I’m away for a few days, hopefully seeing some bloggers during that time – will report back, of course. And will write a recap of the Great British Bake Off final at some point, goodness knows when! Probably Monday… until then, adieu.
Caroline by Cornelius Medvei
Lest you get completely the wrong impression about Mel, who gave me Dewey (and thanks for your lovely comments on that!) and High School Musical: The Book of the Film, I thought I’d better review a really good novel that she lent me recently. It’s become sort of a stereotype that when Mel gives or lends me books, it takes me years to read them. Well, last Wednesday she lent me Caroline: A Mystery by Cornelius Medvei (can this be his real name?), and I started it at about 8.30pm while waiting for my train home – and by the end of the night, I’d finished it.
Mel knew I would love it for a couple of reasons – it plays with the fantastic, and it involves a donkey. Donkeys are my second favourite animal, after cats (obviously) and I was definitely prepared to enjoy a novel where donkey takes central focus.
It actually kicks off with one of those layered narratives beloved of Victorian writers and earlier – the sort of thing we see in Frankenstein and Wuthering Heights etc., of someone telling someone telling someone, all remembering things perfectly, etc. So Mr. Shaw’s son is relating the story to someone who may or may not have a name. Sorry, can’t remember. I’m not entirely sure why Medvei did this, unless it’s to put all sorts of question marks about reliability and integrity into the narrative. (It’s also a nice excuse to include photographs and scraps, apparently left behind by Mr. Shaw.) Let’s skip past it onto the story proper.
Mr. Shaw is on holiday with his wife and child, from his job as an insurance broker, when they come across Caroline in a field. They know she’s called Caroline, because it’s painted on her stable. Mr. Shaw’s son gives this account of the meeting…
They faced each other across the sagging gate. He saw a rusty grey, barrel-chested donkey, with pretty ears nine inches long (one cocked, the other drooping to the left), head on one side, flicking her tail to keep the flies away. I noticed her shaggy coat and the pale whiskers on her upper lip, and wondered how old she might be. I wasn’t sure how you told a donkey’s age; something to do with their teeth, I thought, but she kept her mouth firmly shut as she champed on a mouthful of grass in a manner that suggested intense concentration mingled with dumb insolence, like a bored teenager with a plug of bubblegum.
And she, fixing my father my her great, dark, limpid eyes – “eyes a man could drown in”, as he later described them – took in the hair thinning at the temples, his nose reddened with sunburn, his stomach bulging slightly over the waistband of his shorts (like all his colleagues, my father always wore shorts on holiday, regardless of the weather; shorts were not allowed in the office).
I suppose this was the moment the whole strange affair began; the moment, so well documented in classical poetry and TV soaps and sugary ballads, when two strangers come face to face; the heart thumps, an overpowering force shakes them, like the wind in the birch trees above the stable – in short, they begin to fall for each other.
One interesting result of Medvei giving the focalisation to Mr. Shaw’s son is that we never really know what Mr. Shaw is thinking, or quite what level of affection he feels for Caroline. His son describes it as a love affair (er, non-physical of course. It’s not that kind of book) but there is plenty of evidence to suggest that it isn’t – that Mr. Shaw simply thinks Caroline is incredible.
And it’s hard not to agree. Mr. Shaw manages to persuade Caroline’s owner – and his own wife – that taking Caroline home with him is a good idea. Once established in the backyard of their terraced city house, Caroline becomes something of a nuisance to the neighbours with her eeee-orrrring. (We used to live a few metres away from a field of donkeys (known as the ‘donkey field’, demonstrating an early flair for linguistic manipulation) and, believe me, some donkeys make their presence known. There was one called Charlie Brown who was LOUD.) Anyway – Mr. Shaw’s solution to this predicament is somewhat unorthodox. He decides to take Caroline to his office.
After initial protests, Caroline becomes an integral part of office life. Eventually, even though Mr. Shaw is only a few months away from retirement, she even takes his place. It isn’t clear whether the office staff are having a joke at Mr. Shaw’s expense, or whether Caroline somehow does perform adeptly at the job… but these ambiguities aren’t practicable once Caroline begins to play chess…
This is where the potential element of the fantastic comes into play. It’s possible that delusion is at work, but it seems more likely (within the context of the story) that Caroline can play chess and look after financial clients. She never speaks or writes, or anything like that – Medvei is much cleverer, by giving her a curious form of communication which centres around the chessboard.
Caroline: A Mystery has the feel of a fable, but without any moral or message. But with, so the subtitle proclaims, a mystery. What is it? Her unusual abilities, or his unusual affections? Or simply the suddenness of it all, without any connection to Mr. Shaw’s previous life?
As I said before, I read this in a few hours. It’s short (around 150pp) and definitely a page-turner – but with lingering thoughtfulness, rather than the rush-through-discard-immediately feel of some fast-paced books. Medvei isn’t particularly a prose stylist – there is no bad writing though, it’s just secondary to the plot and the characters – but he certainly knows how to craft a novel so that the reader rushes through, loving every moment, curious as to what the next page will hold.
