Masterpiece Theatre

A live-action adaptation of Kenneth Grahame’s beloved children’s book might strike you as a bit hokey — the little world of Toad, Badger, Mole and Ratty is custom-made for animation in the classic pen-and-ink illustration style, after all — but the casting, makeup and costuming is so perfect in this Masterpiece Theatre that it’s wholly earned its masterpiece label.

The adorably skittish Mole (played by Lee Ingleby of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) tires of spring-cleaning his house, so he pops aboveground for a look-see about the neighborhood in its new spring bloom. He wanders a bit farther from home than he’s used to and runs across dapper and knowing Ratty (Mark Gattis, Match Point). The pair become fast friends and are soon off to meet the famous Toad (Matt Lucas), of the famous Toad Hall.

Toad is a large, larger-than-life, excitable sort of amphibian, wildly wealthy and prone to obsessive and expensive projects. Lucas as Toad is even more impressive than Toad himself: shaved totally bald, complete with warts and toadish face markings, he’s decked out in tweed three-piece suits, silken waistcoasts, cravats and gold watch chains. Meanwhile, Mole flubbers about in a grubby fur jacket, a delicately long nose for sniffing and some filthy sawed-down teeth for snacking. Then we have Ratty, who adorns himself in a professorial, cream gabardine suit and a charming Venetian straw hat. Thus bejeweled, these three unlikely companions decide to explore the world.

But Toad screws it all up when he discovers a new obsession: motor cars. The trip is canceled while he pursues his new passion, but it ends badly when he crashes seven cars and is hospitalized four times in only three months. Even some badgering from the no-nonsense Badger (Bob Hoskins) doesn’t get him to quit his habit, until he ends up imprisoned after he steals a car. Of course, he escapes by charming the jailor’s daughter (Anna Maxwell Martin, Bleak House), and Toad’s various misadventures and legal run-ins form the center of this magnificent tale about the glory (and peril) of joyful individuality.

Besides the genius costuming, the live actors add huge charm to an already endearing story. Each actor uses the exact mannerisms of his respective animal — Ratty sniffs at his paw, Toad blinks slowly and silently, and Mole trips and scrambles about nervously. The set design is also perfect, like Toad’s bright-green, lily pad-like bedclothes, and his car’s golden toad-shaped hood ornament. Toad is the absolute star of this endeavor, with his hilarious physical comedy (the dining-room chase scene was particularly wonderful) and his shrieking melodrama. And the script is terrific: Toad’s histrionic apologies, his clever odes in song to himself, his washerwoman monologues and his impassioned obsessions (“Brothers of the wheel, I hail thee!”) astound with cleverness. In the end, of course, the story becomes like Planes, Trains and Automobiles by a coalition of environmentalists and English schoolboys, but it’s heartwarming even without the anti-modernization, nature-loving message.

Some weeks, Masterpiece Theatre makes it seem like there are only a handful of masterpieces the world over. How many classic novels are out there and available to adapt, yet Masterpiece chooses to do Dracula, again, as if it’s never been done before? Meanwhile, there are hundreds of amazing, as-yet-never-adapted samples of great literature in the world, just sitting around waiting for our attention.

That said, this version of Bram Stoker’s beloved favorite wasn’t too shabby. The count, played by Marc Warren (Band of Brothers), was portrayed as a relatively likable guy — old, hunched and with a bad dermatological disorder, true, but not all that creepy, and with not too overwhelming a sense of evil about him. Gary Oldman’s Dracula fairly reeked of evil; Warren’s merely needed a haircut and a manicure. (Definitely a manicure — oof.)

That’s until he arrived in England, of course. That crate, those bugs crawling through his eye sockets… never will I see topsoil the same again. As usual, this Masterpiece piece was impeccably cast, and ole Drac ended up being an unusually charming but equally evil version of everyone’s favorite hunter of blood. The poor, earnest-hearted Jonathan Harker was also perfectly cast: Rafe Spall sported such an easy grin and wide baby face that it was perfectly impossible not to root for him. Van Helsing was played by David Suchet, who bears, in a stupid spasm of predictability, a remarkable resemblance to Anthony Hopkins. Lusty Lucy was played by buxom Masterpiece stalwart Sophia Myles, while dear little Mina was played by big-eyed newcomer Stephanie Leonidas, who did a marvelous job handling Mina’s subtle transitioning between sweet innocent and tough-minded fighter.

Of course, this story being what it is, female sexuality was a big theme. While the men scurried around trying to protect their betrothed from ill-intentioned foreigners, the girls themselves, in classic Victorian morality, could only work to protect themselves — against themselves. Their own secret sexual needs and desires, that is. Poor Lucy succumbed the first chance she got, but sweet little faith-abiding Mina managed to hold out. This particular version of the story was faithful to the original and hardly strayed an inch from previous adaptations; its only fault in my mind was its breakneck pacing. Constrained by its built-in 90-minute time cap, this version had to move fast and fit a whole lotta story within a very short time allotment. It was easy enough to follow, and it managed to tie up each of its story lines in the end, but the film moved so fast that it seemed to assume that viewers had a good deal of previous familiarity with the story. A reasonable assumption in this day and age, to be sure, but it nevertheless left the viewer feeling a bit breathless and spent.

