"On Chesil Beach": Caught in a Bad Romance

Three years ago, The New Yorker's Winter Fiction issue printed a lengthy except from Ian McEwan's novella On Chesil Beach, which was about to be published. I eagerly looked forward to it; at the time, McEwan's Atonement was my favorite novel in the entire world.

Among the many virtues of Atonement is that it is one of the great love stories of modern literature, with one of the few sex scenes that doesn't seem like a candidate for the annual Bad Sex in Fiction award. As a bookish but secretly romantic teenager, I found the scene between Robbie and Celia in the library to be extremely seductive. It's not gratuitous, either--it has to be genuinely sexy in order for the novel to work.

So when The New Yorker advertised their Chesil Beach excerpt with some titillating tagline like "Ian McEwan narrates a 1960s wedding night," I secretly hoped for another Atonement-quality sex scene. Well, the joke was on me. As the very first sentence of On Chesil Beach proves, this is a story about bad sex, told in painstaking detail--an anti-erotic tale.

Last week I finally read On Chesil Beach in its entirety--it's a short work, 39 thousand words--and I can't help but feel that McEwan is deliberately repudiating his earlier novel. It would be a very typical thing for him to do--as Atonement proves, he's a master of pulling the rug out from underneath the reader. There are enough parallels between the lovers in Atonement and the lovers in Chesil Beach for me to think that McEwan expects the reader's memories of Atonement to provide a subtext for the events of Chesil. Both works are set in the past and teddibly English. In both cases, the characters having sex are just out of university. The girl is extremely virginal, the boy slightly (but only slightly) more experienced. The girl is from a cultivated upper-middle-class family; the boy is a working-class striver whose intelligence is his ticket to higher social status.

In a way, therefore, On Chesil Beach is McEwan performing an act of literary criticism on himself. "You were turned on by my sex scene in Atonement?" he seems to say. "Don't you realize that that was fiction and fantasy? Here's how it really would have happened."

Anyway, On Chesil Beach is a well-crafted anti-erotic narrative about the wedding night of Florence and Edward in an English seaside hotel. The central problem is that while Florence loves Edward, she is repelled by anything sexual (even French-kissing), and knows she is powerless to articulate her fear and disgust. Edward is aware that his bride hasn't liked physical affection, but he assumes it will all change now that they are married, and is eager to lose his own virginity. On that night, however, everything goes wrong in the worst possible way; from the start, the atmosphere in the chilly and antiseptic hotel room is one of unease.

McEwan fills out the novella with some flashbacks about how Florence and Edward first met, their respective upbringings, etc. I was not as fond of these parts--they are straight narration (the omniscient McEwan telling us "Edward's mother was like this" or "Florence's string quartet was like that") with little action or dialogue to enliven them. In these passages, the characters feel artificial, constructed to represent ideas about sexual attitudes and class divides in 1962. But Florence and Edward come to life whenever McEwan is describing their thoughts, feelings, and actions on that fateful wedding night. (Similarly, I tend to think that the best parts of Mad Men are when the writers explore and deepen the characters' relationships, not when they go "Oh my god, the '60s!") Their conversation on the beach toward the end of the novella, in which almost every line of dialogue has either Florence or Edward saying the worst possible thing they could say at that moment, is especially well done. Atonement is about one big, horrible lie that ruins a life; On Chesil Beach is about how lives can also be ruined by an accumulation of little mistakes.

At first there seems to be no explanation for Florence's sexual unresponsiveness, but eventually the narrator hints that Florence's father abused her when she was younger. (I wasn't just imagining this, either: according to a recent New Yorker profile of McEwan, this was even more blatant in earlier drafts.) Not sure I agree with this choice; it seems so pat, like a diagnosis. I think I'd be more interested in reading about a woman whose fear and abhorrence of sex wasn't linked to childhood trauma--at any rate, that would be more original. This also means that the narrator is unreliable or disingenuous: the first line of On Chesil Beach says "they were both virgins," but maybe Florence isn't a virgin, right? And if we can't trust the first sentence, can we trust anything else the omniscient narrator says--though he seems so perfectly candid?