I know it’s still early to mention the C-word, but I think this would make a lovely Christmas gift for the animal lover in your life. If that person happens to be you, then… what are you gonna do??
Others who got Stuck into it:
“This is a lovely little book!” – Jackie, Farm Lane Books
“a small but finely wrought – and very enjoyable – read.” – David, Follow The Thread
“Sheer delight from start to finish, amusing, sad and wonderfully written, with great economy of style.” – Elaine, Random Jottings
Dewey
Everyone likes being given a book, don’t they? Well, a good book, that is. Or… or a really, really awful book. They can be hilarious too.
My best friend Mel (who also inflicted this upon me) knows me pretty well, and thought I’d be amused by Dewey: The True Story of a World Famous Library Cat by Vicki Myron and Bret Witter. I don’t know if they wrote the memoir together in the first place, or whether Bret is responsible for (wait for it) the ‘wonderful adaptation for younger readers’ that I held in my hand. That’s right – a simplified abridgment of a book about a cat that lives in a library. The horrors. Mel insisted that I review it for your delight and education…
Now, you probably know that I’m a part-time librarian, and it’s no secret that I love cats. I probably love them more than would be considered sane by most. But Vicki Myron puts me to shame – and this book is a horrifying warning about what I might become a few years down the line.
Before I go any further, I should say that Vicki is probably a lovely woman, and everything I’m going to write is meant affectionately… and who knows how much sanity was edited out during the abridgment stage? But brace yourselves. Things get kinda weird. And hilarious. My housemates and I took it in turns to read chapters aloud to each other – pausing for hysterics.
On the face of it, this is rather a touching story. A kitten is found abandoned in the book chute of a smalltown library, is named Dewey (full name Dewey Read More Books – which only works if you are American and say ‘doo-ee’, not English and say ‘dyu-ee’). He lives in the library, is adored by Vicki, and (it seems) is able to solve most of the problems of the Western world.
Chapters can generally be divided into two camps: those which relate incidents of no notable interest, and those which relate incidents which couldn’t possibly have happened.
She gets very animated about the Dewey Carry (a special technique for carrying Dewey, which involves… putting him over your shoulder); Dewey’s fussiness with food; the fact that he ran to meet people when they came into the library; his liking for catnip. Basically, lots of numbingly ordinary things which Vicki identifies as qualities which elevate Dewey to a near-deity. But a lot of cat owners are like that. I know I am – Sherpa only has to tilt her head on one side, and I’m cooing and taking photos – and she’s not even my cat.
What gets rather crazier is the incidents which reveal the extent of Vicki’s self-delusion. She appears quite genuinely to believe that Dewey plays hide-and-seek with her – and explains his inability to hide simply as impatience. She credits him with intelligence far beyond his species, and a level of undying partisanship for Spencer, Iowa which no cat would ever display. Call me a cynic, but I can’t imagine Dewey (also known as The Dukester *shudder*) feeling that Iowa was unquestionably superior to Nebraska or Wisconsin. He might – here’s a thought – have no concept of regional geography at all.
Most curious of all, though, is the connection Vicki believes herself to have with Dewey. Now, I know that if I had a cat in Oxford, I’d probably craft it a cat-sized mortar board and pretend it was a doctoral candidate. I’d also probably send out Simon & Mittens (for that would be her name) Christmas Greeting Cards, signed whimsically with a paw print. But I’d like to think that I would do these things with a touch of irony – or at least realism. Vicki (in this abridgment) doesn’t seem to… she often talks about the first time she met him, and the ‘special bond’ which was immediately established:
As I took the kitten in my arms, I must admit that I felt a little flutter in my heart. When the kitten had looked into my eyes, something had happened; we had made a connection. He was more than just a cat to me. It had only been a day, but already I couldn’t stand the thought of being without him.
You might be thinking – this lady might be lonely, she needs a friend. Fair enough. But she has a teenage daughter! This poor daughter (I think her name was Joanne, or similar) becomes increasingly neglected as the book goes on. And Dewey doesn’t even live with Vicki! He lives in the library! It never became clear quite why the cat didn’t live at her home (except for, ahem, ‘He belongs to Spencer’.) One time, in the part I think I laughed at most, Dewey did come to stay with Vicki:
The library closed for three days on Christmas Eve, so Dewey came home with me. We spent Christmas morning together. I didn’t give him a present, though. [Simon – ahha, not as crazy as I thought] After a year together, our relationship was well beyond token gifts. We didn’t have anything to prove. [Simon – whaaaaaaat!??]
Brilliant! They didn’t exchange gifts because either (a) their relationship had reached a place of mutual understanding and love which transcended commercial interests, or (b) DEWEY WAS A CAT WITH NO COMPREHENSION OF CHRISTMAS. Oh, lordy, Vicki.
It did get a bit uncomfortable at times. Cue photo pun.
