The Girl on the Train

by Paula Hawkins

Just like it was the case with Rosalía, I learned about this book from one of my students, who was reading it at the time, during a “one-to-one” session.

“Would you recommend it?”, I asked. “I don’t know yet”, she said, “I’ve only started. I started reading in on the train while travelling here. But I can’t put it down.”

Eight years after that conversation, I finally read it. Probably after everybody else read it, but still. I can confirm its utter unputdownability. (Why, it kept Stephen King up most of the night, or so he says.) And not only that. It’s a great story, exceptionally well written, deliciously noir with quite a few twists, including that of a corkscrew. And how couldn’t you fall in love with its unreliable, alcoholic, mentally unstable, etc. heroine, the titular girl on the train?

Some fun facts about geography of the novel. Both Ashbury and Witney are in Oxfordshire. (There are a few more Ashburys but they are even further away from London.) There are no trains serving either of them. So no way to commute to Euston in “one hour and one minute”. Ashbury, Oxfordshire is a historic village dating from the 9th century with about 500 inhabitants, not “a 1960s new town, spreading like a tumour over the heart of Buckinghamshire”. Witney is a market town, not a “village-on-the-edge-of-London”. The author studied at Oxford and perhaps wanted to transplant these names closer to the capital. The other mentioned places, such as Holkham, seem to be realistically located.

Saturday, 13 July 2013

Morning

I know without looking at a clock that it is somewhere between seven forty-five and eight fifteen. I know, from the quality of the light, from the sounds of the street outside my window, from the sound of Cathy vacuuming the hallway right outside my room. Cathy gets up early to clean the house every Saturday, no matter what. It could be her birthday, it could be the morning of the Rapture — Cathy will get up early on Saturday to clean. She says it’s cathartic, it sets her up for a good weekend, and because she cleans the house aerobically, it means she doesn’t have to go to the gym.
It doesn’t really bother me, this early-morning vacuuming, because I wouldn’t be asleep anyway. I cannot sleep in the mornings; I cannot snooze peacefully until midday. I wake abruptly, my breath jagged and heart racing, my mouth stale, and I know immediately that’s it. I’m awake. The more I want to be oblivious, the less I can be. Life and light will not let me be. I lie there, listening to the sound of Cathy’s urgent, cheerful busyness, and I think about the clothes on the side of the railway line and about Jess kissing her lover in the morning sunshine.
The day stretches out in front of me, not a minute of it filled.
I could go to the farmer’s market on the Broad; I could buy venison and pancetta and spend the day cooking.
I could sit on the sofa with a cup of tea and Saturday Kitchen on TV.
I could go to the gym.
I could rewrite my CV.
I could wait for Cathy to leave the house, go to the off-licence and buy two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc.

Murder on the Orient Express

a film by Sidney Lumet
based on a novel by Agatha Christie

Curiously, it took exactly forty years from the publication of Christie’s classic novel to make its first adaptation. Of the three films from the cycle Nada es lo que parece, the last one was the one I liked the least. I found its all-star cast including Ingrid Bergman, Jean-Pierre Cassel, Sean Connery, Anthony Perkins and Vanessa Redgrave rather underwhelming, while Albert Finney portrayed the most annoying Poirot I’ve seen. It is its few comic moments that make this grandiose movie actually enjoyable.

According to Wikipedia,

Christie, who died fourteen months after the release of the film, stated that Murder on the Orient Express and Witness for the Prosecution were the only movie adaptations of her books that she liked although she expressed disappointment with Poirot’s moustache.

Witness for the Prosecution

a film by Billy Wilder
based on a play by Agatha Christie

Another first — this time, the first film adaptation of Christie’s 1953 play. Compared to last week’s feature, Witness for the Prosecution offers much more mystery, even less noir, and plenty of comedy, albeit of a different kind. Of the three main stars, Tyrone Power is unimpressive, Marlene Dietrich is interesting enough, and Charles Laughton is truly splendid. Una O’Connor is great as a 1957 version of Mrs Doyle (eggbeater = Teamaster), and Elsa Lanchester — by then, a spouse of Laughton for nearly three decades — shines as Miss Plimsoll.

Testigo de cargo continues the cycle Nada es lo que parece. 50 años sin Agatha Christie.

And Then There Were None

a film by René Clair
based on a novel by Agatha Christie

To me, this 1945 movie — the first cinematic adaptation of the classic novel — was not as much a mystery, let alone film noir, as a (black) comedy. According to Wikipedia, this is what René Clair wanted to make all along. Jolly good fun throughout.

