Art Blogging: JW Waterhouse and the Lady of Shalott

Last week I didn't post here because I was in Montreal...while I was there, I happened upon an incredible art exhibit, a retrospective of one of my favorite painters of all time, John William Waterhouse, "the modern Pre-Raphaelite." Pre-Raphaelite because of his subjects from mythology and modern because of his naturalistic, free-brushwork techniques and the stark drama of his poses, often confronting the viewer or challenging our perception of space and "the plane."

Waterhouse interests me beyond the beauty of his work because like my beloved Victorian lady-authors, he deals with the conflicting themes of female strength and entrapment, power and domesticity, beauty and transgression. All of these themes play out to varying degrees in his paintings of mythic ladies, sorceresses, nymphs, magic-practicers and queens.

The coolest thing for me about the exhibit was that all three Lady of Shalott paintings were together in one room. If you don't know the story of the Lady of Shalott, it's an Arthurian legend about a young woman doomed to sit in a tower spinning thread, who can only look at the world through a mirror. But when she sees Lancelot riding by in its reflection, she has an awakening of, err, desire to join the world, is put under a curse, dies, and floats down the river towards Camelot. Yep, there are some subtexts and undertones there alright! The Tennyson poem has just been posted below so you can cross reference it with the paintings. Here they are, in order of the date painted and also the story: restless captivity, sexual awakening and entrapment, despair and impending death.



I encourage you to click over to www.jwwaterhouse.com, where I got the images, to learn more about him.

Weekend Poem: The Lady of Shalott

The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A Cranford Christmas?

For whatever reason, my Jewy-atheist Christmas-scorning sensibilites stop dead when they cross the Atlantic. I have no problem with treacly Christmas sentimentality when it's delivered in a British accent: as a matter of fact, Scrooge with Alistair Sims is one of my favorite movies of all time (God do I love that movie!)

So it is with great joy that I bring you the news, via Jane Austen today and enchanted serenity of period films (two sites I must add to my blogroll, and hat tip to the latter for the Judi shot) that a Cranford Christmas special is on its way towards being filmed. Yes, there will be more Judi and Imelda, more wonderful ladies of a certain age, plus new romance, a touch of local intrigue, and the usual and delightful Victorian hand-wringing over "progress." Basically, it will be all kinds of awesomeness.

And it looks like Cranford Xmas will be delivered to the Brits just in time for Chanukah '09, and will hopefully make it over across the pond by Kwanzaa '10.

The Moonstone

The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins


My review
rating: 4 of 5 stars
While not nearly as hair-raising or diabolical as The Woman In White, Wilkie Colins' famous "first detective novel" was the perfect read for the last few rainy days.

The Moonstone concerns the theft of the diamond by that name, a theft that occurred the night of lady Rachel Verinder's birthday party. Of course, all the guests are suspects, as are the servants. In these early chapters the seeds of the classic "great house" detective mystery--which has influenced everything from Agatha Christie to Sherlock Holmes to Clue to "Gosford Park"-- were sown. Add to the mix a love story thwarted, a wise London detective, a tragically morose housemaid, a few Christian hypocrites (Collins was not a fan of being proselytized, apparently) and a quest by Indian priests who will stop at nothing to regain the precious stone for their temple--and you've got quite a fun and potent mix. The book, like The Woman in White, is narrated in turn by several characters which adds to the mystery, and of course the satire as they all opine on each others merits and defects. I actually was surprised by the lack of blatant racism when it came to the Indian quest (although the archaic spelling of "Hindoo" makes it hard to take seriously).

The "detective fever" as one of the characters calls it, did not hit me really until the last few sections, when I began to see that some of my guesses were near the mark and turn the pages more furiously. There were some very silly and maudlin scenes towards the denouement but nothing out of the ordinary for old-school Gothic and nothing silly enough to stop me! Anyway, I didn't need to be in a frenzy to KNOW WHO ABSCONDED WITH THE DIAMOND the entire time to enjoy the book and steadily wind my way through it. It's a leisurely, easy read, clever and amusing, and sometimes that's all you need.


View all my reviews.

Little Dorrit, Episode 3 (Guest Blog)

Guest Post by Catherine of restlessviolet.com

Installation 3 of Dickens’ workaholic machine made into a movie! I was pretty stoked from last week’s preview of this episode. Fortunes would be restored! People would get new clothes! The handsome Mr. Clennam would smile some more! Perhaps Fanny Dorrit would lose the makeup!

But alas, Installation 3 reminded me very much of my friend’s waitressing shift today. “Everyone was crabby and mean and nobody tipped well,” she reported after escaping from Red Lobster hell.

And speaking of hell, what’s with Monsieur Rigaud? (I can’t keep track of his new incognito name in this episode.) I might have taken French all through high school but when he speaks, I just strain. (“Huh?” Rewind. “Oh.”)

But moving on to the real hell… Dear Dad Dorrit got his earthly reward for suffering through debtor’s prison: money, a house and Mrs. General. He’s continuing on in a sort of King Lear stupidity (before the madness set in), dragging all assorted baggage with him which includes children, brother and Mrs. G. Last week’s ominous scene of Dad Dorrit being to afraid to stroll out of debtor’s prison when the chance was offered hinted at so much badness. He does his bad well in this episode, being generally insufferable and pompous (but more on that later).

And to counter him is his daughter. Though Amy is portrayed as our heroine, a woman without a speck of wrong in her heart, I have some major doubts about her. Andrew Davies claims he toned down the goodness of Dickens’ Victorian Amy and no doubt he did. Our post-deconstructionist ears and eyes could hardly bear it if he had not. Still, though…despite taking in account that Amy is a product of her times, I have serious doubts on Little Dorrit.

