Sunday Scrapbag

Reading: Oh, several things. In the Office of Readings (Liturgy of the Hours), lately I've been substituting the prescribed second readings with passages from Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI's encyclical Spe Salvi. I'm ashamed to say that this will be the first papal encyclical I will have read straight through, all the way through. Always before, I've only read excerpts of various encyclicals through the Liturgy of the Hours, or in articles and blogs.

     I'm also still reading bits and pieces of Robert Gibbings' books and have begun re-reading Elizabeth Taylor's The Sleeping Beauty which I read many years ago and have completely forgotten. I'm very bad about remembering the plots of books. So if I recommend a novel to someone and they ask me what it's about, I always say, "I forget—but I do remember I absolutely loved it."

     Also, I'm reading through all my journals in search of material for new poems. An enlightening experience.

Watching: I seem to have lost interest temporarily in movies. I own on DVD all the movies I like to watch (the most recent being Quartet, that lovely little film starring Maggie Smith and directed by Dustin Hoffmann). Sometimes (not often, admittedly) I regret having such limited tastes in film; were my tastes broader and more varied, I could watch and enjoy so many more things. But what I don't like in films is pretty much identical to what I don't like in books, which I wrote about in this post. 

     The cheesy part of me is psyched that the new season of Dancing with the Stars is in full swing. Can I just say that, though he seems like a very nice guy, I'm not sorry to see the football player go? I'm so tired of football players winning the DWTS mirror ball trophy! I haven't picked a favorite yet.

Writing: Lately, prose poems. I've written two posts in this past week alone about this new venture in Poetry Land (new for me, that is), this form that I used to despise as being fancified prose or free verse bound up in paragraph form. Now I see its merits as well as its many difficulties. But other than my prose poem experiments and this blog, I haven't been writing anything, not even my journal. Bad, bad girl!

Listening: To the wonderful Romanian pianist Clara Haskil (d. 1960). I tend to go through phases with pianists, concentrating on one for a few weeks, then going back to others before fixating on a "new" one. Haskil is my fixation at the moment. Her Mozart is impeccable in both style and technique. It's the kind of Mozart I myself always wanted to play, the kind I think is "true" Mozart. Poetic, profound, yet not over-sentimentalized as so many contemporary pianists are wont to do. Playful when playfulness is called for, but not overly so. Of course, she played many other composers brilliantly as well.

 

Considering: Cancelling my Tumblr account. I very much enjoy following art and photography blogs, and I enjoy following Catholic blogs on Tumblr. But I got a huge dose of disillusionment and disgust yesterday, when one of the Catholic blogs I follow got hacked and I found a number of pornographic posts on my dashboard. I realize hacking goes on everywhere, but Tumblr seems to be particularly susceptible. Plus which, there's no way (at least that I can find) to delete or hide posts you don't want to see on your dashboard; on Facebook, you can do this, which I really appreciate. When I saw those porn posts on my Tumblr dashboard, all I could do was "unfollow" that particular blogger until he realized he'd been hacked and cleaned out all those offensive images. But I think I will leave Tumblr altogether. I already follow a lot of Catholic blogs on Blogger and Wordpress anyway, and I follow many art and photography pages on Facebook.







Play vs. Film: Sabrina Fair / Sabrina

     There have been two film treatments of Samuel Taylor's 1953 play Sabrina Fair: the 1954 version with Audrey Hepburn, Humphrey Bogart, and William Holden; and the 1995 remake with Julia Ormond, Harrison Ford, and Greg Kinnear. I like both for different reasons, but I like the play even more and wish I could see it performed.

Joseph Cotton and Margaret Sullavan
as Linus and Sabrina

 

 

L-R: Scott McKay, Cathleen Nesbitt, Robert Duke, Joseph Cotton, and Margaret Sullavan
in Sabrina Fair, 1953

 

     To give the most basic premise of all three: the awkward daughter (Sabrina) of the chauffeur to a very wealthy Long Island family (the Larrabees) goes to work for a few years in Europe (in the play, she works at a NATO/SHAPE-type organization, first as a file clerk, eventually as an executive; in the 1995 film she works at Vogue; and in the 1954 film she simply goes to culinary school); she returns to Long Island all grown up, polished, and confident to pursue the younger Larrabee son (David) with whom she believes she has been in love all her life.

