comedy – findingtimetowrite

#20Books of Summer: Japanese Comedy

Book #5: Matayoshi Naoki: Spark, transl. Alison Watts, Pushkin Press, 2020 (original published in 2015)

The first (and ebook) cover of Spark from Pushkin Press

Winner of the Akutagawa Prize, this novella was a massive bestseller in Japan (2.53 million copies sold in Japan within just 2 years of apparition, quite a bit more since), which might explain why it only took 5 years to be translated. A TV series called Hanabi (Spark) was made in 2016 and is currently available on Netflix. Yet, although on paper these look like compelling reasons to publish a translation, I am actually puzzled as to why Pushkin Press was brave (or crazy) enough to take on such a task.

Let me explain why.

The novella (a mere 160 pages) is set in the world of Japanese stand-up comedy known as manzai – a two-person routine with a funny man (boke) going off-piste or making mistakes, and a straight man (tsukkomi) trying to rein him in or explain the more surreal associations to the audience. Think Abbott and Costello, Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies for the English-speaking world. However, the Japanese humour relies very much on puns, misunderstandings, innuendo and speed of delivery (often in a broad Kansai dialect, since this type of comedy originated in Osaka and people in Osaka have a reputation for being very funny). I have not even attempted to follow this kind of comedy in real life in Japan, as I doubt I’d be able to get the jokes. So you can imagine what a challenge it must be to translate these type of routines (and we get a few examples of them) in this novel. Hats off to Alison Watts for even attempting that – she must have torn her hair out a lot in the process!

Manzai is very popular in Japan, not just in comedy clubs, but also on TV, especially for the New Year, and there are major competitions with quite a lot of prize money to be won. I gather the author is a comedian himself and was part of a manzai duo until 2016, so he knows the joys and challenges of this world well.

The new cover, to fit in with the Japanese novella series from Pushkin Press

The story is as follows: Tokunaga is the writer and funny man half of a manzai duo called Spark with his childhood friend Yamashita. They are twenty years old at the start of the book, just moved to Tokyo and hoping to make it big in the comedy world, but their agency doesn’t specialise in comedy and sends them on rather pathetic gigs in seaside resorts, where they have to compete with fireworks for an audience. On a particular gig, they come across a more established manzai duo Ahondara (translated as The Doofuses in the book, but it’s stronger than that: Morons or Idiots), and Tokunaga is impressed with the older, charismatic Kamiya. He asks if he can become Kamiya’s apprentice (or rather, if Kamiya will be his mentor, since they don’t actually perform comedy together on stage or even practise), and Kamiya agrees with one condition: that Tokunaga should keep notes after their meetings and end up writing a biography of him.

We then see how the relationship and the comedic careers of these two men evolve over the next ten years. Tokunaga is socially inept, rather too idealistic and a bit of an overthinker, so he falls under the spell of the loud, apparently fearless Kamiya. However, over time, he begins to realise that his mentor has his own demons, insecurities, vulnerabilities and that his refusal to compromise artistically might not be something quite so commendable after all: it might be just plain crazy. As Spark becomes more successful – at least for a short period – Kamiya’s star wanes and he sinks ever deeper into debt and finally disappears for over a year. When he returns, he has taken such an extreme step in his bid to be funny and relevant, that the scales fall from Tokunaga’s eyes and he finally admits that his mentor has got it very wrong indeed.

The master/disciple relationship is hugely revered in Japan, and I think it’s this aspect of the book that foreign readers will get the most from, the gradual disenchantment or more critical assessment of one’s mentor.

The more I talked to them [other comedians], the more I realized how unique Kamiya was: he had high ideals and set himself to do big things. And there was no doubt about his talent and appeal… But I also began to see how he might have been using me as a canvas for his theories about comedy – and how I was starting to suffocate.

Additionally, some of the discussions of the artistic process as a comedian translate across cultures:

‘Don’t be so obvious.’

‘What do you mean, obvious?’

‘If you’re a comedian, of course your mission is to be funny, and every act in your life is done with manzai in mind… Manzai’s not for people who can think up funny stuff, it’s an exposure of people who are honest and pure, who aren’t faking it. You can’t do manzai just by being clever. Only fools who honestly believe they’re genuine fools can make it happen.’

Although the reader can see from the start that Kamiya is an aggressive, unstable character, it’s impossible not to be swept along by his dedication to art. Many of his pronouncements (which Tokunaga mildly mocks, yet at the same time is impressed) are applicable to writing or other arts as well:

The essential thing is to disrupt things. Disrupt the colourful, beautiful world, and another unreal, more awesomely beautiful world will appear all on its own.

