There’s No Accounting for Taste: TV

 

Television is changing. So is everything. It’s the nature of Pop Culture. Each generation is a litmus test, a time capsule of what was liked, appreciated, valued, and believed. One need not look much further than sitcoms, like I Love Lucy in the 1950s to realise that; then Dick Van Dyke in the 1960s; Mary Tyler Moore, Maude, and the Bunkers in the 1970s; Family Ties, and Night Court in the 1980s; Seinfeld, and Friends in the 1990s. Tastes evolve, Outlook changes. What was beloved in one decade is laughable (and not in a good way) in another.

So too did I change. Obviously. I was born in the 1960s, grew up in the 1970s, became an adult in the 1980s, began working in the 1990s, and matured in the 2000s. I first consumed the viewing preferences of the Greatest Generation, cut my teeth on that of the Silent, and ultimately was influenced by the Baby Boomers. It was only after leaving school that the pragmatic cynicism of Generation Jones, and the pragmatic distrust of GenX reared its head, and demanded that “Here we are now; Entertain us.” That’s a whole lot of world view to digest.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin.

 

The 1960s

I don’t remember much of the 1960s, being born midway through. Living in the North (not the arctic, but the James Bay Frontier, where media was still relatively limited: two tv channels – one French, one English –, radio – I imagine the same split –, you can appreciate that choice was limited to the set either being on or off. What I do remember is pretty trippy. H.R. Pufnstuf, and the The Banana Splits Adventure Hour. Witchypoo on her broom, cracking mirrors, it was all shades of The Wizard of Oz, as I recall. Everything else fades into the background, shadows in the fog of time. I don’t think I watched much tv. I played outside. I went to bed early. I imagine most of my viewing was very early morning and weekends, mainly Saturday Morning Cartoons.

 

The 1970s

I recall far more from the 1970s, more as the decade progressed. The Hilarious House of Frightenstein, Land of the Lost, and The Starlost, to begin. Science fiction had a decidedly Magicam took to it, with people appearing to float in a world of minimalist high-tech dollhouses and puppetry. Need I mention that I watched Star Trek, in syndication? I expect not.

However indulgent my parents might have been concerning what was aired before bedtime, I mostly watched what my parents watched. In that regard, I recall the background hum of the Vietnam War. And Watergate. I was especially annoyed by Watergate: it pre-empted all our regular viewing with stodgy old men in glasses blathering on about Nixon and a whole host of apparently meaningless drivel concerning events I could not care less about, then. It was all blah-blah-blah, talk, talk, talk, when I wanted to watch Planet of the Apes and Hawaii 5-0. 

It wasn’t all Hawaii 5-0 and The Six Million Dollar Man, or even The Wonderful World of Disney. I might have been allowed to watch Logan’s Run, but I was just as likely watching The Waltons and Little House on the Prairie; Carol Burnett and Lawrence Welk. It turns out that networks on both side of the border were concerned by a falling sense of morality on the tube: there was too much violence on tv, too much sex. Something must be done! Thus, the wholesome content of The Waltons and Little House. We collectively remember them now with revulsion (more a feeling than a memory); but honestly, we turned in week after week, so how bad could they have been? The worse we can say about them, now, would be that they were saccharine, tales about family, and family values, lacking in car chases and violence – which, honestly, was the point.

North of the border there was greater concern about the lack of Canadian Content. Why should our networks produce our own expensive shows when there was abundance flowing out of the cornucopia of the American entertainment machine? Most viewers here did not seem to care. I did not; not then. We produced what I remember my mother calling Canadian Crap! The Beachcombers comes to mind, The Forest Rangers, The Littlest Hobo, Wayne and Schuster. But most shows were like Front Page Challenge. They were pale when compared with “high quality” American shows. It turns out that we could compete when we put our minds to it. The King of Kensington was the first Canadian produced sitcom that received high acclaim, from both critics and viewers. Some of it is even now considered exceptional: SCTV, for instance.

What I remember most of 1970s tv was emerging Social Consciousness. Norman Lear coms to mind. He looms large in my tv memory: All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Sanford and Son, Maude, Good Times, One Day at a Time. Shows that had a point. Gone were the like of Green Acres and The Beverly Hillbillies. So too The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island. And Happy Days.

 

The 1980s

I have less recollection of 1980s TV. School looms larger in my memory. I recall I retained a love of SF: Star Trek, Doctor Who, V, The Martian Chronicles. It was hit or miss, however: Alien Nation, Buck Rogers in the 24^th Century. Airwolf, Night Rider, Quantum Leap. Some of it is abysmal now. Others hold up well. One short-lived show I was obsessed with was then was Kolchak: The Night Stalker. Yes, it was produced in the 1970s, but I did not see it here until High School, in the 1980s, on late night. Like a lot of TV, then, its production value was sketchy, but its influence was profound. So too The Twilight Zone. Same deal: I did not watch this show until the ‘80s.