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| photo source |
I think my favourite moment of crazy, though, came from neither Dewey nor Vicki. There is a chapter devoted to the fact that Dewey likes eating elastic bands (no topic is considered too trivial to have a chapter devoted to it) and they want to hide them away at night. Vicki’s colleague Mary has some in a mug – which she insists he cannot access.
“How about an experiment? [says Vicki] You put the mug in the cabinet, we’ll see if he pukes rubber bands in the morning.”
“But this mug has my children’s pictures on it!”
“Good point.”
HOW is that a good point?? Will her children be somehow cursed if photos of them are put in a cabinet? I don’t even know what she was trying to mean. But I laughed. A lot.
I can’t, in all honesty, recommend this book. It’s either appallingly written, or appallingly abridged, to make Vicki sound like a loon. Even people like me, who are destined to turn into Vicki (“turn into?” comments everyone who knows me, adroitly) consider her crazyboots. BUT, if you can find someone who is willing to read it out loud with you, then it’s an absolute joy!
Right. Sorry if I’ve been too mean today… tongue-in-cheek, remember! And Mel – happy now?!
Song for a Sunday
Firstly – a few people have been asking about subscribing to Stuck-in-a-Book by email. It’s not something I do for any blog, and so I don’t really know how it works, but I’ve decided to give it a go! There’s a box over in the right-hand column, so… give it a go if you fancy it! I hope it doesn’t stop anybody popping over and commenting, though, as reading everyone’s comments is my favourite part of blogging.
Onto the Sunday Song – The Dixie Chicks and ‘Not Ready To Make Nice’. It’s a great song, but it also has a rather amusing (but not entirely PC) MadTV spoof, which I’ve included too. (You do need to know the background to the song, I think… which you can learn here.)
Stuck-in-a-Book’s Weekend Miscellany
Another Saturday at work for me, but nothing planned for the evening – X Factor or Iris Murdoch? Hmm. It should be an easy choice, but I have to admit that I’m finding The Sea, The Sea rather ponderous. It’s a book group choice, and I do think it’s very good, but it’s not light reading. And it is long. You know how I feel about long books. Over 500 pages of tiny font. Huh. I might be shouting at Louis Walsh instead…
Well, now that I’ve got that off my chest, I’ll throw a book, a blog post, and a link your way.
1.) The book – came from Tara Books, an Indian company which produces really beautiful books. I wrote a bit about them here, two years ago, and now they’ve sent me another gem. To celebrate Dickens’ centenary (which has rather got lost in the whole Olympics fever, but let’s remember it now!) they’ve produced a gorgeous copy of Dickens’ Pictures from Italy, illustrated by Livia Signorini. I think it would make a brilliant Christmas gift (oh, so early, sorry!) for any fan of Dickens in your life. If that person happens to be you, then… so be it! ;)
2.) The link – was sent to me by my friend Rachel, and is about the language of P.G.Wodehouse. Fun!
3.) The blog post – is by Karen/Kaggsy – the first person to review Guard Your Daughters after the mad rush for copies which happened when I waxed enthusiastic about it! Read Kaggsy’s review here, and revisit mine here, if you so wish. She lucked out with a lovely (if oddly irrelevant to the book) cover for her copy – go have a gander. (If you have reviewed Guard Your Daughters, on a blog or LibraryThing or whatever, then let me know! I’m hoping to gather together reviews…)
‘Modern Reviewing’ by H.G. Wells
Now and then I like to share interesting findings with you, so you can reap the benefits of my trips to the library and research for my DPhil. I thought this brief article by H.G. Wells – published in a magazine called The Adelphi (edited by Katherine Mansfield’s husband John Middleton Murray) in July 1923 – might be of interest. Not only is it about Lady Into Fox, which a few of you have read or want to read, but it comments on the whole business of reviewing. And things in the world of reviewing have changed surprisingly little in 90 years!
‘How many people have read Lady Into Fox by David Garnett? Most of us round and about the professional literary world have done so, but has it got through yet to the large public of intelligent readers beyond? I very much doubt it. Our critical reviewing people are cursed by a sort of gentility that makes them mumble the news they have to tell; busy doctors, teachers, business men, and so forth, have not the time to attend to these undertones. No doubt Lady Into Fox has been praised a good deal in this mumbling, ineffective way. But has it got through? In the newspapers we ought to have more news about books and less hasty essay writing by way of reviewing. A book, bad or good, gets its two or three or four or five inches of “review” in the papers and then no more about it. You cannot tell from most book reviews whether the book matters in the slightest degree, whether it has any significant freshness in it at all. The good things are hustled past public attention in a crowd of weary notices, weak blame, weak praise, and vague comment. Newspapers don’t treat tennis or golf in that fashion. A new golfer is shouted about. Why was there no shouting about Stella Benson’s The Poor Man or Gerhardi’s Futility – shouting to reach the suburbs and country towns? Both these are wonderful books and only quite a few people seem to have heard of them yet. Lady Into Fox is the most amazingly good story I have read for a long time. I don’t propose to offer criticisms. I accept a book like this; I don’t criticise it. I have nothing to say about how it is done, because I think it is perfectly done and could not have been done in any other way. It is quite a fresh thing. It is as astonishing and it is as entirely right and consistent as a new creation, a sort of new animal, let us say, suddenly running about in the world. It is like a small, queer, furry animal I admit, but as alive, as whimsically inevitable as a very healthy kitten. It shows up most other stories, all these trade stories that fill the booksellers’ shops, for the clockwork beasts they are.’
