Tag: Agatha Christie

MEDITATION 115: 

 

COSY CRIME

As I sit here in my armchair beside my candle with its flame’s warm glow I am in quite a cosy atmosphere. A summer storm rages outside with thunder and heavy rain and it is quite dark even though it is only early evening. It might as well be winter or at least November. I am tempted to put myself a glass of heavy red wine and write a few Christmas cards! 

The word ‘cosy’ has been on my mind recently or rather the phrase ‘cosy crime’. A little while ago, my dear sister Maria, suggested I ought to write a cosy crime novel. If I did writer a crime novel, it would indeed be in the style of that sub-genre. Somehow I do not see myself writing a gritty crime thriller set in violent city streets complete with an accurate depiction of police procedurals.  Cosy crime novels also have their fair share of violence too, of course, but the violence is in stark contrast to the sleepy, mellow setting of a village or small town, generally in a rural setting. They are quite often set decades ago in the 1950’s for example, when life, especially rural life, was meant to be simpler and quieter. 

My sister’s suggestion came back into my mind while I was listening to Dame Mary Beard’s lecture in Oxford’s Bodleian library a few weeks ago. You may remember from my last meditation, that she stated that more murders in works of fiction take place in libraries than in museums or supermarkets for example. Her observation came to my mind again last week. BBC4 are repeating the old series of Miss Marple crime mysteries, adapted from Agatha Christie’s novels. The title of the first episode was ‘The Body in The Library’! 

The library in question was not an academic one like the Bodleian or even a public library but a library in a large country house. Where else but there in an Agatha Christie story. Many of her works are centres on a large country house. However, this one did have another main setting: a high class seaside hotel. And of course the local village down the road from the mansion figured as well fleetingly. 

The series is immaculately made: well scripted, beautifully photographed and with scrupulous attention to 1950’s detail. At the centre of the series is the exemplary performance of the late Joan Hickson as Miss Marple, the quiet, unobtrusive yet authoritative amateur sleuth. Taking on the series in her 70’s, this was the Indian summer of her long and comprehensive career. Any student of acting at whatever level should study her listening skills and her subtle reactions – they are a masterclass. 

It is remarkable to think that the series is now between 30 and 40 years old. It still holds up well, perhaps because it was filmed on location in the main. Many of the actors who feature in the series had lived through the 1950’s and were perhaps  performing then too. So they were at home and relaxed in the period so to speak,  giving the series another layer of authenticity aside from the period detail.  And I have always loved the opening theme music. It always leads me entranced into the opening scene. I have remembered the theme since the series first appeared on TV. 

After watching ‘The Body in the Library’ I realised that Agatha Christie’s solutions to the murders are always plausible and well-plotted but in the cold light of day, preposterous. There is always some information which she holds back from the reader (or viewer) which they cannot possibly work out for themselves. Although this can be hinted at in the performances and scripts in a TV or film version. Also she is generally dealing with people of the upper classes or those who want to climb up the social ladder by hook or by crook. Her characters may possibly have money problems but they tend to be of the upper class kind (to do with wealth  inheritance or crooked high finance deals). Her characters are not living a hand to mouth existence or almost living on the streets as they might be in a gritty crime thriller. 

I have also recently watched a more recent cosy crime drama or rather a comic variation on the sub-genre set in our own times. In the Netflix series ‘The Residence’ the body of the murder victim is discovered not in the library but in the games room – of the White House no less. The victim is the loyal, long standing head usher of the White House and the murder is discovered during a grand Presidential banquet for the Australian Prime Minister and entourage, including the singer and actress Kylie Minogue, playing herself, who becomes a suspect at one point.

The setting gives the mystery an added frisson and opportunities for political satire which the series writer, Paul William Davies, takes full advantage of. For example the President is gay and has a First Gentleman rather than a First Lady, not to mention a slob of a brother and wisecracking, vodka-slurping mother also in residence. The setting also provides the opportunity for a plethora of suspects both upstairs and downstairs as the Head Usher, A.B. Wynter, frequented both worlds because of his position. 

Like the Miss Marple series, ‘The Residence’ demonstrates scrupulous attention to detail and the rooms of the White House are meticulously recreated, providing the viewer with a private view of the famous residence. Also as the White House is on a larger scale than Agatha Christie’s country house, the numerous rooms and those who appear and disappear in them give rise to more twists and turns in the plot.  

Paul William Davies succeeds in maintaining the tortuous plot over eight episodes which is a major achievement in itself when you consider that the Miss Marple stories are only spread over two or three. He achieves this by adding in new suspects as the plot unfolds as well as flashbacks to the events of the night and by developing the intricate and shifting relationships between the residents/staff/suspects The story also moves out of the White House to relate suspects’ backstories and to a Congressional Hearing about the investigation. 

At the centre of events is a modern version of Miss Marple, Cornelia Crupp, who is brought in as consultant to the Metropolitan Police Force. She is also a avid ornithologist and sometimes leaves her investigations to listen to the night birds on the Presidential lawn.  In Cornelia Crupp, Mr Davis has created as memorable a character as Miss Marple herself. Like Miss Marple, she is solitary and keeps her findings and thoughts to herself and is moreover given a quirky and entertaining portrayal by Uzo Aduba. 

The final episode is 87 mins long, the length of a feature film, and mainly focuses on the unmasking of the murderer in front of the suspects gathered in one room. This, as we know, is a favourite scene in crime fiction, especially in Christie. Mr Davis creates a fantasia on this trope so that in the highly amusing finale, the unravelling of the puzzle becomes more and more preposterous, accompanied by more flashbacks to the eventful evening. In the episode Uzo Aduba gives a masterclass herself in delivering the tortuous unravelling of the plot with total conviction.  

All in all this is a highly sophisticated, witty and entertaining series and beautifully crafted. Except that it is let down by one thing: an over-saturation of bad language at times. Enough to make Miss Marple raise an eyebrow and drop her knitting. Two of my friends switched off after episode 3 as a result of this -and they are much younger than I am. Although such language is in character for the President’s brother, Tripp and his Personal Advisor, Harry Hollinger, their barrage of expletives becomes tiresome in the least. Less is more, after all, and both characters would have been funnier with less expletives. Especially that elsewhere in the series the dialogue sparkles with wit. Some may argue that dialogue with continual swearing is more realistic. But then Drama is not totally realistic. It is a shaping of reality. And that shaping involves the dialogue too. Nevertheless the series is worth watching – especially if you like your crime cosy. 

As I write, the word ‘cosy’ still hovers in my mind. Many years ago, I took an evening course in Educational Drama with around 20 other local teachers. The course was based in Kingston and I remember we had a final meal with our tutors at a restaurant by the river. After the meal, we played a game. Each person was given the name of another person on a piece of paper. We had to answer the question, ‘If this person was a car, what model would they be?’ Each of us then read out their answer and we had to guess who the person was. I turned out to be a Morris Minor! Because I am old fashioned, comfortable and – cosy! I was quite affronted. I imagined myself as a Rolls Royce! It is interesting to speculate how other people see us, isn’t it?  My colleagues had been with me on the course one evening a week for around 8 months. So the choice of car wasn’t an initial impression. Nevertheless, as I am live in my own universe, it was quite a shock! 

Yes, perhaps I might take my sister’s advice and write a cosy crime novel. And perhaps a Morris Minor could figure in it. I wonder if the boot of a Morris Minor is large enough to hold a dead body…….

Ave atque Vale,

Neilus Aurelius

MEDITATION 65

The candle flickers on the table as I sit here and begin my meditation. However, I am not focused on its flame, but instead I am thinking about sheep. I am not counting them to help me go to sleep. This is not an exercise to write down my thoughts in a somnolent state, in those limpid moments before we drift into unconsciousness. I would hardly manage to write an opening paragraph before dozing off, if that were the case. I ask myself how many of my readers have dozed off while reading my first sentences – none I hope! 

The sheep in my thoughts are Scottish sheep. They are one of my memories of a recent holiday in the Scottish Borders. I would look out at them every morning from the window of my apartment as they grazed contentedly in a huge field opposite. I would also observe them at closer range as I trudged up and down the driveway on my walks.  They would graze away or sit under the shade of a tree or lean, totally relaxed, against a fence, paying no attention to me or if they did, it would only be for a moment with a bewildered look. They reminded me of some of the classes I have taught!

My Scottish break was a luxurious holiday to finally celebrate my retirement. Originally it was to take place in late March 2020 and in Puglia in Southern Italy, with a friend who had suggested the idea to me. So here we were in Scotland instead and not on a farm, as might be suggested by the last paragraph, but in a castle. 

We had an apartment in Castle Thirlstane, the home of the Earls of Lauderdale since the 1590’s. Our stay included a private tour of the castle itself.  Much to my regret and the dampening of my gothic sensibilities, according to our guide, the castle does not have its own ghost. But it does have sheep – lots of them – and cattle and beautiful horses too. 

Our well-appointed apartment was in the Victorian wing to the right of the main entrance with its sweeping staircase of rose-coloured stone. Our lounge overlooked a gravelled forecourt at the end of the approach to the castle. Beyond the forecourt was the large field, where the sheep were penned and beyond that, behind the trees, the little town of Lauder.  

