Between languages

1/ I have just finished reading another book of my uncle’s, a kind of memoir. Makes me sad about Vietnam, about writers in exile, about a myriad other things. 

My uncle’s a (retired) literary critic and professor of Vietnamese Studies in Australia. And a dissident. Denied entry twice into Vietnam, at the airport. 

(You see, I’m from a family of “difficult people”). 

2/ The book also makes me feel the acute pain that I have lost my roots. I still write in Vietnamese, I still speak it, my tongue is not robbed from breathing its native breath, and yet I have lost my roots. I immerse myself in English-language literature; I aim, like A. C. Bradley or Henry Fielding, to absorb Shakespeare into my bloodstream. Shakespeare rather than Nguyễn Du. Rather than any of our writers. 

3/ And yet English will never fully be my language. I can read Shakespeare, I can read Melville, some day I may read Joyce, but it will forever be a foreign tongue. 

I still sound like an outsider, still stumble over multi-syllabic words, still lose grammar together with my temper. 

4/ Past Lives is not a good film—most of the dialogue is banal—but there is one great scene. In it, the main character, a South Korean woman who in childhood migrated to Canada and then to the US, is in bed talking with her American husband and he says she dreams in Korean—“You dream in a language that I can’t understand. It’s like there’s this whole place inside of you where I can’t go.” 

5/ Studies have shown for years that multilinguals have different personalities in different languages, but it was only during my time visiting a Vietnamese writer and her family in Berlin a few months ago that I realised I was different and felt different as I switched between languages in conversation with her. In English, the hierarchy ceased to exist, the sense of intimidation disappeared. I was free. 

Against philistinism—reading ideas for 2025

Over the past 10 days, I’ve been having a few arguments on the hell-site (still) known as Twitter. Foolish, I know. First, because a “former English major” and a few others said Shakespeare was “inaccessible and alienating to students” and should be dropped from school. Then because one said Shakespeare’s considered a genius only because “there was a lot of low-hanging fruit,” and another said Shakespeare and Mozart were “both very usual” and “The Artistic Genius is a myth that is forged by cultural institutions over decades and centuries.” Some of you are surely glad you’re not on social media. But no, it got worse. A couple of days ago, the news of Christopher Nolan’s new project revealed that a few film youtubers had never heard of The Odyssey; there were strong reactions; numerous philistines appeared in defence of ignorance, asking if people are supposed to know “every single piece of literature” and calling others pretentious; a few appeared to think The Odyssey was American or written in English (one for example asked “How do they expect people who don’t speak English as their first language to know this book?”, but there were others). 

Dismal.

Even if there is little impact, I can’t help feeling an urge to fight against anti-intellectualism and inverted snobbery, against identity politics and Critical Race Theory, against philistinism and the School of Resentment. 

One of the ways to fight is reading and analysing and promoting classic books.

So next year, I’m gonna read The Odyssey. It would be a sudden jump, but that shouldn’t matter—I’m curious about George Steiner’s comparison of Dostoyevsky to Shakespeare and Tolstoy to Homer. The question is which translation. 

(At some point, I will get to Ovid because of his influence on Shakespeare and Cervantes, but perhaps not yet). 

In 2025, I’m gonna continue exploring the 18th century. At the moment I’m taking a tiny break from Tom Jones to read a book by my uncle the literary critic, and may pick up something else whilst in Leeds. Should also expand beyond novels—I know I’m narrow. 

I’m also gonna see more of the 17th century. Perhaps read some more Spanish Golden Age plays. Or just explore 17th century French drama. I haven’t read Molière. And of course reread a few Shakespeare plays and read some more Shakespearean criticism. 

Those are the main projects. 

There are also some loose ideas scattered around. For various reasons I’m now more interested in Ulysses, so I’m gonna have to build up for it—try Dubliners again and build up. 

I’d also like to read more Jewish literature. Over the past year, I read Primo Levi, Isaac Babel, Isaac Bashevis Singer. Tom of Wuthering Expectations gave me as birthday present a collection of classic Yiddish stories. Should read those. And perhaps more. 

Even if the philistines and authoritarians win, even if the public becomes increasingly ignorant of classic works because of tiktoks and a million other distractions, I will not lose—because these books I read are mine. 

2024 in reading and viewing

1/ I’m sure none of you are surprised to hear that the greatest novel I’ve read this year is Don Quixote, the funniest and saddest of novels. 

It blows my mind still that Shakespeare and Cervantes were contemporaries—I have seen Shakespeare everywhere, now I see Don Quixote everywhere. 

2/ My reading in 2024 discovered two interesting things. 

