La Belle et la Bête

Beauty and the Beast has always been my favourite fairy tale.  I remember going to see the Disney film at the cinema for a schoolmate's seventh birthday.  As a bookish only child, I took that version deeply to heart and still love it to bits; but for pure cinematic fantasy and elegance, Jean Cocteau's 1946 version is hard to beat.  Rich, sumptuous and stylised, it's a feast for the eyes (and is best watched with a glass of wine and some chocolate truffles).  Cocteau begins by writing out the credits on a blackboard, followed by a handwritten text in which he makes it clear that we must suspend our disbelief and enjoy the story as children would.  He signs off with the words 'Il était une fois [Once upon a time]...'

La Belle et la Bête does need to be watched without cynicism and with a mind open to the magic of it.  To modern eyes the stagey acting feels rather overdone and much of the film is self-consciously archaic (consider that this was released in the same year as The Big Sleep).  But it still looks absolutely ravishing: in every scene it's clear that Cocteau is first and foremost an artist rather than simply a director.  Belle's home and the costumes of her family are based on seventeenth-century Dutch genre paintings, while the Beast's castle is a sumptuous overgrown ruin where Pre-Raphaelite briars tangle through the rooms and classical busts line the hallways.  Disembodied hands serve claret from crystal flasks.  Jewels and gold glitter; the costumes, even when simple, are beautiful; and Josette Day (Belle) is suitably luminous - though perhaps slightly vapid for modern tastes.  Cocteau plays to her strengths, encouraging her to strike dramatic statuesque poses which create little set-pieces within the film.  The Beast's elaborate golden fur must have taken hours to apply and the end effect is as good as anything you would get with CGI nowadays.  In fact, the special effects throughout the film are simple but still effective, from the self-illuminating candles to the ascent of Belle and her handsome prince at the end, half-hidden by Belle's billowing gown.  There are still places to spot the influence of this film today - I like keeping my eyes open for such things.  I've been in a few bars and restaurants where wall-mounted candelabra are held aloft by golden arms jutting out of the wall; and of course there's Bonnie Tyler's classic video for Total Eclipse of the Heart - the long corridor with the billowing gauzy drapes is straight out of this film.  Anyone know of any others?

The audio commentary on the DVD I own, which is distributed by the BFI, gives some intriguing insights into the making of the film (particularly the special effects), but I'd still like to learn more about it.  Cocteau has made some interesting choices, particularly with regard to the Beast, which I suspect hint at further levels of meaning that I haven't quite understood.  For example, Jean Marais (Cocteau's lover) plays both the Beast and Avenant, Belle's handsome but good-for-nothing suitor - the latter a prototype for Gaston in the Disney film, no doubt.  This duality is further complicated by the fact that Avenant must die for the Beast to regain human form and, when he does, he takes the form of Avenant.  Is this simply a facile contrast of the beast-within-the-man and the man-within-the-beast?  Is there some deeper, more disturbing meaning?  Or did Cocteau just want to give Marais twice the screen time?!  More reading must be done, I think, and I'd be grateful for any recommendations.  It would be great, too, to use this as a way in to Cocteau's other films - Marais also starred in Cocteau's Orphée, which I haven't seen but would like to (I have a special fondness for Orpheus, having played him in a rather excruciating school play; but that's another story). 

On a final, comparative mythology note, it struck me during the film that there are some links between the story of Beauty and the Beast and the Cupid and Psyche myth.  A young woman brought to a fantastic mansion, waited upon by unseen servants, unable to see the true face of her would-be husband while supposing him to be a monster... There are differences, of course (by sneaking a look at night, Psyche at least reassured herself that her husband wasn't a monster), but both stories require the woman to go away to complete tasks to prove her worth (whether that's caring for her father or fulfilling the demands of Venus).  In the end, both Beauty and Psyche learn to be humble, and it's only then that they're shown the true faces of their husbands and taken away to live happily ever after with them.  Needless to say, I'm not applauding this as a desirable pattern for the modern girl to follow (for an admirable modern take on the fairy tale, see Angela Carter's brilliant retelling in The Bloody Chamber) - but it's certainly a parallel that I'm going to look into further...

