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?