One was that Don Quixote led to the exploration of the Spanish Golden Age: 3 plays by Lope de Vega (The Dog in the Manger, Fuenteovejuna, The King the Greatest Alcalde), 3 plays by Pedro Calderón de la Barca (The Surgeon of Honour, Life Is a Dream, Love After Death), 1 play by Cervantes (The Siege of Numantia), 1 play by Tirso de Molina (The Trickster of Seville, the original Don Juan), 12 stories by Cervantes (Exemplary Novels). 

I have known a bit of 17th century Britain. Now I know a bit of 17th century Spain. Also went to the Spanish Gallery in Bishop Auckland (I know, it’s great to be an art lover in England). 

To sum up my impression, Lope de Vega has a better sense of pacing and structure, and his characters are more vividly drawn, but Calderón’s plays are the ones with complexity and depth. Neither of them is Shakespeare. Neither of them is Cervantes. But who is? Life Is a Dream is a great play, the best among these plays, and you should read it. The Dog in the Manger and Fuenteovejuna are also good fun. 

(Those of you who have often scolded me for only reading novels—you know who you are—where’s my cookie?) 

The other thing in 2024 is that I started filling my 18th century gap: Dangerous Liaisons, (part of) Pamela, Shamela, Joseph Andrews, Evelina, The Female Quixote, Candide, and now Tom Jones.

(Each of these, except Candide, got multiple blog posts).

Am I going to read Clarissa? Maybe. Don’t know. Perhaps someday. But right now there are plenty of writers to get to first: Sterne, Swift, Defoe, Goethe, etc. Enjoyed Dangerous Liaisons, Evelina, and Henry Fielding. 

3/ The best non-fiction I’ve read this year is Primo Levi: If This Is a Man, The Truce, and Moments of Reprieve. 

The best book of literary criticism is possibly What Happens in Hamlet by John Dover Wilson. Followed closely by The Imperial Theme by G. Wilson Knight, which has a couple of interesting essays about Antony and Cleopatra. 

4/ This year, I saw two Shakespeare plays onstage: Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) and A Midsummer Night’s Dream (2024, Royal Shakespeare Company, dir. Eleanor Rhode, starring Mathew Baynton as Bottom).

Both productions were enjoyable enough. 

The Macbeth production was the fourth version I saw (though the first Shakespeare onstage), after Trevor Nunn (Ian McKellen – Judi Dench), Joel Coen (Denzel Washington – Frances McDormand), and Orson Welles (Orson Welles – Jeanette Nolan). The Trevor Nunn production is the standard—Ian McKellen and Judi Dench are the Macbeths—everything else suffers in comparison. But I did enjoy Indira Varma’s portrayal of Lady Macbeth, and enjoyed the comic touch in Ralph Fiennes’s performance. 

My first complaint is that the production was too bright—Shakespeare’s Macbeth is a dark and murky play, a play in which night strangles the travelling lamp, a play in which darkness does the face of earth entomb—it didn’t quite work the same way when the performance was in full light. 

My second complaint is that Simon Godwin increased the presence and significance of the witches but they looked too… human—there’s nothing strange or eerie or frightening about them as though they’re not the inhabitants of the earth—look at the witches in the Trevor Nunn production or Kathryn Hunter in Joel Coen’s film. 

They also cut the porter scene. 

The production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the second version I saw, after the 1968 film (which had a spectacular cast: Ian Holm as Puck, Judi Dench as Titania, Helen Mirren as Hermia, Diana Rigg as Helena, etc). 

It was enjoyable enough, largely thanks to Mathew Baynton as Bottom, and was especially funny towards the end. As it’s a modern-dress version, some of the costume choices were questionable and I didn’t particularly like the couples—my friend Zena Hitz thought the best of the four was Boadicea Ricketts as Helena and I think she’s right—Ryan Hutton was too camp as Lysander and the other two were forgettable—but unfortunately for Boadicea Ricketts, I had seen Diana Rigg in the same role. Mathew Baynton was the one who carried the production—I never thought of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as Bottom’s play—but this production belonged to Mathew Baynton. 

5/ Over the past few years, I’ve been complaining about contemporary cinema. But this year, I watched quite a few good films—cinema is not dead, baby, cinema is not dead—Anatomy of a Fall, La chimera, The Zone of Interest, The Holdovers, The Taste of Things—all from 2023. 

Anyway, enjoy the holiday, folks. In case I don’t write another blog post by then, Merry Christmas!

Tom Jones: “an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet”

1/ I like the sexual frankness of Tom Jones. 

“… Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So little had [Molly] of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backwardness she herself grew proportionably forward; and when she saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner that the youth must have had very much or very little of the heroe if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, it was her design which succeeded.