"Brief Encounter" at ACT: Extraordinary How Potent

A woman, pretty but careworn, in a plain 1930s tweed suit and sensible shoes, swings from a chandelier. I saw a photograph of this moment from Kneehigh Theater's adaptation of Brief Encounter accompanying a review of its London production, and was instantly intrigued. Fortunately for us on the other side of the pond, Brief Encounter was a hit in England and is touring to several venues in the United States. Its first American stop was ACT, here in San Francisco; it will also play New York and Minneapolis.

I still have not seen the classic 1940s film of Brief Encounter, though it's been on my "to-view" list ever since I saw The History Boys, in which some of the characters reenact a scene from the movie. I was at the SF production with a native Londoner, a friend-of-a-friend, and was somewhat relieved when he told me that he hadn't seen the movie, either--even though it is a much bigger cultural thing in England than it is here. (cf. Anthony Lane: "The film has been a favorite, almost a fetish, among British audiences ever since. This year, on Valentine’s Day, it was screened outside the National Theatre, in London, so that young lovers could sit in the cold, huddle together, and learn just how incredibly miserable the business of love can be. What other country would subscribe to this?")

Perhaps the film is "incredibly miserable," but this stage adaptation is not. While it still follows Noel Coward's classic story of the hopeless, and hopelessly repressed, love that arises between housewife Laura and married doctor Alec, it employs a lively repertoire of theatrical tricks that expand the emotional palette. There's puppetry, projections and film clips that the performers interact with, surreal images like the moment with the chandelier, and frequent musical interludes where the cast performs Coward songs that comment on the action. The show not only presents the basic love story, but also investigates why these kinds of love stories appeal to us. But don't go thinking that this is some kind of ironic, deconstructed, coldly Brechtian piece. It manages to comment on itself while still telling the story with absolute sincerity, and creating a cozy, warm-hearted atmosphere.

Here's one of my favorite examples of these tricks in action. As Alec realizes that he will have to end things with Laura, he stands in a spotlight and sings "A Room With A View," accompanying himself on ukulele. When originally composed, this song was one of those peppy-cutesy 1920s numbers, à la "I've Got a Crush On You" or "Tea For Two." But when performed in such a stripped-down arrangement at a pivotal moment of the drama (in fact, it's the first time Alec sings), it reveals the wistful yearning behind the lyrics; it's nostalgic and fresh all at once. Extraordinary how potent cheap music is!

This is really Laura's story, though (at the end, she gets a musical moment of her own, which is so fitting that I will not spoil it). We see scenes of Laura's life at home with her husband, Fred, and two children, but we never meet Alec's family. And I did wonder about the fairness of this--if this made us more willing to condone Laura and Alec's attempted adultery. From what we see of Fred, we don't really mind that Laura plans to cheat on him--he's dull and oblivious, while Alec is younger, handsomer, and far more passionate and idealistic. But what is Alec's wife, the unseen Madeleine, like? Why does he think it's all right to betray her?

Is it that Madeleine, like Fred, is boring? But if that were the case, surely Alec would choose a more exciting woman than Laura for his secret lover? Laura is a perfectly nice lady, of course, and we eventually learn of her sadness and her deferred dreams. But she is also repressed, hesitant, confused and conflicted. So, if Alec wants to have an affair, there must be women with whom it would be easier, and more fun. What made him choose Laura, and see the parts of her soul no one else can see?

I wonder, then, if Brief Encounter is partly a wish-fulfillment fantasy: that of being a quiet, unassuming person who nevertheless is seen, and chosen, and loved by a smart, good-looking guy who's in touch with his emotions. Is Laura just a stand-in for the straight females and gay males in the audience, who can dream of projecting themselves into her situation--of swinging from that chandelier, giddy with love?