Like those acts who only care about getting the audience on their side – don’t you think that’s creepy? Sure, it’s nice, but when getting the audience’s sympathy is the main aim of your act, there’s no chance of anything awesomely interesting coming out of it. You can’t always go for obvious stuff that pleases everyone and that even idiots understand.’

Hayashi Kento as Tokunaga (l.) and Namioka Kazuki as Kamiya (r.)

The TV series takes certain passages and dialogues from the book verbatim, but it does a good job of fleshing out other parts of the story. While the book focuses more on Kamiya himself and Tokunaga’s hero-worship of him (it acts almost like the biography that Tokunaga has promised to write), the TV series shows us more about the challenges that the Spark duo faces, with their agency, audiences, comedy peers, their own friendship being tested and so on. Initially, I wondered how they could make a ten-episode series out of such a slender novel, but I feel this is one of the cases where the TV adaptation brings you more than the books itself, not in a dumbing down and stating the obvious kind of way, but simply making it more comprehensible, especially to foreign audiences.

For another insight into the Japanese comedy world, you could watch the one-off film Asakusa Kid (also on Netflix) about the early days of legendary comedian and now respected film-maker Kitano Takeshi, who was himself part of a manzai duo. Although it descends into sentimentality for the last 25 minutes or so, the film does a good job of tracing his start as a comedian under the tutelage of the legendary (and controversial) Fukami of Asakusa, whose motto ‘Don’t be laughed at. Make them laugh.’ Kitano fully absorbed.

Kitano Takeshi as the main protagonist in the 1997 film HANA-BI, which he wrote, directed and produced. Not at all a comedy role, but it links nicely to the fireworks (Hana-bi = fire flower of the title of the Spark TV series)

Overdosing on Japanese Films

If the definition of ‘overdosing on something’ is ‘consuming more than is safe’, then perhaps I should find a better title for this post. I don’t think I’m watching more Japanese films than is healthy for me – it just so happens that most of the films I watched so far this month have been Japanese. Perhaps instead of #FrenchFebruary, I should have continued the #JanuaryandFebruaryInJapan challenge.

It started off with a bang thanks to the Japan Foundation Touring Film Programme 2025, an initiative that has been going on for years but of which I seem to have been blissfully unaware. This year’s theme was Justice, Justification and Judgement and most of these films were very recent releases and highly unlikely to ever be shown in mainstream cinemas in the UK or even on streaming services. So I saw three in one day on Saturday, 8th February, and I was by no means the only one to do so. I spoke to a couple of Japanese ladies who were also watching several that day, while one man (who had not even studied Japanese but was simply a film fanatic) had booked himself onto all 26 films that were being shown over the two week period. That’s dedication for you! I wish I could have gone to see more of them myself, but trips into London are a bit expensive.

The three that I saw were all very different, and I’m so happy that the Japan Foundation and Sasakawa Foundation (who both contributed to my undergraduate and postgraduate studies in Japanese, incidentally) are showing the great variety in contemporary Japanese cinema, since it’s all too easy to start typecasting the films of any country when we get such a limited selection over here.

To Mom, With Love directed by Hashiguchi Ryosuke is the director’s first film in eight years, and is quite different from his previous works, which he usually wrote himself and also frequently dealt with LGBTQ issues or outsiders (A Touch of Fever, Like Grains of Sand or Hush!), or struggling marriages (All Around Us, Three Stories of Love). This film is a domestic comedy-drama based upon a play by Maki Peyounne and the original title in Japanese is Okaasanga issho (Together with Mother), which is a nice play on words on the long-running children’s TV programme on NHK Okaasan to issho (same meaning, except that in the film title the mother is more of an active subject – which is significant). If I had to describe it in one sentence I would say ‘Imagine Chekhov’s Three Sisters rewritten as a farce, meeting Italian comic opera’.

Three sisters decide to take their elderly mother to a spa resort for her birthday. We never actually get to see the mother, but everything is centred around her and what she might like or, above all, dislike, since she seems really hard to please (I have to say, it all sounded extremely familiar to me, except I had no sisters to share the burden with). The three sisters in question are Yayoi (nearly 40, acutely feeling her spinster status despite her comfortable lifestyle and high-earning job, nearly as pedantic and critical as her mother), pretty but messy Manami in her mid-30s, without any professional ambitions and in a relationship with a married lover that isn’t going anywhere, and Kiyomi, in her late 20s, who has to bear the brunt of still living at home to look after Mom, but who is planning her escape by getting engaged to a local lad. It was a fascinating look at how societal expectations and family pressures can wreak havoc on independent young women in Japan even today, and exposes all the sibling rivalries and family discontent. Highly enjoyable, with a lot of physical comedy as well.