The film is full of familiar faces; alas, I couldn’t recall where exactly I saw them.

Diez negritos opened the cycle Nada es lo que parece. 50 años sin Agatha Christie organised by Asociación de Cine Vértigo. Curiously, the Spanish title is faithful to the original title of the novel although the film features figurines of Indians (and was released in the UK as Ten Little Indians).

Scoop

a film by Woody Allen

According to Wikipedia, Scoop is considered to be one of Woody Allen’s weakest films. So what? I enjoyed it much more than his other collaborations with Scarlett Johansson, viz. the “critically acclaimed” Match Point and Vicky Cristina Barcelona, none of which I’d like to watch again.

Ms. Johansson shines in this romantic comedy while Sid “The Great Splendini” himself makes very authentic Woody Allen — or is it the other way around?

La sombra del viento

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

The first time I had a go at this book was some five years ago. I liked The Prince of Mist and was ready to take on Zafón in the original. Besides, I just finished Angela Carter’s Fireworks and thought I could read anything.

There was no way that the very first sentence — “Todavía recuerdo aquel amanecer en que mi padre me llevó por primera vez a visitar el Cementerio de los Libros Olvidados” — would not remind me of One Hundred Years of Solitude. After a brisk start (the first chapter is a sheer magic), I found myself slowing down, as if wading through increasingly sticky sand. Upon reaching the chapter dealing with unfortunate events succeeded on Daniel’s sixteenth birthday, I came to a halt. Which was a shame since I was a page away from discovering the novel’s most colourful character, one Fermín Romero de Torres.

The book has laid dormant on the desk for three years. Last spring I dusted it off and started again from the beginning. This time I was not in a hurry and tried to enjoy every single page. Because it’s meant to be enjoyed.

As is the case with almost every novel I’ve read, this one could benefit from being shorter. For instance, a 100-page-long “story within a story”, narrated by Nuria Monfort, explains the things that the reader must have already figured out. La sombra del viento might be a flawed masterpiece but a masterpiece nonetheless. I learned — and, sadly, already forgot — a lot from it. So more reasons to re-read it in another five years’ time.

— No me ofenda, Daniel. Le recuerdo que está usted hablando con un profesional de la seducción, y eso del beso es para amateurs y diletantes de pantufla. A la mujer de verdad se la gana uno poco a poco. Es todo cuestión de psicología, como una buena faena en la plaza.
— O sea, que le dio calabazas.
— A Fermín Romero de Torres no le da calabazas ni san Roque. Lo que ocurre es que el hombre, volviendo a Freud y valga la metáfora, se calienta como una bombilla: al rojo en un tris, y frío otra vez en un soplo. La hembra, sin embargo, y esto es ciencia pura, se calienta como una plancha, ¿entiende usted? Poco a poco, a fuego lento, como la buena escudella. Pero eso sí, cuando ha cogido calor, aquello no hay quien lo pare. Como los altos hornos de Vizcaya.
Sopesé las teorías termodinámicas de Fermín.
— ¿Es eso lo que está usted haciendo con la Bernarda? — pregunté —. ¿Poner la plancha al fuego?
Fermín me guiñó un ojo.
— Esa mujer es un volcán al borde de la erupción, con una libido de magma ígneo y un corazón de santa.

Los Gritos del Pasado

by Léonie Bischoff and Olivier Bocquet
translated by Marta Armengol Royo
based on a novel by Camilla Läckberg

This graphic adaptation of the second Fjällbacka crime novel is a decent follow-up to La princesa de hielo. The mystery lovers will appreciate its twists and turns, while the fans of the first book may feel disappointed as the heavily pregnant Erica becomes a bit sidelined. It’s a shame really because I was expecting her to kick ass like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo with which Los Gritos have certain parallels.

The events take place in Fjällbacka during the summer of 2003, although in reality the story begins some 24 years earlier...

As it happens way too often, the Spanish title has nothing to do with the original. The French book is called Le Prédicateur which is a literal translation of Swedish Predikanten, “The Preacher”.

The great danger of the metric system

First published 15 September 2020 @ low-throughput

A few fact(oid)s about Dame Agatha Christie I haven’t been aware until now.

