The Mill on the Floss (COMPACT EDITIONS)
Transparent, objective lucidity is the last emotion we have about the actual; we fret, comment, editorialize, intrude, despair, laugh, and gossip. They run on the engine of their own accumulated habits and weirdnesses and selfindulgent excesses.
The 100 best novels: No 21 – Middlemarch by George Eliot (1871-2)
They have to, since originality is, necessarily, something still strange to us, rather than something that we already know about and approve. What makes writing matter is not a story, cleanly told, but a voice, however odd or ordinary, and a point of view, however strange or sentimental. Books can be snipped at, and made less melodically muddled, but they lose their overtones, their bass notes, their chesty resonance—the same thing that happens, come to think of it, to human castrati.
Novelists have always seen their work cut—by the interfering editor or the posthumous abridger—but they almost never see it expanded.
The Mill on the Floss
For the aesthetic of addition, we need to turn to the movies. Yet what gets put back in is often stifling and slowing. They reflect an organic genre; among people in the movie industry, the Angry-Apologetic Monologue is the most frequent form of shoptalk. There is nothing movie people like to talk about so much as how their movie was ruined by the studio or the star. These monologues are often more interesting than the films they superintend, more interesting even than the films they superintend might have been if they had been made as the narrator wishes they had been.
It is this real drama that the additive aesthetic of the DVD commentary supplies. It was directed by Tarsem Singh, an Indian-born music-video veteran, and the reason for the odd emotionlessness of a film about the attempted murder of a young girl soon becomes apparent. He punished the actress, he explains, who, having promised to swim desperately in the grim tank, turned out to be unable to do so, by denying her closeups. Coulter turns out to be an immensely serious, erudite craftsman, highly self-conscious about his effects.
The tale of how the guy who played Superman on a cheap, forgotten TV series shot himself lacks the grip of tragedy, even pop tragedy, which demands, after all, that the hero once counted.
The enormous care lavished on material that would never be worthy of the effort is more moving than the film; the addition adds pathos to inertia. Now, the Bond film he agreed to shoot contains, within its frames, the single most sublimely silly conception in modern cinema: Denise Richards as a nuclear physicist in hot pants named Christmas Jones. You might think this would be a hard movie to render dull, yet dull and confused it is, leaving even Denise Richards almost sexless and undistracting. Apted, who has a respect for actors and a feeling for the real, could not—cannot now—adequately subsume himself into the kind of dumb but deadpan, yet on its own terms serious, stylishness that a Bond film demands.
The mill on the Floss | Open Library
The trouble is that he kept trying to make the movie good in the wrong way. Her novels were praised for being socially and politically conscious and realistic depictions of country life.
While the town and family are fictional, Tom and Maggie's relationship is largely based on the author's relationship with her brother Isaac Evans, who fractured his relationship with his sister after finding out she had moved in with her married lover George Henry Lewes. The most autobiographical of her novels, The Mill on the Floss provides an alternate version of the author's life; while Maggie and Tom Tulliver perish in a watery embrace, Mary Anne and Isaac Evans never reconciled.
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Item GE All rights reserved. He has lectured on the value of signatures and author associations, and is a books and manuscripts appraiser at ABAA book fairs. Her appraisal skills were recently featured on Atlas Obscura. Her favorite book is Mrs.
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