3.5 stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang
This is a droll bit of seasonal
mischief.
Les Standiford’s scholarly,
quasi-biography of Charles Dickens — 2008’s The
Man Who Invented Christmas — seems an unlikely source for a mainstream,
holiday-themed film; scripter Susan Coyne deserves credit for an unusual (if
hardly original) approach.
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| As Charles Dickens (Dan Stevens, seated) struggles to work his way through the five "staves" of his new book, he's helped — and hindered — by his imagined personification of Ebenezer Scrooge (Christopher Plummer). |
The result proceeds briskly under
the capable guidance of British film and TV director Bharat Nalluri, perhaps
best known on these shores for 2008’s charming Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. Nalluri and Coyne similarly
concentrate on whimsical character dynamics here, presenting us with a
31-year-old Dickens — played with agreeably feverish anxiety by Dan Stevens —
beset by all manner of troubles.
The film begins with a brief
prologue in 1842, with Dickens celebrated on both sides of the Atlantic, his
stage readings standing-room-only sell-outs in the wake of his wildly popular
novels Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby and The Old Curiosity Shop. Flash-forward a
year and change, and Dickens is in dire financial straits after three published
flops, including — most particularly — the unloved Martin Chuzzlewit.
Dickens is at wit’s end: unable
to pay the craftsmen appointing his luxurious new home; forever harried by his
spendthrift father (Jonathan Pryce, as John Dickens); and newly panicked by the
news that his wife Kate (Morfydd Clark) is expecting their fifth child. Worse
yet, he’s months into a ferocious case of writer’s block, the public disdain
for his recent output having paralyzed his creative juices.
Best friend and sorta-kinda agent
John Forster (Justin Edwards) isn’t much help, his advice limited to little
beyond “Well, just write another book.” Dickens’ publishers — Chapman (Ian
McNeice) and Hall (David McSavage) — are similarly useless: actually worse than
useless, when they reject the pitch for his next book.
They hardly can be blamed, as
it’s a crazed notion: a vaguely defined story about Christmas. Nobody writes about Christmas; nobody cares about Christmas. As the boorish
husband of one of Dickens’ aristocratic readers sniffs, Christmas is “just an
excuse to pick a man’s pocket once a year.”
If that line sounds familiar,
you’ve recognized one key element in Coyne’s script.
The narrative conceit here is
that Dickens overhears and jots down names, comments and possible plot
contrivances from family, friends and random strangers. (Young Irish housemaid
Tara — winningly played by Anna Murphy — helps him come up with the name
“Scrooge.”) It’s a delightful notion, particularly for those well-versed in A Christmas Carol’s characters and
quotable lines.
But that isn’t the sole gimmick.
Once Dickens begins to put pen to paper — banishing his wife, four children and
the house staff behind a closed door — he’s able to create and animate his
fictional characters only by visualizing, conversing and arguing with their
imaginary selves ... at which point Christopher Plummer enters the story, as a
rather cantankerous Ebenezer Scrooge.
He’s followed, in short order, by
Jacob Marley (Donald Sumpter), Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig (John Henshaw and Annette
Badland) and — most particuarly — Bob Cratchit (Marcus Lamb), his wife (Katie
McGuinness) and, among their children, Tiny Tim (Pearse Kearney).
In the manner of 1939’s The Wizard of Oz, the actors playing
these characters also exist as actual folks in Dickens’ life: McGuinness also
plays his sister Fanny; Henshaw is the local butcher, and so forth.
The peace of Dickens’ study soon
is shattered by squabbling fictional characters. (I’m reminded of the dramatic
climax of 1962’s The Wonderful World of
the Brothers Grimm, when fever-wracked Laurence Harvey’s Wilhelm Grimm is
confronted by fairytale characters requesting that they be named before he
dies.)
And, in an ironic twist that
seasoned authors will recognize, Scrooge and the rest of Dickens’
Christmas-themed characters aren’t necessarily willing to behave in the way
he’d prefer, as the novella progresses.
To make matters worse, Dickens’
response to his publishers’ disinterest is to finance the book himself: an
ill-advised decision, by a man with no money and a hefty overdraft. Factor in
plans for the book to have gilt-edged pages bound in red cloth, and
illustrations by famed artist John Leech (Simon Callow) ... all ready in time
for Christmas. Which is less than two months away.
Can’t be done. Leech can’t work
that quickly; the printer can’t work that quickly; Dickens can’t write that quickly.
At least ... he never has before.
Nalluri and Coyne deftly merge
this chaotic creative process — with Stevens’ conduct akin to Joseph Fiennes’
similarly obsessed behavior in 1998’s Shakespeare
in Love — with narrative glimpses of key scenes, as the story coalesces.
These sequences, in turn, are blended with heartbreaking glimpses of Dickens’
grim childhood: particularly the moment when his 12-year-old self (a shattering
performance by Ely Solan) was forced to work 10-hour days in a shoe-blacking
factory, after having watched his father, mother and younger siblings hauled
off to Marshalsea debtors’ prison.
In this respect, then, this film
also serves as a quasi-biography: an important reminder, likely overlooked
today, that Dickens never missed an opportunity to shine a spotlight on social
injustice, and most particularly on the cruel indifference with which his
socially privileged readers treated working-class families.
As Kathryn Harrison observed so astutely,
in her New York Times review of
Standiford’s book, “Dickens intended to make the sufferings of the most
vulnerable of the underclass so pungently real to his readers, that they could
not continue to ignore their need.” What better time than Christmas, as the
backdrop to this authorly objective?
All things considered, this is a
lot of baggage for a 104-minute film, particularly one that is determined to
convey its various messages with gentle British wit. The interwoven narratives,
and Stephen O’Connell and Jamie Pearson’s brisk editing, leave little room for
character depth; many of the supporting faces — notably Clark’s oft-neglected
Kate Dickens, and McGuinness’ Fanny Dickens — get very little screen time.
It’s a shame to see a talented
character actor such as Miriam Margolyes — playing Mrs. Fisk, the Dickens housekeeper
— given so little to do.
On the other hand, Coyne works
all manner of parallel structure into her script; I was particularly moved by
the manner in which Dickens’ unkind exasperation — when dealing with his father
— begins to mirror Scrooge’s harsh treatment of Bob Cratchit.
Stevens has a lot of fun with the
starring role, and Pryce is equally fine as the foolish, grasping,
self-centered John Dickens: a useless man we should despise, but for his
obviously kind heart. Forster puts considerable heart into his portrayal of
Dickens’ friend Justin, and Callow has some grand incredulous moments as the
overwhelmed Leech.
Plummer, in turn, makes a
memorable Scrooge: not quite as spitefully cruel as the role traditionally
demands, but that’s due to this miser coming to life in fits and starts. It
would be fun to see Plummer tackle the role for real and true. We’ve not had a
serious version of Dickens’ book since Patrick Stewart’s memorable turn in 1999
— Jim Carrey’s 2009 abomination is best forgotten — and Plummer is the right
age.
Just in passing, it’s not entirely true, as the film and
Standiford’s book suggest, that Dickens “invented” our modern Christmas.
Clement Moore’s “The Night Before Christmas” was published in 1823, and in 1840
Queen Victoria and her husband Albert began displaying annual Christmas trees
in Windsor Castle: a tradition that quickly caught on here in the States.
That said, Nalluri and Coyne have
gifted us with a delectable slice of holiday whimsy ... although, I fear, it’s
unlikely to make much of an impact on this side of the pond.
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