Great British Bake Off: Semi-Finals!
Drum-roll please, ladies and gents – it’s the semi-finals!
This may seem to have come around rather quickly, since I only started recapping two episodes ago, but hopefully that just means that we’re all still super-excited, and my jokes have yet to wear thin. I’m definitely in the right mood for a GBBO recap, since on Monday I made gingerbread cake from Mary Berry’s Bakes and Cakes. I didn’t have the right fat, flour, sugar, or treacle/syrup ratio, and my hopeless oven took 1hr 40 to bake it instead of 50 minutes, but… they are delish!
Last week they made crackers (yawn), chocolate teacakes (why?) and gingerbread structures (astonishing) and my favourite baker, Cathryn, went home. It was past her bedtime, and the producers were worrying that she’d get sulky. So we’re left with just four bakers battling it out for the final…
Brendan, a.k.a. The Brend, who is using GBBO to audition as the voice of the Speaking Clock:
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| At the third stroke, the time… sorry, I mean, “I’m nervous.” |
Danny, who is lovely and proficient but, in that mysterious way of some reality contestants, entirely unmemorable.
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| “Danny who? Oh, ME!” |
John, whose distinguishing characteristic is bleeding a lot, and having wildly different hair in his VTs than he is sporting in the tent.
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| It was all swoopy before. |
Scottish James, who had better be wearing jazzy knitwear this week, no matter what temperature it is, or Edinburgh Woolen Mill will be filing for bankruptcy.
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| It’s no use looking over there, James, I can see UNPATTERNED BLUE. |
I’m totally Team James now (which, following recent episodes, almost guarantees his exit) so, with that in mind… on with the semi-finals!
It’s French Week, which is appropriate given the news that France will be showing their own Great British Bake Off (presumably with some sort of change of name, non?) and inspires this attractive shot of presenters Sue and Mel. (It feels wrong not to call them ‘Mel and Sue’ – maybe they, like Ant and Dec, should always stand in alphabetical order?)
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| Uncanny. |
The bakers are definitely feeling the pressure, as they tell us in those vague sort of interviews which don’t really achieve anything other than reminding the viewer that it’s the semi-final. “The stepping stone towards the final,” The Brend confides. “The final is just one step away” adds John, helpfully. Scottish James (who is wearing a PLAIN BLUE T-SHIRT, the horrors) says that people seem more ‘withdrawn’. Lots of people have been withdrawn, James. That’s how the show works, m’dear.
For the Signature Challenge, they’re making three types of petit-fours (oh, the irony, &c.) – meringue, choux pastry, and so forth – and twelve of each. Since we’ve not seen lovely Mary Berry and fierce sweetheart Paul Hollywood yet, here they are. Paul, it seems, is mid-linedance, but we shan’t hold that against him. For all I know, Mary’s about to launch into a do-si-do.
Petit-fours were originally served as an after-dinner course, Paul tells us, and while Mary simply requires them to be small (I reckon I could do that), Paul stipulates that they be small, exquisite, and perfect.
The Brend is making these delights:
He tells the camera that he is a perfectionist, and impossible to live with. Yes, I imagine it would be a nightmare to have those clipped tones tell me the time, sponsored by Accurist, every three seconds. But I’m always impressed when people make pastry swans on this show, and presumably pastry cygnets are the same, writ small. Yet again, the BBC Colouring-in department has only the least appetizing shade of yellow available – those friands look like Victorian baths filled with melted traffic cones. (Incidentally, Heston Blumenthal is considering that very recipe for his new show.)
Paul goes up some points in my estimation by asking Brendan whether or not his cygnets will be sat on a blue buttercream sea, fish and all. Maybe he’ll go minimalist this week? The Brend disregards the question altogether, and ploughs on with his description of lime-filled friands. I love me some limes, so I’m not going to argue with him, although nobody has explained what a friand is.
The other three bakers are making macaroons. Mel warns, on the voiceover, that one baker is being a bit risky with the traditional recipe. Without being told, I knew this would be Scottish James. He has become the tent’s version of James Dean – unpredictable! rebellious! called James! – and, adorably, he smirks guiltily when admitting that he’s making chilli sugar…
He laughs at Paul for not having had chilli, raspberry, and lime together before. Oh, Scottish James, please win. Although answering Paul back might not be a longterm strategy… look what happened to Cathryn “Oh, that’s a bit harsh” er, Baker. I don’t know her surname.