A Song for Arbonne: Guy Gavriel Kay

(Harper Voyager, £7.99)

This is the sixth book I’ve read by Guy Gavriel Kay (who deserves an ‘In praise of’ post at some point).  The novel is once again set in Kay's distinctive parallel world with its single sun and twin moons - white and blue - though the names of the countries and the gods aren't the same as in his other books.  Like the vast majority of his novels, A Song for Arbonne takes place in a context closely mirroring a historical period from our own world: in this case, Southern France in the age of the troubadours. 

Arbonne is a dreamy country basking in a Mediterranean climate, where the deeds and loves of the great are remembered in song, and where noble women have a say in politics through the Courts of Love and the rituals of courtly love.  But all is not well in the south: beyond the northern mountains, the advisers to the king of Gorhaut are agitating for war, and the Arbonnais nobles are weakened by a desperate rift between the dukes of Talair and Miraval, the result of wounded pride.  Into this web of rivalries and obligations come Lisseut, a jonglar seeking to make her name, and Blaise, an enigmatic mercenary whose life has been defined by a struggle against his distant, manipulative father.  In this country there is less magic than in Kay's Tigana: what remains is little more than religious mysticism.  For me, Kay is most successful when he relies least on magic, and focuses on the forces of personalities, decisions and destinies.  He is a skilled creator of believable characters, although it's true that his cast are drawn from a fairly limited range: the thoughtful warrior; the singer / artist; the strong, independent woman; the noble unrequited lover; the man governed by principles rather than social obligations. 

Kay is a sumptuous writer.  He doesn't wade into the quagmire of purple prose, but he does allow his books to be subtly informed by the rhythms of his sources.  The Lions of Al-Rassan, for example, was a tribute to the medieval chanson de geste, while the writing in this book is more lyrical and romantic, befitting a culture in which courtly love is highly prized, singers have wide renown, and women have the ability to govern on a level with men.  From the very first paragraph, you're borne along on language and phrases which subtly reinforce the feeling of a medieval romance.  Yet I use that term with qualifications.  Any men reading this shouldn't be put off by the word 'romance', which I do mean in a purely medieval context.  There's plenty of chivalry and male braggadocio, and a well-written battle at the climax.  I should mention that Kay is generally classed as a fantasy author, as a result of our culture's desire to put everything into a box.  This is a shame because his books are rich and moving and have much to offer someone who might be put off by the 'fantasy' label.  He writes with an epic cinematic sweep and some of the scenes made the hairs rise on the backs of my arms.  

Although I don't think A Song for Arbonne is one of his absolute best, that's partly because I've read enough of his books that I can now anticipate the patterns of the characters' relationships and some of the plot.  But, compared to other authors, Kay is very good even when he's not at his best. For anyone familiar with his work, I would place this above Tigana but below The Lions of Al-Rassan and Sailing to Sarantium.  There are a few minor shortcomings in Arbonne, which I mention only to explain my reservations.  There are slight contrivances to the plot, particularly the fate of Aelis's child which, after a few recognisably red herrings, is revealed only in the final chapter.  As befits a troubadour's tale, the protagonists are mostly of noble birth and most of them are (ultimately) noble of heart as well: this is a window on a very particular section of society.  If you like earthy, bawdy, gritty fiction then this isn't really for you.  But if you can allow yourself to be momentarily transported by a book which luxuriates in songs and crackling fires and fur cloaks in winter, and birdsong above rustling leaves in the spring, and sunlight glinting on a drawn sword; on the honour of single combat, or great battles, or stirring pageantry, then please do give it a go.

For thoughts on Kay's other books, I've no doubt that an 'In praise of...' will be forthcoming very soon; or you can find out more about him and his work here.