My tastes were migrating, however. I was as likely to watch St. Elsewhere and Hill Street Blues, as I was Mork and Mindy. TV was definitely changing: Elsewhere and Blues might not enjoy the vitriol The Waltons and Little House did, but they were direct descendants, to my mind, Family Values meets Norman Lear. Honestly, what I remember most about 1980s TV are miniseries, when just about everyone tuned in for week-long airings of Roots, and Shogun, and The Winds of War, and the like. They were spectacular, the limited series of today in their time, novels come to life.

Family viewing in my house was Saturday Night at the Movies, with Elwy Yost, on TVO. It was TCM here in its time, before excessive abundance drowned it in a sea of possibility. Before then, movies were either aired blockbusters of years past, or made-for TV affairs. SNatM was different, it was classic film, hosted by a movie nerd who was so uncool he was beloved. Prior to Elwy my only ongoing exposure to classic film was what was aired Sunday mornings when I was very young, Ma and Pa Kettle, Abbot and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Our Gang shorts. Elwy introduced me to a love of film. Not spectacle blockbusters, but Noir, and New Wave Cinema, Silents, and the like. To Bogart, Cary Grant, Barbara Stanwick, etc. I carry that love with me to this very day.

Then post-secondary school reared its head, and TV all but disappears from memory for a while. I watched. But it all slips from my mind. I’ve memory of The Smurfs, and Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, and SNL. I suppose the only thing that stands out is “Must See TV,” Thursday nights on NBC. How’s that for marketing! Four sitcoms and a drama to obsess on: Taxi, Cheers, Family Ties, Cosby, Night Court, A Different World, Seinfeld, Mad About You, Friends. ‘Nuff Said.

TV faded into the background in those years, with little other titles rising to the status of Must See TV, until Star Trek: The Next Generation found its way to the screen.

 

The 1990s

SF came back into TV consciousness with ST:TNG. The X Files iced that cake, for me. But TV was not what it tickled my fancy, for the most part. I’d broken the addiction while away at school. I was more about film now than TV. Because TV was an endless supply of stuff I had little to no interest in: Dawson’s Creek, Party of Five, Beverly Hills 90210, etc. There were those head and shoulders above the rest, like My So Called Life, for instance; but I did not watch that – you can’t watch everything. I was attracted by what might be (and was) referred to then as “TV Too Good for TV.” Some of it hit a nerve with the public and lasted, most did not, hence the tag: Twin Peaks, and Northern Exposure come to mind. I wanted something different, something beyond the pale. I suppose I got that more from film now, and less from TV. I was also working shiftwork. So, unless I taped something, I was unlikely to see it with regularity.

You’d think I’d have watched more: this was the age where my generation began to loom large, but, TV was becoming more formulaic as the decade advanced, in my opinion, until it was of little of interest to me anymore.

 

The 2000s

Some TV was less formulaic: The West Wing, for instance; but, by this time I was watching less TV than ever. But the TV I was watching was what had always appealed to me: difference. It matters not that some of it was wildly popular, it was its difference to what had come before was what drew me in. It was ever more cinematic. The Sopranos was not just about the mob; it was about a man losing his mind. Six Feet Under was about both the lives of those recently dead, but those who buried them (still the best series finale I can think of). Freaks and Geeks was what I remembered to be my youth, in a nutshell. Band of Brothers. Mad Men. Deadwood. Lost. Entourage. Bleak House. Rome. Firefly. The reboot of Battlestar Galactica. I’d never seen such TV. I was somewhat addicted. Lat said, what appealed to me was their complex plots and character studies. Cinematic stories are fun to watch, but they are meaingless without the otther two, mere spectacle. These, however, blended both. Loved 'em!

Until it all came crashing down.

 

The 2010s

There were outliers, but TV has paled for me again. Perhaps because my age group had been ushered to the wings again. Perhaps. We were the parents. The sinister bosses. The villains in a world that increasingly worships youth.

I wonder if I liked Stranger Things as much as I have because it is set in the 1980s. It’s nostalgic, paired with Lovecraftian Cosmic Horror. True Detective appeals because its stars are in my ballpark generation, and its Cosmic Horror oblique.

If I’m being honest, there are still a lit of shows I enjoy, but most are historical fictions, or cast with familiar actors, film stars who’ve migrated to the small screen. I expect this trend to continue, as I find that I hardly ever recognise new celebrities. They come and go with staggering regularity now that the we’re flooded with ever increasing content on streaming services. Who can keep up?

