David Copperfield – a dickens of a good time

Charles Dickens is one of the UK’s greatest storytellers, yet not easy to read. Okay, well I struggle. Don’t get me wrong: I love the stories, but because Dickens wrote them initially for serialisation, there seems so much padding that I struggle to get to the end of any of them – even though much of that padding is the sort of social commentary that I hardly disapprove with.

The only ones where I’ve managed to get to the last page (so far) have been Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol.

David Copperfield was Dickens’s eighth novel – serialised between 1849 and 1850 and published as a book in the latter. It is on my shelf in a classic Penguin edition. I have made more than one effort – but have never made it all the way through (Nicholas Nickleby and Great Expectations are others; Pickwick is glorious in places, but again, seems too episodic).

My knowledge of David Copperfield is therefore a mixture of managing about half the novel – and TV adaptations.

Against that background, it’s quite possible that Armando Iannucci’s latest big screen version, The Personal History of David Copperfield, does the greatest service to Dickens’s work.

Don’t worry: put The Thick of It and The Death of Stalin out of your mind. This is not Dickens on sweary ’roids, but a tale beautifully told.

There are substantial edits and some changes to the original story, but not as much as to alter it beyond recognition. Personally, the only thing I would have an issue with is that Peter Capaldi’s Micawber is a bit too knowing, rather than a naive innocent abroad.

The film has raised some eyebrows because of the colour blind casting: if you haven’t been to the RSC or National Theatre much in the couple of decades, then you might find it a shock. However, since all entertainment – whether big or little screen, theatre, panto or opera – requires the audience to suspend it’s belief and accept something unreal as real, then I have as much sympathy for anyone whining about this film as about the RSC’s gender-flipped Taming of the Shrew.

Iannucci has retained the episodic nature of the book, but kept it tight. The cinematography is a joy and the ensemble cast is excellent.

We’ll start with Dev Patel, who is wonderful as the eponymous hero: a real sense of naivety, the fear of revelation and the guilt of trying to hide his background – yet far from being a blank slate (often an issue with Dickensian heroes). A complex performance made to look simple – and a very engaging one.

Hugh Laurie is simply fabulous as Mr Dick and Tilda Swinton is a great Betsy Trotwood.

For many years, I have seen Mr Murdstone as equivalent to a paternal great uncle: a Plymouth Brethren preacher who lived in (as I remember it) a dark house where he commended my father for snapping at my child self for daring to scuff the carpet while The Adults Talked Religion. Darren Boyd didn’t seem right to me at first, but is actually every bit as sinister and nasty as he should be.

Lancastrian Benedict Wong does a great turn as Mr Wickfield, while Ben Wishaw is a superbly slimy Uriah Heep. Rosalind Eleazar, in her film debut, makes a wonderful Agnes, Morfydd Clark is a brilliant Dora (and – fleetingly – David's mother), Nikki Amuka-Bird is a suitably sharp and unpleasant Mrs Steeforth, while Aneurin Barnard is good as James Steerforth, winning both sympathy and condemnation from the audience.

Daisy May Cooper makes a delightful Peggotty, with Paul Whitehouse an ebullient Mr Peggotty.

In fact, there is no bad turn here. It is a magnificent ensemble.

So, on the production side, credit to Zac Nicholson for the cinematography – and, of course, to Iannucci, for direction, joint screenplay (with Simon Blackwell) and joint production (with Kevin Loader).

It might not be as dark as you remember Dickens (frankly, I'm thankful for that) – but there is darkness here: for instance, in the presence of so many homeless people on the streets of London, glimpsed increasingly throughout the film.

But go and see for yourself.

• The Personal History of David Copperfield is in cinemas now.

A very, very, very dark – but funny – matter

Copenhagen, the 19th century: Danish celebrity author Hans Christian Anderson is regaling an audience with his latest fairy tale, The Little Mermaid.

There are celebratory fireworks and showers of admiration for the writer, but there are also ghostly figures.

And when Anderson returns home, climbing to the attic of his house, it is to discuss these ghosts with Marjory, a disabled Congolese pygmy, who he keeps in a box and who writes the stories for him.

But why doesn’t she try to escape; is she and her situation unique and what does Charles Dickens have to do with it all?

Martin McDonagh’s latest play, A Very Very Very Dark Matter, is going to upset people. Though to be strictly accurate, it’s still previewing until 24 October and it’s already provoked Indignant of Islington and Vexed of Vauxhall to express their horror online.

One can imagine this work will trigger an orgy of offence.

Taken at the most simple face value, the play laughs at colonialism and thumbs its nose at the crimes of empires. And because McDonagh has written a funny play, the audience laughs along and, therefore, becomes complicit.

Except that this is not supposed to be taken at face value, and only a monumental naïf or someone utterly dedicated to a peacock-like display of their social justice warrior credentials would not understand or would pretend not to understand what McDonagh is doing.

And incidentally, if you push that idea that he’s genuinely laughing at the crimes of imperialism, then you’re saying that the black cast members are Uncle Toms, and I would suggest people don’t go down that route.

There isn’t much of a plot, as such. Like Stephen Sondheim’s Follies, this is more of a meditation on a number of themes.