Cultural Roundup: Week ending 4 September

Gabriel Metsu, A Woman Reading
Christie's, 2006

I'm being a little generous with the definition of a 'week' here, but I hope you'll forgive me.  :-)

• My first visit to Glyndebourne to see the wonderful Turn of the Screw by Britten.  A fabulous day out in every sense, and a wonderful opportunity to wear the long black dress I picked up at a sample sale a couple of Januarys ago.
• The somewhat extraordinary feat of seeing two versions of The Tempest in four days.  First up was the Haymarket version with Ralph Fiennes as Prospero, which I found sadly lacking.
• And then there was The Tempest at Middle Temple Hall, which lacked the big names of its rival production but provided ten times the warmth, elegance and humanity, which utterly captivated me, and which has made me the newest fan of the theatre group Antic Disposition.
• Reading Caitlin Moran's brilliantly outrageous memoir / feminist discourse, How to be a Woman, which is one of the funniest and most down-to-earth books I've read in a long time.
• Going to see The Skin I Live In, Almodovar's most recent journey into the weirder angles of human psychology and desire.
• And the baking kick has continued!  I am proud to present a photograph of my very first fruit cake, which has amazingly emerged from the oven unscathed.  It certainly looks the part, though I'm yet to actually try any - I can't bring myself to cut it into pieces!

The Skin I Live In

(Genesis Cinema, Stepney)

When my colleagues and I were discussing films, and I said I wanted to see The Skin I Live In, they said they thought it was a horror film.  That worried me: I couldn’t imagine Almodóvar making a horror film. What I found, as it unfolded, was that this was not a horror film (to my relief): it was a typical Almodóvar film wrapped in the guise of a melodramatic thriller.  Robert Ledgard (Antonio Banderas) is a renowned plastic surgeon, who has developed a thicker, more resilient version of human skin based on infusing the structure of the skin with cells from pigs (which are stronger and tougher).  His profession’s regulatory body forbids him to experiment further, but we rapidly become aware that what Robert has presented to them is already a finished experiment. 

Part of the pleasure of watching the film is that things aren’t by any means explained to you.  You see glimpses of Robert’s life and, as the film goes on, it slowly all begins to make sense; or as much sense as Almodóvar ever makes.  The facts are these: Robert has a custom-built operating theatre in his palatial country home, where particularly wealthy patients can come for extra discretion.  Robert has tragically lost both his wife and daughter, both of whom committed suicide, the former after having been horribly burned in a car crash.  So who is Vera, the pretty girl in the bodystocking (Elena Anaya) whom we see doing yoga over the opening credits and who, it rapidly becomes clear, is Robert’s prisoner?

I can’t say any more because much of the film’s appeal comes from slowly unravelling the various plot threads, and realising that Almodóvar is still a berserk and gloriously twisted filmmaker.  I agree with a comment I read somewhere, which said that this film is a B-list movie (in its plot) that’s been given the A-list treatment, and I agree with that.  Almodóvar's flamboyance and his tendency to gleefully gallop off into various dark corners of the psyche work well with such a pulp-fiction subject.  The acting is generally good.  I confess a predisposition to admire Antonio Banderas, who was one of my teenage crushes and who still looks unexpectedly good for a man of 51.  Nuanced and elegant, his Robert is surprisingly sympathetic (although by the end, you may find your sympathy beginning to lag).  The other characters felt a little more stylised, and thus less empathetic; and to be honest it's difficult to empathise with Vera until you really know who she is and what she's doing there. 

There are some weak points: I didn’t really understand the point of the episode with Zeca (Roberto Álamo), which promised to open further plot threads about Robert’s background, but in reality did very little except give Vera the chance to leave her prison cell.  I'd be interested to read the novel by Thierry Jonquet on which the film is based, to see which elements (if any) were added by Almodóvar himself.  If he has faithfully transposed the plot from the novel, then it's difficult to imagine any other director so suited to make the film.  It is like a cross between Pygmalion and Frankenstein, with the same double-edged relationship between creator and creation.  Just to finish, here's a beautiful teaser poster for the film, by Juan Gatti.  It's interesting to compare this sophisticated, restrained and rather Vesalian design to the poster they eventually went for, which perhaps lives up slightly more to the melodrama of the plot. 

How to Be a Woman: Caitlin Moran

Ebury Press, £11.99

I can't quite remember how I first heard about How to Be a Woman, but I bought it at Waterstone's yesterday on the basis it might be an amusing way to pass the time while waiting for Middle Temple Hall to open.  I'd never knowingly read anything by Caitlin Moran before.  Little did I know what a treat I was in for.