 

And Beyond

As networks flag, and soon to be swept into the dustbin in this brave new world of streaming, I know I will fall further and further behind, until, ultimately, I care little for what is on, on either the big or small screens. We, I believe, will all become our parents, baffled by what people choose to watch, it all so alien to our world-view and values. I realise that my mother indulged my viewing preferences, back in the day, when it was easier for her to let me watch whatever strange show I wished, only occasionally demanding I watch those other, more “wholesome,” family-oriented fare she would insist on: those Waltons, Little House, St. Elsewhere types. And to be honest, I do so miss some of that type of entertainment, series not drowning in melodramatic angst, or overwhelmed with all too stunningly beautiful superheroes that defeat all forms of evil, not because they are clever and courageous, but because they believe in themselves.

The Voyage of the Space Beagle

 

I’d never read A.E. Van Vogt. I was aware of him, though. I recall being of the opinion that his stories were largely Space Operas. Where I’d heard this escapes me. Perhaps it is because of this very “novel.” I place that word on quotation marks because a great many of Vogt’s novels are what he called “fix-ups.” A fix-up was his habit of taking a number of his published short stories and rewriting them, linking them together into novel form. How successful he was in this is open to interpretation.

Maybe I ought to introduce A.E. Van Vogt. He was Canadian, later residing in California. He was primarily a short story writer, a regular contributor to Astounding Science Fiction magazine during the Golden Age of Science Fiction, and has been cited as being of profound influence to a great number of SF writers who followed after him: Philip K. Dick, Harlan Ellison, Robert Sawyer, to name a few. He “was the first writer to shine light on the restricted ways in which I had been taught to view the universe and the human condition", declared Ellison. A great many others concur, it would seem, from what I've read of him; but recognition was a long-time coming. That might be because his prose had a fragmented, and sometimes bizarre narrative style. Or it may be because of his bizarre beliefs, and his short-lived involvement in L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics. Who knows why some authors bask in notoriety, and others languish in relative obscurity; why some are buried under awards and praise, and others not.

I submit that Vogt was denied praise for so long may be because his output, however imaginative, was uneven. In turns out that Vogt was in the habit of recycling his stories a lot. Indeed, as I noted above, this novel is one such example. The Voyage of the Space Beagle is actually a collection of four short stories, “fixed up” into what is presented here. Those stories are/were “Black Destroyer” (1939), “War of Nerves” (1950), “Discord in Scarlet” (1939), and “M33 in Andromeda” (1943). Although mostly the same as the originals, there are differences: In “Black Destroyer,” for instance, there is no mention of Beagle’s central character, Elliot Grosvenor, nor his scientific pursuit of Nexialism, Vogt’s all-encompassing meta-system prevalent throughout. Grosvenor’s role is taken up by the ship’s commander (later Director), Morton. Archeologist Korita is present, as is Chief Chemist Kent, and Biologist Smith; but not Nexialist Grosvenor. Nor is he (or Captain Leeth) or his field of expertise in “Discord in Scarlet,” either. This might be why …Beagle feels uneven, at times, why Grosvenor’s expertise feels forced. Shoed in. Nexialism feels like an impossibility, really. That someone should know just enough about every other field of study and able to make sweeping conclusions about every possible outcome of a crisis with limited input is a stretch, at best; impossible, in reality, to my mind.

The Coeurl - from "Black Destroyer"

What is far more possible is that Beagle (a reference to Charles Darwin’s voyage, his ship, and his book) is very possibly an inspiration for Star Trek. The Space Beagle is primarily an exploration vessel. Both Darwin’s voyage and Kirk’s Enterprise were both on a five-year mission (the Space Beagle’s mission length is not actually mentioned, but is in the order of years) to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before! (Well, maybe not Darwin’s…) Indeed, it ultimately leaves our Wilky Way galaxy, plunging into Andromeda. Along the way, it explores the ruins of a dead civilisation, encountering the Coeurl, a starving, intelligent and vicious cat-like carnivore with tentacles on its shoulders (suspiciously identical to D&D’s Displacer Beast), that kills a number of “red shirts” on the ship.

Ixtl - from "Discord in Scarlet"

The Beagle then encounters a telepathic race whose communications plunge the crew into homicidal madness. It must then survive the Ixtl, another “monster of the week,” that lays its eggs in the hollows of human cavities to reproduce. In the last story, the Beagle encounters a will-o’-the-whisp encompassing the whole of Andromeda, that unless overcome, will surely consume all life in the Milky Way in time. One cannot definitively conclude that Beagle did inspire Gene Roddenberry, but one cannot dismiss the similarities. What is conclusive is that “Discord in Scarlet” did inspire Ridley Scott’s 1979 film, Alien, however O’Bannon (the author of the screenplay) might deny it (he does), but there was enough similarity that Twentieth Century fox settled Vogt’s lawsuit, out of court, in the order of $50,000. One imagines that where’s there’s smoke there’s fire.