Brief Encounter might be more complex if it showed scenes of Alec's life at home, but as I suggested, that's also tricky to finesse. If Alec's wife were all sympathetic, we'd no longer yearn for Alec and Laura to get together; but if Alec's wife were unlikable, we'd wonder why he married her in the first place. So, instead of confronting this problem, the stage play fills out its running time with two other love stories that take place in the train station café where Laura and Alec meet weekly. The friendly stationmaster is courting the haughty café proprietress, and a fresh-faced candy vendor is flirting with the giggly waitress. These characters do most of the singing in the show, providing comic relief that also comments on the Laura/Alec story. But sometimes these subplots feel like filler, as in an irrelevant interlude where two soldiers come into the café and demand whiskey, even though the café's liquor license won't permit it.

All the members of the cast are multi-talented, but I was especially impressed by Joseph Alessi, who switches effortlessly between the roles of the buttoned-up bourgeois Fred and the cheerful working-class stationmaster, looks like Stanley Tucci, performs a song-and-dance routine on the lobby staircase at intermission, and plays the spoons!

American Equus?

Now that the Equus revival has opened on Broadway, the reviews seem generally favorable, but several of them (Ben Brantley, John Simon) praise the actors while criticizing the script. They consider Shaffer's play theatrically exciting, but also a dated psychodrama with a heavy-handed homosexual subtext. I've got an idea, though, for making Equus relevant again--and it doesn't have to do with elaborate theatrical effects or a former child star getting naked onstage. No, what I'd like to see is a production of Equus that is set in the United States.

On the one hand, I agree with Terry Teachout's contention that Equus is one of the myriad of artistic works about "British middle-class inhibition," what with its veddy British playwright and British leading actors. On the other hand, I wonder if these days, its central conflicts--conformity vs. individualism, puritanism vs. permissiveness, quiet desperation vs. unbridled passion--are not more American than they are British.

In order for the play to work and its homosexual subtext to make sense, it has to take place in a rather staid, conservative, and Christian culture. Alan's mother Dora is a by-the-book Christian and Alan's horse-worshiping belief system turns out to be a twisted version of Christianity. In the 30+ years since Equus premiered, Britain has become an increasingly secular society while America has been gripped by a series of "culture wars" over homosexuality, abortion, religious freedom, etc. When I first saw Equus I was bemused by the character of Dora Strang: "There are fundies in England?!" I thought. But if it were set in America, there wouldn't be such a cognitive disconnect.

Were I producing an American Equus, I think the obvious thing to do would be to set it in Kentucky. A state famous for horse farms, with a relatively large Evangelical/conservative population--what could be more appropriate? Of course the director would need to make sure the production didn't tilt too far toward Southern Gothic, since that would make Equus seem more silly and dated instead of less so. (I don't think that the Strang family should be portrayed as ignorant rednecks, for instance.) But it could be very effective if some or all of the actors spoke with light Southern accents, as long as they did not condescend to their characters.

Come to think of it, the only Equus production I've ever seen (by a student theater group) had the actors speak in their standard American accents as opposed to adopting British ones. I don't know if this was a conscious decision to set the show in America--it might have been more a case of "we have half a semester to rehearse this show, build the sets, and weld together six horse-shaped masks, so let's make things easy on ourselves and not worry about doing British accents"--but the production was very effective, nonetheless.

Image by Sara Krulwich, The New York Times.

The Underrated Peter Shaffer

As students of playwriting, we're taught to concentrate on those influential dramatists with blazingly original styles, overwhelming visions, and large-looming reputations. But that can get a little intimidating--not every one of us is destined to be a Shakespeare or a Beckett--and in moments like these, I look to the next tier of playwrights for inspiration. The ones whose works probably didn't change the world, but are consistently intelligent, solidly crafted, and theatrically effective. And one of my favorites of this underrated bunch is Sir Peter Shaffer.

Shaffer will celebrate his 82nd birthday on May 15. (His identical twin brother Anthony, author of Sleuth, died in 2001.) Sir Peter is best known for his plays Equus and Amadeus; I am also familiar with Black Comedy and Lettice and Lovage. All in different genres; all with something noteworthy about them.