Precision is the order of the day; to make sure each is the same size, the macaroons are being piped out into circles by Danny, John, and Scottish James. Although there doesn’t seem to be a huge similarity between the drawn circles and the piping in this particular shot:
Danny is making, amongst other things, Orange and White Chocolate Langues de Chat. Literally translating as ‘cats’ tongues’. In case that wasn’t clear (and an electric whisk is being used throughout Danny’s interview with the judges, so it’s entirely possible that the typical BBC2 audience member can’t hear a word that’s being said) Mary, amazingly, does this:
I love her more each minute!
Danny, perhaps bravely trying reverse psychology, suggests that they are usually ‘hard and disappointing’, and resists all attempts on Mel’s part to get her to adopt a French accent.
We’ve not visited John yet – he’s usually the sage of the group, dispensing wisdom in the form of irrelevant platitudes, but today he settles for promising ‘bejewelled’ madeleines (which gets an ‘ooo’ from Mel and Mary, and stony silence from Paul). I was hoping for something along the lines of ‘The madeleine makes me contemplate mortality’, but I can wait. I can wait all day, John.
Brendan’s choux pastry cygnets, if prophetic, don’t bode well for his eventual placing in the Great British Bake Off…
Sue then sidles up, and he offers to let her put one of the cygnet necks into a bun – before immediately transforming into everyone’s strictest teacher, and telling her to watch him do it properly, and that if she acts like a child she’ll be treated like a child. (Well, maybe he didn’t say that bit. But the point stands.)
To do him justice, he does declare it perfect afterwards. Good old The Brend.
While Sue is enjoying herself, it’s up to Voiceover Mel to put on her usual tone of danger and doom, warning that one baker is about to commit a ‘potentially disastrous patisserie faux-pas.’ (I’d eat a patisserie faux-pas right now; sounds delicious.) Is it Danny, under the watchful eyes of Hollywood and Berry?
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| At least we now know what Mary would look like with a big blue beard. |
No, nothing so interesting. It is – but of course – Scottish James, doing something even I know you shouldn’t do – adding water to his melting chocolate. But apparently he does know what he’s doing – melting them together, then whisking them together over ice to make a mousse. Impressive, Scottish James, you renegade, you!
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| This obviously isn’t a chocolate mousse, but it encouraged me. |
There are so many different types of cake to get through here, so I’m just going to give you the vaguest of impressions of the judges’ comments. And, after three recaps, I still haven’t screencapped Mary Berry eating like a pirate. I’ll save something for the finale.
James gets commended for his flavours and originality, but Paul considers his tarts too big – ‘afternoon tea’ rather than petit-fours. I reckon I could manage.
Danny’s cats need to see a vet asap, if their tongues look like this, but she gets a mostly positive assessment. Mary comments on the ‘good bake’, while Paul’s grammar is either improving, or I’m ceasing to notice it.
John’s don’t fare quite so well. Mary says that his madeleines ‘somehow or other, should have a better appearance’. In Paul’s less delicate parlance, ‘the look is terrible’. John begins to look rather folorn.
The Brend has somehow managed to restrict his colour palate to beiges and browns, and gets excellent critiques for all his petit-fours. Mary thinks she’s in Paris – perhaps angling for a job on the new French series, or perhaps the amount of sugar she’s eaten in the past few weeks has addled her brain?
Paul seems obsessed mostly with the size of everyone’s petit-fours, and I get the feeling that he’d have greeted little cardboard cut-outs with joy, so long as they were the right size and shape.
For the Blind Challenge they all have to make a Fraisiere – which I have never heard of, but which makes Brendan raise his eyebrows in consternation, and thus MUST be difficult. Or pose no opportunity for bright orange fondant flowers. I imagine either would chill The Brend to the bone.
The recipe they must all follow is very sparse – the first step is ‘make a genoise sponge’, for instance. Here is the one which Mary Berry made earlier – I hope she made it herself, anyway, although she calls it ‘scrummy’, which isn’t very modest. But she’s right, it does look scrummy.
Mel says it’s the ‘little black dress’ of the patisserie world. It’s that sort of inexplicable nonsense which reminds me that we haven’t had the Here’s Some Facts About Regional Cakes segment, where poor hapless Mel is dragged up to Lancashire to witness the genesis of an Eccles cake, or Sue is forced to sit through an out-of-work actress pretending to be a boisterous 18th century cook.
Oh. I spoke too soon.
I’m going boldly to ignore the history of someone who made ovens, or something. Mel and Sue have obviously revolted, as neither of them are present in this segment – various biographers and ‘experts’ are forced to babble, instead, at anonymous cameramen.
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| I don’t know what they were talking about, but there were nice pictures. |
Back in the tent, everything’s a little tense. They all comment that they’ve never made a ‘creme pat’ quite like this. Well, folks, I’ve never made a creme pat at all. Adorably, Mel and Sue gossip at the side (“How’s Danny doing?” “Danny’s doing well.” “Oh, good!”) like anxious parents on the side of a school football field.