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the violent attacks of his passion.” (B.4, ch.6) 

Henry Fielding is so likeable because he values goodness and virtue but he is tolerant and forgiving of human frailty—next to him, George Eliot and Edith Wharton and even Jane Austen may occasionally come across as rather harsh. 

“… Molly Seagrim approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the bark; when the girl coming near him, cried out with a smile, “You don't intend to kill me, squire, I hope!”—“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. “Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness for me to expect.”

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into the thickest part of the grove.” (B.5, ch.10)

Hahahahaha. You can probably see why I love Tom Jones. No wonder some contemporary critic called it a tale of “bastardism, fornication, and adultery” (if that doesn’t make you want to pick up the novel, I don’t know what can). But it’s fascinating to see sexual frankness and an embrace of horniness in the 17th century (like Shakespeare) or the 18th century (Tom Jones, Dangerous Liaisons) after being used for years to the reticence and prudishness of the 19th century. 

(Did Tolstoy ever read Fielding? My quick googling told me nothing. I’m rather amused imagining his shock and outrage upon reading Tom Jones). 

I like the warm, good-humoured persona of the author: 

“… I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one.

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident to them as to other mortals.” (B.5, ch.5)

The novel has a comic tone, but Fielding has no illusions about humanity. He depicts the greed and misogyny of Captain Blifil, the hypocrisy of Thwackum, the artful and dishonest behaviour of Master Blifil, the wantonness of Molly Seagrim, the carefree egotism and thoughtless cruelty of Squire Western, the deceit of Black George… but, like Tolstoy or Chekhov, he depicts all these characters with compassion. 

2/ It is good to read Fielding’s masterpiece after Joseph Andrews. Both are full of warmth, wit, and good humour, but one can see the improvements. 

First of all is the main character. Like Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones is handsome, “one of the handsomest young fellows in the world.” But if in his first novel, Fielding concentrated most of his energy on Parson Adams (and some on Lady Booby and Mrs Slipslop) and didn’t give Joseph a personality, he now does a good job with the characterisation of Tom Jones, who is impulsive and has a wild streak but who is nevertheless good-natured, loyal, generous, and lovable.  

Another difference is the plotting. I have written that Joseph Andrews, as a picaresque novel, is episodic and doesn’t have anything that holds it together—it is loose and drags on sometimes—Tom Jones in contrast is tightly plotted and I can see why Coleridge said it’s one of “the three most perfect plots ever planned.” 

I probably won’t say much about the plot and the characters till I’m close to finishing the book though. 

What a romp! 

PS: I’ve just read that Samuel Johnson said about Tom Jones: “I am shocked to hear you quote from so vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession which no modest lady should ever make. I scarcely know a more corrupt work.” 

Hahaha.

Tom Jones: “we have […] adhered closely to one of the highest principles of the best cook”

I’ve noted that some bloggers complain about the narrator of Tom Jones—why?—this is one of the great charms of the novel.   

“The same animal which hath the honour to have some part of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and palls that which is the sharpest and keenest.

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well dressing it up.” (B.1, ch.1) 

I used to think I disliked the intrusive narrator, until I discovered Thackeray and Fielding (turns out I just didn’t get along with George Eliot). 

“… As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought proper to lend them my assistance; but this is a favour rarely to be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, can possibly enable any one to make the discovery.” (B.1, ch.5) 

Fielding’s authorial persona is a delight—his influence on Thackeray is obvious. 

Tom Jones is divided into 18 books and each book begins with the author talking about his own writing—meta? I’ve come across readers who say that these chapters contribute nothing to the plot and that they are skippable, but they’re a carefully constructed part of the novel—like the essays in War and Peace or Life and Fate—in Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding has created a warm, witty, large-hearted narrator as an essential part of the novel; in Tom Jones, he goes further, talking about the art of the very book we are reading. 

“… I mean here the inventor of that most exquisite entertainment, called the English Pantomime.

This entertainment consisted of two parts, which the inventor distinguished by the names of the serious and the comic. The serious exhibited a certain number of heathen gods and heroes, who were certainly the worst and dullest company into which an audience was ever introduced; and (which was a secret known to few) were actually intended so to be, in order to contrast the comic part of the entertainment, and to display the tricks of harlequin to the better advantage.” (B.5, ch.1)

I guess the advantage of the novel being such a new thing in the 18th century was that writers could do whatever they wanted (I know, I will read Tristram Shandy). Some features and techniques people commonly associate with postmodernism were there from the very beginning (including Don Quixote). 