     I can't go any further, because that is where the basic resemblance between play and films ends.

 

Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn in the 1954 film

 

     In the films (and I must say here that the remake is truly a remake of the older film, and makes no effort to return to the play), the older son (Linus) is absolutely against a union between David and Sabrina, not so much because of the vast difference in social status, but because such a union would thwart plans of a marriage between David and the daughter of a certain tycoon with whom Linus hopes to form a very lucrative business alliance. (Linus doesn't even consider marrying this other girl himself, because he doesn't believe he's the marrying kind.) Linus, being the ruthless businessman he is, plots to get Sabrina out of the way by feigning approval of her relationship with David, then tricking her into falling for himself. After he's accomplished this, he can then ditch her and compensate her with enough money to sustain her in relative comfort for the rest of her life. Of course, he doesn't bargain on actually falling in love with her.

 

Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond in the 1995 remake

 

     In the play, however, Linus encourages Sabrina in her pursuit of David merely because he loves power and manipulating people, and he regards his little matchmaking scheme as some sort of perverse amusement. There is no potential merger, no daughter of a fellow tycoon. He makes no attempt to make Sabrina fall for himself. But he believes he sees in Sabrina a certain ambition and thirst for "the good life." In reality, she really doesn't know what she wants; she has tasted life beyond the Larrabee's garage and the life of a chauffeur's daughter, but now she doesn't know where in the world she belongs.

SABRINA     I think I have a talent for living. Perhaps I'm trying to make the most of something small for want of something better, but I think a true talent for living has the quality of creation, and if that's the talent I was meant to have, I'm awfully glad I have it. I'd rather live a first-rate life than paint a second-rate picture.

     She thinks she doesn't want to be shackled by marriage, but she wants to be in love. She tells Linus of a wealthy Frenchman who courted her during her five years in Paris, and confesses that she fled from him back to America to find out if she still loves David. David does indeed propose marriage—well, actually, he doesn't propose directly to Sabrina; he tells his mother (Maude) that he wants to marry her. Maude discusses it with Sabrina's father, Fairchild (who categorically disapproves), which is how Sabrina herself finds out. And when she does, to the surprise of everyone, she refuses David, having discovered at this point that she does not love him after all.

     In the midst of all this, Sabrina's wealthy Frenchman, Paul, shows up ostensibly to bring her back to Paris with him; however, Linus once more intervenes by making him a business offer he just can't refuse. Linus points out to Sabrina that she can still marry Paul, but she realizes (as does Linus) that isn't where her happiness lies, and she begins to wonder what is really behind all of Linus' manipulations.

     The films leave out a character who plays a rather large part in the stage version—that of Julia, Maude Larrabee's former roommate at Wellesley. Julia is a magazine editor who apparently has led quite the colorful life as a young woman in Paris, and is very close to the Larrabees; indeed, the two sons call her "Aunt Julia." She seems not only to understand Linus completely, but to admire him as the man she, if not for the difference in their ages, would have fallen in love with. But his game-playing with Sabrina infuriates her:

JULIA     What are you trying to do to this girl?

LINUS     How do you know I'm trying to do anything?

JULIA     I have a room with a view! You're afraid to take her, and afraid to lose her, so you're warning her off the rest of the world. I don't have to tell you what you're passing up; it's pretty damned clear you know. But you want to own her without being owned. You can't unbend, you won't give in. You're a stiff-necked, self-sufficient, autocratic bastard— (She begins to cry. Turns away.)  and you've been my favorite man since the day you were born.

LINUS     (Taking a step to her.)  Aunt Julia—

JULIA      (Tearfully.)  If you come near me, I'll kick you. What do you want to do? Make her a part of Larrabee Industries? And then fight off your competitors? Just hang a sign around her neck! "Please don't handle the merchandise!"  (She turns to Sabrina, crosses C.)  And as for you! You listen to me! If anyone tries to tell you that she travels the farthest who travels alone, believe me, when you get there you'll find it wasn't worth the trip!  (She turns on Linus D R. C.)  Get into her life or get out of her life! But don't stand around playing god! 

