Deep South v.1 n.1 (February, 1995)
Like many Victorian novel readers the reviewer for the Edinburgh showed great interest in the progess of relationships in George Eliot's Middlemarch, stating the hope that "the real hero and the real heroine" would eventually find happiness. One hundred and twenty years later I find myself agreeing with these sentiments; the recent viewing of Andrew Davies' adaptation of the novel emphasises the suitability of Dorothea to "the real hero", whom the Edinburgh undoubtedly identified as Tertius Lydgate. The changes that come over both characters as their respective idealistic views deteriorate have been caught well in Davies' informed interpretation of the text.
The novel is as concerned with development of character as it is about development of relationship and Eliot realised that it would take time to tell her story. By arrangement with her publisher John Blackwood it appeared at bi-monthly intervals in half volume parts between 1871 and 1872. The completed work took the form of a four volume, rather than customary three volume, novel. To design and create a television adaptation of the story is not a task to be taken lightly so the BBC, whose previous productions of Eliot's novels have included Silas Marner and Adam Bede, believed that a serial adaptation would best do justice to the novel.
Louis Marks' production encompasses familiar trademarks of BBC costume drama. The prerequisites for this assignment include busy street scenes filled with Reform Bill debating Middlemarchers and contrasting placid midland landscapes, richly authentic costumes painstakingly reconstructed cobble and facades all of which have been caught by the skilled camera work of Brian Tufano. The intention is, as always, to create the right atmosphere, and this is achieved primarily by way of setting. The designers recreate Middlemarch in Lincolnshire, in the historic town of Stamford (Burghley House acting as Edward Casaubon's "Lowick") in order to bring to life a clear image of England in the early 1830s. Such diligent attention to detail helps to convey two dominant themes within the novel: a sense of the new idealism and how that rests uneasily with old world values. Lydgate himself tells us when confronted by the narrow mindedness of the grocer Mawmsey that "These Middlemarchers are slow to take on new ideas." The darkened walls of Peter Featherstone's Stone Court heightens the tension associated with Mary Garth's agony over destruction of his will. Similarly, the haunting environs of Casaubon's house provide the backdrop for Dorothea and Will's long awaited embrace. Dorothea's pruning of dead daisies is far less dramatic though just as symbolic as the storm that Eliot describes as Will and Dorothea declare their love. Also important to the creation of atmosphere are the rustic melodies in a distinctly unobtrusive score composed by Christopher Gunning and the late Stanley Myers.
Juliet Aubrey gives a sensitive performance as Dorothea, showing an entirely natural progression from her somewhat unnatural St Theresa-like help meet to self doubting widow of the hapless scholar. She captures the strong will of the character as she begins the zealous following of her future husband. Aubrey also manages to display emotion and sentiment--characteristics that are almost entirely absent in Patrick Malahide's Casaubon. Her truly earnest behaviour does not at first foreshadow their incompatability. Davies treads lightly around the issue allowing Celia, Sir James Chettam and even the indelicate Arthur Brooke to guide her away from her possible mistake. Her renunciation of (a Heathcliffian) Will Ladislaw, played by Rufus Sewell, emphasises how strongly she is pulled toward an "epic life", and Aubrey establishes this right from the beginning. Eliot makes that point early on by reiteration of Casaubon's dryness (Mrs Cadwallader refers to him as "a great bladder for dried peas to rattle in"):
Mr Casaubon seemed even unconscious that trivialities existed, and never handed round that small-talk of heavy men which is acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an odour of cup-board. He talked of what he was interested in, or else he was silent and behaved with sad civility. To Dorothea this was adorable genuineness, and religious abstinence from that artificiality which uses up the soul in the efforts of pretence.[1]
The realisation of Dorothea's mistake is asserted soon after her marriage. Eliot emphasises the trial of doubt that is undergone by "poor Dorothea" and the strong visual contrast between Casaubon and Ladislaw only serves to make us even more aware of this. The series underlines the misfortune and the isolation suffered by all three characters, paticularly for the inherently unromantic Casaubon.
The "real hero", is a curious mix of the heroic deed and tragic inability, and it is the obvious pain expressed through eventual lack of faith that is emphasised in Douglas Hodge's portrayal of Lydgate. It is not until comparatively late in the series that the importance of Dorothea and Lydgate's full reliance upon another is developed but when it occurs it gives insight into the inevitable disappointment that attends fallen ideals. Trevyn McDowell who plays Lydgate's wife Rosamund highlights one of the difficulties involved in the adaptation of any novel (Davies appears at first to turn her into a latter day Dora Spenlow). There is the inevitable loss of psychological insight and the artful way in which Eliot describes her evaluation of Lydgate's worth as a future husband:
She was by nature an actress of parts that entered into herphysique: she even acted her own character, and so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own.[2]
The evolution of Rosamund's "social romance" is given added dimension
through Eliot's description, but the suggestion of self deception is caught
in McDowell's portrayal of a seemingly naive Rosamund. The nuances of
character, the internal scheming at first seem absent, but the self serving
attitude that is apparent in the leasing of their home or the insistent
removal from Middlemarch undercuts this conception. Rosamund's disillusion
is felt too, if not after the loss of her child, then certainly in the
glances of sympathy that she gives to her doomed husband as she sits at
the pianoforte. Both actors convey the tragedy behind
Davies does not make as much out of the difference between Rosamund and Mary Garth as Eliot, but then again, he compensates for this by paying attention to the significance of a satisfying relationship the involved courtship of Fred and Mary, which counterbalances the Lydgates' unfulfilling marriage.
The remainder of the cast give notably excellent character performances. Peter Jeffrey manages to combine equal amounts of hypocrisy and sympathy as the very righteous Nicholas Bulstrode, and we can laugh quite freely at Robert Hardy's relentlessly indignant Arthur Brooke. Also worth mentioning are John Savident as the repugnant Raffles, Elizabeth Spriggs as the gossip Mrs Cadwallader and Michael Hordern as the curmudgeonly Peter Featherstone he dominates every scene in which he appears.
The importance of these characters brings to mind again the obvious constraint of adaptation always a difficulty when bringing a novel to the screen. Seven episodes cannot do full justice to Eliot's detailed examination of provincial life. The result is that we can only gloss over several of the stories: threads within the narrative such as the characterisations of Reverend Farebrother, Fred Vincy and Mrs Bulstrode are not given full attention. On the other hand Davies is to be commended on achieving as much as he has within a limited time span. His attention to minor characters such as Rigg, Mrs Dollop or Borthrop Trumbull adds colour and a sense of authenticity. Another seven hours would barely touch on the wealth of information embedded in Eliot's text. Fittingly, however, the last word is left to the novelist herself. The author follows through the fates of her characters, and in so doing Davies provides us with a sample of the kind of revealing narrative at which Eliot excels.
If the screenplay falls short of fully encompassing the novelist's broad study of character, it does manage to illuminate a central issue: the essential self education that the decline of individual "causes" brings. This lies behind Lydgate's acknowledgement to Dorothea of the way his plans have been interceded by his own mismanagement and Dorothea's discussion with Rosamund about the pain that accompanies a "murdered" marriage. The final segment is a condensation of the Finale, and director Anthony Page compares and contrasts their limitations and their resolutions, drawing together our judgment of Rosamund and Lydgate and the more favourable Fred and Mary. The young Vincys suggest an optimistic ending but so too, I believe, does the image of Dorothea as she ascends the staircase in preparation for leaving Lowick, a far wiser woman. These last scenes resound with a certain profundity and voice the belief that "every limit", to use Eliot's words "is a beginning as well as an ending".
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