Lynd Ward’s Beowulf

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A tale of fire and blood for Bonfire Night. I posted a link to Lynd Ward’s marvellous Beowulf illustrations many years ago but, as is often the case, the site that hosted them is now defunct. These copies are from a recent addition to the indispensable Internet Archive, and unlike the earlier site you get to see the entire book, complete with Ward’s many vignettes. Ward is as good a match for this dark story as he was with Frankenstein, and there’s some similarity between his rendering of Victor Frankenstein’s creation and the even more murderous Grendel. I generally prefer Ward’s black-and-white work to his colour illustrations, and I suspect Ward preferred working in a single tone when given the choice, as with his celebrated woodcut “novels”, God’s Man and Madman’s Drum. But the hot/cold palette works well here, reflecting a world of firelit halls and the icy dark beyond the fire where nightmares wait for sleeping men.

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It’s also possible to read the poem itself, although I wouldn’t advise it with this translation by William Ellery Leonard, not when it begins so risibly with the words “What ho!” Beowulf famously opens with a declaration in Old English—”Hwæt!”—that bards would have shouted to gain the attention of their audience. The word doesn’t translate easily to contemporary English but it’s usually given as “Hear!” or “Listen!” Leonard’s “What ho!” is a phrase that belongs with Bertie Wooster. There are plenty of other translations available, Seamus Heaney’s, for example. I favour the David Wright translation that we read at school, a version which includes a five-page note concerning the difficulties of faithfully translating the poem.

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Raffles, the gentleman thief

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The Raffles that concerns us here is the television incarnation as seen in a series of adventures made by Yorkshire TV in 1977. I recently bought a cheap DVD set of the series, not for reasons of nostalgia (a wretched condition) but out of curiosity and whim. I had a vague recollection of enjoying the few episodes I’d seen, and was hoping for another decent Victorian adventure series along the lines of The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes (1971/1973). Raffles proved to be better than I expected; not quite up to the standards of Granada TV’s peerless adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes stories but thoroughly enjoyable. The production values are better than those in The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, a well-written series with an impressive cast that was nevertheless compromised by a restricted budget. I’m not really reviewing the Raffles series here, this piece is intended to note a couple of points of interest which, for me, added to its pleasures.

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Raffles and Bunny as they were originally. An illustration by FC Yohn from Raffles: Further Adventures of the Amateur Cracksman (1901).

Arthur J. Raffles was invented by EW Hornung, a writer who was, among other things, Arthur Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law. Raffles, like Sherlock Holmes, is a resolute bachelor with a devoted friend and accomplice, but the two men share few other characteristics beyond a talent for outwitting the dogged inhabitants of Scotland Yard. Raffles’ indulgent lifestyle in the bachelor enclave of (the) Albany, Piccadilly, is financed by his burglaries which invariably target aristocrats and the homes of the wealthy. To the general public he’s known as one of the nation’s leading cricket players, a position which gives him access to upper-class social circles from which he would otherwise by excluded. His former school-friend, “Bunny” Manders, is also his partner-in-crime, a position that Bunny is happy to fill after Raffles saves him from bankruptcy and suicide. Conan Doyle disapproved of the immoral nature of the Raffles stories but they were very popular in their day, and they’ve been revived in a number of adaptations for film, TV and radio. George Orwell admired the stories, and writes about them with his usual perceptiveness here, noting the importance of cricket to Raffles’ gentlemanly philosophy of criminal behaviour. I’ve not read any of the stories myself, and I’m not sure that I want now, not when the television adaptations succeed so well on their own terms.

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Anthony Valentine and Christopher Strauli.

The TV series was preceded by a pilot episode made in 1975 which saw the first appearances of Anthony Valentine as the dashing Raffles and Christopher Strauli as the fresh-faced Bunny. Valentine and Strauli fit their roles so well it’s difficult to imagine anyone else improving on them, Valentine especially. In the series the pair are supported by many familiar faces from British drama: Graham Crowden, Charles Dance, Brian Glover, Robert Hardy, Alfred Marks, and, in a rare piece of TV acting, Bruce Robinson. Pilot and series were all written by Philip Mackie, and here we have the first noteworthy element since Mackie had earlier adapted six stories for The Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, including the one that features Donald Pleasence as William Hope Hodgson’s occult detective, Thomas Carnacki. Raffles is another rival of Sherlock Holmes, of course, albeit a criminal one, and much more of a mirror image of Holmes than the thoroughly villainous Professor Moriarty. Raffles only breaks the law to improve his bank balance, or as an occasional, daring challenge; he regards theft and evasion from the police as a form of sport, and generally deplores other types of crime. Some of his thefts are intended to punish the victim following an infraction, as with the belligerent South African diamond miner who causes a scene at Raffles’ club, and the Home Secretary who makes a speech in Parliament demanding stiffer penalties for burglary. In one conversation about the morality of their activities Bunny suggests to Raffles that his friend is a kind of Robin Hood figure; Raffles agrees before admitting that he never gives his spoils to the poor.

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Weekend links 802

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November (1879) by John Atkinson Grimshaw.

• As usual, the first links in November are heavy with the spirit of Halloween. At the BFI: Zombies in the Lake District: how locations from The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue look today; Adam Scovell looks back at one of the more curious zombie films of the 1970s, a Spanish/Italian production directed by Jorge Grau in and around my home city. Also at the BFI: Georgina Guthrie selects 10 great erotic horror films.

