As the BBC Turns

With the highest ratings of any television costume drama since Brideshead Revisited, Downton Abbey has attracted a lot of commentary. One recurring observation is that it resembles a soap opera. Typically, critics hold their noses when they use that term, but here they evoke it to extol. The Seattle Times, for example, labels Downton Abbey a “bustling, classy supersoap” while Slant pronounces it “a superior soap in Edwardian clothing.”

In the late 1960s, reviewers had a similar response to The Forsyte Saga. Like Downton Abbey, this classic series, the longest and most expensive of its kind to date, was a TV phenomenon. Only more so. In England, clergymen had to reschedule vespers in order to accommodate parishioners more devoted to the agony of Soames and Fleur than to that of Christ. American critics praised it as “grand soap opera,” hoping that “The Forsyte Saga might have a constructive influence on our own country’s daytime deluge of serials” (80). Since then, other period dramas airing on MASTERPIECE have also been lauded as “grand” soap operas, distinguished from their poor relations by superior writing and acting.

So what do these shows--with their buttoned up blouses, claret, and hunting jackets—share with soap operas? Put another way, what’s a nice costume drama like Downton Abbey doing in a genre that gave us Luke and Laura?

1. Multiple characters. As publicity never tires of stating, Downton Abbey features eighteen principal roles. Such profusion affords audiences the pleasure of selecting their favorite characters and storylines. Some viewers like the romance between heir apparent Matthew Crawley and Lady Mary while others prefer the one between Branson and Lady Sybil. Almost everyone seems to adore the Dowager Countess, Anna, and Bates. They all hate Edith.
   
   On blogs, viewers are already predicting plots for the second series. A striking number predict that Matthew will be injured at the frontlines and Mary will nurse him back to health. Bates will leave the show temporarily when complications arise with his wife; Molesley (a name Dickens would have been proud of) will pursue Anna. Thomas, that comely caitiff, will be killed by a German; William will return home shell-shocked (though it won’t last). And Daisy and William will get married because, as one viewer writes, “someone should have a happy ending.”


2. Subplots galore. Soap operas always shift the emphasis from the central plot (the “Great Matter,” as Lady Mary terms it) to a succession of subplots. Episodes typically run three of four storylines simultaneously, making sure each transpires at a different rate. In Episode Two of Downton Abbey, Pamuk seduces Lady Mary; Isobel engineers a death-defying operation; Carson, the uber butler, is exposed as “Charlie,” the former stage performer; and the disabled Bates purchases a “limp straightener” from a horrid little man. As in all soaps, these storylines are carefully balanced to satisfy very different levels of interest, including suspense, humor, romance, and intrigue.


3. Narrative deferrals. Although there are minor, temporary conclusions in soap operas, viewers know that consummation of an affair, a marriage, or a crime will always be disrupted—either by complications within the plot or by the end of the episode. Of course Mary and Matthew weren’t going to get together at the end of Episode Four, you silly. And of course all that stuff about Bates’ past wouldn’t be cleared up. As one critic puts it, “moments of near consummation” in soap operas “cut to months of frustration.”


4. Sex, secrets, and a screwed-up family. Downton Abbey covers other subjects too, but these three head the list. Pamuk pops up in Lady Mary’s bedroom. Matthew pops the question. Everyone, even tidy Mrs. Hughes, has a secret. And while Robert and Cora make middle-aged marriage seem all sex and snuggles, their daughter Mary is a mess.


5. Community. Soap operas tend to revolve around small, fictional locations, and characters live much of their lives in spaces whose communal nature makes privacy impossible. In Downton Abbey, there are three such spaces: the world of the servants, the world of their employers, and the village surrounding the abbey. Consequently, characters are seldom alone. The dominant shot may be a close-up of a character isolated in the frame, but when the camera pulls back someone is usually watching, eavesdropping, or turning a doorknob to enter the room.
   
   The intimate world of soap operas has its iteration in online communities whose members often share highly personal information with each other. One week after Downton Abbey aired in England, an ardent fan established a website for it. Its chat room now has over 800 comments, including one from a woman who revealed that her husband came out of the closet the night Thomas kissed that rakish Lord What’s His Name.