Illustration from "Discord in Scarlet"

The Voyage of the Space Beagle is an interesting study, if not a fabulous book. I found it dated. It might imagine an epic future for humanity, but its tech is firmly rooted in the 20^th Century. They still use atomic energy, paper, and there is a postal system aboard the ship, despite their having computers, and communicator “plates” (screens). The crew’s choice of language is a little cringe-worthy, too, referring to the Coeurl as “pussy.” I doubt they'd have been so dismissive of an obviously dangerous creature, however feline it appeared.

My greatest complaint is how clumsy Vogt’s writing is. It ain’t High Lit! His descriptions of tech sometimes left me baffled. So too descriptions of rooms. I found myself going over passages a number of times, thinking, “what are you saying!” Not a good thing. Also, why refer to video screens as "plates," when TVs existed, albeit in their infancy? Or Lazer weapons as Flame-throwers, regardless their being “atomic,” just because the beams were hot enough to melt the walls, literally?  And if they had Lazer weapons, why should the crew carry handheld “vibrators”? I expect they emitted tightly confined emitted vibrations. But can one tightly confine vibrations? One wonders whether they were merely a salacious inside joke....

My reservations aside, I’m pleased I read this time-capsule. If only that it was a precursor to Star Trek and Alien. It was a harbringer of what was to come.

Ficciones

 

I’ve been broadening my scope of reading lately. In some cases, this is merely done by reading what I already own. It’s a trend on YouTube these days. Perhaps it’s not a new trend; I expect there have been video essays on doing just that for as long as there has been YouTube. It’s good advice. And we should all take it. Otherwise, books that once excited us enough to purchase them might never be read; if you, like me, are not as quick a reader as we’d like to be, and other, newer (or older) titles distract us from doing what we ought.

Despite this desire, despite this promise to myself that I ought to do just that, and despite my declaration here that I will do just that, old habits die hard. Every so often (too often, truth be told), I’m seduced by what I’ve seen or read and do just what I vowed I would not do: I buy more books.

I recently was seduced into buying and reading a short book, Steven L. Peck’s 2009 psychological horror novella, A Short Stay in Hell, recently discussed in this blog. I learned, even as I heard of it, that it was inspired by, or perhaps adapted from, Jorges Luis Borges’ short story, “The Library of Babel.” Naturally, easily seduced me, had his interest piqued. Inspired how? Adapted how? Enquiring minds want to know…. “I must read this short story,” I told myself. Of course I did.

Thus, I bought another book: his Ficciones.

I, I must admit, cannot remember whether I’d ever heard of Borges. I might have. I must have. He’s considered a master postmodern short story writer. He was also a poet, an essayist, a translator. But hitherto I’d never read anything he’d written. That said, I’ve read what I read, and one cannot read everything. That also said, I decided I ought to, considering how thrilled I was with Peck’s disturbing novella. Imagine, I thought, how good its source inspiration is.

Oddly enough, Borges was not well known outside of France or South America (he was Argentine) until 1961, when he was introduced to the English-speaking world by Samuel Beckett. The success of García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude helped Borges’ sales, I would imagine. Latin America authors had become all the rage, if at least for a time.

Ficciones stories were published between 1941 and 1946, some of which were collected in the anthology Labyrinths, in 1962, and here, in this collection (for the first time in English) the same year.

What are they about? They are hard to describe. They, each, are themselves labyrinths. Some are about books that never existed. Some of these are satires of book reviews of these books that never existed. Others are misdirection, tales told by unreliable narrators. They are about secret societies, conspiracies, and civilizations purported to be, but are merely elaborate hoaxes. Thus… lies (?). Most are perplexing; all are masterfully presented.

The best of them might not be “The Library of Babel,” but it was the I was most drawn to. (It was fun to learn that Borges was himself a librarian when he wrote it.) That might be because of both Peck’s adaptation, and YouTube videos extolling its virtues, the virtues of Borges, or all of the above.

I did not find Ficciones, for the most part, an easy read. Indeed, most stories were a struggle. I grappled with Borges’ complex thoughts and sentences; because of this, I only read one story per day. Luckily, most are quite short. So, I was able to reread a number of the most labyrinthian immediately afterwards. I would not have done so if I did not find them thought-provoking. That said, I might have abandoned the book if they were not easier the second time around. Some were straightforward, not requiring rereading at all. A few remained as indecipherable as on first reading. Regardless my failure, most were rewarding, in one way or another.

I likely will not read more Borges, however. Regardless how philosophical they are (and they are), despite Beckett’s heralding him, no matter Karl Ove Knausgaard declaring "Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius," the first story of the collection, "the best short story ever written," I found them a little too postmodern for my taste. Not that I dislike postmodern, as a rule. Sometimes, though, postmodern novels can be more work than they are worth. I note that philosophy majors adore Borges. Perhaps they divine reference and meaning lost on me. Perhaps it was the translation.

Perhaps I’m just a little too thick for Borges.