Black Comedy, which I saw many years ago in a high-school production, is a British farce, with all the silliness that implies--governed by the theatrical conceit that when the lights are fully illuminating the stage, for the characters it's a pitch-black power outage. Lightweight entertainment, but it's stood the test of time for over forty years, so it must have something that other farces lack. And perhaps it inspired Alan Ayckbourn, whose comedies often play with theatrical conceits in a similar way.

Equus, which tends to be remembered as "that play where the boy gets naked and falls in love with a horse" is actually an intense and moving theatrical work. I saw it at Vassar in a student production where the actors did not get fully nude and the role of the psychiatrist was played by a woman (Martin became Margaret), and I still found it a powerful work of art. If that doesn't testify to the play's sheer indestructability, I don't know what does.

Amadeus, now better known in its excellent film version, is another drama that just works. Mixing historical fact with a dash of legend, it's not just a "bio-play," but taps into the deep fear we all have of being "mediocrities" like Salieri. Its juxtaposition of Mozart's beautiful music with the ugly emotions of jealousy and rage give it its power.

Lettice and Lovage, like Black Comedy, is fluffy, but even it has a number of interesting features. "Star vehicle" comedies were once a huge part of the theatrical landscape but have now died out; Lettice and Lovage is one of the last, written in 1987 for Maggie Smith. The play provides outstanding roles for two middle-aged actresses; it concerns women as they relate to one another, not to their children or husbands or lovers; and the humor is sophisticated, relying on knowledge of British history, etc.

You can't instantly recognize a Shaffer play from reading a page of its dialogue (as you can with some playwrights), but his works do have a theme and a voice running through them. As Frank Rich wrote of Lettice and Lovage, it is "a high camp, female version of the archetypal Shaffer play, most recently exemplified by Equus and Amadeus, in which two men, one representing creativity and ecstatic passion and the other mediocrity and sterility, battle for dominance." Yet because Shaffer explores this theme in such a variety of settings, it doesn't feel like he's repeating himself.

And, though Shaffer is not a great avant-garde innovator, he has an eye for the theatrical; none of these plays are small and sitcom-like. Just think of the actors-as-stylized-horses in Equus, for instance. (Side note: My freshman-year roommate was in the student production of Equus that I saw, and kept as a souvenir one of those abstract, soldered-metal horses' heads. It hung on our wall for the rest of the year--a little frightening.) In his preface to Amadeus, Shaffer writes that his plays are "intentionally gestural and spectacular in effect"; in his preface to The Royal Hunt of the Sun (I still haven't read the play itself--soon, soon!) he writes "I did deeply want to create, by means both austere and rich--means always disciplined by a central aesthetic--an experience that was entirely and only theatrical."

To me, that is a noble goal--something that I myself want to achieve as a playwright. I have a lot of respect for Peter Shaffer's ability to craft plays that are theatrical, smart, and entertaining all at once, and wonder why I have never heard other writers cite him as an influence. (Still, I can see it in places--I think M. Butterfly is a Shaffer-esque play.) By way of comparison with another of my favorites, Tom Stoppard, Shaffer is ten years older, less well-known, less prolific, and less "intellectual." But isn't it admirable that Shaffer's plays are always intelligent, yet not intimidating the way Stoppard's sometimes are?

Oh, to Be in England...

...now that April's here? Perhaps, though never having visited the British Isles, I'm not currently craving the pleasures of an English springtime. Instead, I am fascinated by the news that 21-year-old writer Polly Stenham's play That Face, a smash hit at the Royal Court Theatre, will transfer to the West End.

I got the link from Mr. Excitement, who labeled it simply "Things That Would Never Happen Here." Ha, how true... And for someone like me, it's especially gobsmacking--to know that someone only a few months older than me, a sister playwright if you will, is getting a 10-week commercial run in the West End.

That Face is described as a drama about a troubled upper-middle-class family, dealing with issues such as drug & alcohol abuse, parent-child relations, and girl-on-girl bullying. The latter subject strikes me as especially fresh, an excellent choice for a bold young female playwright. Polly has said, "Give me a 14-year-old girl who's angry! That's an age and a species of the human race that can do some bad things. There are hormones everywhere." Agreed.