6. Melodrama. Downton Abbey abounds in melodramatic tropes: overheard conversations, disguised identities, sudden reversals, last-minute rescues, and letters that pack a wallop. On a deeper level, the series delights in melodrama’s tendency to bring to the surface what lies repressed in everyday, social interaction, such as Thomas’ homosexuality or O’Brien’s murderous resentment of Cora.
   
   Melodramas also provide the pleasure of full-on emotional indulgence by minimalizing action while elevating feeling—even that of a kitchen maid’s to tragedian heights. In Downton Abbey, each character’s main action is confined to mental or emotional activities: conniving (Thomas and O’Brien), scheming (Gwen, Lady Sybil), trusting (Anna), loving (Matthew, Cora, Robert), fearing (Mary), loathing (Thomas). Literary critic Peter Brooks writes that nineteenth-century melodrama ended scenes or acts with characters in tableaux, which provided a visual summary of the play’s emotional situations. Soap opera scenes often conclude with a close-up of a character’s face registering intense emotion, as in the one of a wretched Lady Mary after she realizes she has blown it with Matthew.


7. Moral victory. Though the soap opera world seems geared towards power and sexual transgression, it is one in which morality ultimately prevails. Robert and Matthew Crawley may not strike a girl’s fancy in quite the same way as Pamuk, the show’s “treat for the ladies,” but they are the heroes.


8. Talk. Conversation is a serious matter in soap operas, as it is in Downton Abbey. Dialogue consists of provocations and responses, interrogations and interruptions, concealments and discoveries that prolong the conclusion for a future time, all the while instilling in us a desire for that prospect.

Like all soap operas, Downton Abbey tells a story we’ve heard before, not just in its playful pilfering of Upstairs, Downstairs and Gosford Park but also in its broader characterizations and storylines. We watch Downton Abbey neither for the coup de theatre nor the ingenious invention of unexpected events, but to see the expected happen. Umberto Eco calls this “the hunger for redundance,” the pleasure in repetition.

Scriptwriter Julian Fellowes is clearly aware of this pleasure, for he’s written a series that not only recasts the stuff of soap operas (which themselves recast myths and fairy tales) but often acknowledges that it’s doing so (as in the scene where Lady Mary tells the myth of Perseus and the sea monster). His script has been brought to life by a marvelous ensemble of actors, supremely high production values (who paid for this show, anyway?), and hats that make Queen Elizabeth’s look like they came from a charity shop.

Downton Abbey also provides fine detail in some of its characterizations. Bates, Mrs. Patmore, and Carson-- like Rose, Mrs. Bridges and Hudson before them-- each possess personality quirks and nuances that could make them memorable for years to come. And many scenes are written with a jeweler’s precision, as when Anna, walking with Bates to the fair, confesses she loves him only to hear he isn’t a free man. A cart drives by, and Anna, prompted by hurt feelings and a lover’s consideration, suggests he ride in it. Bates is humiliated, though he doesn’t say so. We know it from the few, innocuous words he utters and the way the camera frames him in the cart, with his feet dangling off the edge like a child’s.

Another exquisite scene is when Cora overhears O’Brien grouse about having to serve Matthew Crawley. Cora chastises her maid for not knowing her “place” and O’ Brien sasses back “I have my opinions same as anybody, my Lady.” Despicable O’Brien is right; kind Lady Cora is wrong. And the even more despicable Thomas is right when he remarks, “She had no business coming down here. This is our world. We can do what we like here.”

Yet, despite all its fun devices, and its moments of truly brilliant writing, Downton Abbey was a disappointment.

Other costume dramas that have been praised as “grand soap operas”—such as Upstairs, Downstairs, I, Claudius, Brideshead Revisited, and the 2005 version of Bleak House—all possessed a keen sense of their relationship to the soap opera, of how they wanted to use and transcend it. Upstairs, Downstairs and Brideshead Revisited gave us finely drawn characters set amidst the minutiae of a lifestyle. I, Claudius and Bleak House were soap opera send-ups, sheer hyperbole in characterization and plotting (just watch five minutes of Gillian Armstrong playing Lady Dedlock, and you’ll know what I mean).

Though not exclusive, such offerings are contradictory—and the wisdom of these earlier shows was in knowing which one they wanted to prioritize. Downton Abbey lacks this wisdom.