      The most startling difference between play and films (for me, anyway) concerns the disclosure of Fairchild's wealth. In the films, he reveals that through the years he eavesdropped whenever Linus did business with his stockbroker over the car phone on the way to work; by following Linus' buying-selling moves, Fairchild managed to accumulate his own modest fortune, enough to sustain both Sabrina and himself for the rest of their lives. In the play, he reveals that he made most of his fortune by investing in Larrabee Shipping stock during the Depression, when the company, like so many others, was having great difficulties. In other words, he helped keep the Larrabees, his employers, afloat when they were floundering and, even after Larrabee Industries became a vast financial empire, Fairchild still owned seven thousand shares of their company. When asked by the Larrabees why he kept it all secret and never left their employ, he replies simply and sincerely that he loved his job.

     So Sabrina is an heiress after all, on more even footing—financially, if not socially—with the family she has grown up with and loved as her own. She realizes she is in love with Linus, and Linus finally admits to himself and to her that he is in love with her. Cinderella arises from the motor oil-stained garage floor and wins her Prince Cynical-but-Charming.

SABRINA fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!

     ~ from Comus, John Milton

  

 

Play vs. Film: Shadowlands

[Play and 1993 screenplay by William Nicholson, 1985 television script by William Nicholson and Norman Stone]

 

     Shadowlands (1993) is one of my favorite feature films of all time (for other favorites, see my list in the left sidebar). If you're not familiar with it, you can take a look at its IMDb page. Anthony Hopkins breaks my heart with his portrayal of the learned and stiff-upper-lipped author C. S. Lewis (or "Jack," as he preferred to be called) who falls in love with the outspoken American poet Joy Gresham (née Helen Joy Davidman). She has admired him greatly from across the pond, through his books and also through their correspondence which began in 1950. In fact, she loves him even before travelling to Oxford to meet him.

     I suppose one of the reasons I love their story so much is my identification with Joy. I understand completely her feelings for him. What vaguely disappoints me about the film, however, is Debra Winger. I've only seen her in two other films (Terms of Endearment and Legal Eagles), but that's enough for me to conclude that there is something about her screen persona that just doesn't—well, endear her to me. Her portrayal of Joy is, I concede, quite moving especially in the second half of the film, but her uneven New York accent detracts a bit from her performance. I really wish she had done without it altogether.

     This film is graced by the luscious score of George Fenton, whose ability to mimic the music of any period is truly astonishing.  

     After many viewings of the film, the screenplay of which was written by William Nicholson, I decided I needed to read the stage play. But Nicholson's 1989 play of the same name was actually adapted from a multi-award-winning 1985 BBC television movie, whose screenplay was co-written by Nicholson and the movie's creator/director, Norman Stone. So I decided to watch it first. It features Joss Ackland as a Jack startlingly close to what I had imagined Jack to be like, and Claire Bloom, a wonderful Joy, less abrasive than Winger, and sans New York accent. This version is much more faithful to the real-life story than is the 1993 feature film, though it is perhaps less emotionally satisfying. There are longer philosophical conversations between Jack and Joy. I didn't bawl like a baby when I watched it, as I did (do) watching the feature film, and I sorely missed Fenton's great musical score, but Ackland's compelling performance kept my eyes glued to the screen.

     Both the feature film and the BBC TV film are available on DVD. The DVD of the latter includes both the 90-minute original British version and the 73-minute American (PBS) version. (Why on earth are American versions of BBC productions always shorter???)