In the Wake was quite the depressing contrast, but I have to admit that I was eager to see it because of the two main actors, Sato Takeru as someone recently released from prison (who sadly did not look as pretty as he usually does in this one) and the tall, brooding Abe Hiroshi as a policeman (who did do a good job on the brooding front). The director was a bit of a surprise to me, since Zeze Takahisa is known for his ‘pink’ (i.e. soft porn) films, but in recent years he has started making films with a pronounced component of social critique. In this film, which is disguised as a crime drama, he exposes the flaws in Japan’s social welfare system, which became woefully apparent after the earthquake and tsunami of 2011. The scenes of refusing benefits, suspecting vulnerable people of fraud, the long-lasting effects of catastrophes and temporary housing etc. seemed horribly familiar to those of us in the UK in recent years, so I can see why this proved to be a popular film at screenings here. Reminiscent of Mike Leigh or Ken Loach.

Tea Friends is based on real events and directed by the youngest of the three directors Sotoyama Bunji. Despite his youth, he seems preoccupied with the problem of Japan’s ageing population, both of his previous two feature-length films are about the loneliness of old people, either stuck in care homes or trying to find some connection, no matter how late in life. In this film, they become members of an exclusive ‘tea club’ – under the innocent guise of selling tea to elderly people between the ages of 60 and 88, it’s actually a prostitution club with elderly call girls catering to the needs of elderly men. The real-life club operated for over a decade until 2013. In the film, the organiser Mana is presented as not just an efficient businesswoman, but someone who genuinely cares both for her workers, whom she regards as family, and her elderly clients, considering she is providing a vital service for lonely people (even those in nursing homes).

The film challenges our own assumptions about the elderly, sexuality and right or wrong. While I felt that the last few scenes (at the police station, once the club is busted) were a bit too preachy, and the film could have ended with Mana crying all alone, abandoned by her ‘family of choice’, it was certainly a thought-provoking film that dealt well with contradictions and subjects many still find taboo, but which will become increasingly urgent in our ageing societies. This film is (or has been) available on Mubi.

I was also scheduled to watch two Japanese films at the Prince Charles Cinema, which is in danger of being kicked out of its current location thanks to greedy landowners, who are making the whole area around Leicester Square an unappealing wasteland of casinos and tacky souvenir shops – please sign the petition to save it. The two films are part of their Kurosawa season. Kurosawa is one of my favourite film directors, and these two films in particular are good to see on the big screen.

Dersu Uzala is a bit of an outlier in Kurosawa’s film catalogue. It’s his only non-Japanese language film and was commissioned by Mosfilm in the early 1970s, at a low point in Kurosawa’s career after the failure of his film Dodesukaden. It was filmed in the taiga and is based on the memoirs of Russian explorer and topographer Vladimir Arsenyev, who hired and then befriended local nomadic hunter Dersu Uzala, who represents the traditional way of life, in harmony with nature, but a way of life that is clearly under threat. It’s a long, contemplative, beautifully shot film, you feel that you are living every moment together with the explorers, and reminded me in parts of Tarkovsky’s Stalker. This was the first time I watched it, following a friend’s recommendation, and it was quite mesmerising.

Kagemusha is the film that Kurosawa made immediately after Dersu Uzala, a return to his samurai films but on a grand scale, depicting the final stages of the Sengoku (Warring Countries) period in Japanese history. It was apparently quite a problematic production, in terms of securing funding, actors leaving or being replaced, and the director being increasingly irascible and using 5000 extras for the battle scenes to then just cut them out ruthlessly. I think I prefer Ran from the late Kurosawa period; nevertheless, the film remains an epic masterpiece which needs to be seen on the big screen – I’ve only ever seen it on video before. Sadly, it was not meant to be: for the second time this year, the screening of Kagemusha was cancelled (this time because of a leaky pipe). Since I was already in London, I had to make do with shopping, cake and meandering through Foyles’ bookshop, because the queues at the National Gallery and British Museum were just too massive for me to brave them.

Speaking of alternate history, I also watched the animated series Ōoku: The Inner Chambers, (first and only season so far is available on Netflix), which explains the closing of Japan to foreigners as the result of an outbreak of a special kind of smallpox which only affects young men, leading to a parallel version of Japanese history where the Shogun and all the key positions (and labour in the fields etc.) are held by women, while men are just used for procreation. The only 18-rated anime I’ve ever seen, it did show some hardcore scenes of sexual violence, but it’s a fascinating blend of historical fact and speculative fiction.

