Play vs TV vs Book

Yesterday, I saw Birdsong in the Theatre Royal in Winchester.

I've read the book, seen the TV adaptation, and now the play. So is it fair to compare them?

Not really - they are different art forms. They take the same material (for those not familiar with Sebastian Faulks' book, it's set in the trenches of the World War 1 with flashbacks to an affair), even tell the same story, but they work with different tools. However, it is impossible for forget any encounter with this story before, even if it comes in a different shape.

A writer has nothing but words and white space on the page. And, of course, the imagination of the reader who must do some of the work - taking those words and providing his or her own images. The reader engages as he or she chooses; there are times then this books is gruesome - a reader is free to put the book down, take a rest from the misery, go outside and smell the roses, listen to the birdsong.

When I saw this televised, the director seemed to understand this need for respite from the trenches: the flashback scenes, while painful to watch in places, were full of sunshine and - in spite of the heartache - there was an optimism in all that loving. It left the viewer with a feeling that the carnage was worth it for love, in the form of a child, would survive. And, if it was too full of blood and mayhem, the viewer could turn it off - or go and make a cup of tea and hope it was more cheerful when he or she came back.

There is no such respite on stage. This production handled the flashbacks seamlessly, so 'present' morphed into memory with little more than a flicking of scenery and change of lighting. Characters slipped from past to present with comparable ease. However, the backdrop - the barbed wire and mud of the trenches - never moved. The audience was never able to forget the context of this play, no taking a trip to the loo, no slipping into the garden to remind yourself of sunshine.

The result - it was harrowing. It's hugely powerful - and important to remember just how futile it all was, how pointless all that carnage. The acting and staging was superb. But not for anyone who, for whatever reason, is looking for light entertainment. - I don't see this as 'criticism' - this is a magnificent, important play and this production was wonderful. Harrowing was what it needed to be.

The White Horse Bookshop

I had planned to return with News, but this is far too wonderful to let it go by.

A few weeks ago I wrote about the refurbishment of our lovely independent bookshop. Well, last Saturday was the official reopening.

I don't know about your town - but ours can do 'stuffy' when it comes to celebrations. We call them respectable, of course, but often they're stuffy. Sparkling wine in sparkling glasses. Canapés. Men and women greet each other with air-kisses and agree that this is wonderful darling. Maybe a local worthy to do the opening honours. Such celebrations have their place, of course - but sometimes I think my town needs a bit of a kick up the bum.

And then came the reopening of the White Horse Bookshop. With Jacqueline Wilson. Whose fab idea was it to invite her? For the great and the good of the town were shoved to the margins as the shop filled with children. You could barely hear yourself speak above the hubbub of children's voices - subdued briefly when she walked by them and then resuming forte proportions once she'd gone by.

The official ribbon-cutting done, she sat on a low sofa - low enough to look children in the eye and talk with them. A queue (of sorts) snaked through the shop - she had time and a smile for them all.

Oh how truly wonderful. Nobody could move in the shop for children, and parents, and grandparents. For what can be more important than bringing books and children together?

(Far more important than my News, anyway!!)

Literature Festivals time again.

Yes, spring is springing, and the festival season has begun. I'm off to Oxford on Saturday, to hang about in colleges and listen to wonderful writers talk about wonderful books. And I'll probably buy more than I intend - but what the hell, that's what literature festivals are for, isn't it?

Wait a minute. That's not what the organisers tell us they're for. They want booky people and booky writers to mingle, enjoy time together, celebrate being generally bookish. There are even parties and dinners to celebrate their bookishness.

Wait a minute. That's not what the marketing people tell us they're for. It's all very well for writers to be charming, to mingle with the hoi polloi, to blush and be graciously grateful for all the accolades heaped on them. Accolades - pah! The marketing men want sales. How else can they measure success?

