Skip to main content

Ralph Fiennes: "The Choral"

 A main strength of historical fiction is that it allows for "windows and mirrors" comparisons: We can see another world (through a window), but we can also see ourselves (through various mirrors). 


"The Choral" (with its irritating, twee title) is partly just about getting laid: The gay pianist wants some kind of arrangement with the gay musical director, the virginal postal worker wants to make plans with the local prostitute, the wounded soldier wants a hand job from his ex-girlfriend. Love is always troubling; war makes love *more* troubling. In one scene, a young woman confesses that she just wants her special friend's status shifted from "MIA" to "dead," so she can move on with her life.

At the same time, there are reminders that we are *not* in the present: the blithe assumption that a Black woman wants a handout and not an audition, the elaborate effort involved in *not* using the word "gay," the skeptical, snobby attitude toward laborers. (Can they really sing Elgar?)

All of this is sort of interesting, but Alan Bennett can't be bothered to flesh out his characters, including the role that he assigns to Ralph Fiennes. Bennett is in his nineties -- this is an unusual set of circumstances for a screenwriter. There is a sense of hastiness in the script; it's easy to assume that Bennett might just be tired. Also, there are some distracting contortions; you have to suspend disbelief to accept that the town is really, incredibly small. Almost every time a major interpersonal shift occurs, forty extra members of the cast observe or overhear the shift -- the extras become a Greek chorus. This is *not* what my small-town life looks like. My neighbors know some of my business; they don't know about *all* of my personal goings-on.

A mixed bag. Wait for the Amazon streaming option.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more