This came to light quite early in the episode. Dad casts Clennam out -- the man who went to some lengths to restore him -- and throws the most painful rant about paying him the measly 20 something pounds Clennam gave to him in the past. Clennam doesn’t want it but Dad insists on payment and receipt. Which is all so ludicrous in the face of the thousand pounds owed to Mr. Pancks for the work he did to discover the Dorrit fortune. Pancks will never see the light of that from Dad Dorrit, and Clennam will undoubtedly pay, but we’ll see less smiles from Matthew MacFayden because of it. You suck, Dad.

But yes, anyway. To continue, Clennam leaves rather insulted by Dad and Amy rushes off to try and make amends. And what happens?

“Stay here, Amy. Are you going to do as I say?”

“I will, Father, but it is hard.”

Oh Amy, how wonderful you are. You obey your narcissist father and you also throw the button away of a man you love when you think you can’t have him (cue Harriet Smith). You meet self-sacrifice with a few tears but mostly smiles.

No doubt about it, Amy is all about the duty. But this tears at me because the Victorians were all about duty and they fully embraced the frightening self-abnegation of it all.

Dickens, duty and women bring us to someone else who was on the screen a few years ago: Bleak House’s Esther Summerson. Esther’s a good girl too, and she does her duty as well. She too is surrounded by circumstances beyond her control; circumstances that control her situation in life fully. And while Esther submits with grace, she does so without seeming weak. There’s something strong in Esther and one gets the idea that despite her difficult circumstances, she deliberately thinks out her choices and resolves to do whatever she thinks as best, no matter how hard that choice is.

Amy, however…she’ll do her duty because she’s the good character. I never believe that Amy is weighing her choices; she just does the seemingly-good over and over to the point of mindlessness. Yes, father, I will obey you because I must honor you as I always honor you. I am your favorite because I rarely, if ever, cross you and always comfort you after your raging monologues that only serve to reveal your insufferable pride.

Amy Dorrit: Daughter who honors her father, or the enabler of an arrogant old man? Or are these really just the same things, one being an euphemism... As you can see, I’m full of a doubts about Little Dorrit.

With Miss Wade however, there aren’t doubts, just mysteries. She may just be the balance to Amy’s automaton “good girl” behavior. Is she a Victorian Feminist Fury or merely someone bent on making Mr. Meagles red in the face? If she gets Mr. Gowan shived in the gut by Rigaud, I may love her forever.

Finally, yes there are new dresses (thank God). And no, Fanny Dorrit doesn’t lose the makeup. Le sigh.

Little Dorritt Episode Two (a live-guest-blog!)

Episode 2

Guest Blog Post by a TRUE egalitarian bookworm chick, Beth Dunn

Story of my life: I always love all the wrong people. All throughout the Harry Potter movie series, I was that creepy 30-something in the back row, moaning in erotic bliss whenever Snape oozed across the screen. Could have used an occasional shower, sure, but Christ that voice.

Trouble is, once I fall in love with one of your former characters, it is almost impossible to make me hate you even when you play a baddie. OK ESPECIALLY when you play a baddie. Because that just plays into my already well established ATTRACTION to baddies, and what you get is, well…

…me, sitting down to watch the second episode of Little Dorrit (which no I haven’t read or ever watched or anything before I am as untouched as Darcy’s precious little sister), and I am already rooting HARD for Dan Pegotty Flintwitch to pitch that cranky old lady down the stairs one of these dark, rainy nights. Just for not ever letting dreamy old Arthur ever touch her. I mean, honestly. When has young Clennam ever heard “don’t touch me” from a lady? C’MERE YOU.

And of course Andy Serkis Gollem Rigaud can roll his wicked old eyes at me anytime. LOVE him. Randy old bugger.

So yes, I suppose my other inclinations and affiliations are all as Mr. Dickens would have them be right now, as we begin episode two (which God knows was probably episode 317 back when he was serializing this stuff in teasing little thimble-sized doses in The Journals Of The Day). I’m quite in love with young Arthur Clennam, half in love with that puppy at the gate of the jail, and… I can’t stand Pet. So I’ve got that much right, at least.

But I am also secretly sort of in love with Miss Ward, who will no doubt reward me for my affection one of these days with unspeakable cruelty and wickedness.

I can only hope.

SO. Episode two. I am a big fan of the Live Blog format, so I have been typing all these prologue-y musings with the beginning of the episode on freeze frame – the new PBS intro music, really, accessorized with the lovely Colin Firth’s face beaming at me (quite insupportably) through gauzy red curtains. Let’s put him out of his adorableness and hit PLAY.

Ah! Puppy! Young John Chivery! And the elder Mr. Dorrit! Let us begin.

Have I mentioned yet that I covet those soft caps worn by doddering old gentlemen in these things? They look so COMFORTABLE. One can hardly get a good doddering on without one.

Ooh, Pet has an evil emo interloper suitor. He looks like that insufferable twit with the hair in his face from Mansfield Park. Well good. He can have her, silly little simpering thing with an overbite.

Here comes Puppy, literally cap in hand, to propose to Amy by the river.

(What was that old comic bit? Don’t go to the river!!!)

Aw crap, this proposal scene is going to hurt, isn’t it. John is such an adorable little thing, and so openhearted and kind and pure and OH GOD NO JOHN DON’T CRY.