Nonetheless, it was beautifully shot and had the trademark naturalistic lighting of most Masterpiece movies: Sunlight rules the day, as dark and shadowy scenes rule the night. For example, how beautiful was Lucy and Arthur’s garden wedding?

Masterpiece caters again to its teen viewership (numbering as high as three, no doubt) with the first in Philip Pullman’s celebrated Sally Lockhart mystery series, in which the heroine in question finds herself in receipt of some very cryptic messages, as well as some very uncryptic threats on her life, after her father is reported drowned in the East Indies. Set in 1874, Sally was raised very unconventionally for a Victorian girl: She always carries a pistol, is an expert marksman and in lieu of the standard parlor-based accomplishments of a woman of her era, she instead is skilled in accounting, marketing and stock trading. So, needless to say, Sally is a girl who can take care of herself.

But for all her nontraditional distinctions, this 16-year-old is actually pretty soft-spoken. Played by Billie Piper of Doctor Who fame, the honey-haired, large-eyed doe spends most of the story puzzling through bookkeeping quandaries, and not a whole lot of time actually speaking. Her story on film strays from the book in that it opens with a narration in heavy cockney by Jim, the rough-and-ready clerk who works at the shipping agency co-owned by Sally’s late father. Jim meets Sally when she goes to her father’s former business partner to ask about a mysterious letter she’s received. But when she shares the contents of this letter with her father’s coworker, the man literally dies of fright. Sally is then left on her own to figure out the meaning of the letter, the circumstances of her father’s death, the whereabouts and origins of the mystical ruby of Agrapur, what role (if any) her father had in an Indian mutiny some 15 years earlier, what the dreaded Seven Blessings are, and why in the world some old lady named Mrs. Holland would be trying to kill her. It’s quite a yarn for such a little girl.

She meets some friends along the way to help her out, though. There’s Jim, for one, but also the handsome and charming photographer Frederick Garland (played by Jude Law look-alike J.J. Feild) and his bohemian actress sister, Rosa. There’s also one tattered-and-torn young sailor, a Matthew Bedwell, who has a message for Sally from her father’s deathbed, but who’s having some trouble delivering it due to his unfortunate opium addiction. He’s being held in a makeshift opium den by the deliciously and thoroughly evil Mrs. Holland, who feeds Bedwell just enough opium to keep him muttering aloud and dropping clues about Sally’s father’s death, the terrifying pirate Ah Ling and the whereabouts of that world-famous, potato-size ruby.

What’s so great about this story is its proto-feminist stance about traditional gender roles (written by a man, no less!), and its totally precise image of the filth and poverty of Victorian London. Pullman’s unsullied admiration for bohemian, socialist values (as seen in the adorable portrayal of the clumsy but clever Garland family) and his searing tirade against the government-sponsored opium trade of the 19th century make this story one of a kind considering the age it is set in. Its only flaw compared to the book is its total gloss-over of Sally’s remarkable business acumen. In the book, she buys and sells stocks with her inheritance from her father, and she also comes up with a brilliant new business idea for Frederick’s photography studio. This story line is almost entirely neglected in the movie adaptation, much to its detriment, because it leaves Sally looking somewhat colorless and ineffectual. She is brave and strong-willed, certainly, but she relies on her friends to do most of the mystery-solving. Still, as a remark on the senselessness of historical women’s roles (especially seen in Mrs. Holland’s tale of past mistreatment because of her sexual conduct) — and as one ripping good mystery set in Victorian London, the Malaysian high seas and dank English opium dens — this story can’t be beat.

I want to be Jane Eyre when I grow up, and the remarkable strength of character she shows in this second half of the miniseries is why.

After a childhood of abuse and 10 years of absence, Jane's called to the deathbed of her wicked Aunt Reed. A lesser novelist may have granted Aunt Reed a deathbed conversion to kindness, but not our harshly realistic Charlotte: The old witch is still as mean as ever. But Jane's reaction to Aunt Reed's hate-spew is one of kindness and forgiveness. Without acting the least bit victimized, she holds Aunt Reed's hand and tells her that she'll love her no matter how she's treated by her. It's astounding, easily the most affecting moment in the film. Three cheers for Jane — heck, make it 10.

This is one of the reasons Charlotte Brontë's story is so far ahead of its time: She was a proto-child psychologist, a writer who looked at how children develop into healthy adults (or unhealthy adults, as the case may be), and how human dignity and resilience in the face of childhood trauma and isolation can play a big role in healthy growth. The parlor scene in the first half of the miniseries — in which Rochester's party guests debate the nature vs. nurture/good blood vs. bad blood/kindness as a tool for bringing out the good in people is a prime example of this. (I don't remember this conversation from the book. Was this added in for the movie, anyone?) A lot of you have posted comments mentioning that the miniseries skipped a huge chunk of Jane's formative years at school, which included more junk for her to endure but also featured the beneficial friendships of Helen and Jane's teacher. I agree that this is one of the film's flaws — we missed out on a lot of the formative things that make Jane Jane. I imagine the filmmakers did it to speed things along to the bodice-ripping Rochester story line, and also to negotiate room for the even split between Parts 1 and 2, which takes place as Jane is called away from Thornfield to see Aunt Reed. A perfect spot for an intermission, but unfortunately, it probably meant that her school years got some heavy editing.

