Wasted Efforts

After a series of adventures, I finally got my hands on a copy of Mike and Psmith, the successor to last month’s selection, Mike at Wyrkyn.  There is a lot of promise for the Psmith series, but thus far it has been revealed only in brief glimmers that emerge amidst the numerous accounts of cricket matches and the scheming that occurs around them.  Instead of writing even more about my adversarial relationship with the sporting world, I would like to address something that falls somewhat under the heading of current events.  This is quite a departure for this blog, since most of what I am reacting to was new over a century ago, but it has gotten up my ire.

For those of you who have been bored silly by the recent financial fiasco, never fear, this has nothing to do with it.  Instead, what I am concerned about is directly related to Wodehouse, and thus has escaped the notice of most of the national press.  It appears that the author’s heirs, not satisfied with the dosh brought in by over 90 books and other writings, decided that what the world really needed was yet another Jeeves and Wooster story.  They hired a well-known author, Sebastian Faulks, to pen the thing using Wodehouse’s voice. 

I have nothing against Mr. Faulks.  He apparently is adored by the masses.  Up to a point, I don’t mind taking older tales and putting some new spin on them.  For instance, I am very fond of the re-imagining  of Pride and Prejudice that is Bridget Jones’ Diary and took great delight in Baz Lurhman‘s Moulin Rouge.  However, I think that it is a bit of wasted effort to do things such as remake Carrie or Brideshead Revisited, when the originals are clearly classic pieces that deserve to be watched time and again.  Perhaps I draw the line at things which are mere re-treads and do not add anything to the cultural world (such as the reshoot of Psycho; what a waste of time and resources).

One of my colleagues broke the news to me about the “new Wodehouse” in the office last week.  I had wanted to think that it was a bad dream, until this month’s Vanity Fair made its way into my postbox.  There, among the stories of the new influential groups of people, was an excerpt.  I told myself that I had to read the entire thing before I allowed myself to form an opinion.  The sad thing is that, about half a page into it, I really could not force myself to go on.  To be honest, it’s not horrible.  But that’s the problem.  There was a lot of dead dialogue with soulless descriptions and, occasionally, a moment when Mr. Faulks remembered that Wodehouse was a pithy comic genius and wrote accordingly.  Vintage Wodehouse fizzes off of the page.  The language sparkles, but one cannot detect the effort that must have been poured into each and every word.  Mr. Faulks’ effort, on the other hand, feels belabored, almost as if one were watching a play and the backstage business at the same time.  It’s distracting, and leads me to the eternal question: why?

Athletic Pursuits

I am not an eager reader of books involving athletic pursuits.*  Unlike most of the populace, the Qudditch scenes in the Harry Potter books were not my favorite.  I have to admit that, unlike many other literary sporting scenes, there was often some plot exposition in them.  I feel the same about battle scenes.  Many is the time that military historians have bored the socks off of me with descriptions of troop movements and the like.  I find myself caring less about where a certain battalion went and more about what the ultimate outcome was.  This is one of the reasons why I like the Game of Thrones.  The few battle scenes are from the point of view of one character, which is quite helpful.  More often than not, you hear about the outcome of a certain battle that had been set up, rather than tediously reliving every swish of every sword.

One of the things that I had to come to terms with in my pursuit of reading all of Wodehouse is that quite a few books involve cricket, rugby, and/or golf.  Boxing and horse racing have also been pertinent to some plots, though to a lesser degree.  Mercifully, I know the basic rules of cricket and rugby, and I also know that rugby at the time was referred to as football (given that the Brits now call soccer football, it can all become quite confusing).  In fact, I’m really pleased that if these are the sports I must contend with, at least I’m reading about something I know.  The same cannot be said about American football.  I’ve spent years trying to get my head around the concept of a down, and it’s only just now seeming as though I might begin to understand. 

Mike at Wyrken, which was September’s Wodehouse, starts out with a cricket-mad family.  It only gets worse from there, as the entire book hinges around important school-related cricket matches.  The accounts of wickets falling are mercifully short, because, let me tell you, we’re dealing with a sport that involves tea breaks, so we’re not talking about events that are action-packed.  Cricket is a languid, meditative sport, and I think even Wodehouse wanted to skip to the end.

This book is the first in the Psmith series (I know nothing about the titular character).  The odd thing is that, from what I could tell, Psmith does not make an appearance.  The original book was split into two, this one and Mike and Psmith, which is now winging its way to me courtesy of Amazon.  My intention is to read the entire series now, although I have to double-check that Overlook has published them all.  Hopefully, not all of them will involve cricket, although I did notice that one of the later books featured a boxing match on the cover, so I’m not out of the woods yet. 

*It’s probably not surprising that I don’t spend my free time sitting around watching sports.  In my defense, I do enjoy a good game, but there has to be something on the line, such as an historic win, to grab my attention.  For instance, I found the Patriot‘s 2001 season to be particularly epic, almost operatic in its drama, and I did keep tabs on the young Tom Brady that year.  That being said, I must admit that I heard about the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2005 on the news that night as I was drifting off to sleep (I used to sleep with my radio on, but that’s another story.  I blame Stephen King.).

Fifty Shades of Jeeves

The last Jeeves and Wooster novel of the summer, Ring for Jeeves, did not involve the latter character at all.  In light of The Servant Shortage following the Second World War, Bertie has decided to take a course to learn how to fend for himself should the unimaginable happen and he is bereft of any sort of household help.  Jeeves agrees to act as valet for William Belfry, ninth Earl of Rowcester, a younger friend of Wooster and henceforth called Bill.  What most impressed me about this novel is that we are shown another side of the gentleman’s gentleman.  Since Bill is among the increasing population of house-rich and money poor gentility, the two embark on a gambling syndicate that is mostly successful (a great deal of the novel deals with the one notable failure).  Part of this plan involves the dignified Jeeves dressing up in an outfit that involves a rather loud suit and false whiskers.  We have seen Jeeves dress up before, but the description of the costume he dons for this endeavor almost beggars belief.  One gets the impression that he rather enjoys the subterfuge and living life by his wits.  Seeing Jeeves in this manner made me wonder if he was beginning to find life with Bertie to be a little too comfortable.  After all, he is always trying to get his employer to travel, be it on a round the world cruise or a junket to New York.  There is an adventurous streak in Jeeves that cannot be ignored

It was also interesting to view Jeeves through the eyes of another master.  While Bill Rowcester obviously enjoys he fruits of Jeeves’ brain, especially when it comes to rescuing him from his financial woes, there are times when he finds the valet to be a little tedious.  The instances when Jeeves quotes from literature are presented as tedious moments, not a breathless example of the man’s superior brain as is so often the case when he is with Bertie.  Rowcester always bids Jeeves to hurry up with his point, and not to linger with some literary exposition.  Bertie never does this.  He usually makes a favorable remark after Jeeves presents a quotation, or follows it up with some of his own experiences with the literary figure in question.  Through Bill’s eyes, Jeeves comes off as ever so slightly ponderous.

There is, of course, a change in how Bertie himself views Jeeves in the novels.  Early on, the lay about has only buckets of admiration for his valet; he hangs upon every word and is utterly reliant on him.  This changes in the later novels.  Hang lived around d Jeeves for a while Bertie becomes a bit more confident in his own abilities.  He dissuades his friends form consulting Jeeves convinced that he can also present a clever way out of a seemingly hopeless predicament.  Of course, these plans fail miserably and Bertie is forced to turn to Jeeves.  Between these two older men, there is a sense of respect that is not as present between Bill and Jeeves.  As this book was written in 1953, it is yet another reminder that the world is slowly changing, even in the rarefied Wodehouseian universe.