The last Japanese film I saw was also on Netflix, and one of the few remaining Ghibli Studio productions that I haven’t seen (other than My Neighbors the Yamadas and the universally-panned Tales of Earthsea). Ocean Waves (the original Japanese title translates as I Can Hear the Sea) is one of the animated films directed by the younger talent at Studio Ghibli, at a time when Miyazaki and Takahata were searching for a successor. It feels like any number of Japanese coming of age in high school movies, and, although the animation was pleasant enough, and the teenagers charmingly confused and difficult, it was not the most memorable or delightful of the studio’s offerings. Perhaps that’s why it was only released on TV in Japan and went straight to DVD abroad.

Diving into Japanese TV rom-com series

While waiting for Ripley to appear on Netflix, I thought I needed a break from grim news and the International Booker longlist (often on bleak topics), so I thought I’d dive into something very untypical for me: a light-hearted rom-com series. I was initially planning on finding something Korean, but memories of my trip to Japan were too powerful, and I finally opted for a Japanese comedy set in a hospital (even more unusual for me, as I was never a fan of hospital dramas), based on a comedy manga (hence, full of over-the-top acting), An Incurable Case of Love (in Japanese Koi wa Tsuzuku yo Doko made mo – Love Lasts Forever). The series was rather silly and reinforcing a lot of gender stereotypes, but I was rather taken with the main male actor, Satō Takeru.

Can you see why I might have quite liked Satō Takeru’s appearance?

So I turned to another TV series where he’s the lead, First Love, and did something even more uncharacteristic: I binge-watched it. And then searched for more, and found Why Didn’t I Tell You a Million Times? (in Japanese – 100 Mankai Ie-ba Yokatta), which I also binge-watched.

So now I am steeped in contemporary Japanese language, culture, music and escapism, and could see some common themes emerging, although each of these series is quite different.

Even a comedy is sad and death is always nearby

The hospital drama was the most purely comedic of the lot, but even there, you had emergencies, moments of despair and death of patients or loved ones. Some of it was tear-jerker fodder for the storyline, of course, but then there was the moving scene when the hospital staff handle the dead patient, and still tell him what they are going to do (‘we will now take off your top’, ‘we will now wash your torso’ etc.), just as if he were still alive. The amount of respect shown to patients (and the level of staffing and care in hospitals) was mind-blowing, but that probably wasn’t realistic.

The young couple in First Love, reunited by their common passion for planes and dreaming of getting out of their small hometown in Hokkaido

First Love switches between different time frames, as high-school sweethearts find each other many years later, after they have each led very different, smaller lives than what they’d initially dreamt about together. But it’s not a straightforward romance, because the woman had actually lost her memory in an accident and therefore doesn’t recognise him as her first love. I’ve been told that memory loss is a very common trope in romances, but since this is not my usual fare, it felt fresh enough to me.

The contrast between the joyful, sparky teenagers and the middle-aged people who’ve lost their oomph and learnt to cope with disappointments and loneliness was very touching, and there were moments of interaction between mother and son (in the present-day) and mother and daughter (in the past), which were very well-observed, and meant that even the side characters had depth and their own stories of failure and disappointments. There were also links to historical events (such as the war in Afghanistan or the 3/11 earthquake and tsunami in Japan, or Covid in 2020), and descriptions of working-class lives and the ‘Lost Generation’ of job hunters as Japanese economy took a downturn, which grounded the story, rather than making it all wishful thinking.

The penultimate episode ends on a bittersweet but realistic note, with the lovers parting as they realise that the past cannot be recaptured, and perhaps the original intention was for the story to end there. But then in the final episode, we get the Disney happy ending, which felt a little like pandering for the audience. But, as someone said on Reddit ‘we don’t watch romances for realism, we watch it to escape from our daily lives’ – I suppose it’s only human to want a good outcome for those people who’d been through so much!

Why Didn’t I Tell You a Million Times? (shortened from here on to WDITY) also has a common supernatural trope (so I’m told, but have yet to discover myself): a loved one who dies but his spirit is still around. I can only remember Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, and Truly, Madly, Deeply with Juliet Stevenson and Alan Rickman – and certainly this story combines both themes (trying to solve a murder and for the survivor to learn to move on). But it is also about regrets – for all the words that were unspoken, all the things that they didn’t get to do together, the years wasted – and the pain of watching someone rebuilding their life without you, even though you know it’s the best thing to do.