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| “Was that offside, do you think?” “I have no idea what that means.” |
John especially is struggling, and the way the editing is going, I’d be very surprised if he weren’t on the first train back to whereverhe’sfrom. Over on the prehistoric table, The Brend is getting along pretty well. Mel pops over to offer some encouraging words (among which, no joke, is included “Amazeballs”) and he not only completely ignores her, he basically shoves her out the way:
That’s not gonna win you any friends, Brend.
But when they’re all unveiled, it’s actually Danny’s which is looking rather the worse for wear…
…and a few minutes later…
Could John be safe after all?
Overall, I’m pretty impressed – but Paul just says “One or two of them look pretty good.”
The placings, you ask? In last place, of course, is poor Danny. Believe it or not, The Brend is third. It’s very close for first place, but James just pips John to the post. John, brilliantly, calls James a ‘wily minx’.
This establishing shot is so gratuitous, but… awwww.
And onto the Showstopper Challenge – a choux pastry gateaux!
As usual, I’m flagging in my recap by now (always by the most exciting challenge!) so here are some quotations, before we see the finished results…
“I’m interested in your passionfruit curd.”
“Less is more is my new motto.” (The Brend, no less!)
“Although the gateaux is usually in the shape of a bike-wheel, James is planning to go further.” (Oh, James. Never change.)
[Mary] “How are you going to construct it?” [James] “I… don’t know.” (Attaboy.)
“What the hell is that?” (Sue’s encouraging words.)
[Insert Yet Another Historical Segment Here.] But Sue gets a trip to Paris out of it, and a man in green trousers gesticulates at her.
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| AND she’s not wearing a blazer! |
Before this programme started, I was trying to remember John’s distinctive characteristic – and now I’ve remembered; he has mini-breakdowns every episode. His choux pastry doesn’t rise very well, and he starts madly wandering back and forth, gibbering, while Mel becomes ever increasingly like a tired single mum with a stroppy teenager, and beseeches him to calm down. Bless them both, it works. If Cathryn’s spin-off sitcom never happens (and it still should), then I want Mel and John to have their own guidance counselling segment on morning television – are you listening, TV producers?
Time for the final judging of the episode – once we’ve seen three more rabbits in establishing shots. It’s like a casting call for Watership Down, here.
The Brend’s actually does look understated, somehow! ‘Exceptional job on the display’, says Paul, shocked into proper grammar. No ‘displayingly good!’ or ‘it’s the exceptional’ in sight. They love the flavour, crust, colour, and everything. I worry a little for Mary’s teeth when she comments on the ‘crunch’, as they sound like they’re disintegrating.
Danny’s also gets complimented on appearance, but they think it’s gone a bit over the top on the amount of rosewater. “You were brave to pick rose,” says Paul. That’s what they said to Jack in Titanic. Badoomtish.
James’ bike amuses everyone, and declared absolutely lovely by Mary, but Paul had hoped for more volume.
Finally, John‘s is another one which is complimented on its appearance – they have all got that in the bag this week – and they love the passionfruit flavour too…
So, who will go home?? My money right now (some hours after it finished being broadcast, and thus null and void at any bookmakers) is… Danny.
Am I right?
Er, yes. Star Baker is James, again, and leaving is, indeed, Danny. A lucky save for John.
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| “Er, let go now, Danny…” |
She gives the sweetest exit interview ever – about how the people in her life have been excited about her success, and that she feels valued. Now I feel a bit bad for being mean to her… but I love them all, really, even The Brend. Honest.
Next Tuesday – the final! And an all-male final, at that. I am man, hear me whisk!
My predictions are Third: John, Second: The Brend, First: Scottish James. What do you reckon?
See you then!
Five From the Archive (no.10)
In case you’ve not spotted this feature before at SiaB, it’s one where I look back through my 5+ years of blogging, and pick out five reviews of good books which have an interesting or unusual connection…
Reading At Freddie’s made me wonder why I hadn’t previously thought of today’s FFTA topic, since it is one which I actively seek in the books I read… and then I was surprised by how few I could find in my past reviews. But enough to compile a list for you! (I would have included Wise Children by Angela Carter, but it already appeared under books about twins.) As always, feel free to use the idea and logo, and do add your own suggestions in the comments – in fact, this is a category for which I’d really value suggestions, especially novels, so put your thinking caps on! (oh, and the cartoon took AGES, so… you’d make my day if you said something nice about it!)
Five… Books About The Theatre
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| …that theatre… |
1.) To Tell My Story (1948) by Irene Vanbrugh
In short: A largely forgotten name now, Dame Irene was once a much-loved stage actress – she was Gwendoline in the first The Importance of Being Earnest; co-founded R.A.D.A., and appeared in the first British colour film. She also appeared in many of A.A. Milne’s plays, which is what attracted me to her autobiography.