Another aspect of the film that people have posted comments about has been the film's gray-tone color scheme. It is a mostly washed-out gray-and-blue scale, but there are a couple of carefully chosen exceptions to that: Jane's red kerchief, which she puts on the night after she saves Rochester's life, and the long red scarf that Bertha Rochester hangs out of her upstairs window. The red tones represent the passionate, lusty, even bestial side of mankind: Jane wears it when she's feeling flirty, and Bertha wears it as a symbol of her wild, untamed, passionate side. In the book this juxtaposition takes on a nationalistic aspect. For Rochester, Jane is a representation of the calm, reasoned, gray beauty of England, while Lady Rochester is the wild, maddening, angry but insatiably sexual aspect of the Tropics. Lady Rochester is in this way an utterly gothic character, but Brontë's national prejudice is also directed against the Gallic: Rochester continually mocks little French Adèle, who is portrayed as a flighty, frivolous strumpet-in-the-making. Charlotte Brontë sure loves her countrywomen.

Of course, in the first half of the story, Jane is a bit too English — she's all practicality and austerity. A lot of her story with Rochester is her education in emotion — how to feel it and express it. Rochester can help her with that from his years of lustful training (thanks in great part to Bertha), and it all peaks for her in her big confessional scene with him, when she cries and asks if he thinks she can't feel just because she's plain. Plain Jane or no, how sexy was that interchange?! I nearly fainted dead, just like a Victorian aunt. By the way, Toby Stephens: too handsome to play Rochester? A redhead seems a strange choice, although Stephens' stout and stocky frame is perfect casting.

Speaking of Bertha Rochester, I was struck by how pretty she was. In the book, she's described as an absolute beast, utterly savage. Here she seemed rather daft, weirdly coquettish, certainly with a vicious temper but relatively well-kept considering her living quarters. What did you guys think, was this alteration a feminist modernization of a pretty controversially sexual character? If you're as fascinated by Rochester's wife as I am, I'd suggest reading Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys. It tells the tale of the couple's pre-England years of marriage, all from Bertha's point of view.

Charlotte Brontë’s famous governess comes to Masterpiece in this beautifully shaded, true-to-the-book, emotional powerhouse of an adaptation. Jane is a moneyless orphan who’s been taken in by her cruel Aunt Reed (Tara Fitzgerald), who had promised Jane’s dying uncle that she’d care for Jane to adulthood. Bitchy old Aunt Reed’s idea of caring, however, seems to mean pitting her three bratty children against young Jane, then blaming everything on Jane and calling her a liar. But Jane’s a fighter: Even at age 8, she has a resolute sense of right and wrong and a barrel full of self-possession and self-respect. Aunt Reed reacts by seeing Jane as the very spawn of Satan, and sends her off to a strict, regimented school for orphaned girls, never to be reunited again. Young Jane is perfectly, proudly portrayed by Georgie Henley, who you may recognize as Lucy from The Chronicles of Narnia. Her casting choice is perfect, because she’s a dead ringer for the grown-up Jane, played by newcomer Ruth Wilson.

The grown-up Jane comes into her own only when she is out of school and takes a job as a governess at Thornfield Hall, working for the oft-talked-about but rarely seen Mr. Rochester (Toby Stephens). Thornfield Hall becomes Jane’s first home, the only place she ever felt loved, happy and accepted. She is adored by her pupil, the little Adele, and gets a warm welcome from the plump and maternal Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper at the estate. And as for Jane and the moody and bossy Mr. Rochester: fire! The heat and chemistry between these two could set celluloid aflame. Despite their nearly 20-year gap in age, these two are equals from the start: The wit, sarcasm and verbal sparring is palpable, and they exude a sense of peerhood, teamwork and mutual understanding from the get-go. She is amused by his snarky, “changeable” self-hatred, and he instantly expects her to hold her own in conversation, always confiding in her and asking her advice. Theirs is a romance for the ages.

But there are obstacles, naturally, and some strange, mysterious goings-on to boot. Like what’s the deal with that nutto Grace Poole? Why’s she living up in the attic, hanging scarves out the window and setting people’s beds on fire? And why is Rochester flirting so heavily with Jane (like, hello, that fortune-telling scene!) yet still pursuing that snitty, shallow Blanche Ingram? His heartless games of the heart, mixed with his rough exterior, his childlike vulnerability and his constant need for Jane’s counsel are adorable but infuriating, and not a little cruel. And what’s going on with Aunt Reed, whose deathbed wish is to see Jane once more? Has that evil old meanie softened at all with age? While it pains me to see Jane and Rochester parted, we’re all dying to know what’s up in the Reed house, and whether Rochester will be engaged by the time Jane gets back from her trip to see Aunt Reed. By the way, how adorable was that parting scene between Jane and Rochester, debating how much money he owed her? That Jane drives a hard bargain, and Rochester loves it. Eat your heart out, Blanche Ingram.

This week’s Masterpiece Theatre tells the story of Carrie Willow, a 13-year-old English girl who is sent with her younger brother, Nick, to live in the Welsh countryside during World War II to escape the London bombings. But the tale is actually a love story, a sweet, adolescent yarn about Carrie and the slightly older Albert Sandwich, another boy who is in the group of London refugees sent to Wales during the war. Carrie is a responsible, nervous but tough-minded lass, and Albert is wise and scholarly. He comes off somewhat arrogant but is secretly shy and, of course, terribly in love with our heroine Carrie. It’s a children’s book, but trust me, adults can get on board as well.

Carrie and her lovably mischievous brother are placed in the home of Mr. Evans (Alun Armstrong, who played Bucket in Bleak House) and his sister, Louisa (Lesley Sharpe). Mr. Evans is a hard man, religious, penny-pinching, and, most of the time, pissed off. His homekeeping habits are characterized by his insistence that residents in his home not walk on the new carpet on the stairs, which results in everyone in the house having to climb the stairs by straddling the carpet, cowboy-style. He’s also a terrible tyrant to his mousy but kind sister, and Carrie and Nick live in mortal fear of him. But one day they are sent to collect a holiday turkey from the home of Mr. Evans’ older sister, one Dylis Gotobed (Geraldine McEwan, known to you all as Miss Marple). Mrs. Gotobed lives in a huge and elegant manor house out in the woods, and her home is managed by the lovable Hepzibah Green, a jolly, tubby woman who is rumored among the local townsfolk to be a witch. Another resident of Mrs. Gotobed’s house, known as Druid’s Bottom, is an at-first frightening gentleman called Mr. Johnny. As it turns out, Mr. Johnny isn’t scary at all, he’s merely palsied with a bit of a speech impediment. What’s more, an additional resident of the Gotobed home ends up being the much-mooned-over Albert Sandwich. So the Willow children and the Gotobed household all become fast friends.

But trouble arises when Carrie learns of a longstanding family feud between the wealthy Mrs. Gotobed and her miserly shopkeeper brother Mr. Evans. Throw in a closet full of silk ball gowns, a missing will and testament, some sweetly clumsy preteen kisses, a handsome and dapper American officer, and a cursed, centuries-old skull of possibly African origin, and what you get is a honking good mystery/love story; it’s like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but without the lion and with a Miss Havisham instead. The movie stays wonderfully true to the book, perfectly capturing each of the difficult and complex characters and skillfully demonstrating the book’s biggest theme, which is that one mustn’t judge people by their exteriors, because the meanest, scariest people are often the kindest people on the inside.

Next week’s Masterpiece is a rerun — Pollyanna — so I’ll see you all in January!

This week's Masterpiece Theatre is a rerun, so check here for a review and discussion of it from its April showing.

Well, we all knew that Mr. Phillips was somehow involved, but all along I felt like he was too much of a milquetoast to commit a crime as grievous as the one committed against Sallie. His reaction after his wife refused to allow him back in the house — of immediately looking around, worried what the neighbors would think — was greasy and perfectly fit with my impression of him. What I did worry about, however, was that Sallie’s dad would have one of his fits of rage and seek his own vengeance against Mr. Phillips. Now it seems like the whole family could be a target for Sallie’s father.

Speaking of Sallie’s father, what an amazing actor. He has the full range of anger, resignation, depression, sorrow and familial devotion and adoration. In the scene when he frantically grabs at his dead daughter’s backpack, to see such a hard-nosed jerk grieve with such depth, I was stunned. And the strange Nirvana quoting? Well, let’s just say that that has to be the first time Nirvana has been quoted in an episode of Masterpiece Theatre.

But let’s talk about Jane. Jane, per usual, astounded. The scene in the bathroom with Danny, when he walks in on her crying and she tries — successfully — to stop her tears: she is magnificent. Britain’s famous stiff upper lip never looked so good. And her father’s funeral made me ache. I loved that she was late — hungover, no less — and that her heels noisily clicked on the church floor as she rushed in; only a woman could have written in that little detail. The unbearable pain of watching her alienate her sister and niece in the bar afterward.… Those scenes were practically unwatchable for me. Poor Jane, poor Jane, she was completely unraveling in those moments. I felt like screaming, “For god’s sake, don’t drive people away!” And when she left the bar and got in her car, I did actually scream, “For god’s sake, don’t drive away!” I mean, she was seriously soused. Oh, Jane.