• Pharmacy and toxicology were among Christie’s many interests. During the the First World War, she took some time off her work as a nurse to study for the Apothecaries Hall Examination. She wrote in her autobiography:

  To be introduced suddenly to the periodic table, atomic weight, and the ramifications of coal-tar derivatives was apt to result in bewilderment. However, I found my feet, mastered the simpler facts, and after we had blown up our Cona coffee machine in the process of practising Marsh’s test for arsenic our progress was well on the way. <...>

  A chemist’s shop, the first time that you go behind the scenes, is a revelation. Being amateurs in our hospital work, we measured every bottle of medicine with the utmost accuracy. When the doctor prescribed twenty grains of bismuth carbonate to a dose, exactly twenty grains the patient got. Since we were amateurs, I think this was a good thing, but I imagine that any chemist who has done his five years, and got his minor pharmaceutical degree, knows his stuff in the same way as a good cook knows hers. He tosses in portions from the various stock bottles with the utmost confidence, without bothering to measure or weigh at all. He measures his poisons or dangerous drugs carefully, of course, but the harmless stuff goes in in the approximate dollops. Colouring and flavouring are added in much the same way. This sometimes results in the patients coming back and complaining that their medicine is a different colour from last time. <...>

  During the course of my pharmaceutical instruction on Sunday afternoons, I was faced with a problem. It was incumbent upon the entrants to the examination to deal with both the ordinary system and the metric system of measurements. My pharmacist gave me practice in making up preparations to the metric formula. Neither doctors nor chemists like the metrical system in operation. One of our doctors at the hospital never learned what ‘containing 0.1’ really meant, and would say, ‘Now let me see, is this solution one in a hundred or one in a thousand?’ The great danger of the metric system is that if you go wrong you go ten times wrong. <...>

  It was while I was working in the dispensary that I first conceived the idea of writing a detective story.

• It was not until 1920 that her first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, saw the light of day. The corresponding episode of Poirot was released 30 years ago on occasion of Christie’s 100^th birthday. Now, to mark the centenary of Styles, the Royal Mint issued the new £2 coins featuring the author’s signature, a jigsaw puzzle and some instruments of murder.
  

• I visited Ayuntamiento de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria on many a bureaucracy-related occasion without knowing that its (pretty ugly) headquarters occupy the place of the former Quiney’s Hotel Metropole where Agatha Christie stayed in 1927.

  Las Palmas is still my ideal of the place to go in the winter months. I believe nowadays it is a tourist resort and has lost its early charm. Then it was quiet and peaceful. Very few people came there except those who stayed for a month or two in winter and preferred it to Madeira. It had two perfect beaches. The temperature was perfect too: the average was about 70, which is, to my mind, what a summer temperature should be.

  Agatha Christie: An Autobiography
  

• The Mousetrap was not only the longest-running West End show but it had the longest initial run of any play in history. It premiered in 1952 and ran continuously until March 2020 until it was rudely interrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

by Stieg Larsson

One evening in February 2003, Larsson’s character Mikael Blomkvist

went to the cinema to see <the 2001 film> The Lord of the Rings, which he had never before had time to see. He thought that orcs, unlike human beings, were simple and uncomplicated creatures.

One day in November 2018 I picked up a paperback with rather horrid cover design which had been gathering dust in the teacher’s room. As it happened, I also had never before had time to read this book. The English translation of the international bestseller was published in 2008.

I don’t read Swedish so can’t really offer my opinion on “needless prettification” [1] but I also was not impressed by this particular translation. Nor am I into crime novels. Even so, I was gripped. I spent several nights reading into early hours and now, surprise surprise, I want more.

(Meanwhile, the book is back to its former place, waiting for the next reader.)

Ah, Sweden. Beautiful country, it is. Each part of the novel is preceded by an epigraph. Here they are all:

• Eighteen percent of the women in Sweden have at one time been threatened by a man.
• Forty-six percent of the women in Sweden have been subjected to violence by a man.
• Thirteen percent of the women in Sweden have been subjected to aggravated sexual assault outside a sexual relationship.
• Ninety-two percent of women in Sweden who have been subjected to sexual assault have not reported the incident to the police.

No source of these data is quoted, but the (still depressing) statistics is available elsewhere [2].

Larsson’s wish notwithstanding, the English title makes more sense than Swedish Män som hatar kvinnor, “Men Who Hate Women”, as Lisbeth Salander, “a grown-up Pippi Longstocking”, is a (super)heroine par excellence.

Also, as I just realised, it is an almost perfect Christmas story.

