includes several Robin Hood staples (or clichés) such as hearty laughter ending an episode, the concept of “inviting” travellers through Sherwood Forest to dinner and making them pay for the outlaws’ hospitality, and Lincoln green tights (not that you can tell since it’s shot in black-and-white, but everyone says they’re in Lincoln green, so we’ll just have to take their word for it).

And I always find it almost overwhelmingly touching when old shows depict things that today would be derided as “woke,” proving that the attempts to build bridges and foster understanding isn’t something that’s only just been invented. In this case, the show includes sympathetic portrayals of Jewish communities, Muslim visitors, women that fight in defense of their homes, and even a socialist-tinged episode when everyone contributes what they can to a singular foodstore, the contents of which are then distributed evenly among everyone.

And granted, the Muslim characters are actors in brownface, and the womenfolk are usually shuffled off into marriage by the end of the twenty-minute mark – but I’m not saying it’s perfect, only that it’s trying.

Richard Greene is one of our most iconic Robin Hoods: stalwart, jovial, lantern-jawed, and with a tendency to unironically do that fist-into-an-open-palm gesture to demonstrate he’s thinking. These days he’d be derided as boring, but there’s something so soothing about a character who always not only knows what to do, but what the right thing to do is. You can go to this man for help and expect the best version of himself, effortlessly, every time.

As an aside, it’s also interesting that he wasn’t strictly a young Robin Hood, but full-grown man in his mid-thirties. These days (with a few exceptions, like Russell Crowe) the character seems to skew much younger.

The show also boasts not one but two Marians – though not at the same time. Bernadette O'Farrell played the character in the first two seasons, and was replaced by Patricia Driscoll for the last two. I’m not entirely sure why, though I think I read somewhere that Greene and O’Farrell didn’t get on very well. In any case, it was fascinating to see the differences between the two actresses and what they brought to the role: the first Marian is very cool and regal, while the second is pure Girl Next Door cheerfulness.

Between Robin and Marian there is some friendly ribbing, but despite some old-fashioned elements to their relationship, I was surprised that more often than not they were written as equal partners, with several episodes featuring Marian coming to Robin’s rescue, and clever utilization of her role as his spy in the circles of power. On several occasions she’s even depicted wearing leggings and fighting alongside the men.

There are also two Sheriffs of Nottingham, played by Alan Wheatley and then John Arnatt, though in this case they play two different characters as opposed recasting the first one. Wheatley’s Sheriff is quite an interesting rendition of the famous villain – not an overtly cruel or inhumane man, just one following the law of the land. He can be very courteous to Marian, and there’s a nice moment in one episode in which he tries to comfort a man who has just lost two sons by placing a sorrowful hand on his shoulder.

Archie Duncan is a somewhat dim-witted Little John, whereas Alexander Gauge has become my absolute favourite Friar Tuck: wise, kind, lively, pious and humorous. Then there’s Paul Eddington, who turns up in almost every single episode as an entirely different character each time, thanks to an array of fake hair, false teeth and funny accents. Once I started recognizing him, it became something of a game to try and spot him among the cast – and at one point he played two different characters in the same episode, before the final stretch of episodes in season four established him permanently as Will Scarlett.

There’s also a regularly recurring outlaw known as “Derwent,” who looks and acts so much like a Much the Miller’s Son that I’ve no idea why they didn’t just go with that.

Among the many guest stars there are a few who went on to greater fame in other projects, though perhaps most notable is Billie Whitelaw, who I looked up on IMDB mostly out of curiosity (here she plays a girl who wants to become an outlaw). Would you believe she went on to play Ambrosia in the 1998 Merlin miniseries and Joyce Cooper (the innkeeper that Simon Pegg exchanges hag/fascist insults with) in Hot Fuzz? I mean… wow. Just wow. I would never have realized in a million years. There were probably dozens more such cases that I simply didn’t recognize.

All things considered, I liked it. Sure, it’s dated in a lot of respects (like the whole “sponsored by Wildroot Cream Oil!” introduction to each episode) but it’s an important stepping stone between the older and more modern takes on the legend, and it’s clear to see how influential it’s been over the years (for example, one of the writers was Ring Lardner Jr, one of the blacklisted Hollywood Ten. He was given a shout-out in the BBC’s Robin Hood, in the episode called “Lardner’s Ring,” referring to the name of a carrier pigeon).