• “We must recognise that reality without mystery is impossible.” In a recently digitised film clip, René Magritte is interviewed (in French) by Belgian TV in 1961.

• The Italian edition of The Moon and Serpent Bumper Book of Magic is out now from Panini. Thanks to Smoky Man for posting photos!

• Among the new titles at Standard Ebooks, the home of free, high-quality, public-domain texts: Short Fiction by Saki.

• At Smithsonian Mag: Elizabeth Djinis explains how an Italian town came to be known as the “City of Witches”.

• New music: The Whole Woman by Anna von Hausswolff ft. Iggy Pop; Forces, Reactions, Deflections by Scanner.

• RIP Jack DeJohnette, jazz drummer; Prunella Scales, actor; Peter Watkins, film-maker.

Space Type Generator

Algiers November 1, 1954 (1965) by Ennio Morricone | November Sequence (2011) by Pye Corner Audio | Richter: November (2019) by Mari Samuelsen

Jean Epstein’s House of Usher

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There’s always more Poe. A couple of years ago I wrote about the short American film adaptation of The Fall of the House of Usher co-directed by James Sibley Watson and Melville Webber. Watson and Webber’s experimental take on Poe was made in 1928, and happens to be one of two films based on the story that were made that year.

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This week I watched the longer French adaptation (La Chute de la Maison Usher) directed by Jean Epstein, a very impressive silent film which changes a few details—Roderick and Madeline Usher are now husband and wife rather than brother and sister—but otherwise remains close to Poe’s tale. Epstein’s film is notable for having Luis Buñuel’s name on its screenplay credits but disputes between Buñuel and Epstein means few of Buñuel’s contributions survived. The film is also noted for its dream-like atmosphere, a quality the director favours over storytelling to such a degree that it helps if you’re already familiar with the story.

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Epstein’s house of Usher is toy-like castle in exterior shots whose interior reveals cavernous spaces as vast as Charles Foster Kane’s Xanadu living room, with billowing curtains that make the place a precursor of the magical castle in Cocteau’s La Belle et la Bête. Jean Debucourt is a Roderick Usher who spends his time obsessively painting the doomed Madeline (Marguerite Gance), paying no attention to her increasing fraility. Poe’s visiting guest in this version is an aged man (Charles Lamy) with sight and hearing difficulties which contribute to the general ignorance of Madeline’s plight. In one of the opening scenes, director Abel Gance (the husband of Marguerite) may be seen inside an inn. Gance is best known today for the bravura cinematic invention of his 1927 Napoleon (which I recommend), but Epstein shows himself a match for Gance in the range of effects he brings to the Ushers’ plight: rapid edits, slow motion, double-exposures, low-angle shots, and a remarkable point-of-view sequence where Roderick seems to be floating through the hall. Later in the film the camera drifts along the mansion corridors following wind-blown leaves, a forerunner of all the Steadicam shots of the 1980s.

I was watching this copy of the film, an excellent print (no doubt swiped from disc) with French intertitles. The downloadable files include a subtitle file but with Portuguese subtitles only. English subs may be found here.

Previously on { feuilleton }
Robert Lawson’s House of Usher
The Fall of the House of Usher, 1928
Burt Shonberg’s Poe paintings

A feast of Poe

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King Pest by Alberto Martini.

My thanks to the estimable Mr Shea for bringing to my attention this website devoted to the many illustrated editions of Edgar Allan Poe. Quite a few of the older illustrations have been featured here in the past but most of the later ones are new to me. The site is comprehensive enough to include my own illustrated edition from 2017, a book whose shortcomings I often find myself apologising for. (I was very pressured for time with that commission, and would welcome an opportunity to redo some of the pictures.)

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A Descent into the Maelström by Alberto Martini.

I could draw attention to the later editions but I’ll single out the work of Alberto Martini (1876–1954), an Italian artist whose work I find especially attractive for the way it provides a bridge between Decadence and Surrealism. His Poe illustrations appear now and then in books or articles about horror fiction but you seldom see all of them together.

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The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Alberto Martini.

Meanwhile, Ted Parmelee’s short but very effective animated adaptation of The Tell-Tale Heart (1953) turned up recently at the Internet Archive in a copy that’s the best I’ve seen to date. Watch it here.

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Elsewhere on { feuilleton }
The illustrators archive

Previously on { feuilleton }
Robert Lawson’s House of Usher
Edmund Dulac’s illustrated Poe
The Fall of the House of Usher, 1928
The Purloined Eidolon
Martin van Maële’s illustrated Poe
Mask of the Red Death, 1969
Narraciones extraordinarias by Edgar Allan Poe
Fritz Eichenberg’s illustrated Poe
The Pendulum, the Pit and Hope
Hugo Steiner-Prag’s illustrated Poe
Burt Shonberg’s Poe paintings
Illustrating Poe #5: Among the others
Illustrating Poe #4: Wilfried Sätty
Illustrating Poe #3: Harry Clarke>
Illustrating Poe #2: William Heath Robinson
Illustrating Poe #1: Aubrey Beardsley
Poe at 200
The Tell-Tale Heart from UPA
William Heath Robinson’s illustrated Poe