On the one hand, Downton Abbey wants to offer all the painstaking realism of Upstairs, Downstairs and Brideshead Revisited. On the other, it wants to be I, Claudius and Bleak House, playfully indulging in soap opera’s most batty and bromidic devices, as in Pamuk’s sudden death after boinking Lady Mary. This could have been a fabulous plot device if it had been played just for humor, as a wink and a nod to audiences about the crazy conventions of soap opera. But it isn’t. As with that baneful bar of soap in Episode Four, or all that medical tomfoolery about dropsy in Episode Two, we’re asked to take it seriously. Or somewhat seriously. That’s the trouble: we don’t know, and neither does Fellowes.

More disappointing than Downton Abbey’s uncertain direction is its casual approach to history. Upstairs, Downstairs, Brideshead Revisited, I, Claudius, and Bleak House all acknowledged the weight of history despite the soapish insularity of their worlds, whether by trying to capture an era with documentary-like precision, as in Upstairs, Downstairs; or by recreating a world distinctively the creation of its original author, as in Brideshead Revisited and Bleak House; or by meditating on the fictional nature of history, as in I, Claudius.

As of yet, Downton Abbey has done very little with its history. Sure it has plenty of period details, but they are designed to please the eye rather than educate. Sure it uses the historical context of women’s suffrage and an impending Word War I, but as thematic subjects so far, they have all the weightlessness of Mrs. Patmore’s raspberry meringue.

This use of the past is regrettable not only for the series but for the future of costume drama. As Downton Abbey exemplifies, we seem to be entering a new era for the genre, where characters and storylines have explicitly modern-day relevance. Recent and upcoming series on MASTERPIECE—The 39 Steps, Downton Abbey, the new Upstairs, Downstairs (airing in April), and South Riding (airing in May) all take place in the early twentieth century, far back enough in time to satisfy our nostalgia but near enough to resonate with our own climate.

While I welcome this step forward in time (between us, I don’t care if I ever see another Jane Austen adaptation), I’m bothered by the ahistorical attitude that seems to be accompanying it, as if the past were just scrim for a story about the present. When asked, for example, about why he chose to set Downton Abbey in the Edwardian era, Fellowes quipped, “Well, when you start going further back, it’s all funny bread ovens in the wall and candles.”

So much for history.

Ever since the tremendous success of The Forsyte Saga, British costume drama hasn’t been afraid to use soap opera conventions, which is what makes it so much fun to watch. But given its harnessing of England’s best actors and scriptwriters, its lavish budgets, and its country’s rich history, it should be a lot more. In the past, it often has been. Downton Abbey can do better than it did this season, and I suspect that Fellowes, a truly gifted writer, knows it. Here’s hoping it does.

Downton Abbey Revisited

Downton Abbey is now ¾ of the way done, and I’m already feeling nostalgic for it. I wish it were a 12 part series, or better yet, a 26 part series like the original Forsyte Saga. When that series aired in America back in 1969, friends would join each other for tea and sherry parties and watch it all together; now, most of us catch it when we can, and usually alone.

This is not to say that I haven’t had my problems with the show. The costumes continue to be gorgeous, the period details exquisite. The whole series is lushness unlimited, inside and out Downtown Abbey. And Julian Fellowes knows how to write some tasty dialogue, especially for Maggie Smith, who sometimes makes a remark, not necessarily because her character would have done so, but because it’s good entertainment (when her American daughter-in-law proposes that Mary go to New York to find a rich husband who can save the estate, Smith quips “I don’t think things are that desperate”).

But the soap-like plot points. Oh, boy.

All classic serials use melodrama, that quintessential nineteenth-century form. And when it’s done well, it’s great fun (as in the stony characterization of Lady Dedlock in Andrew Davies’ Bleak House, or the subplot revolving around the hypervillianous Frenchman in Little Dorrit). But these two series thrived on the excesses of theatricality. Downton Abbey, on the other hand, asks to be viewed realistically.

So, how, exactly, do we take “realistically” the representation of a medical procedure wherein a man, afflicted with “dropsy,” gets stabbed in the heart with a needle and, ten seconds later, wakes up from his coma-like state smiling at his wife?

OR

The scene where a young man, who is trying to seduce one of the fair Crawley daughters, suddenly dies of a heart attack? The fact of the death is bad enough. But then, minutes later, we see his body being dragged down the stately halls of Downton Abbey by the fair daughter, a maid, and the fair daughter’s regal mother, all to avoid a scandal.


And yet, just as I was about to get really cranky with the series, a subsequent scene has Maggie Smith remark that no Englishman would dream of dying in someone else's house, especially someone he didn't know well.

In this series, as in so many classic series—beginning with The Forsyte Saga in 1967 and continuing to the present—a soap-opera plot is saved by good acting and dialogue. And whether I like it or not, I’m absolutely hooked.

P.S. Does anyone want to guess what Mr. Bates’ secret is? What is “the more” he refers to when he tells the maid who loves him, “I was married but there’s more.” Does it have to do with the war? His injury? Has he committed a crime? What does he mean when he says, “I’m not a free man?”

Downton Abbey

In a scene from the new ITV serial Downton Abbey, which began its four-episode run on MASTERPIECE last night, members of the aristocratic Crawley family sit down to tea with a middle-class lawyer and his mother. It’s an awkward situation: all rough edges, and possessed of a fiercely egalitarian spirit, the lawyer has no idea how to conduct himself in front of them or their servants. What makes the situation even more awkward is that due to the recent death of two members of the Crawley family on the Titanic, he has suddenly become the new heir to their estate, Downton Abbey.

The head of Downton Abbey, Sir Robert Crawley, is naturally dismayed at the prospect of a stranger assuming ownership of his estate. But reasonable and stout hearted, he resigns himself to it. He proposes that his new heir begin learning about the operations of the estate as soon as possible. When the lawyer explains that he has no intention of quitting his job to prepare for an event that might happen forty years from now, bewilderment registers on the face of each family member, who obviously can’t wrap their minds around the concept of choosing to work. To placate Sir Robert, the lawyer promises to learn about the estate on his evenings off. “And there’s always the weekend,” he says amiably—at which point, Robert’s mother, the Dowager Countess Violet, speaks her first line in the scene. Played by Maggie Smith (who can’t be beaten as a dowager anything), the countess asks, “And what’s a weekend?”

Written for television by Julian Fellowes, the award-winning screenwriter of Gosford Park, Downton Abbey depicts the clash between a rising middle-class and an old aristocracy, as well as the restlessness of a dying breed of British servants, on the eve of World War I. It clearly borrows much of its material from Gosford Park and Upstairs, Downstairs. But who cares? Indeed, part of the pleasure of watching this series is the cozy sense of familiarity it evokes.

Another pleasure is the strength of the characters. My favorite right now is Mr. Bates, a wounded veteran of the Boer War where he served as batman (whatever that is) to Sir Robert. Walking with a limp and a cane, Bates arrives at the estate as the new valet—and instantly causes a stir among the servants, some of whom resent such a privileged position being given to a “cripple.” Mr. Bates is dignified, quiet, and stoic. He’s also kind of sexy. Indeed, judging from all reports, he was England’s #1 UCO (Unlikely Crush Object) last year.

I also love the twists and turns in characterization. At first, Sir Robert and his three daughters seem modeled on King Lear and his daughters. I began the show thinking that the only likeable daughter, like Cordelia, was Edith Crawley. Nope. She’s a pill and a half. And Mary, who first comes across as a coldhearted bitch (sorry, but the word fits), now turns out to be rather cool. But that’s the wonderful thing so far about Downton Abbey’s characters—they’re all a little mysterious, slippery, elusive.

And, of course, a British costume drama this good must have great real estate. Downton Abbey was filmed at Highclere Castle, a country house designed by Capability Brown in high Elizabethan style. High indeed. Every room is a feast for the eyes. In one scene, Bates remarks to the footman, Thomas, about the “strange” nature of being a servant. “What do you mean?” asks Thomas. “Well, here we are with a pirate’s horde without our reach, but none of it’s ours, is it?”

The same might be said about the viewers of costume dramas such as Downton Abbey. But you’ll never hear me complaining. . .

The New Sherlock

I’m a big fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories and an even bigger fan of the Granada television series produced in the 1980s and 90s. Starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes, this series was lavishly produced, well-scripted, and smartly acted. It was hard to imagine watching a version I’d like more. Still, when I heard that a new series was airing on MASTERPIECE this fall, I couldn’t wait. On the night of its premiere, I made popcorn, poured wine, and-- to coin a phrase from Holmes himself--waited for the “game” to begin.

And what a game it is! This series is as far afield from the Granada one as possible—and so far, I like it just as much, if not better. The Granada series had a warm bath feel to it. Shot in sepia colors, it relished in period details and unfolded its plot slowly—as if matching its metabolism to that of its middle-aged audience. Set in the 21st century, this new version is relentlessly cold and hard-edged; it has all the snuggability of a cell phone. Aimed at young viewers, it moves very, very fast. Get up to make a cup of tea, and you might as well go to bed.

The new incarnations of Holmes, his faithful friend Dr. Watson, and the hopelessly befuddled Inspector Lestrade are all wonderful. I’m especially impressed with what the series has done with Watson (played by Martin Freeman, The Office). In the famous Basil Rathbone series of the 1930s, Watson is a comic buffoon. In the Granada version, he’s smarter but dully middle-aged and bourgeois. In this new version, he’s funny, sexy, and much angstier. In the opening scene of the first episode, called “A Study in Pink,” Watson is lying in a London hotel room having nightmares about his experience as a war doctor in Afghanistan. He gets up, limps around the room with a cane, and stares at an empty computer screen. Cut to the next scene, where we see him sitting with his therapist, who, upon hearing that he hasn’t written a word, advises him that “writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help you.” “Nothing happens to me,” he retorts. And that’s when the credits begin to roll, for what will happen to him--as to us--is Sherlock Holmes.


In an interview with MASTERPIECE, Benedict Cumberbatch, who plays Holmes, explained that he didn’t spend a lot of time watching other performances by previous actors. Instead, he focused his energy on making his version of Holmes as different and up-to-date as possible. What he has had to work on most, he says, is all the memorization required by the several monologues he delivers per show. In these monologues, Holmes recounts his deductive processes with Watson and, sometimes, Inspector Lestrade (Rupert Graves). Designed to fill readers and viewers in, this recounting is a standard trope in the original stories and in most Holmes adaptations. Plotwise, it’s necessary but tends to clog up the stories with too much talk. Here, however, Cumberbatch’s talking is such a tour-de-force—full of so much brio and invention—that these monologues are the highlights of each episode. They draw attention to the power of Holmes’ mind, to the sheer bravado of Cumberbatch’s acting, and to the talent of the screenwriters.

Any version of Sherlock Holmes requires that the chemistry between him and Watson be just right—affectionate, witty, even a little flirtatious. By the end of episode one, the angst-ridden Watson is merrily chasing a serial killer around the streets of London, forgetting his cane and at least some of his angst, having a good laugh with Holmes about the “ridiculousness” of their chase. Rupert Graves (who keeps making appearances on crime shows) rounds out the chemistry between the two men. Unlike almost all other versions, which tend to portray Lestrade as an arrogant buffoon, Grave’s Lestrade is a likeable guy, his intelligence on par with Watson’s.

The series isn’t an “adaptation” of the Doyle stories but what critic Julian Sanders calls an “appropriation.” An appropriation doesn’t follow the plot of an original text but instead borrows elements from it. Thus, several characters from the original series appear in this new version, including Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother; Jim Moriarty, Holmes’ arch-enemy; and Mrs. Hudson, Holmes’ eccentric landlady. As in the original stories, Cumberbatch’s Holmes is filled with a dangerous ennui unless he’s working on a case, and he’s an absolute genius of forensic science (there are lots of moments of him looking through a microscope or magnifying glass). But as a 21st century incarnation, his main instruments of detection are his laptop and cell phone. He texts constantly. And the criminals he pursues text back.

In the third episode, which is darker than the others, he meets Moriarty in a spine-tingling scene. The end is shocking, so absolute a cliffhanger that if MASTERPIECE doesn’t air the second season of the series, I’m moving to England.

The series premiered on October 25th with “A Study in Pink.” “The Blind Banker” aired the next week and “The Great Game” aired on November 6th. Two of the series are available on MASTERPIECE’s website until December 7th. WATCH THEM NOW!

Foyle's War, My New Addiction

Foyle’s War, My New Addiction

Although Masterpiece has been broadcasting it since 2003, I only began watching Foyle’s War last Sunday night. What a dope I am to have joined the party so late.

Featured on Masterpiece’s Mystery! series, which launched two weeks ago, Foyle’s War was originally commissioned by the ITV network to fill the void left by the departure of Inspector Morse. Christopher Foyle (played by Michael Kitchen) is a near-retirement detective who works for the British government and, much to his disappointment, has been ordered to solve local crimes in the small, sleepy town of Hastings (he keeps petitioning his superiors to release him to the armed forces). The series was supposed to have ended in 2008, but British fans would have none of that. They love Christopher Foyle. And so Anthony Horowitz, the series’s creator, has kept the old chap out of retirement for the sake of his British fan club, much like Arthur Conan Doyle did with Sherlock Holmes back in 1903.

Foyle’s character is sketched extremely well; he is tough, clear-sighted, quiet, formal, and aloof (if he has a flaw, this is it). In his own way, he is sexy, too. I remember seeing Michael Kitchen for the first time in the film Enchanted April, where he plays a much more nervous, much less confident man. Even then, I thought those blue eyes and voice of his were dreamy. I also like his understated acting style, which gives the whole show an air of refinement and restraint; Foyle’s War is a little like watching Law and Order without all the yelling. But what really makes this detective so sexy is his high moral standards; I’m drawn to male characters like Christopher Foyle because, after all, there are so few of them in the world.

Last week’s episode was from Series VI. World War II is now over, and the cold war has begun. The disillusioned British are asking themselves: “What was this war all about?” I’m told this episode was tougher than most in that the murder victim, a single mother named Mandy Dean (Charlotte Riley), is someone for whom we feel tremendous sympathy. Socially ostracized, she has difficulty even finding a place for her and her baby to live—until Foyle’s sidekick, Samantha Stewart (Honeysuckle Weeks) takes her in. Adding to the drama is the fact that Mandy’s lover, Gabe Kelly, is a black GI (Obi Abili). Thus, the episode focuses on a local crime to explore the global issue of racism and its various manifestations in postwar Britain.

Like other shows featured on Masterpiece, Foyle’s War is exacting in its period details (I just love Honeysuckle Week’s jackets and trousers!). But the human drama is what makes this episode do darn good. One of the first scenes in the series has to do with the town council deciding to segregate the town, not only at the behest of the U.S. Army, but because the burghers are racist, too. Naturally, Foyle isn’t digging it. The Empire, as both he and we know, is dead. It makes no sense that matters should continue as they did before, which means that racism can’t be upheld either. It’s a hard lesson for both the Army and the townspeople to learn.
Another memorable scene is the one where Gabe enters an all-white dance hall with two of his black GI friends. Seeing the hostile stares of those in attendance, the two friends leave. But Gabe stays. He walks straight up to Mandy and asks her to dance. As this scene vivifies, much of the racism in wartime Britain was about sexual rivalry and competition. For many white Englishwomen, Black American Yanks were more exotic than their white counterparts. For Mandy, however, Gabe was far more than a romantic or sexual thrill; he was the father of her child, and her hope for a better life.
Judging from this one episode, it seems that Foyle and his colleagues must wage their own personal war amidst the tumult of a larger one. Steadfast and loyal to each other, they strive to uphold the values for which they and their countrymen have fought and died. The moral conundrum, however, is that very few people seem to care about the local crimes they investigate when the country is in such ravages. It’s a fascinating, troubling premise; I think I may be hooked.

Watching Anne Frank

I’ve never read The Diary of Anne Frank. Somehow, it didn’t make my 8th grade reading list. Nor do I remember being required to read it in high school, although it’s entirely possible that I may have blown off reading Anne Frank to moon over some boy. So, like Catcher in the Rye and On the Road, it has remained one of those books I keep saying I’ll read but never do, probably because, at 46, it seems the time for me to have done so has long passed.


On one level, the BBC and Masterpiece’s Anne Frank is clearly intended for an audience much younger than I, a new generation of viewers who want a fresh approach to the story. Young audiences will certainly identify with this Anne Frank, played brilliantly by the radiant Ellie Kendrick. They’ll recognize in her their own youthful restlessness and anger, their own lust, their own ardent desire to shape an identity for themselves. And, given the series’ deliberate downplaying of historical specifics, they may see her story as representative of countless other young men and women—whether in the past, or right now, in Iraq or Afghanistan—whose lives have been brutally snuffed by war.