“Now, in reality, the world have paid too great a compliment to critics, and have imagined them men of much greater profundity than they really are. From this complacence, the critics have been emboldened to assume a dictatorial power, and have so far succeeded, that they are now become the masters, and have the assurance to give laws to those authors from whose predecessors they originally received them.

[…] Hence arose an obvious, and perhaps an unavoidable error; for these critics being men of shallow capacities, very easily mistook mere form for substance. They acted as a judge would, who should adhere to the lifeless letter of law, and reject the spirit. Little circumstances, which were perhaps accidental in a great author, were by these critics considered to constitute his chief merit, and transmitted as essentials to be observed by all his successors. To these encroachments, time and ignorance, the two great supporters of imposture, gave authority; and thus many rules for good writing have been established, which have not the least foundation in truth or nature; and which commonly serve for no other purpose than to curb and restrain genius, in the same manner as it would have restrained the dancing-master, had the many excellent treatises on that art laid it down as an essential rule that every man must dance in chains.” (ibid.) 

Take that, critics! 

The funny part is that now and then, the narrator pretends not to know everything. 

“Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in London, on some very particular business, though I know not what it was…” (B.1, ch.3) 

Who knows if you don’t, Mr Fielding? 

“… it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such distempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their breaking out; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when least suspected.

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four years to her husband's teaching this young woman, and had suffered her often to neglect her work, in order to pursue her learning. For, passing by one day, as the girl was reading, and her master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress.” (B.2, ch.3) 

This is even funnier: 

“As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the world.” (B.4, ch.3) 

Isn’t that against what novels are about? 

“… As to the name of Jones, [Blifil] thought proper to conceal it, and why he did so must be left to the judgment of the sagacious reader; for we never chuse to assign motives to the actions of men, when there is any possibility of our being mistaken.” (B.5, ch.10)

What would Tolstoy think? (I’m thinking of his criticism of Shakespeare for not only concealing but sometimes also removing characters’ motives). 

Let’s see if next time I find anything interesting to blog about. I’m enjoying Tom Jones, especially the references to Shakespeare and Don Quixote. 

Why do some great novels resist adaptation?

Yesterday I watched two Czechoslovakian films: Alice and When the Cat Comes (both of which I recommend). As I was watching Alice, Jan Švankmajer’s wonderfully dark and disturbing adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I thought about classic novels that were adapted for the screen over and over again. 

And I thought, why are some great novels so much harder to adapt than others? 

I’m not talking about novels with an odd structure, an obvious challenge such as Moby Dick or The Sound and the Fury or One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m also not talking about faithful adaptations—you can’t accuse me of being a purist—just film or TV adaptations that can stand on their own as works of art. Like Jan Švankmajer’s Alice. Or Dr Strangelove. Or Ran.

But clearly some novels seem to resist adaptation. Take Don Quixote for instance. This is one of the most important novels in the world, this is a novel that has been adapted a million times, and yet—perhaps I am ignorant—there is not a single adaptation that is considered a good film of Don Quixote. BFI has an article called “The troubled history of Don Quixote on film”, about the failures of Orson Welles and Walt Disney and Terry Gilliam to bring it (successfully) to the screen. Terry Gilliam in the end managed to make The Man Who Killed Don Quixote in 2019, but it’s not successful, is it? Critic score of 66% and audience score of 59% on Rotten Tomatoes. 

Anna Karenina, another favourite novel of mine, also doesn’t seem to work well on the screen. The challenge of the depth of Tolstoy’s characters is not the only reason. The 1972 adaptation of War and Peace, with Anthony Hopkins as Pierre, demonstrates that it’s possible to convey the depth of characters and the conflicts between them—the only flaw of that version is Natasha (many people love the Soviet version, but it’s only because they seem to be fine with Sergei Bondarchuk stripping away all psychological and philosophical depth and character development). But there is not a single good adaptation of Anna Karenina* and I have seen six different ones: Greta Garbo (1935), Vivien Leigh (1948), Tatiana Samoilova (1967), Sophie Marceau (1997), Keira Knightley (2012), and Vittoria Puccini (2013). There is always something wrong—with Anna or Vronsky or Karenin or all of them—not to mention that the Levin strand is almost always reduced to a mere subplot. 

But I guess the complexity of Tolstoy’s characters is the main reason. Filmmakers tend to go for a simpler version. 

Wuthering Heights is another hard one. Jane Eyre has an excellent adaptation in 2006, with Ruth Wilson as Jane and Toby Stephens as Mr Rochester. Some people seem to like the 2011 film with Mia Wasikowska, for some reason. But Wuthering Heights has not had a single good adaptation—we all agree, yes? The news of the version currently in the works doesn’t particularly cheer anyone up either. How could Emerald Fennel possibly cast Margot Robbie as Cathy and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff? Madness. 

