Guest Post: Jeanne on "A Question of Character"

Please welcome back Jeanne of the Bookblog of the Bristol Public Library as she considers the perception of character.

A Question of Character

Lately I’ve been thinking about how people view characters; specifically how they react when someone else takes over writing or acting a character.  For example, some reviews of Robert Goldsborough’s Nero Wolfe series maintain that a reader will think the book was written by Rex Stout.  I’ve never thought that.  I enjoy Goldsborough’s books but I am never under any illusion that I’m reading something by Stout.  The characters are just a bit off to me.  I experience the same thing with Anne Hillerman’s continuation of the Chee and Leaphorn stories; those two characters don’t seem to have the same feel.  I think Ms. Hillerman was wise to make Bernadette the main character in her books in order to minimize comparisons.

Readers often have as many opinions as there are--well, readers. Is Lord Peter the bon vivant of the earlier books or the serious, damaged man of the latter? True, there were earlier mentions of his being shell-shocked but for the most part he behaves rather glibly—until Harriet comes on the scene.  Sayers allowed the character to evolve.  For me, this is best illustrated by the different approaches by Ian Carmichael and Edward Petherbridge, who played the two aspects of Wimsey quite well.

Miss Marple is another character with changeable characteristics.  Is she really the irritating busybody, the “old cat” as one character described her, or is she the harmless, fluffy little old lady with rosy cheeks? Thanks to the many screen portrayals, there are at least ten versions from which to choose, although some of the versions are undermined by scripts that alter situations and solutions and do not, shall we say, improve on the original.  (Perhaps “make a pig’s breakfast” is actually closer to the mark.) I was partial to Geraldine McEwan’s and Helen Hayes’ versions, but there are others I found worthy.

Other characters have had even more interpretations.  Sherlock Holmes has been everything from “a high functioning sociopath” in the Cumberbatch TV version to an older, romantic lead in Laurie King’s Mary Russell series; he’s been a boor, an enlightened champion, a dilettante, and an unstable addict.  All these portrayals have their roots in the original; it’s what the reader takes away from it personally that forms the impression.

But the real chasm for me is found in a science fiction character:  Mr. Spock. I was eight when Star Trek started and each week found me glued to the TV.  Spock was an alien, someone who didn’t fit in, and who was regarded with suspicion and/or disdain by many.  He was an outsider, and that appealed to a number of people in the 1960s:  people who felt different, who felt isolated, who felt marginalized.  Here was someone intelligent, lonely, and struggling to fit in to a society he didn’t quite understand without compromising his beliefs or change who he was.  Many years later I read that Roddenberry wanted a post-racial world for Earth, but still wanted to deal with prejudices so Spock became the stand in for “the other.” In the first season particularly there were several instances in which people were hostile to Spock because he was half-Vulcan; as the series continued, that was downplayed.  Spock the character also grew and changed over the years until he was comfortable with his own dual nature, though I would argue that didn’t happen until the second movie, The Wrath of Khan. In the first movie, he was still so conflicted that he wanted to purge all his emotions in an effort to become fully Vulcan. 

And therein, I think, lies the difference in character perception in this instance.  As I watched the character of Spock develop, I was well aware of the conflicts and gradual changes which occurred over the course of three years.  As a shy, chubby, studious kid, I identified with his struggles. We were both on the outside looking in, so to speak. When the franchise rebooted, we had a Spock who was fully integrated into a social group—respected, honored, admired, and with an attractive and accomplished girlfriend. This was hardly the outsider figure I had grown up knowing. His confusion over human custom and emotion seemed more like willful misunderstanding and refusing to adapt. To me, this character was more Sheldon Cooper than Spock.

So I was baffled when reviewers kept praising the character as being true to original, especially after he “loosened up” in Star Trek Beyond. My only conclusion was that to that segment of the audience who had watched original episodes out of order (if at all) or just seen the movies, the mature Spock, the one able to comprehend emotional responses and even to joke, was the real (and only) Spock. I don’t know that this new version appeals to me at all; he evokes annoyance, not empathy. I do not relate to him.

And I think that’s probably true of all the characters we encounter. The parts we relate to most are the aspects we exaggerate in our minds.  My Miss Marple has a sweetness about her that’s likely due to my grandmother who was known to listen in on party-line conversations.  While other people might have seen her as the nosey old biddy, I saw her as a beloved figure. I read Dorothy L. Sayers as a teen, about the same time I was reading Josephine Tey, Margery Allingham, and Agatha Christie, so my strongest impressions of Lord Peter are as the gentleman detective not the passionate suitor. Had I been a bit older, I’m sure I would have appreciated the romantic aspect much more.

It must be as Edmund Wilson once said:  “No two persons ever read the same book.” 

Apparently the same goes for characters as well.  Or as Rudolph Valentino put it, “Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen.  I am merely the canvas on which women paint their dreams.”