Although the ghostly special effects were a bit cringeworthy and the police drama side of it somewhat predictable, the chemistry between the three leads (the dead lover, the surviving girlfriend and the police officer who’s the only one who can see the ghost) makes for some very good comedic moments. But, as is often the case in Japanese fiction or films, there is a sense of wistfulness and an ending that is unsentimental, satisfying but sad.

Gender Stereotypes and Wishful Thinking

As far as appearances go, the girlfriends tend to be cute (kawaii in Japanese) rather than beautiful, with quite a few of them exuding manic pixie girl energy, while the men have that slender, graceful, slightly androgynous beauty that the Japanese call ikemen. However, when it comes to personalities, the men are often very ‘verklempt’ (as the Germans might say) – unable to express their emotions, or expressing them in rather macho, bullying ways, while the girls have to do all the emotional labour. The men are often mysterious, hiding troubled pasts, seldom smile, keep a stiff upper lip, which of course makes the inevitable admission of their feelings and succumbing to passion all the more precious.

Ikemen balance their good looks, fashionable clothes and masculine desire to protect their girlfriends with so-called feminine qualities such as patience, sensitivity and tenderness. They also want whatever is best for their partner, even if they have to sacrifice themselves at times, encouraging her to study abroad or try a new job. This is where wish fulfilment might come in, unless Japanese men have changed dramatically since the 1990s when I was more involved with studying Japanese society.

Poster for WDITY, with the policeman representing a slightly less ikemen appearance (notice the stubble)

There is also quite an obsession with marriage in these TV series, which perhaps reflects society norms that remain strong, even though there are a few new series that try to subvert that (I am currently watching yet another one about dating in your 30s which seems to question whether marriage is of any benefit to women). However, there is a recognition that marriage does not equal a happy ever after, and stories of divorce and single mothers appear far more frequently than they did in Yuko Tsushima’s time (Territory of Light would not be as revolutionary in Japanese culture now as it was back in the 1970s).

The topic that comes up again and again in these series, whether addressed directly or indirectly, is loneliness. Which is indeed a huge problem in Japanese society – there are an estimated 1.5 million (out of a population of 122 million) hikikomori, recluses who’ve withdrawn from society and barely leave their houses. With society expectations, working hours and pressures still so high, many in the younger generation are refusing to settle down, while others simply disappear – Japan has one of the highest rates of suicides and deliberate disappearances in the world (there are even professional handbooks or companies who can help you drop out of your life). Even before the pandemic, 55% of Japanese reported feeling lonely. The maid and butler cafés, the hostess and host bars that are on nearly every street corner in large Japanese cities are not so much about sex, as about having someone pour out your drink and ask you about your day, making you feel slightly less lonely for a couple of hours.

And that’s exactly what these TV series do as well. The main characters are initially self-sufficient but lonely, they feel something is missing from their lives, but in the end, once they’ve worked on themselves and are strong in themselves, they find companionship and love. They give all those lonely people hope – and perhaps a blueprint for being in a viable relationship: be more resilient and independent (if you’re a girl), be more sensitive and empathetic (if you’re a boy).

Travelling and Language Learning

For someone like me, who used to speak Japanese fluently but has forgotten most of it, these series are an excellent way of refreshing my language skills. I’ve watched anime series with my sons before, but the vocabulary there is more limited, while these show ontemporary language and social interactions that you might encounter in real-life.

I love noticing cultural nuances that don’t always come through in translation. For example, the main character, the nurse in An Incurable Case of Love, continues addressing the doctor as ‘sensei’ even after they get together as a couple.

She looks about 14 in this scene, but she’s actually supposed to be 22 and he’s 33 in the series. Still, not quite the equal partnership I’d have liked.

The men tend to refer to their girlfriends as ‘ore no kanojo’ (my she), while the women use a more varied vocabulary such as kareshi, koibito, boifurendo, which all signify lover. To say ‘I love you’, they generally use ‘suki’ or ‘daisuki’, which is also used for like/fancy (you can use it for food or music or hobbies too). Which makes the scene in WDITY all the more powerful, when he finally repeats ‘aishiteru’ – which is the proper, formal way to say it.

With the exception of First Love, which seems to have had more budget thrown at it, and therefore features a diversity of backdrops, including lots of snowy scenes in Hokkaido and Iceland, these series are largely sitcoms, so feature a small set of interiors – their apartments (they always seem to live in separate flats if they’re unmarried, even if they’ve been together for a while) or houses, which seem to be less cramped than in real life; their offices or business premises; a local restaurant or bar. Yet we also get street shots of the cities where the events take place: lots of images of the Tokyo Skytree Tower and a bit of Osaka and Kagoshima for An Incurable Case of Love, Sapporo (and rural areas of north Hokkaido) in First Love, Yokohama in WDITY. Now all I need is to find a series set in Kyoto and Fukuoka, and my vicarious travelling will be complete! But I suspect those two locations tend to be used more for historical dramas, which are not quite as useful for boosting my Japanese vocabulary.

