nineveh_uk

(1) It's amazing how much worse you can make Harriet's revelation to Emma in Chapter 47 by changing a single word...

Emma, the crackfic version

"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him -- but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing! I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words); -- I should not have dared to give way to -- I should not have thought it possible -- But if you, who had been always acquainted with him -- "

"Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely -- "Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of -- Mr.Woodhouse?"


(2) There is so much good about the 2009 BBC version of Emma* that I wish I could like it more than I do. Much is done well, but the things that are not successful really don't work for me at all, and unfortunately are so at the centre of the production that they can't be ignored.

The good:

- a Harriet Smith who looks the part completely, and who is for once shown not simply mistaken, but vain in her conviction of Mr Knightley's regard for him.

- Miss Bates portrayed as unbelievably annoying, but also with a good degree of tragedy.

- the houses are all just right (though Hartfield surely had rather more servants opening doors and less popping in and out of windows).

- a good ball at the Crown, which does Emma and Mr Knightley particularly well.

- showing how much Emma, for all her advantages, is trapped in Highbury by her father.

- the rounding out of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill's stories (and Mr Weston by extension) far more than other adaptations so that we can see the commonality of their situations that would bring them together.

- John and Isabella! For once we get a picture of them as a real part of Emma's family, not just a plot function. If only the actor playing John had been cast as George Knightley.

The bad:

- the script. About 30% of it is theoretically good, in that is Austen. Unfortunately the presence of actual Austen lines shows up even more the appallingly clunkiness of the other 70%. This is one bullet point, but it should count as about 50, because it overrides all the good parts. It is hard to enjoy even the best scenes when you are expecting the imminent arrival of a clanger.**

- Jonny Lee Miller, who plays Mr Knightley as half the time too formal and half the time too casual and largely without charisma. It's a pity, because the production does do a good deal to show his POV, and in other circumstances I would like that. Mr Knightley should project a quiet authority, not fade into the wallpaper. The above two points come together painfully in Mr Knightley's proposal to Emma, which goes really well, being mostly Austen, right until the end when the script inserts a few lines of its own and the agony returns.

I shall have to watch the 1972 BBC version on YouTube and see what I make of that. In the meantime, the Paltrow/Northam film is thoroughly enjoyable if rather light, and I retain very fond memories of a mid-nineties stage version I saw with school, which did have a Mr Knightley who felt completely right.

*I may have commented along these lines in the past.

**Whereas the imminent arrival of the Clangers would definitely enliven the Highbury social scene.

The mind works in mysterious – or simply dreadful – ways. The mole in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is code-named Gerald. Present me with a spy called Gerald, a plausible time-period, and the madness that comes at the end of term, and the result is inevitable.

In my defence, I kept it to exactly 100 words, so it is a proper drabble.

The Spy Who Came in from East Anglia

‘Credo quia impossibile be damned!’ said Peter. ‘I can’t believe that Jerry was a Russian spy. He could scarcely manage je ne parle pas francais, let alone Russian.’

‘I appreciate it’s quite a shock, your Grace’ said the Permanent Secretary, ‘but I’m afraid it’s true. Your brother wrote a lengthy confession.’

‘Bang goes my security clearance,’ muttered Peter. ‘Not that I’ve much time for the FO these days. Who was his contact? He can’t have been passing stuff to Moscow himself.’

‘We don’t know. British, well-travelled, access to sophisticated photographic equipment. Codename might be Greyfriars.’

Peter felt a dreadful qualm.

Harriet Vane was born in 1900 or 1903, depending on novel. She could well have still been alive in 1994-98 and thus able to appear on Caroline Aherne's Mrs Merton Show. Thus is engendered one of the world's shortest crossover fics.

Interview

"What first, Harriet, attracted you to the millionaire Lord Peter Wimsey?"

***

For the uninitiated, the reference can be seen here.

Inspired by a postcard spotted (by bookwormsarah)in the People's History Museum in Manchester, an irresistible crossover.

***

"You see, Lady Peter," said Dr Baring, "after we had recovered from that appalling business, and had time to reflect on it in a scholarly spirit, we wondered if perhaps we were partly to blame. Not for upholding above all the importance of the honour and integrity of scholarship, but for allowing that importance to be felt only here, within these college walls, and only some of those. Why should we be surprised that a woman like Annie Wilson has no sympathy with our ideals, when we have never invited her to share them?" The Warden tapped her cigarette impatiently and continued.

"In brief, Lady Peter, Miss Barton invited the Principal to High Table one evening, and we proposed a collaboration. We have offered places to their most talented students, and a new degree is to be taught between us - though I'm afraid that it's the University of London external examination. The results you see before you. I may say that we are feeling rather proud of ourselves."