From my review: “Although Vanbrugh rarely delves into her private life too deeply, she does talk about becoming a widow. Much of To Tell My Story moves away from tales of specific performances to more general, and very fascinating, ruminations upon all manner of aspects of acting – from etiquette, to creating a part, to being in a revival.”
2.) And Furthermore (2010) by Judi Dench and John Miller
In short: One of Britain’s – nay, the world’s – favourite actresses gives anecdotes from her many years of success on stage and screen. (It makes for a fascinating contrast and comparison with Irene Vanbrugh’s autobiography.)
From my review: “As a rule, a biography focuses on the career and an autobiography on the childhood – or so I have found – so it’s nice to have an autobiography which looks mostly at the area which interests me most. Because it is Dench’s decades of theatrical experience which captivate me – each play seems to come with its own amusing or intriguing incidents, and I love the atmosphere conveyed of being part of the company.”
3.) The Town in Bloom (1965) by Dodie Smith
In short: Friends reuniting and reminiscing 45 years after their youth spent in a ‘club’ kicks off a novel about a girl’s life in the 1920s theatrical world, with some intrigue and romance thrown in. First half brilliant, second half tedious… the brilliant first half earns the novel its place in FFTA.
From my review: “It was a brave, and a delicious, decision on Dodie Smith’s part to make Mouse no prodigy – she is an appalling actress, and no amount of advice from Crossway can make her anything else. So, instead, she starts working in one of the theatre offices with Eve Lester, a kind, sensible, and wise woman in an environment of those who are often kind, but rarely the rest.”
4.) Being George Devine’s Daughter (2006) by Harriet Devine
In short: Best known to most of us as a blogger, Harriet’s father was the director George Devine. This book combines autobiography with biography of him, and offers the fascinating perspective of a child who met everyone in the theatre.
From my review: “It must be tempting, writing about oneself and one’s family, to have all sorts of references to jokes the reader won’t understand, or people who are relevant for one story but never again. Harriet doesn’t do this – there is nothing here that would be edited out if the book were fiction; it all comes together to form a structured narrative whole. Throughout it all, Harriet’s tone is beautifully honest and thoughtful, without being unduly introspective or (conversely) coolly detached. It is the perfect tone for autobiography.”
5.) The Dover Road (1921) by A.A. Milne
In short: Not about theatre per se, but I had to include a play somewhere. An eloping couple found their car breaks down outside a very curious hotel… and meet a very interfering (and hilarious) proprietor.
From my review: “Yes, the scenario is a little contrived, but who cares about that – The Dover Road is a very funny play about the benign meddling of Latimer and the various mismatched pairings under his roof.”
At Freddie’s – Penelope Fitzgerald
One of my undergraduate friends at university spent seminars comparing everything – everything – to either King Lear or Ulysses. It got a little wearying, bless him. But I seem to have developed the same affliction with Muriel Spark. So many writers I read seem to have the same slightly stylised dialogue and deadpan narrative, or unusual characters who refuse to comply fully with the accepted norms of conversation and life. Never has a novel felt more Sparkian (yes) to me than Penelope Fitzgerald’s At Freddie’s (1982) – to the point that I kept forgetting that it wasn’t Spark in my hands whilst I was reading. Oh, and this is no bad thing – quite apart from destabilising my grasp on authorship (Barthes would be proud), it’s a fantastic novel.
In my post on The Railway Children the other day, I mentioned Penelope Fitzgerald as an author I’d intended to include in A Century of Books, and it reminded me that I’ve been wanting to read At Freddie’s since I bought it last November. I have quite a few unread Fitzgeralds, actually, having only read two (Human Voices and The Bookshop), but the theatrical setting of At Freddie’s meant it was an obvious candidate for the next one I’d pick up.
When I say ‘theatrical setting’, I actually mean ‘children’s theatre school’ – Freddie (doyenne of The Temple School, or ‘Freddie’s’) trains children in a haphazard manner, ignoring the brave new world of television (for it is the 1960s) and doing whatever would best please Shakespeare. The children are taught egotism and self-importance, and shipped off to play emotive parts in Dombey and Son or King John. Freddie herself seems to have minimal dealings with them, developing instead the cult of her own personality – for Freddie is a woman. And a wonderful woman at that – one of the most characterful characters I’ve met for a while, if you know what I mean.
Everyone who knew the Temple School will remember the distinctive smell of Freddie’s office. Not precisely disagreeable, it suggested a church vestry where old clothes hang and flowers moulder in the sink, but respect is called for just the same. It was not a place for seeing clearly. Light, in the morning, entered at an angle, through a quantity of dust. When the desk lamp was switched on at length the circle of light, although it repelled outsiders, was weak. Freddie herself, to anyone who was summoned into the room, appeared in the shadow of her armchair as a more solid piece of darkness. Only a chance glint struck from her spectacles and the rim of great semi-precious brooches, pinned on at random. Even her extent was uncertain, since the material of her skirts and the chair seemed much the same.