Ice

 

I profess that I was (and am) an SF fan. I’ve read a lot of it. But judging from some of the videos I’ve seen on YouTube, I can safely say that I’ve only read a sliver of what is out there. Honestly, that’s a good thing. If I’d focussed on SF (and Fantasy – which I’d also read my fair share of – that once subgenera of SF that has now all but overwhelmed its supposed parent) I’d have missed out on far more personally inspirational works.

But that, here, is neither here nor there. What is, is that in those heady days when I passed by the bulk of the bookstore for those SF/Fantasy shelves, I had once perused a great many of what’s now considered classic SF titles and authors: Asimov, Clarke, and Heinlein; Burroughs, Bradbury, and Ballard. To say nothing of the new kids on the block, then: Bova, Gibson, Sterling, and Robinson. To list them all would be tedious, so let’s just say I thought myself well versed in what was out there.

Need I say that after that lengthy preamble that I was wholly unaware of this now classic 1967 SF novel by Anna Kavan. Indeed, I have to say that I can’t even recall Anna, herself. Perhaps this is not surprising, given that Anna Kavan was not an SF writer.

I can’t concretely say when I first became acquainted with her novel Ice. It may be as recently as Charlie Kauffman’s surrealist film I’m Thinking of Ending Things. Kavan’s book was one of a number of somewhat famous/somewhat obscure works of art referenced within it. I did not pick it up then. I can’t say it (or many other of the works referenced) made much impression then, while I struggled to understand the unreal things happening on screen while its plot twisted in and out of my grasp. I only began to search for this novel after seeing it referenced and critiqued by a number of YouTubers singing its praise.

Now that I’ve read it, I question whether it is indeed an SF novel at all. It certainly is one on the surface. It’s post-apocalyptic: an undisclosed world war has come to its inevitable conclusion, and in its wake a nuclear winter is racing across the globe, a runaway mile-high ice advancing upon populations either in frantic denial, or succumbing to totalitarian autocracy, fracturing everywhere. The story is less about that than about a man obsessing about a woman, chasing after her, desperate (in his mind) to find her, protect her, to save her. As the story unfolds it becomes apparent that he wishes, not to protect her, but to possess her. She is forever being whisked away by another character, the Warden, of whom she is a prisoner, locked in rooms, abused, nearly catatonic in his “care.” She hates the Warden. But she also hates our unnamed protagonist, who is equally as brutal and abusive as is the Warden.

Everything is not as it seems, however. It’s right there, in black and white, at the very start, when our unreliable narrator declares: “Reality had always been something of an unknown quantity to me.” ― Anna Kavan, Ice

Kavan is telling us that nothing is here as it seems.

A couple pages later, our narrator tells us: “the consequences of the traumatic experience were still evident in the insomnia and headaches from which I suffered. The drugs prescribed for me produced horrible dreams, in which she always appeared as a hapless victim, her fragile body broken and bruised. These dreams were not confined to sleep only, and a deplorable side effect was the way I had come to enjoy them.” ― Anna Kavan, Ice

Everything unravels from there. It takes a while to reorient oneself while navigating the oddly fragmented timeline – unless the above excerpts jumped out at you. Whole passages appear as dreams within the text, seemingly out of context from the narrative. Are they memories, imaginings, fantasies? Then, the story resumes. It’s all a bit unsettling. Hallucinogenic.

What’s germane here is Anna Kavan, herself. Kavan’s life was a bit of a tragedy: an unhappy childhood, failed marriages, drug abuse, suicide attempts, hospitalizations. Which brings me to what I believe the book is really about. Her style has been called slipstream fiction. And Ice is a great example of it. It is supposed to be unsettling, hallucinogenic, because, like much of her work (none else of which I have read, I will admit; I got most of her biographical information from the book’s introduction, and Wikipedia) it is perhaps an exploration of her self. Bear with me. Others have come to the same conclusions, I’ve discovered.

Everything in Ice is allegory. The Ice is heroin. The Warden is her periodic hospitalization. And our unnamed “protagonist” is her addiction. The Ice closes in. The Warden whisks her away, locks her up, the confinement painful. She hates the Warden, but is reluctant to leave her repeated confinements. Our narrator always finds her as the temperature plunges and snow falls, the Ice mere miles away. He “rescues” her, yet he too treats her roughly. She does not want to go with him. He insists. She hates him, and tells him so; yet he persists in his pursuit of this meek and compliant woman, regardless of her stated desire that he leave her forever. He refuses to listen. His rescues are all but kidnappings. But even when he “abandons” her she waits for him. She knows he will come back for her. And he does. Obsessively. She appears to love him. Taken this way, it all makes sense: the surreal context, the hallucinations, the obsessive nature of the love/hate relationship.

So, is it SF? It is. It is not. Is Ice a difficult read? It could be. But it is not.

