Articles in “Television”

Nick and I were waiting for Bones to start tonight—and on that note, how grotesque is that show? Seriously, CSI was never this revolting—and watching the final ten minutes of City Homicide.

I’ve never seen an entire episode of that show, although I understand it’s both very good and attracting some interest in the U.S.: largely Bittorrent-y attention, but still.

But mostly, we were waiting for it to end, and enjoying recognising all the characters, including one of my former Play School favourites.

And then they advertised next week’s episode with what I think is the greatest line I’ve ever heard on television: “Craig McLachlan is going to wish he never crossed Noni Hazlehurst.”

My money’s on Noni.

This brief dialogue, which I’ve just exchanged with the television during the ABC’s airing of Cards on the Table, sums up my attitude towards these current adaptations of Agatha Christie novels:

RANDOM CHARACTER: Why would she do that?
ME: She didn’t. Now I’m bored.

And yet the adaptation of Cards on the Table was doing so well up to this point. It was beautifully set-dressed, relatively faithful to the plot, and fairly well acted (excluding the woman playing Anne Meredith; she’s fine in this, but she was dreadful in Rome, as Cleopatra, and that’s all I can see when I’m watching this.)

But then it all went to hell in the last ten minutes.

Frankly, I’m fairly impressed that they managed to make such hay out of such an intricate and carefully organised plot with so little time left.

I suppose that’s a compliment of sorts.

And, as I type this, Poirot has just outed the murderer and his “regular bridge partner” Mr. Craddock, who “practise for hours with the door closed.”

And I thought Nick was being far-fetched with his comment about lesbian Nazi nuns.

(On the plus side, this post is bound to turn up some interesting Google results.)

They always disappoint me.

I had thought, back when I bewailed the unnecessary Nazis in At Bertram’s Hotel—173 days ago, apparently—that the Poirot adaptations were more accurate than the Miss Marple ones.

But now I’m watching After the Funeral, and I’m not so sure.

So far, they’ve already removed one of Richard Abernethy’s siblings, making the unreliable nephew George the son of Helen, instead of her nephew.

And they’ve disinherited him, for no reason.

They’ve removed another of Richard Abernethy’s siblings, making Susan (now Susanna) and Rosamund sisters instead of cousins.

And they’ve made Cora’s late husband an Italian instead of a Frenchman. She’s Mrs Gallachio (or something along those lines: I haven’t seen the actual spelling) rather than Mrs Lansqueset.

And they’ve introduced the theft of the deeds of Enderby, Abernethy’s house, making its sale impossible, which adds an apparently unnecessary sub-plot.

Oh, dear: now George has just woken up on a park bench being licked by a Labrador (not a euphemism) and Susanna is haranguing a congregation on the subject of foreign missions. I think I miss the Susan who was a keen businesswoman, planning on opening her own emporium to capitalise on her own and her husband’s strengths.

I don’t think I need to mark that as a spoiler, because I doubt this is going to follow the book’s plot too closely. Susanna, for example, is unmarried, and apparently both inappropriately involved with her cousin George and also planning on sailing to Africa to pursue her work with foreign missions.

So far the most interesting point in this adaptation., from my perspective, is the fact that George Abernethy is Michael Fassbender, who was a Spartan whose name I’ve forgotten in 300 and the fallen angel in Hex. But that’s not why I’m interested in seeing him. Rather, it’s because the name Fassbender has reminded me of Ruth Rendell’s Put On By Cunning, in which the plot turns on the fact that “fassbender” is, apparently, the German term for a cooper. (At least I think it was German; it sounds German. I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong.)

It’s made me think that at least I might be able to wile away the time during the programme thinking of slightly better crime fiction.

And yet Christie really is very good.

So why? Why on earth do they make these changes?

I would have thought that Christie’s plots were ideally designed for adaptation to the television. They’re cunning, but she prides herself on setting everything out for the reader, for all she may employ sleight of hand to draw the reader’s attention away from the main points.

So why these broad, sweeping changes? And, something that irritates me even more, the minor changes, like adjusting Mrs Lansqueset’s surname? It seems so unnecessary.