Oh don’t cry. Oh how awful. Excuse me. I need to hit pause and sob alone for a few minutes. Crap crap crap crap crap.

Way to rip my heart out in the first bloody five minutes of the episode, assholes. Goddammit.

OK. Better stock up on tissues and settle down.

Meanwhile, back in the land of the Upper Class Twit, Young Clennam is inexplicably captivated by the kind of empty-headed blond girl-child apparently favored by gentlemen of his class. Look at him. He’s got actual stars in his eyes.

HEY ASSHOLE. Amy is over here breaking her best friend’s heart by the river, all so she can keep fingering your button. Show a little respect.

Tattycoram is the only one in the drawing room with any sense of decorum, and storms out of this putrid scene, apparently aghast at the awfulness of it all. Good instincts, kid. Very sound.

Father Dorrit is rather adorable, in his soft knit cap and his self-delusional grandstanding with his brother. But I do wish he would catch on and stop being so damn tactless with Chivery senior, while John is inside licking his wounds…

Oh god no more crying. William Dorrit’s little monologue of distress, after he sees Amy weeping with the sadness of it all, and then he realizes what a sad, selfish, tactless Dad he has been, is killing me. Crying Dads really get to me, too.

Why did I get assigned the Crying Episode? This is going to take me forever to get through, what with all the pausing and the weeping.

Thank god, now we can get back to some good old-fashioned evil-watching with Rigaud and Pegotty Flintwitch-the-Inexplicably-Other crossing paths. Hilarity can only ensue.

Oh lord, Flintwitch, don’t be drunkenly lured down dark alleys – NEAR THE RIVER NO LESS – by handsome, hairy Frenchmen who slip you roofies in your wine. RULES TO LIVE BY.

Stabby stabby stabby SPLASH. Happens every time. What an enthusiastic murderer Monsieur Rigaud is turning out to be.

What a MARVELOUS exchange between the little sharpie Fanny and the big sharpie, young Sparkler’s ma. Not much separates those two, when you get right down to it.

Oh God, Rigaud smells like my first boyfriend. YES I CAN SMELL HIM THROUGH THE TV SET. Like… unwashed denim and thrift shop leather jacket. Yum.

So Amy is going to work for shy, retiring little Flora, now. That ought to produce some heartfelt confidences.

Hey HEY and why not get started on that agenda right away?

Flora: “ILOVEARTHURCLENNAM ILOVEARTHURCLENNAM ILOVEARTHURLENNAM OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH YESIDOOOOO”

OOH Amy you industrious little fairy. Good job outta you, bearing up under that verbal flood.

AH YES and now the RIGHT man walks down the stairs by the river to talk to Little Dorrit. Well hello, Arthur. And what do you have to say for yourself?

Arthur: “I understand these matters of the heart, Amy… There’s someone I care about, very much. And I have held back from declaring my love.”

Amy: “…”

Arthur: “You don’t know her.”

OH SMACK. More crying by the river.

Arthur: “Are we still friends?”

Amy: “Yes, (SOB) we’re still friends.”

Yep. I’ve had that conversation.

Hey everybody, I know! Let’s all fight with our families and then go back to the river. And cry.

Swear to GOD Amy if you throw that button in the river I will smack you so hard

crap.

Nobody ever listens to me.

Mr. Pancks indulges in a nice bit of foreshadowing, grabbing Amy’s palm and going all gypsy on it. He is starting to really like his job, I think.

And Dickensian Italian Stereotype Mr. Cavaletto is clearly getting laid in his new digs with Mrs. Plawdish. Good for him. Good for Mrs. Plawdish. Oh wait, Mr. Plawdish is still alive. Whoops. My bad.

AAAHHHH ANDREW DAVIES I BLAME YOU for that awful shot of Mr. Doice with the steam coming out of his ears, followed by sad little spurts of water!!! You sir will have to answer for THAT in hell. (as for so much else…)

Now Clennam is making his sweet, ill-considered offer of marriage to Pet. And another proposal bites the dust. No crying in this one, though. Nope. Clennam thinks about it for a second, notices (finally) that Pet’s upper lip is always blue with frostbite from hanging a foot away from the rest of her face, and laughs with the sheer joy of escape. Dodged a bullet that time, m’boy.

He even goes so far as to wish the two lovers well. Yes, I’m sure you’ll both be very very happy, you frightful, insipid, worthless little twerps.

Good day!

Mr. Chivery and Mr. Dorrit make up and restore their friendship after Amy breaks John’s heart forever, and in return Mr. Chivery offers to mock Mr. Dorrit with a glimpse of the world he can never have again. And in a surprise move to none, Mr. Dorrit is completely institutionalized, and can’t even step outside.

Get busy living, or get busy dying. “IT’S HIM! With the CAKE!!!” Maggy knows what she likes in a man.

“Has Mr. Clennam behaved improperly towards you?”

“No, father, not at all.” THAT’S THE PROBLEM, FATHER

Aaaaaand Tattycoram is ready for her long-awaited psychotic break.

Good for her. Every teenager needs a good psychotic break now and again.

Let’s see just what sort of wickedness that Miss Wade is up to anyway.

…huh. Seems like a nice enough lady to me. I suppose I’ll find out more about her LATER.
I have to say that Mr. Pancks is rapidly becoming a crowd favorite.

He is clearly so VERY pleased with himself, so transparently not here to wish Mrs. Clennam her good health! Snort snort chuckle snort! (OH he has made me clap my hands in delight!) Uncle Ned is dead, is he? IS HE???

I smell Dickensian-deus-ex-machina!!! Wheee!