     I really enjoyed reading Nicholson's lovely play (which can be purchased here, though there are cheaper copies to be had). Nigel Hawthorne was the C. S. Lewis for both the premiere run in Plymouth and on Broadway; Joy was played by Jane Lapotaire in Plymouth and by Jane Alexander in New York. My copy of the play contains photos of the New York cast. In reading the play, I grew even fonder of Joy, and all the other characters as well—even cynical Christopher Riley. The play is in two acts and the set called for is divided into two areas, one within the other. The inner area is divided from the outer by a screen which rises and falls as scenery is changed. One of the things I particularly enjoy about reading plays is reading the stage directions, which, though strictly informative and usually not at all literary, are nevertheless the equivalent of the narrative in novels and short stories. Their very nature, cursory and dry, demands that the reader engage his imagination, much more so than while reading descriptively generous narrative. Reading plays is harder work than reading novels. Most of the characters' psychology and motivation lie in the dialogue. Usually, you get only the most basic help from the stage directions, and many actors themselves dislike relying on them to aid them in delivery or in fleshing out their characters. Some even pencil them out completely when they first read the script so as not to be distracted by them.

     Anyway, I digress a bit. The play's seamless flowing in and out of the two areas of the stage, and characters entering and exiting a scene across chronological lapses, lend a certain "stream of consciousness" to the story, as if the play were unfolding in Lewis' memory, though it is not a flashback. I found this mesmerizing and supportive of the philosophical and spiritual aspects in the material. I would love to see this play in person. It isn't a strict adaptation of the TV film, though of course much of the dialogue was taken from it. The feature film is a blending of both its predecessors.

     Sorry, but it's impossible to write about the story without divulging the fact that Joy has cancer and dies. Besides, any fan of C. S. Lewis knows about that. Shadowlands is, more than anything, the story of Lewis' emotional evolvement and revelation, the opening of his heart and soul to love and the pain it sometimes brings. His writings and lectures on pain have always emphasized pain's salvific power, as Nicholson points out in the character's opening monologue, utilizing material from Lewis' writings:

God loves us, so He makes us the gift of suffering. Through suffering, we release our hold on the toys of this world, and know that our true good lies in another world. We're like blocks of stone, out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of his chisel, which hurt us so much, are what make us perfect. The suffering in the world is not the failure of God's love for us; it is that love in action. For believe me, this world that seems to us so substantial, is no more than the shadowlands. Real life has not begun yet.

     Though he wrote and lectured effectively on suffering, Lewis only learns the truth of his own words after enduring the crucible of losing Joy. Always before, he had repressed whatever pain came into his life—the death of his mother, for instance—and tucked it neatly away beneath the cozy quilt of learning, literature, and lecturing. By allowing himself to love Joy, he learns to deal with suffering as a necessary part of inner growth. Through it all, his faith in God and in the "real life" that exists beyond the shadowlands is strengthened.

     I highly recommend all three formats.

 

 

 

Play vs. Film: Same Time, Next Year

     Some time ago, I wrote another post with the same title, in which I discussed a few plays on which some of my favorite films are based. Since then, I've read three more plays which have been made into feature films: 84, Charing Cross Road; Same Time, Next Year; and Shadowlands. Actually, 84, Charing Cross Road was a book and a television play before it was a stage play then a film, and Shadowlands was first of all a television play before it was adapted to the stage, then became a book, then finally a film (did you follow all that?), but I'll get into that later. For now, I'll just talk about Same Time, Next Year.

     The film Same Time, Next Year (1978, Alan Alda, Ellen Burstyn) has been a favorite of mine since I first saw it on cable in the '80s. Here's a very concise synopsis: It all starts in 1951. Doris and George, both in their 20's, meet in the restaurant of a seaside inn in California.



     They immediately hit it off and spend the night together, despite knowing that they're both married with children. By the end of the first scene, they know there's something much more between them than a one-night-stand, and they agree to meet at the inn every year at that same time (hence the title, get it?).



     We follow their relationship every five years or so until 1975. Throughout, we see that their lives reflect various historical events (the Viet Nam war, for instance) and social trends (hippies, women's liberation).

 





     But on a more intimate scale, we see these two endearingly human and quirky people change and grow as individuals, in their separate marriages as well as within their own very special, loving relationship. It's the most palatable portrayal of marital infidelity I've ever seen. And all done with no nudity!



