Thomas Hardy serves up a pretty thick soup, thick and bitter; the kind of soup that talks back to you when your plate is served, saying "You'd better mean it before you start in on me." I've just been watching the incomparable Sir Alan Bates as the Mayor of Casterbridge. Pulling off bringing a man like that to life, seeing the moments in which he is likeable and in some way even appealing, and yet making sure we see all his selfishness and crusty foolishness, see the thoughts and suspicions move in his mind and behind his face... an amazing feat of great acting.
Hardy doesn't really give anybody in his novels a chance to come off well, which is one reason I've resisted so far either reading his novels or seeing dramatizations of them. Misfortune, betrayal, trust and mistrust, terrible secrets, true revelations, slander and calumny, and lots and lots of suffering, misery and death. Oh, yes, there's a jolly way to pass an evening or two. If it weren't a masterpiece, none of us would waste our time with it.
But I am a great fan of the work of Sir Alan Bates, so I signed on to watch this particular dramatization of Hardy's novel. I am watching an amazing and sustained performance, well-supported by a fine cast, by an adaptation by Dennis Potter, and by an excellent production. In the story, though, nothing good ever happens to anyone, almost, unless it is followed by at least four helpings of bad luck, evil chance, horrible coincidence, rustic rituals of casual cruelty, having deadly secrets come to light at the worst possible moment, and behaving badly at the time that tact and conciliation are perhaps most needed -- anything so as to make bad matters worse.
There's something about watching even this excellent production of a Hardy novel that reminds me of my longstanding promise to myself never to attend any festivities on New Year's Eve. The few times I've broken my own promise, I've been extremely sorry. And, much as I appreciate Sir Alan's superb and absolutely on-target performance, it is unfortunate that the more successfully he and the others bring the novel to life, the greater the Hardy-esque depression. This production is so good I'm nearly suicidal.
No Hardy novel can possibly end well, and this one is no exception. You know it's bad when you can't tell whether it is better to know the ending in advance, and be sure throughout just how terribly off everyone will be at the end, so as to steel yourself, or not to know for sure just what will happen and which people and relationships, if any, may possibly be saved from complete disaster, keeping hope alive as long as possible, but knowing it will be dashed. The life of every character that manages to survive to the end, it seems, will be blighted to some degree, generally more rather than less. Given that, you may consider me, after this, a Hardy abstainer.
7:43:43 PM 
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