Not least among these is the trivialising of the treatment of the crimes of colonialism – an attitude that has reared its head again in recent years, with continuing exceptionalism and the concomitant belief of some Brexiteers that, once free from the EU, the UK can build Empire II and indeed, the rest of the world is ready to rush into our arms to give us the bestest ever trade deals with only five minutes discussion needed. Because we’re Britain, doncha know.

Of course, the same can be said of the Trump-era US too, with the crude and fact-free racism of the MAGA crowd, convincing itself that ‘true America’ is WASP America.

Such attitudes never went away, but increased nationalism elsewhere around the globe means they’re re-emerging. And therefore, it is important to remind people of just what nationalism and colonialism means in reality.

McDonagh – a writer in whom the Irish gothic tradition meets London-Irish experience, with punk mixed in (as Fintan O’Toole’s excellent programme essay notes) – is ideally suited to push boundaries so that, while A Very Very Very Dark Matter is very funny, it isn’t what you’d describe as ‘comfortable’.

In concentrating on Belgian imperialism – and the genocide in what was the Congo – the play raises what will, for many, be history that they are not familiar with. In pointing up the rape of the region for resources, he even manages a sideswipe at environmentally-holier-than-thou cyclists, noting that while Leopold II’s publicly-stated intention (as with other countries) was to ‘civilise’ and Christianise, the less public one was the desire for ivory and rubber – here, with the latter used for bicycle tires.

A Very Very Very Dark Matter is probably not for the faint-hearted or those who get upset by ‘bad language’ – it’s gloriously sweary in a very Irish way.

It’s short – 90 minutes with no interval – angry and funny at the same time, and defies easy labels.

Director Matthew Dunster has done an excellent job and Anna Fleische’s design is superb.

As Marjory, Johnetta Eula’Mae Ackles, on her debut, is simply outstanding and more than holds her own with her massively experienced co-star.

Jim Broadbent as Anderson is a delight as the bumbling, eccentric and crass writer, living off Marjory’s talent and, all the while, pleading with her that *his* colonial crimes aren’t as bad as those of others. And his swearing is a glory.

Phil Daniels as “Charles FUCKING DICKENS!” is a hoot too, and getting Tom Waits to record the role of narrator adds both to the fairy-tale aspect of the piece, as well as the sinister and eerie nature of it.

Bloody brilliant.

• A Very Very Very Dark Matter, is at London’s bridgetheatre.co.uk until 6 January 2019.

Just to live up to my name!

A touch Bill Sykes, perhaps? Well, The Other Half did think it "spooky and Dickensian", and it isn't Nancy, that's for certain.

The new avatar was one of a series of projects undertaken on a remarkably busy day off.

There was shopping and washing first – both of which had been missed at the weekend because of a hop to Salford for a meeting, followed by attendance at Old Trafford to watch the Rugby League Super League Grand Final in the flesh for the first time.

Which was enjoyable enough in its own right: for those of you who don't know, Leeds Rhinos beat Warrington Wolves to retain the title.

It was an uncompromising affair – for goodness sake, Warrington's Paul Wood had a testicle ruptured by someone's knee early in the second half, but played on until the 57th minute. It was removed in hospital later that night.

Leeds deserved their victory: they had far more invention and variety, and the Wolves' ill discipline cost them dear, as well as their over-reliance on what legendary commentator Eddie Waring would have described as the "up and under".

I do want to add a comment on Hayley Westenra, the singer hired to lead the crowd in the pre-match singing of Jerusalem (well, there are still a few of those "dark, Satanic mills" nearby). But while she sounds much better on YouTube, her performance at The Swamp left me wondering what the fuss was about.

And Haley, love: if you're going to walk down a red carpet, don't wear fuschia – they clash dreadfully.

The trip's food was nothing to write home about, so I won't. Although I should say: Chiquito – nachos do not benefit from sitting in a puddle of liquid.

Anyway, back from The Dark Side (I had warned The Other Half as the tram had taken us from Piccadilly to Salford Quays), the remainder of Sunday was spent doing little, followed by a day of playing Occupy the Sofa yesterday, aided and abetted by the cats, as we hid away from a grim, grey day.

Today, fortunately, dawned bright and clear. And so, after nipping up to Broadway Market, it was a case of getting down to some autumn cleaning in the garden.

Over the last couple of weekends (preceding the one just gone, of course), we'd done damned well to do most of the garden clearing.

I'd pruned roses properly for the first time, together with the jasmine, which runs rampant. I'd trimmed and tidied, while The Other Half had nailed plastic strips against the base of the fence that runs along three sides of the garden, in the hope that this will prove a good snail defence mechanism.

He'd also used the same stuff to create deeper 'beds' around the base of the pyracantha, the jasmine, the rose and the bay tree.

Today, I emptied the pots that needed emptying (well, apart from the tomatoes, which will be done this weekend), took down the frames for the beans and cleared all the remains of the beans away.

And then, as if that wasn't enough, I took the riddle and cleared about two square metres of the rest of the bean bed of stones and other debris that I don't want to be around when I extend my planting next year. There's loads more to do, but it's not a task you rush at.