This is how we first approach her, but it doesn’t do her justice. She is not the sort to fade into the background – more to lure people in, unawares, and charmingly get whatever she wants from them – often in the name of Shakespeare, or following a ‘Word’ she feels she has been given. A Word of the non-theological variety, you understand – it could be something she overheard, or saw in an advertisement, or not traceable at all, and she shows some dexterity in the way she interprets these Words.
Here are a couple of quotations which do her better justice:
She knew that she was one of those few people, to be found in every walk of life, whom society has mysteriously decided to support at all costs.
and
Freddie herself had fulfilled the one sure condition of being loved by the English nation, that is, she had been going on a very long time. She had done so much for Shakespeare, one institution, it seemed, befriending another. Her ruffianly behaviour had become ‘known eccentricities’. Like Buckingham Palace, Lyons teashops, the British Museum Reading Room, or the market at Covent Garden, she could never be allowed to disappear.
She is indomitable, a little vague, self-aware to an extent – an extent which relies on nobody else reaching quite her level of awareness. Freddie is a joy – and it’s rather a shame that we don’t spend more time in her company. She is the pivot of the school, but she shares centre stage with various other characters in At Freddie’s. Chief amongst these are the two new teachers, Hannah Graves and Pierce Carroll. Hannah is besotted with the theatre and the mystique of backstage life – although she does not wish to be an actress, she wants to live in proximity to that world. I could empathise entirely with her! Carroll is a different matter – and a preposterous, but inspired, character. He, essentially, is incapable of self-delusion or self-aggrandisement. He has no ambition or drive. Carroll recognises – and openly admits to Freddie – that he is not a good teacher, has no gift with children, and would be unlikely to find a job anywhere else. Freddie takes him on as a teacher simply out of curiosity – and he makes no attempt to educate the children at all, except once, in a glorious paragraph:
For the first time since his appointment he was correcting some exercise
books. He had not asked for the exercises to be done, but the children
left behind, those who hadn’t got work in the theatre, had decided, for
a day or so at least, to do an imitation of good pupils. How they
could tell what to do was a mystery, and as to the books, he hadn’t even
known that they’d got any.
And then there are the children. Primarily Mattie and Jonathan. Mattie is as self-absorbed as any of the other actors in the novel, given to pranks, lies, and overdramatics, but also with something of Freddie’s gift for being able to talk anybody around. Jonathan is different. He is a gifted mimic and a thoughtful actor, often quietly in Mattie’s shadow, but the final, curious words of the novel (you will find) are about him…
Penelope Fitzgerald’s writing style seems to be rather different in each novel I read. I found her rather stilted in Human Voices, although perhaps I’d changed my mind on reacquaintance; The Bookshop was poignant and quietly devastating. At Freddie’s has that Sparkian sparseness, coupled with a sly wit best shown in the ironic twist to her characterisations. It’s devastating in a whole different way – an assassination of a character’s foibles in very few words, for example:
He then said he was obliged to be going, for, as a busy man, a necessary condition of his being anywhere was to be on the way somewhere else. He picked up his coat and brief-case, and then, although he knew that he had brought nothing else with him, looked round, as though he were not quite sure.
Curiously, self-delusion and self-importance are censured from this man (Freddie’s businessman brother) but accepted from those connected with the theatre. It is, of course, a separate world. What Fitzgerald does so wonderfully – and it does seem to me quite a remarkable achievement – is to combine two opposing views of the theatre. She is simultaneously cynical and awed – recognising both the glory and the absurdity of the second oldest profession.
Ed was listening for the immediate and irrepressible gap and murmur from the house which is like the darkness talking to itself. He caught, alas, only the faintest snatch of it. Most of the audience, faced with an unfamiliar play, were bent over their programmes. They could have read them more easily earlier on, but chose to do so now. They accepted the presence on the stage of the Lords Salisbury and Pembroke, because the play was by Shakespeare and that was what Shakespeare was like. But they did not expect to be asked to distinguish between one lord and another, unless there was a war or a quarrel, and it was this that was causing them anxiety.
I adore the theatre – watching plays, yes, but above that the idea of the theatre. It is for that reason that I love reading theatrical actors’ biographies, or novels set in that environment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, in an unworldly way, to be in one of those acting dynasties? Or – like the boys – to grow up in that sphere of extreme emotions and spectacles? Fitzgerald concedes that – she gives us Hannah, who feels that way without having any aspiration actually to be an actress – but she permits no rosy-eyed or glassy-eyed view of the theatre and its people. She gives us wonderful characters, she gives us the adorable, inimitable, formidable Freddie, but she knocks over their pedestals and shows how foolish Freddie’s school is – and, yet, how timelessly glorious too.
Song for a Sunday
Well, I couldn’t pick anything else this week, could I? Adele is back with a Bond theme! It’s in classic Bond theme territory, but still definitely got the feel of an Adele track. Over to Adele and ‘Skyfall’: