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Showing posts with the label Coltrane (Robbie)

Two R.I.P.s; October’s reading; my children

Two deaths: (1) the wonderful actor Robbie Coltrane; and, in May, (2) the legal, political, and moral philosopher Joseph Raz, whose important but tough-going oeuvre is now helpfully summarized at pp. 148–155 of this year’s Balliol College Annual Record. (Hat tip: Leiter. Included in the piece: an explanation of how the name “Raz” came to be.) I spent most of one semester of graduate school slogging through The Morality of Freedom. It would’ve been nice to have had this memorial essay to start off with.

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I’d intended, this horror season, to try out The Monk by Matthew Lewis; instead, I’m reading Dracula. I’d put it off for a long time. Now, I can report that, unlike Dorian Gray and Jekyll and Hyde, it’s pretty gripping. There’s genuine horror when Count Dracula is on the scene; there’s a lot of (vaguely troubling) hilarity when he’s absent. Karin was the impetus for this reading. She and her friend Nora have been keeping up with the Daily Dracula, a schedule based upon the dates of the letters and diary entries that make up the novel. Karin and Nora began reading in May and have been advancing at a snail’s pace; I’ll finish reading before they will. The story concludes in November.

I learned this amusing tidbit about Stoker:
In August 1894, at the end of a month-long stay to research his embryonic novel, Bram Stoker wrote in the visitors’ book at the Kilmarnock Arms on the Aberdeenshire coast that he had been “delighted with everything and everybody” and hoped to return soon. …

The feeling was not entirely mutual. Stoker, a genial Irishman usually known for his cheeriness, was experimenting with what would become known as “method acting” to get under the skin of his new character, one Count Dracula. … The author’s links with the London theatre inspired Stoker to try inhabiting his character in a different way.

According to his wife, Florence, everyone – including the hotel staff, and the locals – was frightened of him. He “seemed to get obsessed by the spirit of the thing,” she later said. He “would sit for hours, like a great bat, perched on the rocks of the shore, or wander alone up and down the sand hills thinking it all out.”
I got Karin to agree to watch Herzog’s Nosferatu when we have finished reading Dracula. I saw it many years ago. From what I can recall of it, it’s pretty faithful to the book.

I also am going to read The Island of Doctor Moreau.

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“Hi, there!” – Daniel’s first words? He seemed to repeat them to me immediately after I said them to him. (I don’t count Da, da, da, da, da – typical infantile babble.)

He crawls now, and he can pull himself up onto his feet and stand against the furniture. He also tries to steal Samuel’s food, although he has trouble eating it with his two teeth. Samuel also has trouble eating his food, due to his intense stubbornness.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 47: Cracker

I may as well begin with IMDb’s description:
Dr Edward “Fitz” Fitzgerald is a criminal psychologist. He is rather anti-social and obnoxious but he has a gift for solving crimes. Thus he is employed as a consultant by the Manchester Police.
Stock character? Too much like Sherlock Holmes? Or Doctor Gregory House?

(House is Holmes.)

“Fitz” – Robbie Coltrane, Hagrid in the Harry Potter movies – is greater than either of them. Greater in greatness, and in girth. He’s the Sir John Falstaff of police TV. He gambles and drinks and smokes and constantly needles people because he’s often bored; and he’s bored because he’s so, so smart. He’s also breathtakingly humane. He is, as they say, a “well-rounded” character in more senses than one.

The police are numbskulls, except for D.S. Jane Penhaligon (Geraldine Somerville). “Panhandle,” “Fitz” calls her. Penhaligon is smart and humane, too, and she loves “Fitz” despite his enormities.

One other young woman loves “Fitz.” She ends up committing a series of murders to capture his attention.

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“Fitz’s” wife, Judith (Barbara Flynn), isn’t much better. She also loves “Fitz,” but then, understandably enough, she leaves him; and comes back, and leaves him, and comes back, and leverages her woes to gain advantage (although “Fitz” is mostly immune to manipulation, which frustrates Judith to no end).

I wonder if today’s cop shows are trying to follow Cracker’s lead. Many policing dramas double as domestic ones, and Cracker is hands-down the best in this respect.

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So, I guess the show’s premise is:

What if Sherlock Holmes were – like Sir John Falstaff – fat, witty, and empathetic, but still outrageous; and what if this hero had, instead of bachelor acolytes, a wife and kids?

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There is no “Watson” figure. The closest analog would be D.S. Penhaligon, but she is very much a force herself. I’ve sometimes thought, As great as “Fitz” is, this is the Penhaligon show.

“Fitz’s” is a hiltarity of excess. Penhaligon’s mode is lean, restrained, acerbic, grim.

Then tragedy afflicts her, and even her humor goes away. It’s not altogether a bad development. It allows her to free herself from “Fitz.”

The Shakespearean parallel would be with Prince Hal: Penhaligon is made for better things.

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Then there are the murderers.

Not many policing shows bestow so much time or sympathy upon these people. Almost all are wounded little birds – “grotesques,” to recall Winesburg, Ohio. Cracker arguably made some of these acting careers (Robert Carlyle’s, Susan Lynch’s). One actor who didn’t become so famous, but who is perhaps the most affecting, is Andrew Tiernan, who plays a stutterer caught up in a Bonnie-and-Clyde relationship with Lynch’s chilling character. Broken though he is, he is allowed a great measure of self-determination and dignity until the very end of his story.

Almost all the “grotesques” are complex. This show is a whydunnit, not a whodunnit; often the murderers don’t know their own motives. But “Fitz” knows, and by the end of each story, he is sympathetically explaining to them what has driven them to do their crimes. Each motive is understandable; sometimes, in a very sad way, it is even laudable. Some murderers lash out at “Fitz.” Others surrender to his insight. The woman I mentioned earlier, the one who murders to gain “Fitz’s” attention – to earn a diagnosis from him – is the clearest example of this. Would you like me to explain to you? he asks, tenderly, in the interrogation room. Yes, she begs. It is a moment charged with eroticism and humanity, because it’s about the possibility of finally being seen and understood.

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“Fitz” himself is converted, within many of the stories, from bully to empath. It’s not so much that he can run hot or cold at will; it’s that he has one tap, one irrepressible, gushing stream of intelligence, and it has to run a while before it’s fully warmed up, before self-gratifying banter can become clever guesswork and then intimate certitude. Each murderer, each colleague, each family relation, is a different, evolving person, and so “Fitz” undergoes this process again and again.

In this scene, he is in the middle of the process.


(I like Penhaligon’s smirk.)

The show ran from 1993 to 1996 and had an encore in 2006: “Fitz” returns to Manchester after several years in Australia.