And we close with my great smelling ex-boyfriend Rigaud arriving on the very doorstep of the House of Clennam. Whomever will he penetrate murder next?

STAY TUNED

(And thank you for letting me guest-blog! What fun!)

[you're more than welcome--Fellow-ette]

Little Dorrit Episode 1

Little Dorrit: Episode 1

Guest post by two of my absolute favorite ladies in the blogosphere, Kim and Amy of Romancing the Tome.

Debt.

Can’t we all relate? It might technically be called a “prison,”but truth be told, the Marshalsea didn’t look half bad during last night’s U.S. premiere of Little Dorrit. So let’s pretend that the Dorrits’ digs didn’t exceed, in square footage, that of our own humble abodes for which we pay an arm and a leg. Let’s just pretend we wouldn’t kill for a fawning “doorman” like John Chivery to stroke our egos day-in and day-out. Instead, let’s reflect on a few of the things we learned from Installment #1 of the Charles Dickens classic:

•In the market for a new job? Take heed: If your prospective employer says, “I’m a terror when roused,” it might not be an ideal employment situation. Especially when the office resembles the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.

•Travel in Victorian England was almost as inconvenient as it is today. Still, being quarantined in Marseilles beats getting stuck on the tarmac in a cramped, foul-smelling metal tube.

•When you feel tempted to bash in your sort-of sister’s skull with a lawn bowling ball or are otherwise reduced to a state of spastic rage, try counting to five-and-twenty. Or, seek solace and
counsel from a creepily sympathetic closet case.

•When you refer to your hot and gentlemanly son as a “vessel of sin,” you should understand that for some red-blooded female viewers, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Not in the least.

•Hospital food was once pretty decent, if Maggie is any arbiter. Also, when she was rolling around in Arthur’s bed eating cake, we have to admit were a little jealous. That’s our idea of a good time.

•Dads are soooooo embarrassing!

•Sometimes, a “gentleman” and a “scoundrel” are one and the same. Sadly, this is all too true.

•Amy Dorrit is not the sort of girl you could have a nice bitch fest or gossip session with, but let’s all breathe a big sigh of relief that actress Claire Foy managed to strain out some of the saccharine, at least. She’s a little unbearable in the book.

•When two clever ones tell you you’re getting married, it’s pointless to resist. Poor Affery!

•It’s okay to hate someone named “Pet,” because they probably really are kind of annoying.

• Lascivious Frenchmen? Not to be trusted — or slept with.

•The Circumlocution Office: The more things change, the more they stay the same. Was that Barney Frank and Harry Reid?

• Women in China are different “down there,” pigtails on women of a certain age are not becoming, and sometimes, misty-watercolored memories of the childhood sweetheart you were
cruelly separated from are best not revisited. Also, in interior design, a little bit of pink goes a long way.

•Stray buttons are sexy.

And finally, yes, we know the Marshalsea was really overflowing with wastewater and the smell of privies, but we are completely enraptured by this first episode in the series anyway and love the Gothic touches reminiscent of the Bleak House adaptation. As in the book, Little Dorrit has proved well worth the wait...

Thanks so much to Amy and Kim! I'll never forget that you guys linked to me when I was just starting this blog (and I begged you to.) Your wit is unparalleled. And next week, tune in to a review from the highly-esteemed BethDunn.

DAVID COPPERFIELD TIME--(hopen 'fread)

OMG READERZ I AM SO EXCITED!!!

Here's some quotes to warm you up for tonight's show. From the illustrious Wikipedia, a run-down of the influence of David Copperfield:

Tolstoy regarded Dickens as the best of all English novelists, and considered Copperfield to be his finest work, ranking the "Tempest" chapter (chapter 55,LV - the story of Ham and the storm and the shipwreck) the standard by which the world's great fiction should be judged. Henry James remembered hiding under a small table as a boy to hear installments read by his mother. Dostoevsky read it enthralled in a Siberian prison camp. Franz Kafka called his first book Amerika a "sheer imitation". James Joyce paid it reverence through parody in Ulysses. Virginia Woolf, who normally had little regard for Dickens, confessed the durability of this one novel, belonging to "the memories and myths of life". It was Freud's favorite novel.

And of course, as we all know, The Catcher in the Rye's opening is an explicit rejection of the following, the most famousest opening passage of the novel itself.

I AM BORN

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

Now, bring it on, oh illustrious BBC/PBS/ Cast of Harry Potter team! And readers, feel free to drop your comments/reactions below. I eagerly await your learned opinions.

Dickens-Mania begins

Sorry for the light posting. I've been under the covers with a migraine due to the weird weather here in NYC. But in honor of the Dickens season now upon us, here's my favorite Dickens-related Daily Show segment of all time. Jon Oliver reports on health care funding from 19th century London. (Incidentally, that bill has now passed).

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Banned-Aid

Daily Show Full Episodes
Important Things With Demetri Martin

Funny Political News
Joke of the Day

The Tales of Charles Dickens,

as interpreted by PBS, with Coldplay in the background. This aired tonight after Sense and Sensibility... look for little Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter) at about 0:26. So cute!

Wuthering Heights: a Snap Poll and a Smattering of Criticism

Since there's nothing we EBC's like to do more than reduce complex, multifaceted works of art into simple and silly questions, I hereby offer you this poll: whom do you blame more for their painful severing , Heathcliff or Cathy? Is it Heathcliff's fault for threatening Hindley and utering dark oaths that scare Cathy? Is it Cathy's fault for capitulating to the social order and becoming "a lady" in the Linton household? It's not about who's right or wrong throughout the book, but rather which of them set off the fateful events. Personally, I always blame Cathy, (although I pity her) because I identify with the pair as a rebellious duo.

pollcode.com free polls

Whom do you blame more for their separation, Heathcliff or Cathy?