My favourite Emma: Kate Beckinsale. 

The case of Jane Austen is easier to understand. Almost all of her novels have had a good adaptation: Lady Susan has a brilliant adaptation in 2016, confusingly named Love and Friendship; Northanger Abbey has been adapted only once** in 2007, with Felicity Jones, which seems popular enough; Sense and Sensibility has the Oscar-winning film in 1995 with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet; Pride and Prejudice has the 1995 series, with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, leading to the Austen craze and the whole Janeite industry (though there are, oddly, some people who prefer the Keira Knightley film); Emma has a great adaptation in 1996 with Kate Beckinsale, which is my favourite, though the consensus is that the best one is Clueless; Persuasion has a celebrated version, also in 1995, with Amanda Root as Anne Elliot and Ciarán Hinds as Captain Wentworth. All filmmakers have left to do is to “ruin” them with some “subversive” adaptations, like Netflix has done with Persuasion and presumably will do again with Pride and Prejudice (well, for those who like that sort of thing, that’s the sort of thing they like). 

The one Jane Austen novel that has not had a good adaptation is Mansfield Park. But that is not hard to understand: modern filmmakers cannot handle a morally serious and sombre Jane Austen novel and a heroine so unlike the Strong Female Character trope of Hollywood—Fanny Price, strong in a different way, is not a girlboss or a kickass heroine—filmmakers keep feeling a misplaced urge to “improve” on the book.  

But I do wonder why Wuthering Heights hasn’t got a good adaptation. Is it only because filmmakers keep sanitising and romanticising the story? Or is there some fierce, intense quality to Emily Bronte’s story that makes it impossible to work on the screen? 

But I suppose people are going to attempt again and again. 

** Addendum: There is also a version in 1987 that I did not know about. Thanks, Brian. 

* updated on 13/6/2025: I have now watched a wonderful adaptation of Anna Karenina from 1977. 

100 latest films and plays I've watched [updated]

I originally shared my 100 list on 27/11 but made a mistake (listing two Inside No.9 episodes twice, instead of listing them once and noting "twice" at the end as I usually do), so here is the updated list. 

From November 2023 to December 2024

In bold: films, plays, and TV episodes I think are good

1/ Inside No.9: Nana's Party (2015) 

2/ Inside No.9: Séance Time (2015) 

3/ Inside No.9: The Devil of Christmas (2016) 

4/ Inside No.9: The Bill (2017) - twice

5/ Inside No.9: Diddle Diddle Dumpling (2017) 

6/ Inside No.9: Private View (2017) 

7/ Inside No.9: Once Removed (2018) 

8/ Inside No.9: To Have and to Hold (2018) 

9/ Inside No.9: The Riddle of the Sphinx (2017) 

10/ Inside No.9: And the Winner Is... (2018) 

11/ Inside No.9: Tempting Fate (2018) 

12/ Inside No.9: Deadline (2018) 

13/ Inside No.9: The Referee's a W***er (2020) 

14/ Inside No.9: Empty Orchestra (2017) 

15/ Inside No.9: Death Be Not Proud (2020)  

16/ Inside No.9: Love's Great Adventure (2020) 

17/ Inside No.9: Misdirection (2020) 

18/ Inside No.9: Thinking Out Loud (2020) 

19/ Inside No.9: The Stakeout (2020) 

20/ Inside No.9: Wuthering Heist (2021) - twice 

21/ Inside No.9: Simon Says (2021) 

22/ Inside No.9: Lip Service (2021) 

23/ Inside No.9: Hurry Up and Wait (2021) 

24/ Inside No.9: How Do You Plead (2021) 

25/ Inside No.9: Last Night of the Proms (2021)

26/ Inside No.9: Merrily, Merrily (2022) 

27/ Inside No.9: Mr King (2022) 

28/ Inside No.9: Nine Lives Kat (2022) 

29/ Inside No.9: Kid/Nap (2022) 

30/ Inside No.9: A Random Act of Kindness (2022) 

31/ Inside No.9: Wise Owl (2022) 

32/ Inside No.9: The Bones of St Nicholas (2022) 

33/ Inside No.9: Mother's Ruin (2023) 

34/ Inside No.9: Paraskevidekatriaphobia (2023) 

35/ An Ideal Husband (1999) 

36/ Inside No.9: Love Is a Stranger (2023) 

37/ Inside No.9: 3 by 3 (2023) 

38/ Inside No.9: The Last Weekend (2023) 

39/ Inside No.9: The 12 Days of Christine (2015) 

40/ Coriolanus (2011) 