__________________________________________________

1. According to Wikipedia,

   Both Larsson’s longtime partner Eva Gabrielsson and English translator Steven T. Murray have said that Christopher MacLehose (who works for British publisher Quercus) “needlessly prettified” the English translation; as such, Murray requested he be credited under the pseudonym “Reg Keeland”. The English release also changed the title, even though Larsson specifically refused to allow the Swedish publisher to do so, and the size of Salander’s dragon tattoo; from a large piece covering her entire back, to a small shoulder tattoo.

2. The 2014 EU-wide survey shows that famously egalitarian Nordic countries also lead Europe, percent-wise, in terms of physical, sexual and psychological violence against women. This contrasts with self-perception of the frequency of said violence: for instance, only 9% of women in Finland view the gender violence as “very common”, compared to Spain’s 31% and EU-28 average 27%, while 47% of Finnish women experienced physical and/or sexual violence since the age of 15 (22% in Spain, EU-28 average 33%).

Loving Vincent

a film by Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman

Vincent van Gogh created all his 864 paintings in the last eight years of life. It took about this time and an effort of 125 painters to create Loving Vincent — “the world’s first fully painted feature film”. Once again, Monopol is the only place screening it in Las Palmas. This time, however, it is a Spanish dub, and not particularly good one. (Inexplicably, the title was left in English.) I am looking forward to its DVD release to hear the voices of English and Irish actors. Visually, the movie is stunning. I quite liked how the colour “present” (animated van Gogh paintings, or, rather, the anmation inspired by van Gogh paintings) is interspersed with black-and-white flashbacks which look more realistic. Has to be watched more than once!

The Forgetting Room

by Nick Bantock

Last autumn, while visiting almost impossibly pretty Vejer de la Frontera, I was told that Ronda is even prettier. Since then, Ronda has been on my list — next time I am in Andalusia, I just have to go there. Especially after reading The Forgetting Room.

In contrast to the Griffin and Sabine books and The Venetian’s Wife, there’s not much mail exchange and very little travel. Spatial travel, I mean. (So more reasons to see with my own eyes why Ronda.) At just over one hundred pages, not counting hidden dimensions, the book has enough mystery for a few full-length novels (whatever is that “full length”) and is crafted with such skill that you may even believe that you are holding in your hands “a limited edition of one”. First edition.

In my peripheral vision I noticed the profile of a very beautiful young woman sitting at a nearby table. Her hair was quite short, coal-black, and her neck was long and naked. For a few seconds I couldn’t help staring, her movements were painfully graceful. When I broke free and looked about, I realized I was far from the only one focused on her. It seemed that half the eyes in the room were pulled in her direction. I kept my gaze on the watchers, men and women compulsively drawn to her. However, something was amiss. There was a strange split in the audience, those on the left side of the room seemed to be responding differently from those on the right. When the young woman turned my way, I understood.

La princesa de hielo

by Léonie Bischoff and Olivier Bocquet
based on a novel by Camilla Läckberg

I wonder if I would ever read an eponymous Swedish crime novel on which the two Francophone authors based their graphical adaptation. I picked up the Spanish translation of the latter in the library because the Force WiFi connection was strongest in front of the (new or freshly returned) comic book stand. Welcome to Fjällbacka (it’s actually a real place). A murder disguised as a suicide, a suicide disguised as a murder, and quite a few other things that are not what they appear — I just couldn’t put it down.

...and, of course, a love story, right in the middle of the investigation.

Things Yuri likes

One sunny day, Timur and I were waiting for this or that appointment. I knew it could take quite some time so I took a pencil and a notebook with me. This is what we wrote.

Things that Yuri likes

• British panel shows
• Chess
• Discworld
• Undertale
• 2-D animation
• Critical analysis
• Game Grumps and their 2 bands
• Comics
• Walking on his own
• Coming up with ideas for comics, movies, games, etc.
• Oranges
• Coffee with milk and sugar
• Chocolate ice cream
• Meat (also, to cook it)
• Dark comedy
• Sherlock Holmes (various implementations)
• Blues
• Cowboy-related stuff
• His black cap

Las cosas que le gustan a Yuri

• Programas de concursos británicos
• Ajedrez
• Mundodisco
• Undertale
• Animación 2-D
• Análisis crítico
• Game Grumps y sus 2 bandas
• Historietas
• Caminar por su cuenta
• Encontrar ideas para cómics, películas, juegos, etc.
• Naranjas
• Café con leche y azúcar
• Helado de chocolate
• La carne (también cocinarla)
• El humor negro
• Sherlock Holmes (varias realizaciones)
• Blues
• Cosas vaqueras
• Su gorra negra

Юра любит...