Ivanhoe (1997)

As far as I can tell, there hasn’t been another adaptation of Ivanhoe since this miniseries aired in the nineties, and that’s because this is the definitive version. Perhaps not as famous as its predecessors, but across its six episodes it includes almost every single event that takes place in the novel, and quite a few original ones as well (including an expanded role for Rowena and an appearance from Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine).

But the most profound difference between this and the ’52 and ’82 movies isn’t its length, but its decision to go for a realistic depiction of eleventh-century life. This means no colour, no pageantry, no acts of heightened chivalry, but rather a lot of grime, mud, and big bushy beards. (And suffice to say, Isaac isn’t just threatened with torture this time around – it happens on-screen). Despite the romantic nature of Scott’s novel, the change actually works quite well – the story fits this tone and aesthetic just as well if not better than the more idealized visuals of past dramatizations.

The fact that it’s also stretched across six episodes gave me the chance to appreciate the story’s structure. No one pays much attention to the art of structure, which is why Andor (I’ll take any opportunity to talk about that show) came as such a pleasant surprise: because the episodes were broken down into three-part mini-stories within the longer arc of the show. The fact that such a level of care had been taken regarding what every episode should contain, and the best possible places for each one to start and finish, elevated the project as a whole.

Both exist in stark contrast to other shows, which are essentially treated like eight-to-ten hour movies that are haphazardly divided into parts, which are probably just going to be binge-watched anyway.

In this case, it’s a testament to Scott’s original planning that the story fits so well into this episodic format – because of course, that’s what it was designed for. It’s easy enough to discern the three distinct acts of the piece: the tournament, the siege and the witch trial, but because this specific adaptation is committed to including all the connective tissue between these events, we can better appreciate how Scott pinned everything together, from Gurth’s early run-in with the outlaws, to the incognito Richard happening across Friar Tuck in the forest and sharing a meal with him.

It's not a coincidence that the weakest episode is also the one that contains the most original content, largely to do with Prince John’s schemes going awry, as well as death scenes for De Bracey and Gurth, who both survive in the book – not to mention the resurrection of Athelstane, which IS in the book, but only because a contemporary of Scott was inordinately fond of the character, and begged for his life. (No offense to Athelstane, but I think Scott’s initial plan to kill him off was the correct one).

The series also adds in a subplot in which Ivanhoe is suspected of treason thanks to the machinations of Brian, which is an unnecessary addition and never really amounts to much. When will adaptors learn that authors know what they’re doing? Don’t just change things for the sake of it!

Of course in saying that, there are some original scenes strewn throughout that go down pretty well, most notably the extra material given to Rowena that helps contextualize her character, and provide insight into her feelings on the world around her – namely how her abhorrence of Athelstane conflicts with her very real sense of duty and understanding of her faith, which requires obedience to her guardian and liege lord.

I also quite like the way they present the trio of knightly antagonists almost as a bunch of wild frat-bros, who stage the ambush in the forest as a prank that spirals wildly out of control until most of them are dead. The whole thing is a situation that keeps escalating; an attempt to impress a girl gone terribly, terribly wrong.

And as for the famous love triangle, well I’ll have more to say about that in its own post, only that even as they give more time and attention to the history between Ivanhoe and Rowena, the star-crossed couple of Rebecca and Ivanhoe are very much portrayed as Ships in the Night, who forge a strong connection between them that’s cleverly presented as a mix of the Florence Nightingale Effect and the fact they’ve both been thrown into a terrifying life-or-death situation. Of course they’re going to bond!

But of course, Ciarán Hinds is given the chance to forge a more complex version of Brian, and though I’ll never find this character particularly appealing, he certainly bears more of a resemblance to a typical Byronic Hero than his predecessors. Here, Rebecca is somewhat intrigued by him, and though he never would have worn her down (she has too much integrity for that) he certainly presents a more compelling case for why she should accept him.

Likewise, the show gives Robin Hood a MUCH better send-off than either book or the other adaptations, by having him secretly follow Ivanhoe to Templestowe and save his life when he and the other outlaws draw their bows on the battlements after the Bishop calls for Ivanhoe’s death once he’s defeated Brian. Nicely done.