Heathcliff Cathy Nelly Dean, cause she's so "unreliable" hahahaha

And in the spirit of geting deeper into the book, I'd remind you that WH is one of the most symbolically potent novels of its time, particuarly the two houses and the two generations. Nancy Armstrong points out the trouble WH gives critics, because its first half seems romantic while its second half is realist, while Charlotte Bronte desperately tried to point out that there was some goodness to the book and it wasn't all "perverse."

The Gs of "Madwoman", my favorite feminist foremamas, believe that WH's first half is a Miltonic story in reverse: that it tells the tale of Cathy's "Fall" from the hell of Wuthering Heights to the "heaven" of Thrushcross grange. But here's where the feminism comes in. If Wuthering Heights is is hell in the traditional sense with its darkness and wildness, it might be heaven in another sense for a young woman because it offers young Cathy freedom, anarchy and the ability to be with the man she truly loves. And the fact that a vicious dog bites Cathy upon her entrance to "heaven" at the Grange, a house which is carpeted in "crimson" leave the reader to ponder which house is really celestial and which one netherworldly for a woman. Is Cathy's trajectory Milton in reverse, or is a true fall ?

They also believe that Heathcliff can be interpreted as an almost Freudian projection of Cathy's most essential, anti-patriarchal self--her true id. Thus when she and Heathcliff split, her "death" begins, because she cannot live without HER life, HER soul. She is Heathcliff but he is also her. Edgar of course functions like a patriarchal superego, repeateldy separating Cathy from Heathcliff/her own self.


SPOILER ALERT

The Gs also point out (SPOILER ALERT) that the journeys of the two Cathys are opposite:
Catherine Earnshaw-->Catherine Heathcliff (symbolically)-->Catherine Linton
Catherine Linton-->Catherine Heathcliff-->Catherine Earnshaw. They have a theory about that, but I'll leave it up to you to think about as the second half begins on TV this weekend.

Little Dorrit

I'd better write this review quickly lest I start to forget all 800-plus pages of this late-period Dickens extravaganza. So here goes.

Little Dorrit's primary concern is the theme of imprisonment and freedom, and particularly the psychological toll that the former takes on people. Dickens plumbed his personal experience with the jailing of his father (for debt) to write the novel. Little Dorrit herself is the "Child of the Marshalsea" because she is born within the walls of that infamous debtor's prison.

But what's amazing, and I think most redeeming, about this book is that Dickens also sees wealth as a prison: he comes out swinging against the awful practice of locking up debtors, but is no kinder to the "nobs" who chase wealth and enact ritualistic homages to Society and Money.

These are Amy "Little" Dorrits thoughts when her family, newly-wealthy, spends a season traveling and fete-ing on the contintent:

It appeared on the whole, to Little Dorrit herself, that this same society in which they lived, greatly resembled a superior sort of Marshalsea. Numbers of people seemed to come abroad, pretty much as people had come into the prison; through debt, through idleness, relationship, curiosity, and general unfitness for getting on at home. They were brought into these foreign towns in the custody of couriers and local followers, just as the debtors had been brought into the prison. They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in the old, dreary, prison-yard manner. They were usually going away again to-morrow or next week, and rarely knew their own minds, and seldom did what they said they would do, or went where they said they would go: in all this again, very like the prison debtors. They paid high for poor accommodation, and disparaged a place while they pretended to like it: which was exactly the Marshalsea custom.

This is the most brilliant aspect of the book: the parallel halves in which the characters in prison and abroad exhibit the same patterns, characteristics, and follies. In fact, Dickens points out that the family is allowed to show love and tenderness towards each other more in prison than when they have to keep up appearances for genteel society.

Beyond the Dorrits, the interlocking strands of the multilayered plot include a number of separate savage satires: the office of Circumlocution and the Barnacle family that presides over it is just a brilliant skewering of bureaucracy. Henry Gowan is the obligatory laconic young man--the Felix Carbury/Rawdon Crawley type. Flora Finching is a wonderful character, her endless breathless flirtation a send-up of "romantic" notions as exhibited by middle-aged matrons. Mr. F's aunt is the pitch-perfect character who has little other purpose but to make the reader chuckle. And of course, there's Mr. Merdle, the Melmotte-like financier who everyone lauds and behaves obsequiously towards, and who ends up swindling them all and leaving them bankrupt. It's positively uncanny how relevant it all is in the Madoff era. It's as though we've learned nothing over time.

All this being said, I thought Dorrit's denoument, and the unraveling of the various mysteries and cliffhangers, was flat, anti-climactic, and at times even confusing. It's never good when the publisher decides to put a two-page addendum at the end of the book explaining the events of the final few chapters. Furthermore, the chief villain of the book, Blandois/Rigaud, is a rather laughable caricature of a continental rogue while Amy Dorrit's sweetness tends towards the saccharine. Dickens was much better at writing in-between characters than heroes or villains, which is why books like Great Expectations and David Copperfield whose heroes ARE in- between characters themselves, are so much better than the rest. Still, for the reasons stated above, it remains a very worthy read. So in conclusion, Copperfield pwns Dorrit pwns Hard Times.

A Coda: As for the upcoming mini-series, I am so thoroughly excited for it I can't contain myself. The cast looks parfait.

The Madwoman in The Attic

As promised...