41/ A Christmas Carol (1984) 

42/ Blackadder's Christmas Carol (1988) 

43/ The Shop Around the Corner (1940) 

44/ Miracle on 34th Street (1947) 

45/ The Bishop's Wife (1947) 

46/ Nicholas Nickleby (2002) 

47/ Hamlet at Elsinore (1964) - twice 

48/ The Sound of Music (1965) 

49/ Chimes at Midnight (1965) 

50/ Henry IV, Part 1 (1979 BBC) 

51/ Henry IV, Part 2 (1979 BBC) 

53/ Anatomie d'une chute (Anatomy of a Fall - France - 2023) 

54/ King Lear (1971, dir. Peter Brook, starring Paul Scofield) 

55/ Past Lives (2023) 

56/ The Holdovers (2023) 

57/ Maestro (2023) 

58/ American Fiction (2023) 

59/ Macbeth (2023-2024, dir. Simon Godwin, starring Ralph Fiennes) - onstage 

60/ The Zone of Interest (2023) 

61/ May December (2023) 

62/ Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967) 

63/ Mai (Vietnam - 2024) 

64/ Certain Women (2016) 

65/ Charlie's Angels (2019) 

66/ All the President's Men (1976) 

67/ La Passion de Dodin Bouffant (The Taste of Things - France - 2023) 

68/ Reality (2023) 

69/ Inside No.9: Boo to a Goose (2024) 

70/ Mr Holmes (2015) 

71/ Inside No.9: The Trolley Problem (2024) 

72/ Inside No.9: Mulberry Close (2024) 

73/ Inside No.9: CTRL, ALT, ESC (2024) 

74/ The Protégé (2021) 

75/ Inside No.9: Curse of the Ninth (2024) 

76/ Inside No.9: Plodding On (2024) 

77/ Henry V (1979 BBC) 

78/ Widows (2018)

79/ No Way Out (1987) 

80/ Hit Man (2023) 

81/ The Bikeriders (2023) 

82/ 楢山節考 (The Ballad of Narayama - Japan - 1983) 

83/ Sur mes lèvres (Read My Lips - France - 2001) 

84/ 몽타주 (Montage - South Korea - 2013) 

85/ レイクサイド マーダーケース (Lakeside Murder Case - Japan - 2004)

86/ Cold Comfort Farm (1995)

87/ 恋や恋なすな恋 (The Mad Fox - Japan - 1962) 

88/ La chimera (Italy, France, Switzerland - 2023) 

89/ Perfect Days (Japan, Germany - 2023) 

90/ 山の音 (The Sound of the Mountain - Japan - 1954) 

91/ Plein soleil (Purple Noon - France, Italy - 1960) 

92/ Le Samouraï (France, Italy - 1967) 

93/ La piscine (The Swimming Pool - France, Italy - 1969)

94/ The Fall (2006) 

95/ 버닝 (Burning - South Korea - 2018) 

96/ Toni Erdmann (Germany, Austria - 2016) 

97/ Kuolleet lehdet (Fallen Leaves - Finland - 2023) 

98/ Mies vailla menneisyyttä (The Man Without a Past - Finland - 2002) 

99/ Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) 

100/ Něco z Alenky (Alice - Czechoslovakia, Switzerland, the UK, West Germany - 1988) 

The Female Quixote: “would certainly make a Convert of Lady Bella”

Having now said goodbye to Arabella, I’m going to jot down some final thoughts (the blog post will be short as I’m ill and miserable). 

My main two criticisms of the novel remain true till the end. The Female Quixote is a one-trick pony—Charlotte Lennox may be funny at first but the joke soon gets stale. When Fielding was taking the piss out of Richardson’s Pamela, he knew his simple premise was not enough to sustain a full-length novel, so Shamela is just a novella or a long short story. Joseph Andrews, the full-length novel that started off as a parody of Pamela, soon went in another direction and developed into something else. Arabella’s misreading of everything in life as resembling 17th century French romances is not enough material for 400 pages, but Charlotte Lennox also adds nothing for variation or depth—even when she brings her protagonist to Bath and then to London, it’s the same joke over and over and over again.

The other problem is, as I said, the characterisation of Arabella. Lennox tells us now and again that Arabella is an accomplished lady, that she has great wit and delicacy, that she has a noble mind and good reasoning as long as the subject of conversation is neither love nor romances, but where is it? Lennox doesn’t show it. There may be a remark here and there where Arabella moralises about something, such as about raillery, but she would then come across as moralistic.