We also get to see Gurth, Ulrica and Prior Aymer in live action for the first time, as well as Little John (who in the book is only mentioned as being on the Scottish border) and Queen Eleanor, who gets a great scene when she gives her sons a The Reason You Suck Speech. Sadly, there no Marian – not even a cameo.

Of course, the show sometimes goes overboard in its additions. As mentioned, there’s an awful lot of footage of Prince John and his scheming, which really just amounts to him talking to his stooges in various rooms. Not helping is that the actor isn’t very compelling in the role, which could have at least made these scenes entertaining. You’re playing Prince John! Where’s the petulance? Where’s the flamboyance? This is a character that demands a fair amount of camp, and there’s none to be found here. Have fun with Prince John, for heaven's sake! Watching him is downright boring.

(To be fair, the actor playing King Richard fades into the background too. It’s a weird oversight).

There’s also something of a budget issue. Both prior films put everything they’ve got into the tournament and the siege, knowing that they’re the big crowd-pleasing set pieces, but here we not only have to see the tournament unfold in what feels like real time with no edits (it seriously goes on forever) but Cedric storms the castle with approximately a dozen men. It’s not so bad I suppose, and the fact they’re going for a “everyone is poor and miserable” vibe certainly helps, but still.

On the plus side, casting is spot-on. James Cosmo as Cedric? Perfection. He was born to play that role. Chris Walker as Athelstane is pitch-perfect as well: a dim-witted, jovial, rather large man, who still manages to be a decent guy underneath (he’s just not a maiden’s dream).

Victoria Smurfit brings a fire and spirit to Rowena that’s sadly lacking in all previous versions (not to mention the book) and I can believe her hot temper in conjunction with Ivanhoe’s relative calm would make for a happy match. She’s even... dare I say it... feisty?

In fact, her introductory scene made me laugh out loud. Remember above when I spoke about nineties heroines and how they’re usually introduced fighting with their fathers about their impending arranged marriages? Well GUESS HOW Rowena’s first scene plays out here. It’s delightful, complete with a bystander sardonically stating (though with a hint of approval): “he’ll have his hands full with that one.”

Plus, the flaxen hair and high cheekbones makes her a perfect physical match for what we’d think of as a “Saxon beauty.” I think even William Makepeace Thackery may have softened a little at this more fierce, outspoken Rowena.

Steven Waddington is another smart choice for Ivanhoe, and although the fact he’s suspected of treason thanks to Brian’s machinations has no real plot relevance, I have to admit that it does give his character something extra to chew on. He’s also very much at home in this time period, having also played King Richard twice (in a docu-drama and the BBC’s Robin Hood) and the real-life Templar Arnold of Torroja in the two Arn movies.

There are also plenty of little character notes strewn throughout, from Cedric clearly realizing that Athelstane is a dud, to Rowena’s fury at being betrothed to him further compounded by her awareness that Cedric’s Saxon cause has long-since been lost. Ulrica is present at last, and gets to taunt her captor as she sets the castle alight, and Christopher Lee eventually turns up as the Bishop, a character who gets more loathsome with each successive iteration.

(In another example of weird casting synergy, I’ve also seen a few episodes of The New Adventures of Robin Hood this month, a truly bizarre nineties offering that features Lee as “Olwyn,” the wise man who lives in the forest and occasionally provides Robin with sage advice and magical potions. What a truly strange career that man had).

In many ways, this is the definitive take on Ivanhoe, and it’s difficult to imagine how any successive adaptation could improve on it. Many of the actors in these roles are the best versions of their respective characters, and most of its additions or deviations from the original text (especially in fleshing out Rowena) are highly successful. Everyone is given a clear sense of inner motivation, each episode always has a firm grip on who’s going where and who knows what, and the interlocking puzzle pieces of the text are coherently arranged.

Likewise, there is an underrated sense of elegance to the proceedings. Stories have a lot of moving parts, but if the threads of characterization, plot, and tone are well-oiled, then an audience won’t even notice how smoothly it’s all flowing.

Most of all, there’s a realistic tone struck here that’s truer to the period in which the story actually takes place than when it was written in the early 1800s. In many ways it works better in this context than it does in Walter Scott’s idealized version of the time – and I say that as someone who generally doesn’t like it when things are made Darker and Edgier.

