Here's something you won't have read on this blog before - a TV preview. A review of a TV show that hasn't yet aired. The Crimson Petal And The White debuts on UK TV this Wednesday at 9pm, and though I haven't seen it, I can review it with confidence.
"For all its excellent cast (including the always watchable Chris O'Dowd, Richard E. Grant and - yay! - Scully), sparkling script, grubby period detail, kinky costume drama romping and acres of naked flesh and naughtiness... it's not a patch on the novel."
I say that without any fear of retraction because - having just finished reading the 830 pages of source material - no adaptation could ever do it justice. I've been a fan of Michel Faber for some time, and have read just about everything he's written - from his debut novel, Under The Skin, through to his most recent, The Fire Gospel, plus his excellent short story collection The Farenheit Twins and Whitby-based novella The Hundred And Ninety Nine Steps. Yet I've been holding off on tackling his most acclaimed text for two reasons... firstly the genre, a postmodern take on Dickensian Victoriana... and secondly the size. 830 small-type pages... I knew this was one I couldn't finish in a week.
But the news of its forthcoming BBC adaptation finally forced me to take action. And though it did take me the best part of a month, I relished every grubby period detail and wickedly complex character. The book tells the tale of Sugar, a teenage prostitute on the streets of 1860s London, and her gradual ascent and escape thanks to cunning, caring, and her relationship with a slimy rake businessman. It's earthy, bawdy, hilarious and horrifying, creating vivid mental images (which can only be flattened by the TV screen) and constantly switching the reader's affections, allegiances and sympathies between a wide cast of streetwalkers, society types and sociopaths. (From a writer's perspective, I found it both educational and inspirational.) It embraces the genre it subverts - by the throat - but does so through such a warm, welcoming narrative that I didn't ever want it to end.
"So there you have it: the thoughts (somewhat pruned of repetition) of William Rackham as he sits on his bench in St James's Park. If you are bored beyond endurance, I can offer my promise that there will be fucking in the very near future, not to mention madness, abduction, and violent death."