Harriet looked around the hall, the usual students in their gowns augmented by a handful of older faces, and even a couple of - presumably non-resident, one could not imagine Shrewsbury had changed so much in two years - men, and hanging at the far end of the room above the great double doors, the proud gold-bordered banner.

"But Warden," she said weakly, "Trade Union Studies?"

One of the downsides of family Christmasses, is that when a really deranged fannish idea pops into one's head, there is no-one to say it to. So whilst my sister and brother-in-law are at the gym, and the rest of the family are in the other base camp before we all meet for dinner tonight, I shall take a brief moment to talk to the internet. The following will make no sense to those who are not familiar with the Chalet School. To those who are, I can only apologise (not least for not being able to do the EBD voice).

Margot's Baby

Joey Maynard laid the small white knitted garment carefully on the table in the salon at Freudesheim.

'But surely you could still take your vows? I could look after the baby - you know how sad your father and I were that we had to stop at eleven - and Mother Superior said she would still accept you if you were truly penitent.'

Margot shook her golden curls. 'I'm sorry, Mama, but it's impossible.'

Joey sighed. 'I just don't understand. Your father and I were so proud of the way you'd grown up and left behind your difficult behaviour. Margot, what on earth possessed you?'

Margot made a sound that was half a growl, her blue eyes flashing with a light that Joey Maynard even in her most poetic moments had never imagined in a human face. When she spoke, her voice was the voice of horrors.

'My devil made me do it.'

***

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

If this isn't a meme yet, it ought to be.

You: gives me a word.
Me: gives you a sentence of fic.

I am not decided as to whether I shall read the forthcoming Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I think it will depend on whether the ridiculous inherent in the premise overcomes the likelihood of it giving me nightmares, and I’ll have a look in a bookshop before deciding whether to have it in the house (not to mention the strong chance of its being rubbish). In the meantime, I cannot help but think of a certain passage in the original. The consequences were almost inevitable, although they do not actually involve zombies (though for a moment Mr Gardiner had a close run at Longbourn).

(I also noted, having a quick run through a couple of chapters, how much Jane Austen does not conform to the internet style gurus, romping gloriously in the omniscient third person, liberally bestowing adjectives, and laughing at "Show, don't tell".)

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

( The last man in the world )

I’m supposed to be unpacking, not writing fic. Especially not this fic. There must be something in the air tonight - the stars are bright - sorry.

This is a Lord Peter Wimsey/Fernando (ABBA) crossover, with Wodehouse Guest Appearance. Inspired, perhaps not surprisingly, by azdak. Consider it an explanation of why Bunter does not appear in the DLS story The Haunted Policeman.

That I am not claiming to be DLS should be evident.

( You are older now, Mervyn )

“He had once owned the finest lyric soprano in Europe” does not refer to Peter Wimsey’s having been a particularly gifted boy treble. Not even as a pun.

Meanwhile, the WIP is still being recalcitrant. Fine, Troy, if you don’t want to be snogged senseless by Mr Scotland Yard 1938, back in the queue you go. I have therefore started proper work on the infamous Wimsey/Potterverse Mpreg, though don’t expect it any time soon. For one thing, it may take me a little while to recover from the horrors of the research.

Still a few of the prompt-based drabbles to go, but nearly there. This prompted me to think (via circuitous neural pathways) first how much Thrones, Dominations might be improved by zombies, and then how much Thrones, Dominations might be improved by almost anything.

For example, from p. 305:

‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,’ said Peter, returning to her half-an-hour later. ‘You were quite right, Harriet; it is surprisingly easy to solve things by a little straight talking between intelligent adults if one can only throw off the shackles of tradition. Bunter has agreed not to get married and to stay, and I have agreed to the occasional threesome.’

Finally, George Galloway praised in traditional Bedouin verse (and remarkable Grauniad spelling):

George the intrepid, that symbol of pluck

(OR what happens when Our Narrator ponders how the works of Dorothy L. Sayers would sound if they were televised with period accents)

They made their way through the market square, picking through the piles of manure to cries of “ ‘Appen, vitnery” from the flat-capped farmers.

“It’s funny we should be here talking like this, Peter” said James. “When I think of that dreadful time in Riddlesdale, when we could find nothing to say to one another but comparisons of Norfolk and Pennine sheep diseases, and the agricultural depression.”

“Yes.” They passed the pub to a wave from old Mr Thwaite on his sixteenth pint. “You may have noticed,” said Wimsey, a little abruptly, “that I have said a great deal these last few days, one way or another, but that since I have been in Darrowby I have not asked you to marry me.”

“Yes. I had noticed that.”

“I have been afraid,” he said, “because I knew that from anything you said here there could be going back. But I will ask you now. Herriot, you know that I love you. Will you marry me?”