There are other versions of Ivanhoe out there: another television show made in the seventies (which seems to be on YouTube in its entirety), an animated cartoon, another black-and-white series starring Richard Greene (a.k.a. Robin Hood) and at least one other nineties take called Dark Knight that looks like it reaches the quality of The New Adventures of Robin Hood (that is, another Xena Warrior Princess knock-off).

For now, I’ll be sticking with the three I’ve covered in this post, though I’m looking forward to writing more about the story’s two female leads as they’re portrayed across all these adaptations. At least, as soon as I get the time.

The Tudors: Season 3 (2009)

This season has only eight episodes (as opposed to ten, as all the others do) which makes a certain amount of sense. There’s not as much historical material to draw upon during this period, and it’s also a showcase for Henry's two least-interesting wives (sorry ladies!)

We’re onto wife number three, with Jane Seymour now played by Annabelle Wallis. I’m not sure why this change occurred – I have an inkling that the original actress was uncomfortable with doing nude/sex scenes, but then it turns out there aren’t any involving Jane, so perhaps not. I read elsewhere she got tied up with another project, but Jane only lasts four episodes before dying, so it still seems a bit odd.

And the change is very pronounced, as there’s a very different energy between the two actresses. Anita Briem emphasized Jane’s youth and naivety; Wallis’s is older, wiser and more composed. It’s a shame really, as the difference makes it twice as difficult to pin the character down, and I feel we’ve never gotten any decent insight into Jane in any adaptation of Tudor history. How did this woman feel about slipping into the place of a predecessor whose body was barely cold in the ground? No one has ever seemed interested in finding out.

Once she’s gone, it’s on to Anne of Cleves, who is definitely my favourite of the six wives. Why? Because if this was Game of Thrones, she definitely won it! She doesn’t have to stay married to the dickbag king, but instead gets a sweet stipend, a comfortable estate, and permission to kick up her heels and live as a free woman in the lap of luxury, never having to worry about death in childbirth or getting her head cut off. What a sweet deal!

In many ways, she’s the ultimate “what might have been” factor in all of history. She was young and robust, and so if Henry hadn’t taken such a visceral dislike to her, she may well have given him the healthy son that would have kept Princess Elizabeth off the throne and ensured the continuation of the Tudor dynasty for generations to come.

But she didn’t, and it’s a little difficult to grasp what the show is going for in her portrayal. First of all, I well-remember the bewilderment across the internet when it was announced Joss Stone, a pop singer with no acting experience whatsoever, had been cast in the role. It stank of stunt casting, and everyone was deeply skeptical – then lo and behold, she not only pulled it off, but excelled beautifully, even managing the German accent. Good for her!

(Though where is she these days? I assume still involved in the music industry, but with a debut this solid, it’s a shame she’s since disappeared from acting).

Another odd element is that the real Anne was notorious for not being found physically appealing to her husband. The show deliberately tries to maintain some suspense in this regard by keeping her veiled for several episodes, having her unattractive brother forbid any portrait of her from being done, and (once it is allowed) depicting Cromwell encouraging the artist to embellish her features.

But then of course, she’s revealed to be a very beautiful woman after all. What were they going for here? A bait and switch in which the audience expects a Plain Jane and gets a Joss Stone instead? That Henry’s a blind crankpot? Were they too afraid to cast an unconventionally attractive woman in a world where everyone looks like a supermodel? Heck, maybe they DID think Joss Stone was homely in comparison to the likes of Natalie Dormer and Tamzin Merchant.

Whatever they were going for, it’s further undermined by the fact that Joss Stone is showcased in the opening credits sequence, so everyone was already completely spoiled regarding what Anne of Cleves looked like. What a weird creative decision.

This season also charts the rise and catastrophic downfall of Cromwell, though it neglects to lean into some of the irony that dominated the final years of his life. Let me put it this way: if I were to write a character who masterminded the execution of a queen called Anne on trumped up charges, only for him to eventually be executed in his turn on trumped up charges brought on by his mishandling of an arranged marriage of the king to another queen called Anne, then my editor would probably slap me.