     Ellen Burstyn repeated her Tony-winning portrayal of Doris, winning a Golden Globe and a nomination for the Best Actress Oscar, and deservedly so; she is a marvel, an absolute joy to watch. Alan Alda as George (Charles Grodin played the part on Broadway) gives a typical Alan Alda performance, very entertaining, but we saw pretty much the same performance for eleven years on M*A*S*H. However, the chemistry between him and Burstyn is delightful.

     Bernard Slade himself adapted his play (the first stage play he ever wrote, premiered 1975) for the screen. There is almost no difference in dialogue between the screenplay and the stage script, except a few lines omitted here and a couple of lines altered there. Despite the obvious fact that the film employs more settings than the play, which employs one single set, the film still feels very much like a stage play. Which to me isn't altogether a bad thing. However, I do find that, about halfway through the film, I've grown a little weary of the Oscar-nominated theme song ("The Last Time I Felt Like This" by Marvin Hamlisch, sung by Johnny Mathis and Jane Olivor), which is used as a scene marker to convey the passage of time.

     Final verdict: you don't need to read the play if you've seen the film, but if you haven't seen the film, it's worth reading the play if you can find a cheap copy or a copy in your library.

     You can find the play on Amazon here. Please pay no attention to the one (negative) customer review.

    

Christmas Time Movies!

     On this past Thanksgiving Day, I remembered that on Thanksgiving weekend 1994 I went to the cinema twice to see the new but old-fashioned romantic comedy called Sleepless in Seattle. At the first viewing, I remember my sister whispering during the Christmas dinner scene near the start of the film, "Oh, it's Niles!" Not having yet seen Frasier, I had no idea who Niles was. Nowadays, of course, one of the reasons I watch Sleepless is to see David Hyde Pierce in his two brief scenes.

     Another main reason I watch Sleepless, at least during Advent and the Christmas season, is for its Christmas scenes at the beginning—even though it's all very secular, it's still jolly, and I always love Meg Ryan singing "horses, horses, horses" with the radio.

     Besides Sleepless in Seattle, there are numerous other movies I love to watch specifically at this time. It might surprise you that It's a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street (any version) are not among them. I think there are two reasons for their omission: 1) they're both on TV ad nauseum around Christmas time, and 2) I've always disliked following the crowd. "What's your favorite Christmas movie?" Seven times out of ten, the answer is It's a Wonderful Life. The other three times, it's Miracle on 34th Street. (Those are my own arbitrary statistics; don't go quoting them.) While I concede they are both wonderful films, I'm just ornery and choose to march to my own drummer boy. Pah-rrum-pum-pum-pum.

     So here, in random order after the first four, is my Christmas viewing list—most of these films are not specifically about Christmas, and some are emphatically non-religious (yes, I still retain some of my pagan past when it comes to movies), but all have Christmas scenes in them.

The Bishop's Wife - probably my favorite Christmas film
     (Cary Grant, Loretta Young)
The Shop around the Corner - probably my second favorite Christmas film
     (James Stewart, Margaret Sullavan)
White Christmas - probably my 3rd favorite Christmas film
Come to the Stable  (Loretta Young, Celeste Holm) - probably my fourth favorite Christmas film

Little Women 
     1933 (Katharine Hepburn)
     1994 (Winona Ryder)
     1978 (TV mini-series w/ Susan Dey)
     [Don't like the 1949 version with June Allyson and Elizabeth Taylor!]
Meet Me in St. Louis  (Judy Garland, Margaret O'Brien)
The Trouble with Angels  (Hayley Mills, Rosalind Russell)
Holiday Inn  (Fred Astaire, Bing Crosby)
Sleepless in Seattle
Desk Set  (Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy)
When Harry Met Sally ...
84, Charing Cross Road  (Anne Bancroft, Anthony Hopkins)
Love Affair  (1939, Irene Dunne, Charles Boyer)
     and its 1957 remake An Affair to Remember  (Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr)
Falling in Love  (Meryl Streep, Robert de Niro)
The Holiday  (Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz)
Love Story  (Ryan O'Neal, Ali MacGraw)
You've Got Mail
Love, Actually
Christmas in Connecticut  (Barbara Stanwyck, Dennis Morgan)
Holiday Affair  (Janet Leigh, Robert Mitchum)
Never Say Goodbye  (Errol Flynn, Eleanor Parker)
A Christmas Carol  (just about any version)
The Tangerine Bear  (animated - David Hyde Pierce voices the Cuckoo)

For something emphatically religious, and therefore most truly about Christmas:
The Nativity Story

Film Scores I Love, Part Two

     Okay, it's not a feature film -- rather, they're not feature films -- but Hagood Hardy's scores to Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Green Gables, the Sequel (formerly titled Anne of Avonlea) are so wonderfully winsome, touching, humorous, romantic, and just downright perfect for these mini-series, I just had to include them here.