The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination, Second Edition by Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar

My review

The Madwoman in the Attic struck one of the first blows for feminist literary criticism and a uniquely female literary tradition. It's near and dear to my heart because it's the first extended lit-crit I've ever read, and also because it's about my favorite bunch of novels: Victorian (well, 19th century) women's fiction. There's also an awesome section on Victorian poetry. Hellooo, Goblin Market!

The basic theory of the book is that women writers twisted the Madonna/whore stereotype back in on itself, using doubles and alter egos to show different paths women take in a patriarchy, and alternate modes of handling female confinement: submission, madness, deception, searching for an equal (male) partner.

This book is where the theory of Bertha Mason, Rochester's mad first wife, as Jane's alter ego in Jane Eyre, an expression of her inner rage, first became popularized. Gilbert and Gubar--aka the "Gs" as a friend calls them--also discuss some of my other favorite literary interpretations: Heathcliff, yes THAT Heathcliff, (Wuthering Heights) as the essential feminine, the unfettered wild womanly spirit that Cathy must subsume to enter society. Catherine deBourgh in Pride and Prejudice as a possible projection of Elizabeth's future. The sea, in Persuasion, as representing an egalitiarian, romantic space far from the gender roles of society where equality is possible. Or how about Will Ladislaw in Middlemarch as the ideal partner for a woman because of his matriarchal lineage, his cast-out status, and his lack of threatening qualities. (He's a real ladies' man).

Obviously, I eschew the idea of literary theory as being some sort of be-all and end- all. Certainly feminist, Marxist, Freudian, historicist or whatever theories all need to be balanced with each other and an appreciation of the texts we read themselves. But sometimes lit-crit can be fun, a nifty prism through which we re-enjoy our favorite works, and this book is totally one of those times! Word to that.

View all my reviews.

Monday Morning Poem Excerpt: Locksley Hall, Tennyson

this is the bit from "Locksley Hall" (which is an extremely odd, but interesting poem) that was featured on Cranford last night, when Judi Dench's character, Matty, reads the lines aloud after her long-ago lover, Mr. Holbrook, dies. Holbrook's last gift to Matty was a volume of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poems:

---

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved--
Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved.

---

I have to admit a soft spot for Tennyson. This littel excerpt is somewhat neo-Romantic, tho' the Victoirans and Romantics very much blended into each other. Cursed be the social lies! I love it.

Here's another odd, but intresting, Victorian artifact to go along with our Tennyson: Dante Rosetti's "The Blessed Damozel", which hangs in the art museum at my alma mater.

And they say the Victorians were proper. They were wacky!

Cranford--The PBS Mini-Series, Part I

How awesome is it that PBS is putting the BBC's awesome-making production of Cranford online? This way I got to watch the end of Dexter, season 1 last night and still indulge myself in an orgy of Victorian nostalgia and sentiment today. By the end of part 1, with its many ominous doctor's visits and tears, I was sitting on my couch, laptop perched on lap, bawling.

Seriously, how could you not like this mini-series? It's the Beeb at its best--beautifully shot , thoughtfully scored, perfectly acted without being a caricature. It takes Gaskell's meandering book and twines it together with some of her other novellas, adds some heft, and voila! Mini-series magic.

The reviews have been totally positive, even glowing, with one exception: Ginia "feminism is dead" Bellafante at the Times, who concludes

"The impulse to produce “Cranford” stemmed, I would guess, from an understanding of it as a treatise of feminism little known beyond the world of women’s studies. But adapting “Cranford” only highlights how tenuous its feminist message really is. What single life does to women, apparently, is turn them into dithering twits. And the series only reminds us that what constitutes a happy ending is the attention of a good-looking and prosperous man."

Seriously Gina, are you the same woman who declared HEIDI F-ING MONTAG of "The Hills," a feminist hero? Obviously, you, Gina, are the twit! The novel is steeped in irony, and Gaskell isn't a feminist by our contemporary standards anyway. She is a proto-pseudo-feminist, and an interesting one at that. The film satirizes the aging process and has nothing but positive things to say about sisterhood. The novel's most touching moments are when the ladies band together to help their neighbors. Several of its heroines are spinsters by choice. Stop trying to read stuff that's 150 years old into a modern framework! As the ladies of Cranford would say, "This is highly irregular."

Cranford--The Book.

I read the very brief, and very amusing, Cranford on a series of bus and subway rides throughout Manhattan. This was very incongruous, of course, because the book details a "lost way of life" in a tiny English country town, which is populated primarily by spinsters and widows. (!!)

The book has little in the way of plot per se, being rather episodic in nature, and it's only really appealing to those of us who adore Victorian culture; but within that context it's a definite must-read. Gaskell is a good clear writer with a really strong sense of justice and right and wrong. She's a proto-feminist in many senses, although she adheres to gender stereotypes, she idealizes the place as a sort of utopia of feminine values, among which she includes a good deal of kindness and community. She also uses a wry irony throughout the novella that is almost Austen-like.

In a lot of ways, it reminded me of a "girl's book" for middle aged women. It had the serial nature of classics like Little Women, A Little Princess or the Anne of Green Gables series, and was full of "scrapes" and mishaps and comings and goings, but also had an underarching group of mysteries and Gaskell, like the authors of the above, hits you with an emotional wallop every once in a while in between the hilarious episodes.

Definitely a fun read (and now I've read three Gaskell novels. Holy crap. My overindulgence in Victorian literature continues to trollop[e] any modernist/po-mo progress I make). Now on to watch the BBC adaptation online!