But that’s precisely what happened to Cromwell, though here it all occurs so quickly you barely register it, let alone grasp the staggering sense of laser-guided pin-pointed-precision karma. It’s all squeezed into the second half of the final episode, without much context as to why it’s even happening beyond the fact that a lot of people didn’t like him. And since they introduce Catherine Howard in the final episode as well, it all feels rather rushed.

This season also deals with the aftermath and consequences of the Reformation, but you can tell the writers don’t find the material hugely interesting. At the end of the day, this is a soap opera retelling of history, and that requires most of the action to remain at court with its myriad of interpersonal dramas.

As ever, it’s fun to see some familiar faces (it’s Moseley from Downton Abbey!) though Cramner and his wife-in-a-box seem to have disappeared entirely without explanation. Also, we get the very epitome of a One Scene Wonder thanks to Christina of Milan, who effortlessly shoots down Henry’s marriage proposal.

On that note, the logic behind how cast members are credited on this show continues to elude me. Somehow actors playing minor characters end up in the opening credit sequence, while Sarah Bolger languishes in the end-credits, despite having substantial screentime in every episode. Ah well. We’re on the homestretch now, with only one season to go...

Slow Horses: Season 1 (2022)

Another rainy weekend of feeling ill, another weekend on the couch with a mum-friendly binge watch. I was rather astonished to discover that Slow Horses has reached its third season while I wasn’t looking; not only was I under the impression that it was a very recent show, but nothing gets to three seasons these days.

The title refers to the rejects of MI-5: those who for one reason or another have been given the boot from the glitz and high-tech glamour of Regent’s Park HQ and cast into exile at Slough House (from which is derived the derogatory “Slow Horses” moniker) to run menial errands and do endless paperwork under the supervision of Gary Oldman’s Jackson Lamb, a rude and unkempt intelligence officer who treats his underlings like dirt.

Despite Oldman getting top billing, it’s really the story of Jack Lowden’s River Cartwright, who botches a training exercise and is sent to Slough House as punishment – seemingly indefinitely, despite coming from a well-respected family of espionage agents.

(This ends up being the show’s biggest plot-hole, as the mistake involves a miscommunication between Cartwright and his rival, who was leading the operation at the time. One insists the other said “white shirt, blue T” to identify the target, the other that he misheard it as “blue T, white shirt.” It’s a case of he-said/he-said, with no way to prove what was actually said. Except that you’re telling me this super-elaborate and career-defining training exercise wasn’t being RECORDED? Yeah right. Later there are some extenuating circumstances that add context which might help justify this turn of events… but there’s no clarification and so it remains a pretty massive reach).

The thing is, even a not-very-good MI-5 agent is still an MI-5 agent, with all the training and expertise that this organization requires. When standard surveillance on a right-wing journalist pings some details on a potential racially/politically motivated kidnapping, Cartwright’s spider sense starts tingling.

Sure enough, a young Pakistani student with important relatives is abducted while walking home from a club, with his assailants promising via a livestream that they’re going to behead him the following morning. Naturally, a lot of screentime is devoted to his ordeal as he tries to outwit his captors, having no idea that MI-5’s “finest” are on the trail.

There are a couple more narrative threads woven throughout, mostly involving the other Slough House agents: two that embark on a very awkward romance, another struggling with alcoholism, and a series of flashbacks regarding the death of an MI-5 agent that Lamb was clearly involved with in some capacity. Then of course there’s Kristen Scott Thomas’s Deputy Director General Taverner, who is in the middle of her own spiderweb of intrigue – and is all too willing to use the Slow Horses as scapegoats should her plotting go south.

I have to admit, I was a bit suspicious at the presence of Olivia Cooke as one of the Slough House agents, since wasn’t this around the time she got booked for House of the Dragon? And sure enough, she doesn’t last very long. Ditto Steve Waddington, whose presence here was amusing considering I also watched him in Ivanhoe this month, which was released nearly twenty years prior to this. He’s looking a little craggy these days.

At only six episodes, it’s easy enough to binge in a single afternoon/evening, and it’s everything you’d expect from this sort of show: grim storylines, stiff-upper lips, political intrigues, incremental weather, seedy pubs, dark secrets that people will kill for… the works.

Plus, it’s amusing to think that this is what the losers of MI-5 were doing during all the high-stakes espionage of Spooks.