My new complaint, now that I’ve read the whole novel, is that the resolution is unsatisfying. The hurried, abrupt, contrived ending feels like an interference from outside—either Samuel Johnson or Samuel Richardson—especially when the introduction of the Countess seemed to be potentially important (“Mr. Glanville at his Return to the Dining-Room, finding Arabella retired, told his Father in a Rapture of Joy, that the charming Countess would certainly make a Convert of Lady Bella”) but that plotline got suddenly cut off. What happened? 

As for characterisation in general, it’s generally weak. I said that in Evelina, every character was defined by a single trait, but at least Frances Burney gave each one a distinct voice—her characters may not be complex but they feel alive—I can’t say the same about Charlotte Lennox’s characters. What is Mr Glanville’s trait, for instance? Apart from being in love with Arabella (for some reason) and continually getting second-hand embarrassment because of her ridiculous behaviour? Arabella is defined by a single trait; most other characters don’t even have a personality trait. The best character in The Female Quixote, I would say, is not Arabella but Miss Glanville, sister of the poor Mr Glanville. She is frivolous, she is envious and petty, she is not extraordinary; but she loves and hates, she is human, she is flesh and blood.

Great novels such as Anna Karenina, Don Quixote, or Moby Dick should be read and reread multiple times throughout one’s life. Some novels like Evelina or Joseph Andrews may not be so great and complex to require multiple readings, but they’re worth reading once. I’m not sure I can say The Female Quixote, unless you have some specialist interest, is worth reading once.

Richard II revisited: some scattered thoughts on the King

I have always loved the poetry of Richard II. Lots of great lines. 

“RICHARD II […] The accuser and the accusèd freely speak. 

High-stomached are they both, and full of ire, 

In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.” 

(Act 1 scene 1) 

Or: 

“MOWBRAY […] The purest treasure mortal times afford 

Is spotless reputation—that away, 

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. 

A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast; 

Mine honor is my life, both grow in one; 

Take honor from me, and my life is done…” 

(ibid.) 

In time and in style, Richard II is close to Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream—the verse is more regular, there is more rhyme—quite different from the knotty language of the later plays.  

“RICHARD What says he? 

NORTHUMBERLAND Nay, nothing, all is said; 

His tongue is now a stringless instrument; 

Words, life and all, old Lancaster hath spent.” 

(Act 2 scene 1) 

The play is full of great speeches—you know the famous “This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle” speech? It’s in this play. 

Undeniably magnificent is the poetry of Richard II. And yet I have felt that I didn’t quite get the play, mostly because I didn’t quite get Richard. 

When he’s back from Ireland, hearing about Bolingbroke’s uprising, he says: 

“… Not all the water in the rough rude sea 

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king…” 

(Act 3 scene 2) 

Not long after: 

“RICHARD But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; 

And till so much blood thither come again, 

Ave I not reason to look pale and dead? 

All souls that will be safe fly from my side, 

For Time hath seat a blot upon my pride. 

AUMERLE Comfort, my liege, remember who you are. 

RICHARD I had forgot myself: am I not King?...” 

(ibid.) 

He has seen himself as lost before getting defeated. He has let go before having to give up his crown. 

Shakespeare gives him some great speeches. 

“RICHARD […] For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground

And tell sad stories of the death of kings: 

How some have been deposed, some slain in war, 

Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, 

Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, 

All murdered—for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king 

Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, 

Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, 

Allowing him a breath, a little scene, 

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, 

Infusing him with self and vain conceit, 

As if this flesh which walls about our life

Were brass impregnable; and, humored thus, 

Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!...” 

(ibid.) 

All is vanity. When Lear has lost everything, he realises at last there’s not much difference between a king and poor Tom. So does Richard. 

“RICHARD […] Throw away respect,

Tradition, form and ceremonious duty.

For you have but mistook me all this while,

I live with bread like you, feel want, 

Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,

How can you say to me I am a king?”

(ibid.) 

More than any other Shakespeare play, Richard II examines what it means to be a king. In some way, the play makes me think of King Lear: in the abdication scene, for example, Richard repeats several times the word “nothing”, which recurs throughout King Lear; Richard says “I have no name, no title” and “know not now what name to call myself”, which is similar to Lear’s feeling of loss of identity when he has lost his power and gets treated abominably by his daughters. But Richard is not a larger-than-life character like Lear or Macbeth; he doesn’t have the stature and vitality of Lear or Richard III; he is small and becomes smaller and smaller as he withdraws more into himself towards the latter part of the play. 

But look at the mirror moment: 

“RICHARD […] Was this the face

That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? 

Was this the face that faced so many follies, 

And was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke? 

A brittle glory shineth in this face, 

As brittle as the glory is the face.

[Throws glass down]

For there it is, cracked in a hundred shivers, 

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport: 

How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.” 