     Unfortunately, the CD is out of print and extant copies, both new and used, are outrageously expensive (at least from what I saw on Amazon). Shame. At least we still have this beautiful music on YouTube.

     One of my favorite film composers is Thomas Newman, whose most recent credits include The Help, The Iron Lady, and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. But it's his score to the 1994 Little Women that I love best. The titles theme is unabashedly American, almost Copland-esque, with its broad brass and sweeping strings, a perfect musical evocation of this quintessentially American novel and its atmospheric film adaptation.



     Another of my favorites is Patrick Doyle. Who doesn't love the music in the final scene of Sense and Sensibility ? All the music in this film is wonderful, particularly the songs sung by Kate Winslet and, over the end credits, the platinum-voiced Jane Eaglen.



     Speaking of Jane Austen films, I particularly love the songs Jeremy Sams wrote for the 1995 Persuasion, both of them in Italian and both so lovely (though the second one is incomplete), I wish they were available on sheet music. Those of you who have seen the film undoubtedly know the scene where Anne and her family attend a salon concert (" ... to be given in Italian," said Mr Elliott contemptuously ). The first song is repeated over the final credits.

     I couldn't write a post about favorite film scores without including this scene from The Holiday, in which Jack Black, playing a film composer, tells Kate Winslet's character -- in a most descriptive way -- what his favorite film scores are. (Fastforward to about 4:00 for the scene I'm talking about.)





Music Monday: Film Scores I Love, Part One

     First of all, let me admit to having a rather limited taste in films. I don't do thrillers, science fiction, quirky indies (sounds vaguely vulgar, somehow), anything with a lot of nudity, violence, and/or foul language, films about war, third world countries, politics ... well, maybe it would be simpler to say what kinds of films I do like. Then again, if you read this blog on anything like a regular basis, you can probably form a pretty good idea on your own. Plus which, I have listed some of my favorite films of all time in the left sidebar of this page, a list clearly indicative of the kinds of films I'm repeatedly drawn to.

     Given this limited taste, one may come to the logical and correct conclusion that my knowledge of film scores is consequently limited as well. I'm sure there are many musical scores of films I would never choose to see that I would actually love were I to hear them. But since so much of the success of a film score depends on how well it enhances the visual, I'll most likely never come to know them. When I listen to a score without the film, there are inevitably pieces of incidental or underscoring music that sound forlornly unfulfilled on their own, as if they lack the framework of bones to hold up their skin. Of course, there are fabulous themes and theme songs that stand on their own, such as "Goldfinger," "Alfie," "Moon River" from Breakfast at Tiffany's, "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head" from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, "Let the River Run" from Working Girl, to name just a few (am I dating myself?); and the John Williams themes, all of which tend to sound alike. (Have you ever noticed, music wonks, that the themes from Superman, ET,  and Star Wars all begin with the interval of a fifth?)

     One main theme I love is the end credits of Shadowlands (1993, Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger), music by George Fenton and performed by the London Symphony Orchestra:

     The opening of the film is also very beautiful, Fenton's own setting of "Veni, Sancte Spiritus" sung by the Choir of Magdalen College, Oxford:



     In fact, if I had to choose just one film composer as my favorite, I would probably choose George Fenton. He's not only capable of writing stunningly beautiful and evocative music, he can write music in the style of any period and make it sound absolutely authentic. A very good example of this can be heard in the trailer for 84, Charing Cross Road, a film that covers a period of twenty years from the late '40s to the late '60s:



      Fenton also wrote the scores to films such as Gandhi, Dangerous Liasons, Dangerous Beauty, and You've Got Mail, as well television series such as Planet Earth, Blue Planet, and Life. I love the music he wrote for You've Got Mail -- relatively sparse as it is among all the borrowed pop standards -- it's fittingly cute and quirky, but then there's also the brief nostalgic waltz that swells up under the scene where Meg Ryan's character reminisces about "twirling" with her mother.