We had been informed before arriving that there would be two car rallies at the Castle during our stay.  We were of course unaware that the cars would be assembling under the window of our apartment. The first rally took place the morning after our arrival and was a parade of Porsches. It was quite an exciting sight as they zoomed up the driveway and took their places under the window. As might be imagined, the sheep paid no attention, as if unimpressed by this show of status. 

For an hour or so, the Porsches gathered on the drive, all different models and colours gleaming in the sunlight, while their owners and families chatted away and took photos. Children ran around while parents inspected the other cars on show and peered with forensic interest into engines under pristine bonnets. The sheep remained unimpressed and grazed on. 

I must confess to having little interest in cars, as I have never learnt how to drive. I think my interest in cars ended with my little ‘Matchbox’ and ‘Dinky’ models as a child. However, when I was a small child, I did immerse myself in a Ladybird book about Tootles the Taxi and Archie the Ambulance. I do not recall a Peregrine the Porsche in its pages, however.

Though the overall effect of all these Porsches assembled under our window was an impressive sight, yet, apart from their variety of colours, they all looked the same to me. My friend agree with me.  Although, secretly, in our heart of hearts, I am sure we would love to own one: my friend to drive one, myself to sell it and have a regular box at the opera on the proceeds.  

After their deliberations about engines and chassises had ended and they had purred in delight at each other’s models and sampled the culinary delights of a mobile burger and hog roast bar under an adjacent tree, the Porsche enthusiasts slowly drifted off, or should I say, zoomed away.  The Porsches left the sheep in peace at last, not that their peace had been broken by them anyway. 

The second rally, on the next morning, was of Vintage cars. Their approach to the castle was more sedate than the brash contingent of the previous day. There were models going back to the 40’s, 30’s and there was even a 1920’s Bullnose Morris. As they sauntered up the drive, it looked like a scene from an Agatha Christie TV drama: Miss Marple or Poirot. My friend Simon and I may have been characters in the drama, gazing out of the window as someone arrives. Who could it be – suspect, detective or victim? I must admit to having a secret ambition to play Poirot, though I would be unable to match the incomparable David Suchet in the role.

I found the assembly of vintage cars more impressive than the plethora of Porsches on the morning before, perhaps because the cars were from different manufacturers and decades. I would far rather have gone for a spin in the Bullnose Morris than a Porsche anyway. It would be interesting to find out what being a passenger in the 1920’s was like. I would imagine myself to be in a P.G. Wodehouse novel as we sped along the narrow roads. With a Bullnose Morris standing outside a castle that morning, I could have been in a Wodehouse story anyway. My friend Simon would be an excellent Jeeves.

Sadly no vintage Rolls Royce, Bentley or Jaguar skimmed up the drive to look resplendent beside the sweeping stone staircase. There was a Morris Minor or two and a Sunbeam Rapier and Triumph Herald in the rally, cars I remembered from my childhood. I wouldn’t have considered them to be vintage, but then,  my childhood was a long time ago.

As I looked out of the window, I was reminded of a meal at the end of the Educational Drama course I took, when I started teaching Drama, many years ago. All the group were there with our tutors in a restaurant on the Kingston waterfront. At the end of the meal, we played a table game: ‘If X was a car, which model would he or she be?’ Someone decided I was a Morris Minor. Why? Because I was ‘small, homely and old fashioned’. I’ve never forgotten that and I remembered it again at the castle as I looked down on that Morris Minor in the forecourt. 

At the time I was quite affronted (though I didn’t say so) but I suppose the person was right. We had spent a year together on this evening course which was very intense so she had got to know me a little. Besides I’ve never been brash like a Porsche, I hope. It does seem like an aggressively self-assertive car. ‘Homely and old-fashioned’ fits the bill as far as I am concerned, I suppose. There now – I am playing the game again, after all this time!   

This rally had a more homely atmosphere than the other one and the cars dispersed more quickly. Perhaps that was because there was no burger bar this time, probably because it wasn’t quite the ‘right period’.

The sheep grazed on, as oblivious as ever. Just as they were oblivious to their stately surroundings with the grand castle opposite them. And to the pandemic raging round them over the last year and a half.    

Yes, ‘homely and old fashioned’ that is me. But not the whole story. And I am sure I have changed as a person since then. Over the years I have learnt to be accepting of myself. Not necessarily happy with myself because there are things about myself that I am unhappy about and happiness is fleeting anyway. But accepting of myself and therefore content. 

As content as a sheep in a field. 

Ave atque Vale – Hail and Farewell– until the next blog!

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Neilus Aurelius