(Act 4 scene 1) 

Shakespeare does something brilliant here. This is a bad king, a corrupt king, a selfish and self-pitying and even self-dramatising king. And yet you can still feel his grief and see his tortured soul underneath all the self-dramatisation. 

I have to think some more about his scene in prison and the “a generation of still-breeding thoughts” soliloquy.

I reread Richard II with my friends Michael and Himadri. Follow the discussion! 

My previous blog post about the play. 

Oh these shameless moderns!

1/ Over the past few months, I have been bombarded with Facebook ads for The Duchess (of Malfi), featuring Jodie Whittaker. 

What is it? you ask—why is “of Malfi” in brackets? It’s because this is a contemporary adaptation of Webster’s play. “A bloody revenge tragedy made marvellously modern”, says The Telegraph. The Duchess of Malfi stripped of its poetry, stripped of its language. Reduced to its plot. Reduced to something about “the patriarchy” and “female resistance.” 

One ad has the writer-director, Zinnie Harris, discussing “why she thinks John Webster’s classic text is still studied in school and remains relevant today.” 

I’d say The Duchess of Malfi endures because of its poetry, not because of its plot. Zinnie Harris herself mentions language and imagery—then why did she remove all of it? 

I’ll give you two quotes from Webster’s play:  

“BOSOLA Do you not weep?

Other sins only speak; murther shrieks out: 

The element of water moistens the earth, 

But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. 

FERDINAND Cover her face. My eyes dazzle: she di’d young.”

(Act 5 scene 5) 

“ANTONIO […] In all our quest of greatness, 

Like wanton boys, whose pastime is their care, 

We follow after bubbles, blown in th’air. 

Pleasure of life, what is’t? only the good hours

Of an ague: merely a preparative to rest, 

To endure vexation…” 

(Act 5 scene 4)

2/ In 2022, Netflix released an adaptation of Persuasion. A “subversive new take on Jane Austen”, according to British Vogue. Persuasion Fleabag-ified. Anne Elliot regularly breaks the fourth wall and at some point says “Now we’re worse than exes, we’re friends.” Her sister Mary calls herself “an empath.” Someone says “It’s often said that if you’re a 5 in London, you’re a 10 in Bath.” Isn’t that relatable? British Vogue says “The introduction of direct-to-camera moments and doses of contemporary humour make Anne’s inner journey immediately relatable, in a way that might have been impossible under the standard conventions of the buttoned-up Regency drama.”

“Impossible”, they say—why do they think so many people love the book? 

But that’s not all. Carrie Cracknell, the director said “I’ve always loved casting in a color-conscious way. A conversation that I’ve had with lots of the actors that I’ve worked with over the years is how powerful it can be for a diverse audience to see themselves represented in historic cultural texts and stories, because in some way it sort of broadens the scope of the audience who can feel part of this story or can feel ownership over this story.” 

How marvellous! Where would we be without Carrie Cracknell and people like her? Since its publication in 1817, we pitiful people of colour have never felt that Persuasion was ours till Netflix condescended to help us feel included. 

3/ Today, at The Open Book in Richmond, I came across a book called She Speaks! What Shakespeare’s Women Might Have Said by Harriet Walter. 

“An incisive, funny, mischievously subversive homage to Shakespeare’s heroines, written by one of mine,” Meera Syal blurbs. 

Tamsin Greig says “With characteristic wit, compassion and fierce intelligence, she gives tantalising voice to the Bard’s female greats.” 

These are the opening lines of the introduction on the dust jacket:

“Dame Harriet Walter, renowned for her wonderful portrayals in Succession and Killing Eve, among others, is one of Britain’s most acclaimed Shakespearean actors. Now, having played most of the Bard’s female characters, audaciously she lets them speak their minds.” 

I’m sorry—do they not speak in the plays? 

One of the reasons Shakespeare is called the greatest writer of all time is that his range of characters is unequalled—he creates characters of different backgrounds, races, nationalities, classes, sexes, sexualities, religions, political views, points of view… and also different types of characters—he contains everything. Look at the female characters he created—look at Cleopatra and Lady Macbeth and Gertrude and Volumnia and Rosalind and Beatrice and Isabella and Viola and Portia and Imogen and Desdemona and Emilia and Hermione and Juliet’s nurse and so on and so forth—and Harriet Walter or the intro writer thinks she “lets them speak their minds”? That she imagines what “these women were really thinking”? And Walter thinks “the mirror that [Shakespeare] held up to nature reflected a predominantly male image of the world” and he needs her to “let a little sunlight in on some of his women’s stories”? 

The arrogance is incredible.