     Another Fenton favorite of mine is his score to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.



     Though the recipient of many awards, including multiple Emmys, Ivor Novellos, and BAFTAs, and nominated for countless others, including five nominations for the Academy Award, Oscar has so far eluded him -- unjustly, I think. His versatility and gift for musical idiom is certainly on a level with the greatest and most honored film composers, past and present.

     Many of Fenton's scores are available through Amazon.

My Favorite Summer Viewing

Most film lovers I know have seasonal favorites, films they love to watch at certain times of the year. For instance, every Advent one of my sisters likes to pull out all her Christmas-y DVDs, set them to one side, and watch one each evening. Another of my sisters DVRs all the Hallmark Channel Christmas movies.

Now that summer looms its heavy, humid head over us, I reckon it's time to pull out my favorite films and mini-series and be carried away to a cooler, more pleasant place, both geographically and spiritually.

Let's start with the film that's actually named for the season: David Lean's romantic Summertime, starring Katharine Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi. A 40-something spinster finding love while on vacation in Venice, beautiful cinematography, heroine leaning out of the train window and waving goodbye ... <*sigh*> The entire movie has been posted on YouTube, but here is just a snippet:

For years, I loved the Disney version of Pollyanna with Hayley Mills. Then I discovered the 2002 BBC version and fell in love with it. I didn't fall out of love altogether with the Disney version and all its slick, over-produced cuteness, but I now prefer this one by far.

No summer would be complete for me without a viewing of Wonderworks' incomparable Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea. (Anne of Avonlea is now marketed as Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel.) Seldom have I seen such a perfect combination of screenplay, cast, location, and cinematography -- and the musical score is absolutely heart-stirring. However, after just one viewing of Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story and Anne of Green Gables: A New Beginning, I have since steered clear of them—they're ridiculous, and are not taken from the books. I'll just stick to the original first two, thank you!

Maybe Enchanted April is technically a spring movie, but the general idea of getting away from miserable weather to a more congenial climate works in any season. This film is one of my top ten favorites of all time. And if you haven't read the novel of the same name by Elizabeth von Arnim, I can't recommend it enough.

One of my top five favorite mini-series is The House of Eliott. It's about two orphaned young Englishwomen in the 1920's who find themselves in dire straits and start their own couture house. The story is compelling, the script quite good for the most part; but the costumes are the real draw! At the end of the first series (twelve episodes), the Eliott girls stage their first fashion show, and the gowns are stunning. The second series is just as good, but the third (which is only six episodes) is negligible.

 

 

Way back in the late '6os the BBC graced PBS with a superlative adaptation of John Galsworthy's classic triptych The Forsyte Saga. It starred Eric Porter as the definitive Soames Forsyte, one of the most complex anti-heroes in English literature, Nyree Dawn Porter (no relation) as the long-suffering Irene, and, in later episodes, Susan Hampshire as Soames' self-absorbed daughter, Fleur (Hampshire won an Emmy® for her portrayal). When The Forsyte Saga aired (1967 in the UK, 1971 in the US), it created every bit as much public stir and ardent viewer devotion as Downton Abbey has in our time. Granada Television did their own adaptation for ITV in 2002 starring Damian Lewis as Soames, but their version pales in comparison, despite its technicolor and sumptuous production values. The acting and casting in the original BBC production simply can't be beat.

  

And of course, I can't leave out the 1995 Pride and Prejudice. Summer wouldn't be summer without an eyeful of Colin Firth in that wet shirt! (Which is nowhere in the novel; but who cares?!)