Food and Music

One of the rules of Japanese TV series is that in each episode there will be at least one instance of people sitting down to eat together, saying ‘Itadakimasu’ and then making a really strange face with their mouth full, after which they burst out (with tears of joy in their eyes): ‘Oishii!’ or ‘Umai!’ – meaning ‘delicious’. Food is very important in Japan, and people cooking for each other is a declaration of love. (In the TV series I saw, the men were just as good if not better at cooking than the women, so at least a bit of equality there.)

However, I was slightly disappointed that there weren’t more complicated recipes on offer: omuraisu (rice omelette), or hamburger steak (without a bun), or ramen or spaghetti Napolitan (with sausage and bacon in ketchup – only in Japan, the Italians would disown this) seem to be the popular dishes, and they are mostly inspired by Western cuisine.

An added bonus has been listening to the soundtracks and songs on these series. First Love is actually based on two songs by a hugely popular Japanese artist Utada Hikaru (one from the 1990s called First Love and one released 20 years later called Hatsukoi – which also means First Love).

This reminded me of all the J pop I used to listen to back when I was studying Japanese in the 1990s – and they’re still as upbeat and poppy as ever in An Incurable Case of Love. There’s more of a mix of English and Japanese rock and R&B in First Love, while WDITY has a more suitably haunting piano-based soundtrack.

If you’ve made this far in this very long blog post, congratulations!

In spite of my attempts to make this look like a research project, the truth is, it’s simply been great fun reliving my youth (but with more access to digital media about Japan than I had back then). Like all of my passing fads, this too will fade into oblivion after a while, and so it should, as spending 4-5 hours every evening in front of the TV is not the best use of my time or conducive to good health. Besides, it makes my cat Kasper (who usually sleeps on my lap while I’m watching TV) then want to get up to shenanigans at midnight, because he hasn’t played enough.

However, it has given me an idea for a story… and no, it’s not going to be a rom-com, even if it starts out as one!

#1940Club: Miss Hargreaves

Frank Baker: Miss Hargreaves, Bloomsbury, 2009 (reissue)

I know that one of our hosts of the #1940Club, Simon, is extremely fond of this book, so I’d better be careful what I say…

Fortunately, I loved it: a delightful piece of escapism with a supernatural tinge (what did I tell you about 1940 being the year people wanted to look away from the horrors befalling them?). I also feel it says a lot about the nature of the average Englishman (or woman) – the social snobbery, the gossip mill of country villages, the tolerance of eccentricity and bumbling fools, but also the inability to talk about things openly, and the backstabbing that ensues because of that cowardice.

The book reminded me of Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson or David Garnett’s Lady into Fox, both earlier works but likewise taking very English scenarios, characters and landscapes, and then throwing a surrealist spanner in the works. There is much more of a concern for social niceties in all of these novels than in the French, Romanian or German surrealist tales that I’ve read, and the humour is often broader.

Two young men go on a tour of Ireland and engage in what they believe to be a harmless prank, making up on the spot the formidable 83-year old Miss Hargreaves (‘rhymes with ‘graves’, not ‘greeves’), who travels everywhere with her dog, her parrot, her dire poetry, her harp and a hip bath. To their utter astonishment, this figment of their imagination shows up in their cathedral town of Cornford on the Thames, with all the accoutrements they’ve embellished upon, and proceeds to make their life a misery.

At least, that is the official version of the story, and I could easily imagine the narrator Norman as a bashful, confused but nevertheless charming young Hugh Grant, complete with floppy hair. However, I couldn’t help but be aware of the subtext: the schoolboyish high jinks of fairly comfortably well-off young men (although they also work for a living), making fun of the vicar in Ireland who holds his church in high esteem, simply because they deem it ugly, inventing the most absurd connections for an elderly woman and then being embarrassed when these things manifest themselves in real life, above all the back-handed way in which Norman goes about discrediting Miss Hargreaves when he feels she isn’t paying him sufficient attention anymore.

Amusing though it was to witness Norman’s discomfort and madcap attempts to disentangle himself from this crazy situation, my sympathy lies firmly with Miss Hargreaves, self-important and pompous and bulldozerish though she is. And, to be fair, the author seems to be slightly in love with her too. None of this is really her fault, and the narrator comes to that realisation too. There is one poignant moment when the lady says:

For a little while, I broke into a life which I was never intended to lead. But now I know what I am… ‘a thought, a piece of thistledown, a thing of naught, rocked in the cradle of a craftsman’s story’.