The real star of this show, though — or at least the costar — is that remarkable Laura Greenwood, the actress who played Penny. Greenwood is an actress playing an actress, and Penny is an amazing actress. She is a master manipulator. And when I realized her sinister side (which, trusting fool that I am, took me all the way until she took her shirt off in front of her father), I was shaken to the core. I still am, one could say. She is evil and freaky and mean and totally crazy. Prone to fits of range, sweet as pie when it serves her, smart as hell and utterly remorseless. I’m scared of a fictional character, truly scared. She manipulated even Jane Tennison!! Is that even conceivable?! So when Jane saw herself in Penny, that’s what she was seeing — the evil side of the art of human manipulation, a skill that Jane has spent her life putting to use for the side of right. When Penny was playing Jane’s lost-chance-at-motherhood strings with all those references to her terminated pregnancy… it was as if Penny were speaking to Jane from inside her own brain. But the betrayal of this faux mother/daughter relationship and Penny’s sociopathic nuttiness combined to validate Jane’s decision to not have a family. And when Sallie’s dad thanked Jane, and shook her hand so passionately, that was a validation of Jane’s entire career. These writers are my heroes. The stunning psychology of this complex web of characters… I am just heartbroken that there will be no more Jane in our future. This lady is a literary treasure, truly.

I will say, though, I am pissed off that they didn’t let us see Jane with a stripper. She has so earned it!

Shiver me timbers, DCI Jane Tennison is back, in a performance as chilling as the crime she’s now investigating. The seventh and final chapter of the venerable Prime Suspect series opens with an aging Jane, as she steadfastly downs a glass of straight vodka by the light of an early morning. Her professional reputation these days, however, is not served neat — it’s on the rocks, and in a big way. She’s suffering alcoholic blackouts, and suspects have even noticed her boozy smell during interrogations. To add to her mounting pressures, her father is weeks away from dying of cancer, she’s got only two weeks left till her retirement date, and she’s investigating the brutal murder of a teenage girl with a very frightening father. Does Detective Superintendent Jane Tennison have enough kick left in her before her pension kicks in? Oh, you know that she does.

This final installment is a meditation on the past, shame about one’s mistakes and the troubled nature of the parent/child relationship. As Jane’s father lies dying, she must now grapple with the fact that she spent 35 years choosing her career over her parents and over building a family of her own. After hitting it off with 14-year-old Penny, the best friend of the murdered girl, Jane shows her rarely- or, to be more accurate, never-seen nurturing side. Yes, it exists, and it’s adorable! She is witty, understanding, self-mocking, encouraging and totally nonjudgmental — she would’ve made a great mum. Unfortunately, she doesn’t take care of herself as well as she does young Penny — her diet is poor, she is relentlessly guilt-stricken, and then, of course, there’s the little problem of the bottle.

What struck me most about this PS was its nostalgic feel and its focus on the past. The people around Jane put up with a lot, because they’ve known her for years now. And the film has that well-worn tone of a frustrating but ever-enduring friendship. And talk about a blast from the past — that “chauvinistic bastard” Bill from PS 1 is back, and he actually feels regret about his jerky little past. His shame is so bad, in fact, that he offers to become her AA sponsor, and he’s the only one she ends up turning to when her father dies. The scene in the coffee shop between Jane and Bill was one of redemption and real, hard-earned friendship — and it made me weep like a willow.

Other scenes that pushed my softie buttons? That heart-wrenching mother’s “No, she’s not” performance. Also: Penny’s incredible eulogy for Sallie, and every last one of Mr. Tennison’s flinty but sweet hospital scenes — it’s pretty clear now where Jane gets it from. And the chemistry between Jane and Penny was magical, as they sat in Penny’s basement hideaway and gossiped about tattoos and boys. (How great was that line about Jane with a big anchor tattoo on her bicep?) But the killer scene for me happened in Jane’s childhood room, when she danced and sang to the pop songs of her boy-crazy girlhood. Just try for a moment to imagine a giggling, boy-crazy Jane Tennison: It’s like envisioning the borders of an expanding universe. It defies human capabilities.

But of course, as we dangle over the cliff of Part 2, many questions are left unanswered. What exactly is Penny’s relationship with Curtis? Is Curtis as evil-minded as his criminal record would imply, or is he as kindhearted as he seemed to Jane in that first scene? Also, is the school principal a scumbag? And was that “Nite, nite” to Penny the very first text message Detective Superintendent Jane Tennison has ever sent? All this we’ll learn next Sunday. Until then, nite nite.

What an incredible conclusion to an astonishing story. Edmund Talbot’s complete evolution from snarky, coldhearted brat to loyal, fiercely compassionate populist has been warming — and great fun — to watch.

What a wonderful friend he’s become, and to such a broad and fascinating collection of people. All his friends on the Pandora had a chance at 15 minutes of heroism in this last installment of William Golding’s sea trilogy. Summers, of course, was a model of honorable and brave human behavior, even going so far as to go down with his ship (in an amazing fire-and-explosion scene, punctuated by three seconds of solid white screen and eerie silence). He’s a working-class hero even John Lennon would have loved. Mr. and Mrs. Prettiman went from self-satisfied social lecturing (or “educationist” — what is that?) and imperious maternal martyr to a showing of fierce emotional intelligence, kindhearted loyalty and self-sacrificing caretaking. Even Captain Anderson revealed a good side — his steely professional confidence during the glacier scenes were, well, chilling.