In the past 24 hours, I think I've laughed more than I did in the entirety of the preceding week.  This book is so irreverent, so down-to-earth, so completely, matter-of-factly open... These are the kind of subjects I wish I could talk about with my girl-friends, but don't, because my psychological makeup is 65% prude and such conversations have only occurred in the past after large quantities of wine have been consumed.  But Caitlin Moran just plonked herself (in spirit) down next to me, ordered an imaginary bottle of gin and said, "Look, we need to talk about this..."  And I found myself nodding at practically everything she said - at the times when I wasn't thinking, "But I thought other women didn't think like that..."

On my way home on the Tube yesterday evening, I was furtively reading Chapter 2 (this book is so frank that I got a bit nervous about people reading it over my shoulder on public transport.  People do read over your shoulder in London.  It's the result of our evolutionary adaptation to being crammed into small spaces, where there are five people for every accessible newspaper.  Therefore certain books aren't really appropriate, like the Collected Works of the Marquis de Sade which I once realised the guy next to me on the Tube was reading.)  Initially I was able to contain myself, with merely the odd smile, but when I came to the marmoset comparison halfway down page 47, I inadvertently emitted such a choked gurgle that half the carriage looked at me in sudden alarm.  I only managed a few more lines before I had to close the book.  Tears were beginning to build up in my eyes from the effort of suppressing my laughter, and the nice old man sitting opposite me was looking rather concerned.  This morning on the bus, I tried again, with the result that the woman sitting next to me was so intrigued by my surreptitious sniggering, she said she would go to buy the book in her lunch break.

I've always been a feminist with a small 'f', in the sense that I'm intellectually equal to any man out there (anyone for University Challenge at 20 paces?) and, frankly, should be paid the same as any man doing the same job as me.  However, I've never bought into the hardcore Feminism which burns articles of clothing and demonises men.  Fortunately Caitlin Moran's book is not only devilishly funny but also very commonsensical.  It articulates a lot of things that I've felt for a long time, and it makes me wish that I could be as funky, outspoken, liberated and generally cool as Moran seems to be.  Sadly, that seems unlikely, as no amount of furtive sniggering will alter the fact that I'm fundamentally a 'nice' girl: I find it easier to talk about Raphael, or Shakespeare, than to discuss pet names for parts of my anatomy.  But it'd be nice if this book made certain subjects a little less taboo.

And it's not just women whom I'd urge to read this.  I saw a good uni friend last night - a lovely boy, very polite, impeccably brought-up, public-school, holds doors open for girls, very English - who on seeing the book said, "Oh yes!  I read that; it's very good."  I was quite surprised at the time, and that was when I'd only read Chapter 1.  Having now read the rest of the book, I can only imagine the dizzying introduction to female psychology which he must have had; but I'd like to salute him for his intrepid choice.  If more men read this, and find it funny, and touching, and honest, then perhaps as a society we can shrug off some of this sexism nonsense and get on with just being, as Caitlin Moran would say, 'the Guys'.

The Tempest (again!)

Antic Disposition at Middle Temple Hall, London
(20 August - 3 September 2011)

Yes, I know what you're thinking.  "She didn't go to see The Tempest again?!"  Well, yes; I did.  Yesterday, while browsing Google in search of other reviews of the Haymarket production, I stumbled across a website for this version also currently being performed in London.  I liked the sound of the young and independent theatre company, Antic Disposition (founded in 2005), and was impressed by the reviews of their previous Shakespeare productions.  Plus, they were performing The Tempest at Middle Temple Hall, the glorious Elizabethan dining hall of one of the Inns of Court, where Twelfth Night received its very first performance.  I couldn't resist the chance to compare two versions of the same play at such close quarters; nor could I pass up the opportunity to see a play in this venue, where Shakespeare himself had watched his words come to life.  And tonight, at last, I felt the magic of the play.  Perhaps I'm just going through a stage where I prefer intimate performance spaces and fairly minimalist productions.  There were about 100 people in the audience and it felt as if we were right in the heart of the story.  The only props in the entire play were a series of chests placed around the set, which doubled up as boulders, and a rope.  Yet that didn't matter: my imagination easily conjured up the rest. 