Could I have read this in my early reading, had I know about it? No. Not at all. I would have been helplessly adrift. I preferred hard SF then. Less so now. Now, I prefer explorations of the human condition. More Bradbury, say, than Clarke. So, it is probably a good thing that it took me as long as it has to find this book, the last of Kavan’s published in her lifetime.

The Murder of Mr. Wickham

 

I bought this a few years ago on a lark, thinking to pair something contemporary to Jane Austen July reading. But on reading the back cover I noted that it was, supposedly, a continuation of Emma, a title I’d not yet read. I set it aside, thinking I ought to have greater familiarity with those characters before this; and, let’s be honest, if this were truly a continuation of Emma, albeit a murder mystery, as hinted by the title, I expected there to be a whole lot of spoilers within it concerning the original, spoilers I’d rather not be party to.

How could there be spoilers concerning a 200-year-old book, one asks, one that has a number of screen and television adaptations? Well, I might opine that screen adaptations aren’t always entirely faithful to their source material; and, let’s face facts, after watching thousands of films and tv shows over the course of my life, not everything sticks. So, I set Claudia Gray’s 2022 novel aside for a spell.

To be honest, after last year’s reading of P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley, I wasn’t expecting much. I’d long since come to the conclusion that, published author or not, whomever might hazard an homage to classical works, fan-fiction is fan-fiction. It’s someone’s desire to live in the world of their favourite characters.

I was rather shocked to discover that Claudia Gray (Amy Vincent, but I will continue to refer to her as her pen name, here) is very much one of those authors, and not in a way I might have expected. She has written a whole host of Star Wars novels. Seven, in fact. She is also a prolific fantasy writer, too. Luckily, I did not know this when I purchased this book, or else I may not have done. All prejudices included, I’m sure I would not have done. In my experience, fan-fiction, even that published by publishing houses, is not high-brow. It’s usually only tolerably proficient as literature, in my opinion. You may have a differing view, but I find that publishing houses understand that fans don’t particularly care how poetic the prose may be; indeed, fans prefer that the tale be cinematic, exciting, not layered with theme, nuance, and especially not with devices like unreliable narration. Fans want immersion. They want to live in that world. I’m pleased, then, that I did not know her past publishing history. That said, I wholly expected The Murder of Mr. Wickham to be an immersive experience for Janeites. (Yes, that is the term.) It is just that. So, if I’m not a fan of immersive fan-fiction, then why bother? Simply, I like murder mysteries. I don’t read them often, but I’d a stint when I read Ellery Queen Magazine, alongside Sci-fi pulp mags. Thus, why not? I’m game for a murder mystery set, unexpectedly, in Jane Austen’s Georgian world.

This does not say that something like The Murder of Mr. Wickham is ever going to become a literary classic. It is not Jane Austen. It lacks her biting wit. Her long exacting prose. Her slight of hand in expressing social commentary, when such a thing was not something a respectable lady was invited to do, especially in mixed company; and perhaps not even when not. But, as it turns out, Claudia Gray’s The Murder of Mr. Wickham is a tolerable pastiche of Jane Austen. In its favour it is modern as well: in its prose, social comment, in character depiction; and in its being up front in what it is: an homage to Jane Austen. Claudia Gray channels Jane Austen’s books well, in such a way as one need not have read Jane Austen’s works to appreciate her story (and Jane’s, as well).

I might add that while this is indeed a murder mystery, it is not an Agatha Christie mystery. Then again, perhaps it is. Agatha focussed a great deal on character. But, where Agatha focussed a great deal of energy on the actual murder investigation, Claudia Gray leans more on its characters histories. And there are a lot of characters in The Murder of Mr. Wickham. Those characters are not just drawn from Emma, either. Some are her own creation, the son of George Knightley and Emma Woodhouse of Emma , for instance, and the daughter of Henry Tilney and Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey, who, it turns out, are the protagonists of all of Claudia Gray’s Mr. Darcy and Miss Tilney Mystery Series, four thus far.

Claudia Gray has taken some liberties: her book is not entirely true to Jane Austen’s books. Her story is a mishmash of the books and the movies. Colonel Brandon’s given name is never given in Sense and Sensibility, itself, but presented as Christopher in the 1995 film. There are other deviations, as well, some greater than others. Colonel Brandon’s ward in the book, for instance, was Eliza Williams; in the film Eliza was Colonel Brandon’s first love, and it was her illegitimate daughter Beth that was his ward. Claudia Gray uses the film’s plot devices and not the book’s; perhaps because, in this day and age, more people are familiar with the film than the book.

I mentioned that Claudia wove a number of Jane Austen’s characters into her story. Those were not only from Emma, Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility, as already noted, but also Persuasion, Northanger Abbey, and Mansfield Park. She has made a judgement call on when each of those books take place, in regards to Wickham.