Wait a minute. Those, like me, who pour over programmes and wrestle with decisions over who to see, who not to see, can I really afford to go to all these events - what do we want? Here I can only speak for myself. I want to learn, but I also want to be entertained. I've invested, not in a hard sell, but in an hour in which to get to know the writer and his or her work better. Of all the people I've seen at festivals, two stand out: AL Kennedy and Anne Enright. I bought books I'd not planned on buying, not because they spent an hour telling me how wonderful their books were, but because they came across as real people who were as interested in the audience as we were in them. And I figured that if they could do that, then they'd write great characters that would also interest me.

And the writers - what do they want? Sales, of course. Seeing someone walk down the street with My Book tucked under an arm is enough to send me reaching for the champagne. (Well, the prosecco, if you want to be picky). And maybe time away from the computer, time to mingle with people and talk about words rather than fight with them (the words, not the people). But it's more complicated than that. Literature festivals are not really time off, for the writer cannot arrive in his or her slippers. There are protocols, a dress code, trappings of respectability to be observed if anyone is to take you seriously. All of which is enough to send some writers hiding under the duvet. Who can blame them, with so many different expectations sitting on their shoulders.

And you - what takes you to literature festivals? And how can you tell if it's met your expectations?

Books for Gran!!!

I can't quite believe I've used that title - but that was the title of an email I received the other day, with a list of books to buy Granny this Christmas.

I'm a grandmother. And I love books - so maybe, I thought, I could pass the link on to a daughter or two? And then I looked more closely.

It seems that grandmothers have limited interests: We may drool over scenic views, or flowers, or gardening, or knitting. We long to know about celebrities - older celebrities, of course: Cilla Black, Lawence Olivier, Joan Collins. We need a book about caring for an older dog. We long to remind ourselves of our time in the Land Army (my mother, who died almost twenty years ago, told great tales of her time in the Land Army).

Also included: just one novel set in Africa - presumably for the eccentric Granny in the corner who was a bit of a hippy in her youth.

Phew? Is it okay to include just one book for older women who might think outside the old-lady stereotype? Women who might be having a wonderful time before sinking into the corner with their cocoa?

No, it isn't.

And so here, Mr or Ms Book-link person, is my reply:

Grandmothers are wonderful: we are besotted with our grandchildren and will play hide and seek as long as our knees survive. AND - we are free-thinking, independent women who are interested in everything: gardening, animals, politics, the arts, theatre, the glorious possibilities of different cultures, poetry, travel, history, architecture, archeology, botany, astronomy, particle physics, the life cycle of the flea ... 

So how about replacing Knit your Own Britain (that's not a joke - check the link) with books that are daring and different and reflect the reality that OLDER WOMEN ARE AS DIVERSE AS ANY OTHER GROUP IN THE POPULATION.

Let's talk about plumbers.

Last week I rang my plumber - the boiler needs a service, and the Rayburn, so please would he visit while I'm away? It's easy to sort a key for him, and I won't have to potter about wondering what to do and getting in his way.

But, he said, I'd like to see you. I want to talk about your book.

I have misjudged him - I knew he loved reading, as we've talked books before. I just hadn't expected him to have bought my book. He's coming next week.

And so I thought a bit. Realised how I fail to appreciate him - and all the other traders who support me in my little house. (You already know how useless I am in the DIY, even the little-bit-of-mending, department.)

I live in a market town - and know things may be different in the cities. We have a number of sole traders, who have set up independent businesses, to call on. Want someone to fix a sash window? Chop down a dead tree? Clean your carpet? Just ask around, chat in the market, and a name will crop up. And - because we all know who they are - word of mouth soon weeds out those whose work is shoddy, or who don't turn up.

Who needs the big companies? British Gas insurance? Dino-rod? Independent traders are working their socks off, earning a living, keeping the incompetent among us (me) safe and warm. Too often I hear complaints about waiting in for that technician, that engineer, the washing-machine delivery. And when they do turn up they don't have the right part.

Just a minute - how often does that actually happen? We moan (rightly) when it goes wrong, but do not stop the notice the countless times when such things are sorted without a hitch. Never do we raise a glass to unsung heroes and heoines who keep the show on the road.

Andy, it will be good to see you. I'll make you coffee; we can talk about my book; and you will ensure my boiler keeps me warm for another year. I'd be up a creek without you.