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| | | Agatha Christie by Lucy Worsley review – in search of the elusive author | | by Alex Clark Aug 31, 2022 | | The historian shines a light on the modernity of Christie’s crime fiction and debunks the myths surrounding her disappearance If Agatha Christie remains elusive, it’s not for the want of those trying to find her. Janet Morgan’s official biography of 1984 and Laura Thompson’s equally detailed but ultimately more impressionistic portrait of 2007 have both been updated and reissued; and there are numerous other analyses that try to understand how the woman who routinely described herself as a housewife became Britain’s bestselling novelist of all time. Enter historian Lucy Worsley, whose declared intention is to rescue Christie, who died in 1976 at the age of 85, from the misperceptions that cling to her life and her works of fiction. In service of the former, she revisits the most notorious episode of Christie’s life: her disappearance for 11 days in December 1926, prompting blanket media coverage, an extensive police search and, after she had resurfaced at a hydropathic hotel in Harrogate, widespread suspicion that her tale of memory loss was an elaborate publicity stunt. In terms of the novels, Worsley’s focus is on debunking the assumption that Christie invented and epitomised what has become known as “cosy” crime fiction, pointing to the darker elements of her work, its modernity, and its increasing interest in psychological themes. Continue reading... | | | | | It Snows in Benidorm review – Timothy Spall soldiers on through sunshine | | by Mike McCahill Aug 31, 2022 | | Story of weary office drone dragged from Manchester to the Costa Blanca after his brother goes missing aims for life-affirming, gets patience-trying Once a festival fixture, Catalan writer-director Isabel Coixet’s latest presents as a post-Brexit olive branch, reminding us Brits that unspoilt sea, sand and self-improvement is only ever a few rebuilt bridges away. Yet it progresses with such eccentricity it seems unlikely to reverse anybody’s trajectory.
An especially downtrodden Timothy Spall plays Peter, wearied finance drone and keen meteorology buff whose small, palpably lonely life – measured out in nightly ginger snaps – faces redirection after his brother disappears in the Spanish resort of the title. Stranding this cold fish in sunny climes, Coixet is aiming for life-affirming. What follows ends up closer to frown-inducing, with patience-trying just round the corner. Somewhere in here, there’s the germ of a workable idea: reclaiming the party-central destination as a place of sun-bleached mystery and potential reinvention. After a gruelling prologue in a drably unrepresentative Manchester, the film begins to breathe a little easier overseas, as Jean-Claude Larrieu’s camera navigates the rat-runs of funpubs to sporadically alight upon stunning backdrops.
Yet what’s upfront is forever stilted and unconvincing. Any delight in seeing a film-maker harness the talent of the ever-overlooked Sarita Choudhury is immediately cancelled out by puzzlement at what she’s doing on Spall’s balcony – and why she’s performing an erotic cabaret act for pensioners who patently wouldn’t be in the audience of an erotic cabaret act.
Spall soldiers on regardless, burrowing further into his recessive character, tending a bluff northern brogue, and trying to sublimate Coixet’s airier ideas. Yet his gift – for conveying a lot with a little – is squandered on a script this on-the-nose; he can but listen as police chief Carmen Machi informs him people are boxes that need opening.
Pushing its luck at two hours, this eventually collapses in a heap of its own symbolism, barely unpacking the missing-persons intrigue it started out with. Nice views en route, but it’s a tale scribbled in haste on the back of a postcard. Continue reading... | | | | | |
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