There's no way that I can write a review of this performance without comparing it to the Haymarket version; but Antic Disposition can rest assured that they transported and absorbed me in a way that the Haymarket show, with its big names and big budget, simply didn't manage.  This production I saw tonight never flagged: everything galloped along at a brisk pace and I think this was the result of sympathetic editing to the text.  I noticed that some parts from Monday's performance were missing, but I didn't miss them.  One thing I would note was that the acoustics of the Hall sometimes muddied the clarity slightly when the actors were facing away from me (the audience sits in a C shape around the stage).  As a result of this, the opening shipwreck scene was still difficult for me to understand, but after two viewings I think I've figured out the general gist of it, which is "Get out of the way, we're all about to drown!"

The actors were all superb and generally (in my opinion) surpassed those at the Haymarket.  I still think that Elisabeth Hopper's Miranda at the Haymarket was excellent, especially in her delivery of the lines; but Ami Sayers invested her Miranda with such wide-eyed awe and fascination that she was also a delight to watch.  I loved her kittenish examination of Ferdinand when they first meet: you could really believe that she was absorbed by this strange new creature.  Antic Disposition's Ferdinand was much more mature and self-confident than the Haymarket's; he was very natural and easy, and as I happened to be sitting next to a friend of his, I can say that he deserves a special mention for his beautifully-modulated English accent; for he is, in fact, American.  The scene where he was at his labours moving boxes - only for Ariel to whisk away those he'd already set down - was a lovely invention.  Another clever idea was to introduce Alonso, Antonio, Gonzalo and Sebastian as Prospero mentioned them in his speech to Miranda at the beginning (one of the problems of the Haymarket was that I wasn't quite sure who was who; whereas here, it was all beautifully clear).  Antonio in particular struck me; he was very cool and calculating, and in the scene where he invites Sebastian to slaughter Alonso in his sleep, I had an unnerving sense of menace.  Stefano and Trinculo were both great; Trinculo here was smartly turned-out in a suit and fez, and he was played as an endearing muppet rather than a clown proper, while the actor playing Stefano took the art of being sozzled to a whole new level.  Tony Austin's Caliban was a more straightforward, rather brutish approach to the role, with the odd comedic inflexion which worked very well.  He didn't have the deep nobility of the Haymarket's Caliban, but these were two nuanced interpretations which both worked very well in their own way.

Prospero and Ariel were the two roles that I had trouble with at the Haymarket; and to my utter delight, I thought them both excellent in tonight's performance.  Their Prospero delivered his lines fluidly and with such feeling that I did care about him, and was thoroughly convinced by him.  He combined poise and dignity with deep benevolence: the ideal scholar-prince.  His relationship with Ariel was very touching, and the final scene where he finally releases the spirit from his service was a bittersweet conclusion: Prospero's satisfaction in Ariel's joy seemed to be matched by regret to see him go.  Ariel was a delight to watch, and not only because he was rather beautiful (a feeling evidently shared by some of the commentators on the company's Facebook photo album).  He played the spirit as swift, graceful and gentle, ultimately humane despite his mischief with Ferdinand; and furthermore he had a lovely voice.  I had initial qualms when I realised that this production would have songs too, but here they were kept short and delivered so well that they complemented the play rather than interrupting it.  As for the nuptial pageant, which I thought so overblown at the Haymarket, it was here simplified to its essentials and consequently I thought it much better: Ariel simply stood on a box in a golden robe and sang, accompanied by the cast members who weren't currently on stage and who sang from the shadows.  It was succinct, magical and rather moving - which actually sums up my feelings about the play as a whole.

This little company deserves to be supported and so I urge you either to go see this production, if you can make it before Saturday, or keep your eyes open for their future shows.  An easy familiarity with Shakespeare's language, passion, simplicity and a knack for finding beautiful settings all seem to be hallmarks of their work, and I can't wait for next year's programme to be announced.

Now my charms are all o'erthrown: Prospero bids farewell to Ariel