There are philosophical asides about the nature of reality and the creative vs. destructive purpose which I wasn’t quite expecting in this essentially light-hearted and fun book.

Lately, I’d begun to doubt a good many things. Whether life wasn’t one long dream: whether dreams weren’t really life: whether I actually existed. Under water, I knew at any rate, that I existed; I knew that because I knew that if I stayed there much longer I should cease to exist.

While most of the book is laced with the self-deprecating kind of humour that feels quintessentially English, there are those moments of anger at one’s own hopelessness, and lashing out at others in a quite nasty way via anonymous denunciations, which somehow reminded me of some of the less pleasant aspects of the recent Covid lockdowns. And then that smug tone of self-justification:

She was climbing too damn high. Some rungs, if not all, must be wrenched from her ladder. Get the rumour round, get the tatty trotty tongues of Cornford wagging, and it would be the beginning of the end for her… It’s no good your reading this and condemning me and saying I’m horribly malicious. I had to do something about it. I couldn’t sit back for ever and watch Connie capering in her Cloud-Cuckoo-Land of Deans and Archdeacons. One kind word from her, one smile in her old fashion, one wink of recongition – and I would not have acted as I did.

In conclusion, I would say that I really enjoyed it and laughed heartily while reading it, but it left a bitter aftertaste, which gave it added complexity, whether the author intended it or not. Oh, and one more reason I loved the book: the multiple mentions of Cookham and Cliveden make me think the book is set somewhere very close to where I currently live.

This was the week that was…

Despite a very busy week at work (this is going to be my refrain over the next month or so), I managed to cram in a few extracurricular activities. I took my older son (or should that be: he took me?) to the Manga exhibition at the British Museum and this time it was not quite as busy as when I went with the younger one, so I managed to take some pictures.

Pikachu and Pokemon is what most of us know in the West, but there was so much more on offer…

My boys are rather partial to Josuke from JoJo’s Bizarre Adventures. He is so vain about his hair that he will pick a fight with anyone who comments about it.

Personally, I am more interested in exploring the Saint Young Men manga, which features Jesus Christ and Buddha as flatmates.

Scultpture made out of onomatopeia appearing in manga in Japanese katakana script

With more than 5000 manga artists active in Japan today, and with hundreds if not thousands of series appearing in weekly or monthly formats, it was impossible to cover all of my children’s favourites, so they were inevitably somewhat disappointed. However, as an exhibition exploring the origins of the manga (in the Heian scrolls, for instance) and showing the breadth of manga topics (from sports to adventure to love to classic novels or non-fiction), it was an excellent introduction to a Japanese art and literary form that has conquered the world.

After a short stop in Portsmouth for a conference…

The first time I saw the City Hall tower instead of the Spinnaker Tower…

… I warmed up for my birthday weekend with a trip to the theatre, to watch the charismatic Andrew Scott (aka Sexy Priest in Fleabag) in a Noel Coward play Present Laughter at the Old Vic. This was actually a preview performance, but the cast seemed to slip effortlessly into that blend of physical farce and caustic wit which is signature Coward. It is about an ageing matinee idol who seems unable to let go of his selfish ways and giant-sized ego. A stylish and very funny production, with one significant change to the original: a gender inversion, so that the main character Garry Essendine’s business partner is a woman and he finds himself having a one-night stand with her husband (in the original play the business partner is a man and he slips up with the wife). It felt quite natural and perhaps closer to what we know of Noel Coward and his entourage.

The play was written in 1939 and meant to provide a little light relief from the sombre storm clouds gathering over Europe. It went into rehearsals but the war broke out, so it wasn’t performed until 1942. At a time of not quite as severe uncertainty and gloom, it still provides a wonderful evening of escapist entertainment and belly laughs.

Andrew Scott proves himself a master of comic timing and exaggeration, but also imbues the character with a fundamental sense of loneliness. Photo credit: Manuel Harlan, Evening Standard.

In terms of reading this week, I’ve been cracking on with my selection of American authors: David Vann’s Aquarium very nearly broke me (I just cannot cope with sad children). Cara Black’s Murder in Bel Air was suitably entertaining, although I think of it as more French than American. I am also currently reading Sam Shepard’s miniature pieces in Cruising Paradise, which is very Dakota -American Midwest. By way of contrast, I had a craving to reread Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley – where American penchant for action and the self-made man meet European lifestyle and indolence.