You're Unfaithful, but I Like You Anyway

     Whenever a new film or television adaptation of a Jane Austen novel comes out, I am frustrated, even angry, if it is unfaithful to the book. Mind you, it doesn't have to be word-for-word. It can even "do away" with a character or two, or with entire scenes -- that's fine with me (Emma Thompson's screenplay of Sense and Sensibility does away with quite a few of both). But if the pure essence of the story is in any way corrupted or contains the smallest whisper of "revisionist," if the characters in any way stray from Austen's crystal clear portrayals, if the elegant language of Austen is "dumbed down," and the details of production incorrect to the period, I'm very unhappy. Besides the Thompson Sense and Sensibility, the adaptations I consider truly Austen-worthy are:

     Emma (with Kate Beckinsale and Mark Strong, ITV 1996)

     Persuasion (with Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds, BBC 1995)

     Pride and Prejudice (with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, A & E, 1995) 

     Mansfield Park (with Sylvestra Le Touzel and Nicholas Farrell, BBC, 1986)

     I also like certain aspects of the latest Sense and Sensibility and Northanger Abbey, both BBC, 2007. Every other adaptation (and I've seen them all, either whole or in more-than-generous part) is, in my opinion, guilty of at least one of the offenses listed above. I am, however, a big fan of Clueless. Why? Nowhere in the film's credits does it claim to be "based upon the novel Emma by Jane Austen." Only those who know the novel recognize Clueless to be a very clever modern-day retelling, but it is not an adaptation. The film took the modern-day concept and ran all the way with it; it is not a mixed bag of period costume, off-the-mark characterizations, and easier-to-understand (for whom?) vernacular, claiming to be Austen's Emma.

     All that said, I must admit to a certain inconsistency in myself. When it comes to other books, I somehow don't mind unfaithful adaptations -- in many cases, I even like and enjoy them. For instance, I love A. S. Byatt's novel Possession and was very excited when I heard a film adaptation was being done. I missed it in the theaters, however, and didn't get to watch the DVD till years later, after I left the monastery. When I did finally watch it, I actually liked it, even though the character of Roland was changed from British to American, and the film was but a mere shadow of the book, and a very spotty shadow, at that. I also am not crazy about Gwenyth Paltrow as a rule, and some details of the film I found and still find laughable. But I enjoy it, nonetheless.

     Alcott's Little Women is a book I've cherished since my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor-illustrated edition for Christmas, 1972. I have always loved the 1933 film with Katharine Hepburn as the perfect Jo. For me, it captures the very atmosphere of Alcott's book, and the cast delivered the faithful dialogue so naturally and convincingly. In lesser hands, Alcott's language can come off stilted and cloying. I'm not enamored with the 1949 film, which I think is, for the most part, seriously miscast, so much so that I just can't watch it all the way through. Also, its pacing is much too slow. However, the 1994 adaptation is wonderful. Although Winona Ryder is physically not Alcott's Jo, being much too petite, she conveys the essence of the character beautifully. The rest of the cast is equally fine; the script, though certainly not word-for-word or even scene-for-scene, and perhaps bearing a few social and political banners that I'm not sure Alcott intended in her simple but relevant story, is well-written and moves along nicely. I'm not bothered at all by these small inaccuracies and liberties, and rank the film among my top favorites. I only wish that someday, someone will do an adaptation of Little Women that places Laurie's proposal to Jo in the correct place, which is after Jo comes back from New York.

     Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede is another novel I love and read every few years. There is a film version from the late '60s, starring Diana Rigg (inspired casting). The film runs 100 minutes, which is not a sufficient length of time to include every storyline and plot twist of the novel, so the screenplay focuses on just one basic storyline. Unfortunately, that storyline is nowhere to be found in the novel; or, rather, they took two of the novel's storylines, altered one of them considerably, and put it together with the second one to make an entirely new storyline. The screenwriter also sacrificed accuracy in portraying monastic life, in favor of drama. The Rule of St Benedict was pretty much torn to bits in this film, so it is not a true picture of monasticism. Still, I like it. The acting is good, the story in and of itself is good -- I just separate it from the novel in my mind, and enjoy the film for itself.

     So why can't I do the same when it comes to Austen? Why can't I mentally divorce her novels from those less-than-faithful versions? Is her work so "sacrosanct" to my literary sense and sensibility?