With all that done, it was time for a bit of long-planned photography.

On a technical level, it was the Canon 40D with a Sigma macro lens and a Manfrotto tripod. Matters were changed a tad by the discovery that my release cable doesn't fit this model – which tells you how often I use such an accessory.

Lighting was simply the lighting in the hall, plus a small lamp.

No make-up – except eyebrow pencil, because they're getting a little light.

Plain t-shirt, leather jacket, my most recently acquired hat, 20 minutes of attempts and half an hour of photoshopping (no airbrushing the face, though) and voila! The new avatar for all social media was ready to go.

Whether I caught something of the style or not, the influence was Irving Penn, the American photographer who died in 2009, and whose work formed an exhibition, a year later, at the National Portrait Gallery in London.

The idea of self portraiture is fascinating. I've not done many, but they do tend to surprise you in ways that seeing other people's pictures of you don't. There's an intimacy that is completely different.

Anyway, in this case, all that's missing is a cudgel, a dog and a burst of "strong men tremble when they hear it!" from a certain Dickensian musical.

Okay; maybe not.

* Click on the photo to see a larger version (if you want).

If this was a race, it would be a good start

It's been a beautiful start to the new year in London – bright blue skies and sunshine, and a crisp cold to invigorate.

I feel particularly relaxed – and that's helped by a celebratory dinner being well under way. I've got individual ramekins of potatoes boulangère in the oven – layers of thinly sliced potato and onion, seasoned with chopped flat leaf parsley, salt and pepper, with chicken stock poured to almost the rim, dotted with butter and covered with foil. The foil will come off in a short while and they'll get a further 30 minutes uncovered.

Shortly before that process is concluded, I'll pan fry rump steaks with crushed peppercorns pressed into the meat. Those will then be flambéd in brandy before cream is added to finish the sauce. I only set fire to a dish for the first time just over a year ago – terrified of fire since childhood, it was a big thing to do so. I wouldn't say I'm now casual about it – I still get the pan lid ready, shut the kitchen door and feel the adrenalin rise – but it's not out of my skill store now.

The steaks won't be cooked for long – two minutes a side. I won't buy cheap meat if I can help it – I'd rather have meat less often – and although I've increasingly become a real meat lover in recent years, I concomitantly see the meat, and how it was produced, with respect.

I want something really easy for the side, so that'll be tenderstem broccoli. Also in a short while, I'll open a bottle of Grenache to let it breathe. And there's just enough Banyuls to serve as an aperitif.

And for dessert, there's are crème brûlées chilling in the fridge, waiting just for a sprinkling of brown sugar and the caress of the blowtorch to caramelise it.

It's a perfect meal to start 2010.

I have made a few resolutions – but none of them involve food. Mostly, I use resolutions each year as private reminders of certain things that I need to be a little more disciplined about. So every year, for instance, I promise to read more. It's not so much a question of reading "more", though, but of making that pledge to myself to keep up my reading.

And talking of reading, I finished Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice the other day, for the ...

Well, I can't remember how many times I've read it. The first time was at school, where it was one of our set texts for 'O' level. I loved it then and have loved it ever since. And yet, like all really great books, there's something fresh that strikes you each time you pick it up again.

In this case, it was really noticing the inadequacies of Mr Bennet – effectively an absent father – and not just his wife.

But it also amazes me how many people seem to believe that Austen only wrote 19th century rom-coms – she hasn't, in that sense, been well served by dramatisations, which don't tend to show up the satire as clearly as the romantic elements of the plots. But the satire here is very clear on the page, and Austen's targets ranged from the obvious human flaws suggested by the title to class snobbery and on to the obsession of some females with fashion and men.

But she was also a sharp observer on questions such as the situation of women (of her own class). Here, for instance, Elizabeth's close friend Charlotte Lucas marries Mr Collins for no other reason than security. Elizabeth is shocked, but it's quite clear that Austen herself understood that such pragmatism was the only hope for many of her sex.

The humour is not soft: it has a bite that is delicious to this day.

On conclusion, I ordered Emma, which I've never read, and Persausion, which I haven't read since it was a text during my 'A' level studies.

And continuing the Victorian buzz, I've started Charles Dickens's Pickwick Papers.

I have trouble with Dickens. I remember seeing a number of the books dramatised on TV – Sunday afternoon serials to be watched while eating tea in front of the telly: a rare treat. The plots are wonderful – but when you pick up the books, there's all the 'padding': all that exposition of social matters that Dickens penned. Okay, so it's not just padding – although it certainly helped, given that his stories were initially serialised in print – but an integral part of his work. But they seem to get in the way and I end up putting the book aside, frustrated.

Pickwick Papers, I decided, might be a little different. And thus far, I'm finding it really very funny.

After that, I think that Thomas Mann's Buddenbrooks (effectively a 19th century novel, even though first published in 1901) is due a re-read, while I need to finally conquer Anthony Trollope's The Warden and Barchester Towers, which have been sitting on the shelf for years. And I've got a copy of Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford too; I've only read her Mary Barton previously.

Whatever happens in the coming 364 days, I feel as though I've got the start of the new year sorted in culinary and literary terms!