The Creativity of Molière

Inscription on backside: peint par Pierre Mign... — Inscription on backside: peint par Pierre Mignard en 1671 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am always a little wary of statements beginning ‘we writers’, as I feel it is wrong to believe that my sentiments and bad habits are universal. So let me revise that to: ‘this particular writer is sometimes plagued by self-indulgent behaviour, laziness and self-pity’. When I am in the mood to whinge about how busy I am and how I have no time to write, I remind myself of the amazing creativity in the face of adversity of French playwright Molière. Then I shut up about my own minor niggles…

What is so amazing about Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, better known by his stage name Molière? He was born in 1622 in a rather wealthy bourgeois family and was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps in a career in public service. Instead, he chose to become an actor and join a wandering troupe of players – the equivalent of running away to join the circus. Back then, actors were considered somewhat disreputable – in fact, they were not even allowed a decent burial in church grounds. Yet Molière chose to face this public and family disapproval to follow his passion.

Here are some other things I have learnt from him:

1) Writing is hard work – you need to be disciplined and persevere. Never complain about lack of time. Molière overcame bankruptcy, censorship, fickle court fashions, disapproval by powerful clerics, ill health, an unhappy marriage, and still wrote more than 30 plays in 14 years, whilst also holding down a full-time job as a theatre director and performer. He also had to please his royal patron, the Sun King Louis XIV, and make himself available for the daily formal ‘waking up’ ceremonies. The King occasionally demanded a new play in less than 48 hours and the public would not offer any applause or feedback until the King himself showed his pleasure for a certain performance.

2) You may reach the height of glory and still descend to the pits of despair and end up forgotten. In other words, you’ve got to do art for art’s sake, not just for money or glory. Although the King backed Molière for many years, and even was the godfather of the firstborn son of the playwright, his support could never be taken for granted and he withdrew it on several occasions, which meant works such as ‘Tartuffe’ or ‘Don Juan’ were banned. In the end, the King abandoned him and never attended a performance of Molière’s final play, ‘Le Malade Imaginaire’.

3) You love your art to the death. Molière is notorious for being so dedicated to his art that it actually killed him. During a performance of ‘Le Malade Imaginaire’, he suffered a coughing fit and haemorrhage (it appears he was suffering from tuberculosis). He insisted on finishing his performance, but died a few hours later as a result of these superhuman exertions.

Molière in classical dress, by Nicolas Mignard... — Molière in classical dress, by Nicolas Mignard, 1658. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

4) You play to your strengths. Personally, Molière appears to have been fonder of playing tragedy and would have liked to write tragedy as well. However, he very quickly realised that his real talent lay with satire, mockery and comedy, and that this was what his public wanted from him.

5) You can have depth in any genre. Despite having to please a difficult courtly audience, who liked their comedy broad and farcical, Molière proved that, if you are a good enough writer, you can be funny and still layer in universal and profound questions about hypocrisy, falseness in human relationships, pretentiousness and truth.

6) You don’t have to be perfect. French language purists argue that there are lots of errors, padding, grammatical inconsistencies and mixed metaphors in Molière’s work (much like the criticism made of Shakespeare). Yet French is known nowadays as the ‘language of Molière’. Corneille is the greater writer, Racine has the more profound tragic sentiment, but Molière is the most performed and the most quoted French dramatist. His plays have been continuously performed for the past 350 years and the public has always loved him, even when critics, philosophers, religious leaders etc. tried to diss him.

7) Learn from others. In the early years, Molière met with Corneille and even collaborated with him on a play. He also encouraged Racine in his artistic endeavours, although the troupe never performed a play by the younger writer. His most famous collaboration, however, was with Jean-Baptiste Lully, the founding father of French opera and ballet. Together they created a new genre known as the comédie-ballet, perhaps the forerunner of today’s musicals.

8) We don’t care about his private life. Yes, he was a bit of a ladies’ man. Yes, he married the illegitimate daughter of his lover. Yes, he wrote extremely well about being cuckolded, so it might have been based on personal experience. Do we care? No. His work stands on his own merit, much like Shakespeare’s, about whom we know even less.

As an interesting footnote, there are some who doubt the authenticity of Molière’s work and attribute at least some of his plays to another playwright (in this case Corneille, in Shakespeare’s case Christopher Marlowe). It seems that readers will always need to invent complicated theories to fill in the gaps. So perhaps I should rephrase again from the ‘we’ to the ‘me’. Do I care about Molière’s private life and his failings as a human being? No. He still has so much to teach me.