Middlemarch and Electioneering

I love nothing better than drawing parallels between my myriad obsessions, as you know!.
In this case, my sig other and I have been enjoying my parents' awesome Hannukah present (The George Eliot DVD collection--yep it exists, and don't they know their daughter well?) by watching the "Middlemarch" miniseries courtesy of the BBc and--who else?--Andrew Davies. I think Davies missed a few key points of Eliot's masterwork, particularly the final scenes between Will and Dorothea and Will and Rosamand, which is surprising--who would have thought that prince A.D. himself would omit a really sexy scene from a novel whilst adapting it? I mean Eliot has handed it to him on a platter here, with the lightning and the thunder and hands clasping and kisses and embraces and lots of "spasmodic movements" and sobbing. Sam Mendes, are you listening?

But... enough about love! George Eliot's novels were about a lot more love, and given that this is high primary season I found all the politicking and electioneering in the adaptation refreshingly well-done and relevant. There was a particular scene between Will and Lydgate, these two young, slightly arrogant but well-meaning idealists who share the goal of genuinely reforming their corrupt society, testing each other by talking about their respective "obligations" to less-than perfect men who are giving them the one thing without which real change is impossible: money. It's such a transcendent moment--in a simple exchange, Eliot and Davies have given us this universal truth about change, corruption, idealism, compromise. As the presidential candidates jostled about who was the real change agent and criticized each other's past votes this week, Eliot's relevance and insight hit home once more.

Which brought me to the question I always come back to: of all my favorite novels, the battle for the one that's numero uno always comes down to Middlemarch vs. Pride and Prejudice, with Jane Eyre and Persuasion being the equally beloved but less perfect silver medalists (And yes, I still say that I've read Gatsby and Ulysses and Sound/Fury and all that stuff).

Pride and Prejudice is by far the most flawlessly crafted novel ever written IMO, without a word, a note out of place, with this symmetry of character, events, and understanding that's breathtaking. It also has a far better sense of humor, economy of words, and lack of didacticism than the much more traditionally 19th century Eliot.

But the perfection of Middlemarch is different--it's the scope of it, the way she crafts this world of co-dependence between people of different classes and creeds and describes the way the same problems affect poor and rich alike, and this damningly accurate understanding of the way gossip and perception filters and thwarts good intentions. It's just so complete a portrait, so complete a novel... and that last line:

for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

I can barely read it without choking up. It's so full of both the tragedy that Dorothea's sex kept her from being all she could, but also the triumph that she achieved so much by lifting up those around her. It's a question we still deal with today, no? Whether to strive for great change or just to be kind to the humans we come into contact with. Neither are easy, both are nearly impossible--look at the personal failings of our "great men."

Anyway, I still think in my heart of hearts I prefer P&P, but I'm again awed by Middlemarch. I can't wait for the feature film.

Daniel Deronda--reviewed and re-Jewed.

I love me a sexy Hebrew.

Greetings readership. It's been a long time, as they say, and there's much to catch up on that will never truly be caught up upon, because time is ephemeral and stuff. (Again, what I've been doing.)

To prove my mettle, I return to you with a full-on discussion of Daniel Deronda, a very wonderful and complex work by George Eliot that helped me get through the December blahs. And of course being an egalitarian bookworm chick, I followed up my dense reading with a dense viewing of the obligatory Andrew-Davies penned BBC miniseries, which wickedly sexed up the villain to such an extent that he may qualify as the worst. husband. ever., even for a BBC miniseries. Which as we all know is saying a lot.

As all the critics like to remind us, Deronda is a novel with two parts, the connecting thread of which is our eponymous hero, Daniel. Said critics also agree pretty unanimously that the "Jewish" half, wherein the gentleman/prince Daniel, like Moses, discovers his true identity and redeems his people, is not nearly as well-written or brilliant as the half which narrates the bitter redemption of beautiful, selfish, Gwendolyn Harleth and her journey among the aristocracy. Write what you know, as they say. While Eliot is able to perfectly illuminate the miserable lot of women by using real characters (Gwendolyn might be the most psychologically astute portrait of shallowness in literary history), when she gets to the Jooz, she's so busy trying to portray them as exotic and wise and sinless and mystical that she forgets to make them people.

I was almost more enamored of her stereotypical depiction of the somewhat "common" Cohen family and their silver shop than by the exalted Mordecai and Mirah. This conundrum, not coincidentally, really reminded me of Uncle Tom's Cabin (Harriet Stowe and Eliot were correspondents), with its pure, sinless oppressed blacks, and its solution of sending them to Liberia, just as the sainted Deronda and Mirah go off to Palestine. All this is complicated stuff-- there's more than a lot of unintended racism in both novels, which use the innocent "other" to throw into relief the corruption and decay of their societies. However, Stowe and Eliot are also responding to the bigotry of their peers and may have felt they didnt have room for nuance.

It's tempting to say that the moral of Eliot's literary failing is that art shouldn't be sacrificed for politics. However, we can't deny that public reaction to these novels was much stronger than it would have been to op-ed pieces because people were moved by them.

Anyway I'm glad I tackled this book. George Eliot may be the most formidably intelligent of the 19th century novelists, and the novel has enough redemptive literary qualities that one can enjoy it both as a work of art and a relic of its time-- (AND a retort to the Trollopes and Dickens' of the world who put nasty Jewish characters in their book.)