The ice scenes were my favorite, by the way — the terrifying creaking of the boat; the dark, Dickensian palate; the beautiful, painted-on sea of ice and its mirrored reflection in the sky of thick clouds. These scenes were better than in the book, I dare say.

But of course Talbot becomes the biggest hero of all. His amazing moral transformation shows a belief in the good side of human nature that’s pretty surprising considering its author. The depth of the effect this boat journey had on him seems to surprise even Talbot himself — and once safely on his estate in Australia he seems completely obsessed by memories of it. (Considering Talbot’s unflinching desire for Marion, after only a single day spent with her, he seems to have a rather obsessive nature, no?) By the end, his days are spent living in the past, although I don’t agree with Mrs. Prettiman: the happenings and characters aboard the Pandora were not simply “a series of events”; they did indeed become a metaphor for the human condition. Of course they did, silly!

And of course at the end Edmund and Marion are reunited — in a ridiculously brief scene, but I guess I’ll take it — and William Golding actually gives us a Hollywood happy ending. Considering the intense love that existed between these two characters, I say: There’s nothin’ wrong with that!

Next week’s Masterpiece Theatre isn’t theater at all – it’s Prime Suspect: The Final Act. If you’ve never caught Helen Mirren in her breakthrough role as investigator Jane Tennison, now’s your chance before everyone’s favorite lady bulldog retires. She might not be theater, but she’s a masterpiece.

How about that almost-pornographic opening crotch scene, hmmm? Masterpiece Theatre meets Tommy Lee at last. I always knew someday it would.

In this installment we see a cheerier side of the usually mankind-hating William Golding: Suddenly, the guy believes in dancing, laughter and love! But not so fast, maybe Talbot’s obsessive love affair is a result of his hallucination-inducing blow to the head. Well, maybe all love is.

This second book in the trilogy is a feverish meditation on nature, war and finally love. In the opening few scenes, we see a primal Talbot, naked and showering in the driving rain. Then we see a little workplace physical abuse between the tyrannical Captain Anderson and the drunken Deverel, and then we get an all-too-brief vision of insane carnality between Miss Brocklebank, Mr. Brocklebank and Mrs. Brocklebank. Good god, what in the flying heck was that? You book-club members know: They aren’t a family at all, merely traveling as one to keep up appearances. Troubling to say the least. Then we have preparations for war (with all of 10 minutes of military training for reserve civilian volunteers, kinda like nowadays), Mr. Pike’s manic and shrieking freakout, some fireworks, and a surreal conversation with a presumed dead man. All this shot under an eerily blue foggy night. Brilliant.

After the fever breaks, Talbot goes aboard the boat of the presumed enemy, to attend a ball celebrating the end of the war. How beautiful and light-filled was the new boat and the joy and sweetness of peace? Fun, dancing, laughter, beautiful clothes, incredible food, and then Marion (Joanna Page), a 19th-century Mia Farrow. First Zenobia and now this girl – clearly Talbot likes the blondes. But I wonder, anyone know if there is any kind of historical accuracy here: Were boats ever tied together like this, for social purposes? It doesn’t seem plausible to me in the slightest, but the love between Talbot and Marion did seem real and true and sweet. His sudden obsessive insanity resulting from it, however, can only be explained away as concussion-related. But I do truly hope they meet again.

My favorite scene was when Talbot hit his head during gun maneuvers. (Talbot as rodeo clown!) I also liked to see Miss Granham’s caring and maternal side (was there sexual tension between her and Talbot for a few moments?), and seeing Talbot cry at the performance nearly made me cry. But my favorite scene, the one that most reminded me of the dark-hearted, morbid writer who’s behind this story, was Brocklebank’s despairing “How does a boat sink? How can a man drown with dignity?” speech. That was so heartwrenchingly horrifying: These people are alone, washed out in the vast sea, and their boat is falling apart around them. It’s a terrifying existential precipice. I love it!

Next episode: that thar boat is one sick puppy, and is growing sicker. Stay tuned, there might be more sex, and there’s sure to be more drugs. No rock and roll, though, sorry.

William Golding's sea trilogy To the Ends of the Earth gets the signature Masterpiece Theatre treatment with this adaptation of the first book in the series, Rites of Passage. Cloaked as a sea yarn of a young aristocrat who learns about himself and mankind on a long boat journey to Australia during the early 1800s, the story is actually just another classic William Golding story. Golding, who also wrote Lord of the Flies, is an unmasked, staunchly cynical misanthrope, and in this story it shows.

The young aristocrat is one Edmund Talbot, the godson of an influential politico back in England, whose powerful family connections have landed him a position of rank in the colony of Australia. As thanks for the string-pulling, Talbot promises his godfather that he'll keep a detailed journal of his sea journey, so that his ill, housebound relative can live his godson's riotous, lively youth vicariously. So the story is bookended in voice-overs in the form of these letters.