• Британские телеигры
• Шахматы
• Плоский мир
• Undertale
• Рисованную мультипликацию
• Критический анализ
• Game Grumps и их 2 группы
• Комиксы
• Прогулки в одиночестве
• Придумывать идеи для комиксов, фильмов, игр и т.д.
• Апельсины
• Кофе с молоком и сахаром
• Шоколадное мороженое
• Мясо (также, готовить)
• Чёрный юмор
• Шерлока Холмса (различные реализации)
• Блюз
• Вещи, связанные с ковбоями
• Свою чёрную шапку

A Lupita le gustaba planchar

by Laura Esquivel

This is the latest novel of the best-selling author of Como agua para chocolate, which I borrowed from the library on the strength of its cover art alone. It is written in rather easy Spanish, yet it took me about a month to go through its 200 pages. Just like the book, each chapter is named after a particular activity (or two) favoured by its unlikely but likeable heroine, Lupita. Lupita the policewoman, Lupita the alcoholic, Lupita mistreated by her ex-husband, Lupita the killer. Lupita who liked to watch the sky. Who liked solitude and silence. Lupita who liked to ask the questions and to deduce. Good quality reading overall, it is let down by its finale. The very last chapter, A Lupita le gustaba hacer el amor, starts as promising as it is named but, in spite of all that, turns disappointingly anticlimactic. I would prefer her getting pissed and/or having steamy sex with her real-life lover rather than experiencing that all-encompassing love for all and everything caused by ingestion of 5-MeO-DMT and bufotenin. (Apparently, compounds derived from psychoactive toad are “good” drugs, in contrast to “bad” drugs associated with the narcobusiness.) Incidentally, this chapter features the highest concentration of imperfecto del subjuntivo to be found anywhere in Spanish-language literature; I wonder if this has anything to do with psychoactive drugs.

Para Lupita las personas que no bailan eran por lo general seres egoístas, solitarios y amargados. El baile exige que uno le siga el paso al compañero y que se mueva al mismo ritmo que él. Una buena pareja de baile es la que logra hacerse “uno” con el otro, el que la siente, el que la adivina, el que en un juego de armonía anticipa los movimientos del otro y los acepta como propios. Ahora bien, Lupita sabía que había hombres que, aunque bailaran, también eran egoístas y amargados. Eran los técnicos. Los que se aprendían los pasos de memoria y eran incapaces de improvisar. Los que ni siquiera miraban a los ojos a su pareja, los que trataban de “lucirse” antes que nada. Los que buscaban la aprobación del público antes que la de su compañera de baile y realizaban movimientos desconsiderados como el darle de vueltas y vueltas sólo por lo espectacular que éstas resultaban ante los ojos de los demás. Ése era precisamente el caso del cabrón con el que estaba bailando.

Hickory Dickory Dock

a film by Andrew Grieve

I first saw this episode of Agatha Christie’s Poirot back in mid-1990s. Until I watched it again a few days ago, I couldn’t remember anything at all apart from its glorious finale. The rest of the movie, as I discover now, is not bad either, although the mouse (that ran up the clock) is really annoying.

Hercule Poirot. It is most kind of you to invite me here, Chief Inspector.
Chief Inspector Japp. After staying with you for a whole week, Poirot, the least I could do is offer you a spot of lunch, wean you away from that... well, let you taste some proper English cooking.
Poirot. And the good Madam Japp, it is today that she returns?
Japp. Yes, about three o’clock. There. Now that is what I call food. That’s your mashed potato. This is your peas.
Poirot. Oui.
Japp. Mushy peas, we call ’em. You’ll love ’em. And this, the pièce de résistance... faggots.
Poirot. Faggots?
Japp. Faggots. And there’s spotted dick for afters.
Poirot. Dick?
Japp. Yes, it’s called that because...
Poirot. This is tragic, Chief Inspector.
Japp. No, no, it’s fine.
Poirot. I can eat none of this wonderful food.
Japp. What? Why?
Poirot. Because... I have an allergy of the faggot.
Japp. An allergy?
Poirot. Oui. I do not know how you say it in English but in Belgian it is known as... le phobie de faggot.
Japp. I’ve never heard of that.
Poirot. I am so sorry, Chief Inspector, I should have warned you.
Japp. Well, this is a blessed upset, I must say. Still, you can have some spotted dick. You don’t have a phobie de dick, have you?
Poirot. Non... Some cheese?
Japp. I’ll have a look.
Poirot. Some brie perhaps? Bon.
Japp. Nothing like a nice bit of mouse trap.