I once went to see Troy with Nick and a friend. I gave up on the film at the point at which (spoiler! but it’s a bad film) Menelaus died. But, after the film, I pointed out that Menelaus’s death was the point at which the whole thing became thoroughly absurd, but our friend disagreed, saying it was liberating: “You didn’t know what was going to happen next!”

I admire that kind of optimism. But I can’t put it into practice myself.

Why, oh why, if you must write plots involving Nazis, murderous nuns, or drunken, disinherited gamblers, do do you not present them as brand new mysteries? Why tell us it’s Christie, and get all our hopes up?

Oh, I know: saying that it’s Agatha Christie brings in a certain audience who, by the time they realise the plot’s gone haywire, are already committed to watching the rest of the programme.

But it disappoints me every, every time.

I’ve been watching episodes of Monkey while waiting for Nick to get back from the concert. Monkey fills me with a deep sense of uncomplicated joy; I loved it as a child so deeply that it still makes me happy every time I watch it.

I like the way the programme is thoroughly relaxed about cross-dressing: Tripitaka is clearly a woman, and isn’t fooling anyone; Sandy’s just turned into a female form, meaning the actor is wearing a dress and heavy make-up; and the Boddhisatva who regularly turns up is often in her female incarnation, in which she’s the same actor, but in a dress.

I love the music.

I’ve even got a soft spot for Sandy, the chronically depressed water demon.

(I don’t like the second Pigsy, though—the first one was much better. I’m also not a big fan of the horse-dragon once he learns how to turn into a man; I find it makes the idea of using him as a horse a little . . . disturbing.)

I also find it hilarious, as in these quotes from an episode about a unicorn demon.

Tripitaka to Monkey: “You’re always hitting everybody too quickly.”

The Unicorn King to Pigsy: “You should take the form of a man, occasionally, as I do. You’d still be ugly, but I find people are more receptive.”

And after Pigsy’s transformation: “You really are . . . not quite so revolting now.”

Sandy’s self-image: “I won’t keep reminding you; I’m no eel! I hate the brutes; they’re all slimy.”

Pigsy flirting fairly ineptly, with the help of a flower: “The petals are a little droopy, but it made me think of you.”

Monkey: “Pigsy, you’ll regret this!”
Pigsy: “I know I will.”

And my absolute favourite quote of the episode:

The Unicorn King: “We unicorns could take over the entire world. It’s only because we’re mythical and nice that we don’t.”

Nick’s gone out to a concert with two friends—a concert in which I’m not slightly interested—so I’m home alone, learning the following important life lessons while watching Stardust.

It gets a little confused, because some of the lessons have to do with me and some with the film, but I’m sure they’ll all come in useful after a while.

1. Tristan’s true love is never going to be Sienna Miller. Obviously. Although she is strangely appealing in some parts of this film.

2. I’m far too nervous to spend many evenings on my own. I’m nervous enough during the day, but I’m especially nervous during the night, because I’m a little frightened of the dark, truth be told. Too many vampire and werewolf stories as a child, I think.

I say “nervous” because it’s a neat middle ground between Nick’s preferred word “jumpy” and my default term “highly strung”—except that if I describe myself as highly strung I suspect that I sound as though I’m trying to make myself seem interesting.

3. I’m always surprised when I realise that Rupert Everett is in this film. This is, I think, the third time I’ve seen this film, and every time I forget that Rupert Everett is in it.

4. I genuinely don’t know how to operate what I will call—for want of a better word—our “home entertainment system.” By which I mean, I can’t tell the television and the DVD player remote controls apart. Before I managed to start this movie, I spent ten minutes staring alternately at the menu on the screen and then at the television remote, looking for an “enter” button.

Seriously. Ten minutes.

But I don’t feel that bad—I once watched my mother try valiantly to manipulate the television with the aid of her cordless telephone.

5. Peter O’Toole is strangely good in this, despite having such a small role and not having to cry. He’s an excellent crier, Peter O’Toole—every time he cried in Russell T. Davies’s version of Casanova, he made me want to cry.

Though now I think about it, I don’t think I ever watched the end of Casanova.