Talbot is played by Benedict Cumberbatch, a proud, thin-lipped redhead in the haughty manner of Paul Bettany (mixed a little with the sly, troublemaking quality of Olympic snowboarder Shaun White, the Flying Tomato). Because of his influential family background, the Sailing Tomato gets some undeserved special treatment on board, from the tyrannical Captain Anderson (Jared Harris) and some other officers, and this creates some tension and misunderstanding with some of the other passengers. In a lot of ways, this first installment of Golding's trilogy has a lot in common with his Lord of the Flies story. The ship becomes a nation-state writ small, and raises all the issues of class, power, law, sexual morality, human cruelty, political cover-ups, drug use, and the distribution of wealth and property that are subject to debate in any society, whatever its size. Removed from the laws and watchful eye of merry old English society, the passengers and crew start to show their true natures: they drink heavily, live like pigs, indulge in carnal sexuality, and, most tragically, target for humiliation the weakest among them. While in Lord of the Flies this weakest link is Piggy of the "asmar," on this marine journey it's Parson Colley, a clumsy, socially awkward, moralizing but goodhearted minister who has the vast misfortune of pissing off the ship's heartless captain. He is thus systematically mocked and humiliated by the other ship passengers and crew, which eventually results in his tragic and accidental death.

The crux of this first volume is watching Talbot as he observes his fellow mankind and learns about the art of compassion. He starts out as a self-satisfied brat with a pretty sizable mean streak. (That sex scene with Zenobia seemed uncharacteristically cruel and violent — and, according to this interview, that was the actor's first-ever on-screen sex scene!) But after the parson's passing, it was great watching Talbot learn to cry and care and give a damn about somebody besides himself. This adaptation also had an awful lot of terrific humor: in a word, Zenobia. Her utterly unsuccessful attempts to conceal her lustful inclinations, and the clumsy pratfalling she instills in the men on board, were cracking me up. The opening scenes in which arrogant Talbot has to suffer through sea sickness and has to adjust to life aboard a creaking old man o' war also amused, as did Wheeler's attentive efficiency, Miss Granham's (Victoria Hamilton) proud fury and Mr. Prettiman's (Sam Neill) self-righteous political rantings. The casting here is absolutely perfect, and I'm curious to see how all these lives unfold over the next two installments. Having read the trilogy, this first is the darkest by far, and in the next one we get to see Talbot fall head over heels in love. Stay tuned for volume two!

How different this second part is from the first. The first was a comedy with a dash of true love; this one has a good deal of humor, but ends with dark, volcanic bitterness and a couple of scenes of such sinister decadence that I am left totally shaken on the inside. And there wasn’t a nun in sight!

The flashback starts with a balcony scene in which a group of gore-loving aristocrats watch a bloody, entrail-heavy execution with twisted, greedy grins on their faces. In the movie, Casanova protects his son from the sight, but if I recall correctly, in the book he actually has sex from a balcony overlooking the execution. This highlights one aspect of the Casanova story that this particular adaptation willfully disregards: his self-obsessed, perverse carnality. In the book he also has an affair with his illegitimate daughter; in the movie he is morally revolted by the prospect. A few other things are made up as well: in the movie the characters of Rocco and of Edith the kitchen maid, for example, each play an important role in the humanization of a man who might otherwise appear cruel and coldhearted. The film character of Rocco shows us a side of Casanova that is a loyal, warm and grateful friend, capable of nonsexual relationships and of grief and mourning. The character of Edith shows Casanova’s mean side but also his needy, little-boy sad side, and all the old-Casanova scenes with her reminded me of the scenes between Geoffrey Rush and Kate Winslet in the movie Quills – actress Rose Byrne, who plays Edith, even looks like a brunette Winslet. Still, both Rocco and Edith were not in the original books, and I wonder what purpose they serve here in the movie and why the screenwriters chose to include them, except to make the character of Casanova more palatable to modern audiences.

All that said, there are plenty of things I did like. There was a lot of terrific humor at play, like pretty much every scene between Giac senior and Giac junior (the stare-off scene between father and son in the carriage, the “Giac, say you’re proud” scenes). And Casanova’s various quips about where the region of Seingault is (“It’s not so much a place as a state of mind”; “Its boundaries tend to wax and wane”) were delightful. I loved that Casanova invented the lottery and built himself a chateau in which there was a room “just for wrapping presents,” and then of course gambled it all away. The party scenes were all remarkably well-done – beautiful bright pastels in the court of Louis XV and punk/goth red and black in Bellino’s Naples villa. The famous duel and Casanova’s wonderful capacity for emotional insight made me tear up a bit – and to like Grimani in spite of myself. I also liked that they touched a bit on the political, artistic and philosophical thoughts that Casanova included in his memoirs. In the book he also discusses the French Revolution and its possible causes – such as the carnivorous upper class and the newly expanding middle class in which the poor had more opportunity to rise in rank. This last factor is particularly ironic since that’s precisely how Casanova got as far as he did.

