I was going to write a critique of a televisual drama series, but may not be able to in light of my having discovered that I am number one in Theodore and Evadne Google’s list of references for “radish adultery”. The only person with more reason to be miserable than I on this discovery, is the perverted sod who inserted this phrase into his search engine, missus. It is not even my fault, it was Frontier Editor who introduced the word “radish” into the comments on my discourse about Liz, turnips and arses.
Anyway, I finally got around to viewing the first few episodes of the BBC’s latest costume drama. I shall probably watch it to the end, but doubt whether I will benefit much from it. We have been spoiled somewhat of late, what with Eileen Atkins making an all too rare appearance in Cranford and acting everyone else off of the set. Bleak House was even more impressive – the director and actors actually managed to turn Dickens’s ridiculous caricatures into believable characters, and even allowed Philip Davis to ham it up like a very large pig.
Little Dorrit, on the other hand, shows all the acting range of a Carry On film, or an amateur dramatic society rendition of a pantomime in Spanish. Tom Courtenay is passable, but I suspect that he did not have to make much effort. As for the rest, well, that is what I suggest that they take. I just can’t get to grips with Dickens. Did he ever intend us to take any of his characters seriously? Was his intention merely to draw attention to social conditions? I suppose that the adaptees have run out of classic novels to convert to television drama. I think the kindest criticism of this nonsense is to call it “ordinary”.