But on to the BBC version... it was just so gorgeously well-done. Nice work, Andrew Davies. Hugh Dancy is a very pretty man, and he captured sensitive Daniel Deronda perfectly while Romola Garai was also an excellently spoiled Gwen. I really enjoyed seeing six degrees of Austen adaptations. Amanda Root (aka Anne Elliot--Persuasion) was a simpering Mrs. Davilow. And of course the actor who played Henleigh Grandcourt (Mr Rushworth---Mansfield Park) was perfectly sinister. And lastly, slimy Lush was played by David Bamber (Mr. Collins--Pride and Prejudice) to creepy, obsequious perfection. Another fun factoid-- Jodhi May, who played Mirah, was bitchy, plain Cousin Grace Stepney in The House of Mirth.

Plaque Politicking

There is no single way to commemorate the work of our favorite authors. But it seems like London has come up with all of them. The easiest way, of course, is to visit the British library, where research has been so democratized that any student can pick up a reader's pass in under 10 minutes. No pretentious letters of introduction – just a brief chat with a pleasant research librarian and some paperwork. Or, you can visit one of the city's abundant, small book shops. If you decide to do your afternoon reading in Piccadilly's Waterstone Bookstore, you can sip on cocktails that are as inventive as the books they celebrate. The "Tequila Mockingbird" served in their roof café is a worthy indulgence if you can dish out the 11 pounds-- only to be followed by the "grapes of wrath" wine collection. The most popular way for an eager tourist to stalk their literary alter-egos, however, doesn't even require stepping indoors.

We know George Elliot lived at Number 4 Cheyne Street in an elegant Goergian townhouse overlooking the Thames. We also know that Jane Austen passed time with her brother at 23 Hans Place. Charles Carlyle's home still stands on what is now 24 Cheyne Street-- which was often visited by Dickens, Browning, and Tennyson. Even Oscar Wilde, despite his then-sordid deeds, is now clearly associated with a charming townhouse just across from the Army Museum in Chelsea.

We know this because little circular plaques have been permanently cemented onto the sides of their homes. Most of these bronze medallions have been in place for decades-- since they first started appearing in 1867. Today over 700 can be seen.

It was surprising to learn that in some cases, the placement of certain plaques has been delayed, or resisted by the Corporation of the City of London and the "local authorities" who are entrusted with overseeing the project. Of particular interest is the “home” of Ezra Pound which was unmarked and anonymous for the better part of the past 5 decades. In fact, the “home”—actually a tiny apartment down an alley behind a Church- did finally receive recognition. According to the current occupant on the ground floor, a retired artist, the plaque was only installed recently and after considerable struggle. In the course of a brief interview earlier this month (she graciously invited me in and even read a Pound poem to me) this graying but elegant artist told the first-hand account of meeting Pound’s daughter, Mary. Mary told her she had to fight desperately just to get “one of those silly little signs” on the wall. Perhaps in return for guarding the fort, as it were, the current occupant was given a picture of Pound by his daughter. She displays it proudly , but admitted that before all of this she had “scarcely heard of the man.”

DH Lawrence and Charlotte Bronte: Bringing Sexy Back?

For the last week or so I've been delving into two books; the high-minded Victorian tale of The Professor by Charlotte B and the uber-scandalous Lady Chatterley's Lover, by DH Lawrence.

Unsurprisingly to all who have read the latter, Lady Chat bears as much resemblance to one of those Harlequin romances as to anything else. This is not to say that the book is terrible or even bad. Obviously Lawrence has a great deal of skill with words and literary talent and a lot to say; but in between the sometimes-titillating sometimes-dated sex scenes, the book was actually filled with many boring passages railing about industralization and intellectualization (we get it, DH, let's reject our mechanized, over-thinking society and get it on). This is strikingly similar to the problem I have with romance novels, which as a genre I truly admire for their popularity and readability. I can just never get through the non-sex parts in any of them without being impatient and bored, so I give up.
Anyway, I'm glad I read Lady Chatterley because of its social import and also because obviously there's still something appealing to all of usabout the lady of the house mixing it up with the groundskeeper--didn't Eva Longoria have a thing with her gardener on Desperate Housewives? I should give DH a fair shake and read The Rainbow and Women in Love.

Also, DH Lawrence seems to have had some serious issues with female pleasure taking longer than male pleasure. Was he concerned deep down that his, ahem, pen wasn't potent and sharp enough?


Onto far less explicit pastures. The Professor, which is essentially a precursor to the more well-known Villette, was so much more than a minor novel to me, its humble peruser. Told from the perspective of a young man who goes to Belgium to teach young ladies, the book was chock full of repressed sex, and that's why it was so darn good.
First of all, there's the knowledge that the book is being written by a woman posing as a man writing from the perspective of a man who's in love with a woman (who may be a stand in for the author herself) which definitely gives the read a sexy, gender-bending feel.
Secondly, there' a desperate love triangle between the "sensually beguiling" Belgian Zoraide Reuter, a beautiful, charming, intelligent and wicked schoomistress, our narrator William Crimsworth, a remarkable self-controlled teacher with a weakness for the fairer sex, and the sweet and good-tempered Frances Henri, the latter's star pupil, who (yes, she does) gets excited and feels most comfortable when she's being dominated and scolded by her teacher/"master."
The fact that all of this arises from Bronte's repressed personal life, and the knowledge that the book's composition came on the heels of Bronte's unrequited love affair in Belgium is mysterious and far more of a mental turn-on than all the four letter words DH Lawrence so daringly inserts (no pun intended) into Chatterley. While there's no awkward naming of genitalia in Bronte's Professor, all the smouldering passion that breaks the surface only at certain times carried me through its pages in a truly stimulating whirr of anticipation.