But the real marvel of this adaptation is how it allows viewers of all ages to find sources of identification. Even as it keeps its attention on Anne,
the series manages to stayed tuned to the feelings of the eight people who shared an attic with her for two years. In one riveting scene, a petulant Anne provokes a fight with Mrs. Frank, claiming that she and her sister will not make the “same stupid mistakes” made by her mother’s generation. “We’ll grow up and have careers, we’ll lead interesting lives,” she says. All the while, the camera remains on the mother’s painstricken face. And we know that her pain stems not from hurt feelings but from fear that the words of her daughter will never come true.

The film also devotes a surprising amount of time to Albert Dussel, the fussy, fifty-year-old dentist who shares a room with Anne. Having left his fiancée, Lotte, behind--a fiancée much younger than he--he appears to be so desperately in love that he can’t bear the separation. He writes letters to Lotte constantly, despite the group’s general agreement not to make any contact with the outside world. In one of several scenes, we see Dussel weeping inconsolably. And we’re left to wonder what the true source of his weeping may be. Is it love? loneliness? Or is it panic, a wholly reasonable fear that his beloved might grow tired of waiting and abandon him for another, younger man?

These scenes remind us that those two years in captivity contained other stories besides Anne’s. Like all good adaptations, then, Masterpiece's and the BBC's new version of The Diary of Anne Frank invites us to think beyond the borders of both its source material and its own interpretation of that material. And, it makes me want to read the book. Even now, especially now, at 46.

Goodbye, Dear Emma

Masterpiece’s airing of Emma ended last Sunday night, and all seven of us felt a little sad and aimless afterwards. “Now, what do we do?” asked Ruth. I wish the show and its co-producers would begin airing longer series, for I love the masochistic pleasure of being strung along, week by week. When I teach serialization, I tell students about how novels were woven into the fabric of the Victorians’ daily lives. And though we can never experience serialization in the same ways as they did, television series like those on Masterpiece do provide us with a modicum of that pleasure. Having said that, though, I’ll also note that one disappointment I had with this particular series was its structuring; I’d have preferred Emma to be divided into two rather than three episodes because one hour simply isn’t enough time to settle in. It’s like taking a ten-minute bath. What’s more, the ending of episode two felt abrupt, unsatisfying.

Among the highlights, however, was Emma and Knightley’s dance at the ball. I vividly recall the close-up of their gloved hands before they began, the nervousness on her face, the sheer pleasure they showed in being with each other. We were all delighted with the series’ conclusion, too, applauding the decision not to show us their wedding. At first, we thought this rather curious. But as we chatted, we began talking about how refreshing it felt not to see yet another Austen couple coming out of a church and going into a carriage. Instead, this series’ ending allowed Emma and Knightley a brief reprieve from the sweet but stifling world of Highbury. Here, the series concludes by showing Emma’s delight at seeing the ocean for the first time. It thus ends by moving her outward, beyond her father, beyond the confines of her gilded cage, suggesting that this may be the beginning of a less provincial Emma.

I also liked the quiet way in which the series handled her departure from her father, preparing us for that departure with a poignant scene wherein Mr. Woodhouse admits that perhaps he is a “foolish old man.” In his most recent book, film scholar Thomas Leitch argues that one way to approach an adaptation is to consider how it “improves” or “corrects” its source material. If Austen’s flaw as a novelist principally resides in her treatment of male characters, this series’ characterization of both Knightley and Mr. Woodhouse—and the two actors’ impressive performances—go a long way toward correcting that flaw.

What I didn’t like was the series’ treatment of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill. She was bland as unbuttered toast, and he was drawn much too broadly as a cad. Let me say at the outset that I don’t think Austen handles their characterization all that well either, but some of the best adaptations of Austen—Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility (1995) comes readily to mind—recognize Austen’s mistakes and strive to correct them. This series just compounds whatever dissatisfaction we might feel with both those characters. I was especially grumpy with them during the Boxhill episode, for I was so distracted by Churchill’s behavior—much of it way too audacious for the time period-- that the cut of Emma’s insult to Miss Bates, and the heartbreaking, gradual awareness registered in the other woman’s response—just slipped by me. Miss Bates’ response to Emma’s insult is one of the most powerful moments in the book—and the most powerful moment in the 1996 version, thanks to Sophie Thompson’s performance. Here, it just gets buried.

One last thing: we adore Laura Linney, but we feel she is being wasted on the show. Let her move, give her a setting, and for God’s sake, take her out of that black dress. She’s a smart woman speaking to a smart audience; why not give her introductions substance?