Brideshead Revised

It's hard to see why anyone would think Brideshead Revisited should be made into a film, given the great success of the TV series in the 1980's. It's hard to imagine a more faithful adaption of a novel into another medium, and the intensely Catholic themes of grace and redemption (it is a book all about religion) came through entirely intact.

If the preview is anything to go by, the forthcoming movie version looks like an absolute travesty. If you know the book or the series, go and have a look. You will see what I mean. (The whole style of the preview even seems wrong, almost laughable, for this type of movie. It seems to be hyping up the drama in what comes across as a very Hollywood way.)

Interestingly, Andrew Davies (the screenwriter) was quoted in The Independent in 2002 as saying that he wanted the movie to concentrate more on the religious tensions in the book. That was a rather odd comment, given that the series seemed to be made by tearing out the pages of the novel and having the cast read the lines.

Fast forward to 2008, and The Independent has a lengthy article about the new movie, pointing out the clear changes to the story evident from the preview, and explains that Davies is now credited as only one of the writers. I wonder if he in fact might now want to disown his involvement.

That Independent article also presents an amusing vignette of Waugh at the time he wrote it. As most readers who have made it this far into this post probably know, he was, to put it mildly, a man with many character flaws, despite his religiosity and renown as an author with a very dry wit. Pretty fascinating all the same:

For most of 1943, Waugh was sunk in gloom. He was fed up with army life. After serving in Crete with the Special Services Brigade, he had spent a year waiting to be given a company to command. None was forthcoming. It was agreed among the senior officers that the author-turned-soldier was spectacularly ill-equipped to command ordinary soldiers, because of his "total incapacity for establishing any sort of human relations with his men". He was, all agreed, a 24-carat, card-carrying shit. His rudeness, his dislike of the working classes, his fondness for bullying and horror of social contact with strangers made him, in the words of his commanding officer, Lord Lovat, "a total misfit".

For a year, he'd hung out in a London office,drinking gallons of wine with friends. In July, his father Arthur died. Evelyn's wife and children remained in Combe Florey, Somerset and rarely contacted him. "I should like to feel," he wrote to his wife Laura, "that, once or twice a week, you felt enough interest in me to write and say so... If by any chance the children should die, do come to London. I miss you."

Then he received the final kiss-off. He was advised to resign from the Commandos "for the Brigade's good". It wasn't just rejection and bereavement that brought him low; it was the condition of England at this point of the war, and the predictions of its aftermath. "Everyone I meet is despondent about the future," he confided to his diary. Wherever he looked, life was grotty, grey, sloppy, utterly lacking in style, grace and chic. By the year's end his nerve had broken. He asked the army for leave, and travelled to Chagford in Devon. In that frame of mind , at the beginning of February 1944, he began to write Brideshead.