The books were published as follows:

·       Sense and Sensibility (1811, probably set between 1792 and 1797)

·       Pride and Prejudice (1813, set in the early 19th century)

·       Mansfield Park (1814)

·       Emma (1816)

·       Northanger Abbey (1818, posthumous)

·       Persuasion (1818, posthumous)

None are specifically anchored in time, although dedicated Janeites might be able to suggest, with evidence from the texts, when each either does or possibly takes place. Claudia sets them as follows:

·       Pride and Prejudice (1797-1798)

·       Northanger Abbey (1800)

·       Emma (1803-1804)

·       Persuasion (1814-1815)

·       Mansfield Park (1816)

·       Sense and Sensibility (1818-1819)

Claudia sets out her reasons for this in the introduction. Regardless her reasons for the changes she makes, most concerning how they are connected to the eponymous Mr. Wickham, the story holds together well, in my opinion. The characters are stronger than in Death Comes to Pemberley, smarter, more emotional, more thoughtful, altogether more realistic. Honestly, I found Claudia’s story more entertaining than P.D. James’.

What is more poignant here, to me anyway, is that, although this is a murder mystery, it is altogether more a Jane Austen novel than it is an Agatha Christie one. Which is to say that a great deal of this story concerns itself with how Claudia imagines how these beloved characters’ lives unfold following the plots of their original stories – as it concerns the dastardly doings of the nefarious Mr. Wickham.

Which is kind of what’s it’s all about.

 

Death Comes to Pemberley

 

Jane Austen’s works are quite beloved, so beloved by some, that certain writers and readers alike just can’t get enough of them, even though her oeuvre have been exhausted for centuries. There were only six novels, after all (seven if you count Lady Susan), two others left unfinished, a host of Juvenilia, and poems, prayers, and letters. That’s not a lot, but she died young, only 41 years old.

Now considered one of English Literature’s greatest writers, it only stands to reason that more than a few people lament she had not published as many novels as Stephen King. Then again, it is, possibly, that want for more that has risen Jane so high in our imagination. P.D. James is one such person who did so wish. This comes as a bit of a surprise, given her fame as a mystery writer. But what one writes and what one reads and loves need not be the same. That may be a good thing. To read what one writes might haunt her, with bits of other crime novels creeping into her own, unexpectedly.

P.D. James has only written two novels (as far as I’m aware) that are not crime fiction. The first was Children of Men (1992), a rather chilling near-future SF novel, the other Death Comes to Pemberley (2011).

Death Comes to Pemberley is a continuation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, set six years after its events. It’s a pastiche, but also a Georgian mystery novel. (Excepting her Children of Men, it would appear that her apple does not fall far from her tree.) Events begin when Captain Martin Denny and George Wickham are passing through a wooded area of Pemberley, when Denny calls for the carriage to stop, he leaps down and runs into the wood. Wickham chases after him. The coachman hears shouts, but horrified by the cries, does not run into the wood. He raises the alarm, and Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam discover Denny’s bloodstained corpse, Wickham beside him, confessing the death is his fault.

An investigation follows. Then a court case. I’ll leave out the rest. You know: spoilers.

P.D. James received generally favourable reviews for her effort. Some were wildly enthusiastic.

I found the book an altogether enjoyable read. Those characters from P&P are true to Austen’s original; and I’ll hazard that P.D. James did her homework concerning English law of the period. But I’m not wildly enthusiastic about this book. It contains a healthy dose of deus ex machina, followed by lengthy denouement. The book fails, in that regard.

If you are unfamiliar with those terms, deus ex machina (god in the machine) is a plot device where an unsolvable conundrum is brought to resolution by an unexpected, or unlikely, occurrence. Denouement occurs after the climax of a novel, where all the dangling strands are drawn together. Consider Hercule Poirot unfolding a mystery by lengthy exposition. Too long a denouement generally points to the author either weaving an unsolvable narrative, leaving out details, or being so oblique in pointing to crucial clues so that the reader could not possibly solve the mystery. (I should not be so dishonest in using Poirot as an example; one must read Agatha Christie carefully; she is never so perfidious; the clues are there, but you must be an industrially observant reader to catcher her out: her most crucial clue may only be a fragment of a sentence.) These days, such practice is generally frowned on. It leaves a bad taste in readers’ mouths. Show, as we say, don't tell.

Is this novel worth your time? That depends: Are you a Jane Austen fan? Do you love novels where contemporary authors revisit, or carry on, the narratives of others? (I have: early Star Trek novels. Long ago. Before the glut. But only those concerning the original series. But that’s another tale.) If you do, you will likely love P.D. James’ Death Comes to Pemberley.

I found it lacking because of that deus ex machina.

The Five

 

To begin, I’m not a True Crime fan. Far from it. I can think of innumerable pursuits more palatable than consuming a steady diet of the misery of others.