Sherlock: Series 3

by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss

Just finished watching the last episode of Sherlock. Man it was good. I loved all three episodes; The Sign of Three probably is the best. Series 1 already had quite a few comic moments, but here we are dealing with a full-blown comedy: Watson marries Mary (Amanda Abbington — a great addition to the team), Sherlock is the best man. What could possibly go right?

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

a film by Hettie MacDonald

Tonight, Yle has treated us to the final episode of Agatha Christie’s Poirot. What?! How could it be? I thought Hercule Poirot is immortal. But here he was, old, ill, wheelchair-bound... as always, expertly portrayed by David Suchet. The rest of cast are great too. Aidan McArdle is excellent (scary!) as Norton, and Hugh Fraser returns as trusty Hastings.

In spite of the overall gloom, quite a few moments made me chuckle — like Poirot confessing (from beyond the grave) that his moustache were fake. I knew it!

The Code Book

Continuing with last-century books, or rather, the books that I so meant to read last century. Yes, I distinctly remember reading a review of The Code Book in The Guardian, or Independent, or maybe both. Some 15 years later, I can confirm at last: it is good. It reads like a detective story... Well it is a collection of detective stories, mostly to do with cryptography and cryptanalysis — featuring Mary Queen of Scots, the Beale papers and, of course, breaking of Enigma — with a delightful digression into history of decipherment of Egyptian hieroglyphics and Linear B.

The closer to the modern day, the more out-of-date the book becomes. Singh’s statement that “Possibly the greatest allies of the civil-libertarian cause are the big corporations” sounds surprisingly naïve even for 1999. Of course, September 11 attacks, War on Terror and NSA leaks all happened this century. Time for a new edition perhaps? Yes please, and a new challenge please!

The book is concluded with the Cipher Challenge, a set of ten messages encrypted in ten different ways. Needless to say, by now the web page where the updates on the challenge were supposed to be posted is gone. Luckily (for those, who is still interested), the author maintains the archive of this challenge. The £10,000 prize was claimed by a team of Swedish researchers one year and one month after the challenge was originally published.

The Kalahari Typing School for Men

by Alexander McCall Smith

Mma Ramotswe has a reason to worry: a rival detective agency is set up in town. A younger apprentice of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni finds the Lord. In the meantime, Mma Makutsi opens her phenomenally successful Typing School for Men — so successful, she almost gets a boyfriend.

That afternoon, when Mma Makutsi had been dispatched to the births, deaths, and marriages registry to pursue some routine enquiries on behalf of a client, Mma Ramotswe was visited, unannounced, by a woman whose view of the Satisfaction Guaranteed Agency and its boastful proprietor was quite the opposite of the view held by the apprentice. She arrived in a smart new car, which she parked directly outside the agency door, and waited politely for Mma Ramotswe to acknowledge her presence before she entered the office. This always pleased Mma Ramotswe; she could not abide the modern habit of entering a room before being asked to do so, or, even worse, the assumption that some people made that they could come into your office uninvited and actually sit on your desk while they spoke. If that happened to her, she would refrain from speaking at all but would look pointedly at the bottom planted upon her desk until her disapproval registered and it was removed.

Elementary

by Robert Doherty

After watching the first episode of Elementary, I thought it was vastly inferior to Sherlock. Where British make three episodes per season, Americans make 24. Surely they can’t be all as good?

Well I was right here: they aren’t. Some of them are weak, and the very last one of the season is just plain silly. And there are some quite good too.

Jonny Lee Miller’s Sherlock Holmes is as arrogant and annoying as Cumberbatch’s character in Sherlock — or, indeed, as Moriarty in Sherlock. But there’s more to this particular Holmes than genius and arrogance. Eventually, I grew to like him. Maybe because of his vulnerability. Mainly because of his vulnerability. Lucy Liu makes a very decent Dr. Watson: intelligent, reserved and trustworthy. Also, while learning from Holmes, she teaches him a thing or three. Little wonder Holmes, now “clean” ex-addict, becomes so dependent on her. Elementary offers something that was missing from other recent interpretations of Conan Doyle classic stories: development of friendship between Holmes and Watson. On the other hand, Moriarty, aka Irene Adler (Natalie Dormer), is a complete disaster.