Rudolph Valentino  1895-1926

Guest Post: Jeanne on “Murder Must Advertise”

Please welcome back Jeanne of the Bookblog of the Bristol Public Library as she considers the thorny issue of bring a fictional character to life.

“Murder Must Advertise”

I started my life-long love affair with mysteries under the auspices of the Golden Age authors.  One of my favorites was Dorothy L. Sayers and her aristocratic sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey, so I was delighted when “Masterpiece Mystery” actually had a TV version of some of the cases.  A few decades later, I am the proud owner of the episodes starring Ian Carmichael as Wimsey. 

I’ve long been a champion of the Ian Carmichael version of Lord Peter Wimsey, dating back to the first time I saw the shown on “Masterpiece Mystery”—a staple of my Thursday nights for years.  I was less impressed with a later version starring Edward Petherbridge. This series took up the stories with Harriet Vane, while the Carmichael shows were based on the earlier, Vane-less books.  In the intervening years, it seems that more people favor Petherbridge and dismiss Carmichael.  I do need to take a look at the Petherbridge episodes, but in the meantime I decided to watch another of the Carmichael episodes to see how they’d held up.

One of my favorite episodes was “Murder Must Advertise.”  I was fascinated with the inner workings of the advertising world.  I knew that DLS had actually worked at such an agency, so I felt confident that she was doing an accurate portrayal. As the story opens, Lord Peter is called to investigate the death of a young copywriter at Pym’s, an old and prestigious advertising firm.  Dean fell down a metal staircase and the police ruled the death accidental, but the deceased had sent a letter to Mr. Pym indicating there was something troubling going on at the firm.  Lord Peter decides to investigate and goes undercover as Death Bredon, a novice copywriter. He soon discovers that Dean had been involved with the de Momerie  crowd, a group of Bright Young Things who are known to be dabbling in drugs and he wonders if the two things are connected.  Meanwhile, Inspector Parker (who is also Lord Peter’s brother in law) is trying to uncover a drug distribution ring.

Much of the criticism I’ve heard about Carmichael centers around his age:  he is too old to be Lord Peter.  At 53, he was about a decade older than his fictional counterpart, and not lithe nor tall.  The scenes where he dons a Harlequin costume don’t play particularly well, but in other ways I find him ideal for the Lord Peter he was playing. While the Duke’s second son served bravely in WWI and came home suffering from shell-shock, he did a good job of concealing personal trauma in the early books.  He uses the guise of an upper class twit to lull his suspects into a false sense of security, and while Carmichael played that aspect very well indeed he was also adept at dropping the guise for the viewers and showing them the sharp intelligence underneath. 

As with most of the great characters, Wimsey grew and changed over the years. At the start of the series, he seemed more the typical gentleman sleuth who delighted the intellectual challenge of solving a puzzle to a more complex character who suffers agonies of remorse when his investigations led murderers to the gallows.  At the end of Busman’s Honeymoon, it seems he will undertake no more murder investigations because of the burden and pain that resolution can bring.

In “Murder Must Advertise,” Carmichael’s Wimsey sets out on a bit of a lark.  He sets himself up as a regular working man, borrowing an address from his brother-in-law in case anyone checks up on Mr. Bredon, and is positively gleeful at the prospect. He flirts a bit with the typists, is hail-fellow-well-met with the other workers, and has a grand time snooping. He does arouse a bit of suspicion (his clothes and shoes are too expensive for his persona) but he comes up with ready explanations. 

As the case progresses and it becomes obvious that the stakes are very high, he gradually loses the high spiritedness. In a particularly good scene, he confronts a murderer—a man who killed to hide his secret, who got in over his head and now regrets many things—and gives him counsel that they both know will lead to the man’s death.  As the man leaves to meet his fate, Carmichael’s Lord Peter shows compassion and pain.  The fun has gone out of the puzzle.  It was a telling moment for me.

That ability to move effortlessly between the upper class twit and intelligent human being is one of Carmichael’s strengths.  Some of his early acting jobs involved playing the aristocratic fool in light comedies, including a turn as Bertie Wooster, and it served him well. It’s not always easy to play a believable idiot.  Hugh Laurie managed it in “Blackadder” playing a dense Prince George and later an equally dense Lt. George.  He moved on to playing Bertie Wooster to Stephen Fry’s Jeeves.  In fact, I first watched the TV series “House” to see if he could do drama as well as he did comedy.  (And, come to think of it, Laurie would be my choice to play Lord Peter in a revival… well, except for the age thing again.)

The bottom line is that I still feel that Carmichael did quite a good job at portraying the character as I perceive him; your mileage may vary.  The filmed version offered additional casting treats for older British series fans—I leave it up to the reader to decide if “older” modifies “series” or “fans”—with Timothy Christopher of “All Creatures Great and Small” and Paul Darrow of “Blake’s Seven” playing two of the suspects.