That said, I am a fan of history. What’s more, I have a desire to understand, in as much as it is possible to do so, the subtext of the literature of its time, be it fiction or non-fiction. Nothing exists in a bubble. It goes without saying that Jack the Ripper was foremost in peoples’ minds in the autumn of 1888.

How could they not have been? The Whitechapel Murders were splashed across every newspaper in London as Jack terrorised that now famous district. Regardless that terror, not everyone residing there could escape it: Where might the poor go, one could ask? Poverty limited their choices. They must live where they could afford to, even if they could afford to live nowhere at all.

Which brings us to the “canonical five.” Five hapless women fell to Jack’s gruesome pursuit, becoming the stuff of legend. Jack might be more famous, but let’s face facts: even to this day, we know little, if anything, about history’s most famous serial killer. We know a great deal more about those five women who were his victims, perhaps more now than we did then.

Which brings me to Hallie Rubenhold’s 2019 study of Jack’s victims. Her book, The Five: The Untold Lives of the Women Killed by Jack the Ripper, is not another exploration of the Whitechapel Murders (there are quite a few of those already); it is a forensic dissertation on the lives of Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly, insofar as she was able to piece together as accurate a biography of each as is possible, given how little might be known about any woman in the latter Victorian era.

National Police Gazette illustration, 1889

Let’s be clear: this is not a book about the murders. They are biographies, from birth until their last sightings. There are brief afterwards, where their next of kin, or closest acquaintances, identified the bodies. But there is no speculation as to how each met their end; no imaginings on how Jack stalked then, approached them, whether they were even aware of his very presence. Any such scenes would be pure fiction; and Ms. Rubenhold had no desire to pile on more speculation than already has been. Ms. Rubenhold had one goal, to give these women the fair trial they deserved when they passed, and not the derision they received in the court of public opinion.

In short, each was painted a prostitute. They were not, most likely. Only two of the five can concretely be proven to have engaged in sex work, ad only one was what one might officially be called a bonified prostitute. The others were only guilty of misfortune and, in some cases, addiction. Each began what one might call a promising life. And it was only by circumstance that they found themselves living a life of poverty in one of the worst slums in London at then time.

Each led an interesting life, each unique from the others. Thus, each biography does not cover the same ground. Mary Ann married, had children, and likely found herself on the street owing to her husband’s infidelity, regardless his citing her alcoholism as the reason for their estrangement. Annie was the daughter of a soldier, married a coachman, and was not a member of the labouring class, but she too had a weakness for alcohol, which became her undoing. Elizabeth was not English, but Swedish, a “fallen” woman who had to emigrate to escape a life of judgemental scrutiny, having contracted venereal disease (likely contracted from her employer, not that she could ever have accused him of that). She most certainly suffered from mental issues at the time of her death due to syphilis. Catherine was a free spirit: a bit of a gypsy, a busker, and a bit of a con artist. Little, if anything, is known of Mary Jane. That was probably not her real name. She told everyone she knew a different origin story. She was one a posh call girl. But after being betrayed by her madam, she found herself in ever diminishing prospects.

They had, for the most part, little in common. Poverty, at the time of their death, is the only thing that bound them as a group. Alcohol was prevalent. “Sleeping rough” (on the street, under the stars), on occasion, was also shared (except Mary Jane), when they could not scape together the few pence needed for a bed, when the workhouse was filled to capacity. Why then did Jack targeted them? One wonders.

Ms. Rubenhold could have added more material to this work; she might have included those other victims who are not canonically considered Jack’s victims; she might have detailed Emma Elizabeth Smith’s life, so too Martha Tabram’s, and Rose Mylett’s, and Alice McKenzie’s, and Francis Cole’s. They may very well have been Jack’s victims. But thy were not officially linked with Jack. So, she limited herself to those famous five.

Dorset Street, Spitalfields, London, 1902

What I found most interesting was how Ms. Rubenhold drew on not just these women’s lives, as records illuminate, but also censuses, and other sources, both contemporary histories and historical ones, giving us a more detailed picture of what life was like for labouring classes, for household servants, for soldiers and coachmen and tinplate artisans, what life was like in debtors’ prisons and workhouses, and indeed, what it was like for those who had little choice but to find shelter under eaves and alongside the sewage flowing in the gutter.

The Five has found its way onto many lists detailing the best Ripper books. Most concern themselves on the actual murders and the investigation, I imagine. I can’t say for certain if that is the case. Few, I believe, concern themselves with the actual lives of the victims, except in the most cursory fashion. This one does. And thus, Mr. Rubenhold’s book may be the only one to fill in thos glaring gaps the others leave wanting.

It's not a literary work. I was not swept off my feet by her mastery of poetic prose. She is not lacking in skill, either. All in all, it is a good dissertation, which is, what I expect, what she was aiming for.