Say it isn’t so, David Mamet!

August 9, 2017 at 1:23 am (books, Library, Magazines and newspapers)

A piece appeared recently in the Wall Street Journal the title of which was sufficient to make me sit up and take notice:

“Charles Dickens Makes Me Want to Throw Up.”

 

David Mamet

Say it isn’t so, renowned playwright and screenwriter David Mamet! (Glengarry Glen Ross, Speed-the-Plow, Wag the Dog, and much more besides.) But, alas, Mamet surely does suffer from a serious Dickens aversion, to wit:

Dickens’s characters are cardboard cutouts, even in their names: Inspector Bucket, the Brothers Cheeryble, Jerry Cruncher. They are mechanicals. His prose is turgid and, less forgivable, tortured. Here’s his rendition, in “Dombey and Son,” of a sea-captain’s dialect: “It’s an almighty element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves is rowling.”

Mamet sums up: “What a load of bosh.” He adds that in his view, the public’s love for the works of Dickens is “sententious and perhaps even self-congratulatory.”

Well, that’s me, congratulating myself all over the place. Knowing I’m not alone eases the pain, though.

Here’s how Bleak House begins:

CHAPTER I

In Chancery

London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting
in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in
the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of
the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus,
forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn
Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black
drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown
snowflakes–gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of
the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better;
splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one
another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing
their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other
foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke
(if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust
of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and
accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers
of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.
Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping
into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and
hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales
of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient
Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog
in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper,
down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of
his shivering little ‘prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the
bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog
all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the
misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as
the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman
and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their
time–as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling
look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction,
appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old
corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn
Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in
his High Court of Chancery.

Turgid? Seems more like magic, to me.

  When I retired in 2007, one of my short term goals was to read Bleak House. I regret that I have yet to accomplish this. In fact, the only Dickens novel I’ve read in recent years is The Mystery of Edwin Drood. It was, I have to admit, a bit of a struggle, though periodically enlivened by sprightly passages like this one, in which the denizens of a pantry are brought vividly to life:

Every benevolent inhabitant of this retreat had his name inscribed upon his stomach. The pickles, in a uniform of rich brown double-breasted buttoned coat, and yellow or sombre drab continuations, announced their portly forms, in printed capitals, as Walnut, Gherkin, Onion, Cabbage, Cauliflower, Mixed, and other members of that noble family. The jams, as being of a less masculine temperament, and as wearing curlpapers, announced themselves in feminine caligraphy, like a soft whisper, to be Raspberry, Gooseberry, Apricot, Plum, Damson, Apple, and Peach. The scene closing on these charmers, and the lower slide ascending, oranges were revealed, attended by a mighty japanned sugar-box, to temper their acerbity if unripe. Home-made biscuits waited at the Court of these Powers, accompanied by a goodly fragment of plum-cake, and various slender ladies’ fingers, to be dipped into sweet wine and kissed.

Charles Dickens  1812-1870

Mamet gives grudging approval to A Tale of Two Cities and A Christmas Carol. As for me, the experience of reading David Copperfield – several decades ago, admittedly – was nothing less than life changing. It is a towering achievement in world creation, and will always will be one of my favorite works of art.

Mamet far prefers Anthony Trollope to Dickens. I too am a Trollope fan. Many years ago I read Barchester Towers and was so vastly entertained that I resolved to read The Barsetshire Chronicles in its entirety. (Of the six novels that comprise the series, I’ve read the three starred below.)

    *

 

*         *

 

  

Again, this was many years ago. I recall Barchester Towers being a bravura performance in novel writing, in equal part hilarious and outrageous, while Doctor Thorne was an exceptionally poignant love story. (For an excellent appreciation of Anthony Trollope, read Adam Gopnik’s “Trollope Trending” from the May 4 2015 issue of the New Yorker.)

Mamet also offers words of praise, albeit somewhat grudgingly, to several other favorites of mine: George Eliot, Wilkie Collins, and Mary Elizabeth Braddon.

Mary Elizabeth Braddon 1835-1915

George Eliot 1819-1880

 

Anthony Trollope 1815-1882

 

Wilkie Collins 1824-1889

(In my review of The Suspicions of Mr Whicher by Kate Summerscale, I make reference to both The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins and Lady Audley’s Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon.)

Ah well – enough. Everyone’s entitled to his or her own opinion in these matters – although I do have to consciously remind myself of that truism from time to time…

The Wall Street Journal keeps most of its content behind a pay wall. There is another way to access that content, though, and it’s through the public library database called ProQuest. Allow me to walk you through the process:

First, get on the library’s site: hclibrary.org. Next,  scroll down until you see the words “Stream. Download. Learn.” They’re in a blue rectangle above the picture of a lady gardening. Click on that.

Scroll down to the three green circles. the one in the middle is the one you want. It contains an arrow pointing down, with three terms underneath it. The third is “e-newspapers.” Click on that. Scroll down to  the ‘Wall Street Journal 1986-present.’ You’ll then be required to authenticate yourself with your bar code and pin number.

Voila – you’re in. I strongly advise that you use the ‘advanced search’ option located directly beneath the search box. Type ‘Mamet’ in the  top box and select ‘author ‘(au). In the box below, your need only type in ‘Charles Dickens’ and select ‘title’ (ti) in the box to the right. The article should appear directly.

This is the set-up at Howard County Public Library. Other library systems probably offer similar facilities for online research.

 

1 Comment

  1. Susan Maclean said,

    “It’s an almighty element. There’s wonders in the deep, my pretty. Think on it when the winds is roaring and the waves is rowling.”

    Mamet sums up: “What a load of bosh.”

    REALLY? He doesn’t leave the hothouse of NY very much does he? Take a trip up to Newfoundland and find accents, pronounciation, and phrases that Dickens would certainly be familiar with. He wasn’t writing in the 21st century, Dickens, was he? Still everyone’s intitled to their own opinion – even though his is ill-informed. All of this and I am not really a Dickens lover. But I do have an understanding of how language changes all the time, and there is such a lovely quote he should bear in mind about America and Britain…. “Two nations divided by a common language” .

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