6. It’s not just the interaction between the television and the DVD player that bother me, either. I can’t operate the television alone, either. After I found the “enter” button—by double checking which remote control I was using—I then spent another few minutes trying to change the way the picture was set up, from 14.3 (or some such ratio) to Movie, so I could see everything.

Apparently, the relevant button is called “Zoom.” Does that seem plausible to anyone else?

7. Dear lord, Michelle Pfeiffer is gorgeous. If she’s had surgery, whoever’s done it is a genius. She doesn’t look exactly as she did in Ladyhawke, but she still looks amazing.

And, by a process of association controlled only by what’s on the screen, I find Nathaniel Parker strangely appealing. Tommy Linley is an annoying character, but I like Parker. Claire Danes is very sweet and pretty in this, too.

8. I’d probably be a better person if I spent more time thinking about my own life and/or real life and less time thinking about fictional worlds.

Then again, I wouldn’t be as good at my job. So it’s a trade-off.

9. I’m really glad that, despite all the fairy-tale, folklore, and nursery-rhyme elements that didn’t translate from Gaiman’s story to this, they at least kept the idea of Babylon candles. When I first heard the term, the first thing I thought was “How many miles to Babylon?” Do people still recite that nursery rhyme?

10. My parents never forbade the reading of any books. But I almost wish they’d forbade me to read Virginia Andrews. I read all of the Flowers in the Attic series and My Sweet Audrina, and I’ve regretted it for some time.

I don’ t think it would have harmed me not to read them, but I sometimes think that reading them did harm me, a little.

11. I’m very tired for some reason. I don’t think I’m at my most coherent.

12. Perhaps I should just watch the film?

I’ve mentioned before, I think, how much I’m enjoying Burn Notice. It surprised me—in fact, I think it even surprised the network. They’ve certainly been advertising it as “the surprise hit of last summer.” Of course, it was treated badly on Australian television, which has only just got around to airing last season’s finale.

It’s light and fun, Burn Notice, especially for a spy programme. In fact, that’s one of the things I enjoy most about it; we’ve had at least two episodes dealing with the Russian mafia, but you can be sure that no one’s getting an electric drill to the kneecaps.

But as far as spy programmes go, Burn Notice is essentially a cross between Alias and Lovejoy. Does anyone remember Lovejoy? The books drove me nuts fairly quickly, because I have no patience with men who have no compunction about slapping women around to get their way, but the television series was fun. But the most interesting thing about Lovejoy was the way the books gave hints about how to fake antiques.

Burn Notice does the same thing, but with spy techniques and equipment, most of which can apparently be created with equipment available at a local Harvey Norman (or the American equivalent). I don’t know how accurate their spy tips are, but I’m certainly keeping them in mind, in case I need to impress people at parties (or, at a pinch, escape from the Russian mafia).

But one of the things I enjoy the most is Fiona, the main character’s former IRA ex-girlfriend.

I have a soft spot for Gabrielle Anwar anyway, reaching back to when she was Sam, the bitchy head of graphics at the Junior Gazette. She’s looking slightly too thin, these days, is curiously orange, and seems to have done something to her upper lip. (And, honestly? Leave the upper lip alone. I don’t care how good plastic surgery is getting these days, there’s no way to plump the upper lip without ending up looking rather like a duck.) But still: she’s Gabrielle Anwar and she’s lovely.

But Fi—Fi is fun. And Fi subverts a lot of the conventions that normally shackle the protagonist’s girlfriend. When Fi puts on a apron, it’s usually a sign she’s cooking up a batch of C4. And the fact that she does it in an apron makes me think that they’re playing with these conventions deliberately.

Add to this Sharon Gless—who’s fabulous as always, and has a glorious, over-the-top house that hasn’t been redecorated since the early 1970s and which I covet—and Bruce Campbell—who is, essentially, Bruce Campbell—and you have something that’s always going to be fun to watch.

I certainly don’t think it’s the greatest television programme ever made: it’s not Dexter or Deadwood, by any stretch.

But then neither Dexter nor Deadwood had Bruce Campbell in them.

Life’s all about these little trade-offs.