So overall, a funny and moving retelling of the remarkably versatile and wildly intelligent man called Casanova. The Henriette true-love trope lent a lot of warmth to a story that otherwise can descend into dull travelogue, empty trysting and overlong discussions of Greek poetic devices. In this version, Casanova is sweet, loving, self-mocking and oft-misunderstood. Giac, we’re proud! Now everybody go buy a lottery ticket to prove it.

The story of Casanova’s life adventures, told in flashback by an exiled, 50-year-old Giacomo Casanova (Peter O’Toole) to a young kitchen maid, recounts the reckless and hilarious adventures of a wildly misspent youth. The young Casanova, played by Doctor Who’s David Tennant, recovers from a lonely childhood with an absent actress-mother by indulging in romantic liaisons starting from the shockingly early age of 11. (I suppose your options for entertaining yourself were much fewer in the days before television.) From that point on he is a star scholar, a prodigious gambler and an adorably wry and cheerful lover of ladies (usually married) all over Europe. Giac is a wildly intelligent, scrappy young man who has no money or professional prospects and must learn to navigate the shark-infested waters of the 1740s Venetian social scene using his charm and wits alone. And what wit he has — he is deliriously sharp-tongued and fast on his feet. (How great was that line about the slave taking the name of his master? Even I swooned.) While partying in Venice, he changes careers as often as he changes women — about every other night. We see him meet with wild success as a physician, an astrologer and a lawyer to the Venetian nobility, and his scams and common-sense approach to problems that are generally reserved for specialists is endearing.

Throughout all this, he meets one Henriette (Laura Fraser, He Knew He Was Right), who, according to the story, would become the love of his life — but, naturally, she’s engaged to someone else. Those of you in my Masterpiece Theatre book club know that this character of Henriette is totally exaggerated — in the book she gets hardly a footnote mention. Screenwriter Russell T. Davies’ decision to modernize the story by using the Henriette character as Giac’s lifelong ideal and his romantic conscience seems to me like a pretty cheap cop-out, as if Casanova’s story of infidelities isn’t worth telling unless there’s some love-based disappointment that motivates him. With Henriette in the picture, it makes it look like all his affairs are merely some attempt to secretly run from some early pain — or a search to replace his absent mother. According to the book, the truth is that the guy just never wanted to settle for one woman, although he did love lots of them with truth, depth and real ardor. Nevertheless, the role of Henriette in the movie is charmingly outlined — they seem like soul mates who totally and wordlessly understand each other. It’s a pretty adorable relationship, actually — one based on real friendship, generosity, kindness, intelligence and fun. The Giac we see in the movie seems to be someone who values women as peers and equals, as advisors and as people who need to be heard and understood to feel loved. That whole scene with the two redheaded sisters who say they just want to be listened to — that’s straight out of Dr. Phil! Again, this story is so shamelessly modernized!

My favorite part in the movie so far was that hilarious scene in the priest’s confessional, when he confesses to having “lustful thoughts” as well as liaisons with two sisters, a mother, a man, a woman with a fake penis, a married woman behind her husband’s back (literally) and “two nuns... you may know them!”; that scene was so funny I had to rewind it three times. My second favorite so far was the party scene in which Giacomo and Henriette have a wordless conversation from across the room, using only their eyes. That looked like true love to me, I must say.

So, to you book-club folks out there, how do you think the movie compares so far to the book? In next week’s installment, we get to see the famous duel scene, and hopefully a little more focus on those nuns!

Thomas Hardy’s lightest and most comedic work, Under the Greenwood Tree is actually a rollicking ode to the goodhearted rural traditions of 1840s town life. Fancy Day, a pretty, educated newcomer, rolls into Mellstock like Madge on a disco dance floor: She overdresses for everything and men everywhere swoon. Specifically, she’s got three suitors: Wealthy Mr. Shiner is ruddy, middle-aged and likable (very different from his portrayal in the book, by the way, where he’s so totally self-satisfied you want to give a shiner to Mr. Shiner); Pastor Maybold is pushy, sanctimonious and snobbish; and Dick Dewy is handsome, charmingly fumbling and as poor as a pocket. Indeed, he is so smitten with Miss Day that his first words of invitation to her are simply: “Party. [Spit. Stutter. Silence.] Party.” (Heck — that woulda won me!) Now not surprising with a child named “Fancy,” Fancy’s papa thinks his daughter is the bee’s knees, and despite her love for Dick (Dick Dewy, you sicko), he will not let his baby marry a penniless man. And thus begins a long and complicated string of pratfalling, mistaken-identity, Three’s Company-style miscommunications and bawling, blubbering tear sessions. A very strange hullabaloo, in my opinion, for such a wan, snaggletoothed creature as Keeley Hawes (although ya gotta love Masterpiece Theatre actors — they’re all pre-tooth caps). After a smokin’ From Here to Eternity beachside scene, some private flask moments in church, and not a few exceedingly harsh words regarding the technological advancement that is the church organ, it all, of course, works out in the end for the sleepy little town of Mellstock and its Fancy Dick.