Stenham got this opportunity via the Royal Court's program for young writers...it seems almost too easy! "It's not elitist; it's open to anyone aged 13-25. You just go in and read plays and write little scenes. I really believe that with that behind you, anyone could have a good shot at doing something like this [...] They said write a play, if you want, for The Young Writers' Festival, and I thought I'd give it a go."

And so, like many American theater artists, I sigh over how good things are in Britain, and with a trace of envy, wish Polly Stenham all the best.

Book-to-Movie Anticipation, Part 2: Atonement

In the first part of this post on how two of my all-time favorite books are being turned into movies this fall, I looked at Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass, which became my favorite book when I was 9 years old. And it retained that position for quite a long time--I loved its sequels too, and there were other books I enjoyed, but I don't think it ever had a serious challenger. By the time I was in high school, though, I began thinking it silly that my favorite book was a children's novel. And when I was 15, I finally read a book that knocked The Golden Compass off its pedestal: Atonement, by Ian McEwan.

I read Atonement on a high-school trip to Cuba (a long story which I may get around to telling someday). It was 2003 and the Iraq War had just begun, so you could draw a parallel between that and the depiction of World War II in the novel, though I doubt I was conscious of it at the time. The book had gotten good reviews and was half-price at Costco, so I picked it up rather on a whim--thinking "This had better be good, or I'll be stuck in Cuba with a lousy book."

And at first I read it leisurely--the first section is slowly paced in that classic "British country house novel" way--though I was impressed with McEwen's attention to detail and shifting perspectives. And then, as the book's inexorable chain of events got set into motion, it hooked me in the same way The Golden Compass had. I'd vowed that on our bus trips through Cuba I would observe the countryside instead of reading; soon, that vow was broken. When I finished the book, I stared blankly out the bus window, feeling swelled-up with emotion and ready to cry; just then, we went down a particularly twisty road and the kid in front of me got carsick--the bus had to pull over so he could vomit out the window. That was all anyone could talk about for the rest of the day--"David threw up!" Me, I barely noticed. As it has done to many other readers, that last section of Atonement knocked me flat. Devastated me.

Due to Atonement's critical acclaim and general brilliance, as well as the public's appetite for romantic dramas, I was sure it would be made into a movie someday. Still, I worry that something fundamental may get lost in the translation to the screen. *VAGUE SPOILERS* The end of the book is so powerful because you discover that it's a novel about the act of writing. In order for the twist to function the same way in a movie version, you'd have to make the older Briony a film director instead of a novelist, but I highly doubt that change took place.

*SPOILERS END*

All the same, I'm excited about the movie. I was surprised how much I liked director Joe Wright's film version of Pride and Prejudice, which looked beautiful and brought the characters' emotions to life. (You can read my IMDB review here, though it seems that some Austenites took offense at my statement "I admire Jane Austen's novels, but admire good filmmaking even more.") Screenwriter Christopher Hampton proved with Dangerous Liaisons that he can turn a difficult-to-adapt novel into a lively drama. Wright obviously enjoys working with Keira Knightley and she did a good job in Pride and Prejudice--though I wonder if she's too beautiful and glamorous to play Cecilia.

I had a bit of the opposite reaction when I heard James McAvoy would be playing Robbie. Now, as you can see from the photo above, he's not a bad-looking chap, he seems likable, decent, and sympathetic--all qualities that Robbie requires. But I'll admit I pictured Robbie as much more traditionally handsome, and rough around the edges (he's the cleaning lady's son after all) where McAvoy is wet behind the ears. Still, I have heard good things about McAvoy's acting talent and hope to be pleasantly surprised. This movie was made to fulfill Wright's and McEwan's visions, not to fulfill my own romantic dreams, you know!

I will always love Atonement, but I'm less willing to call it my Favorite Book of All Time, as I did when I was sixteen or seventeen. I now think it's a little foolish to single one book out as my all-time favorite, as well as awfully hubristic that both of my former All-Time Favorites, The Golden Compass and Atonement, were written during my own short lifetime. It's exciting, though, that two such high-profile movies based on two such great books are coming out this fall. Often I love the kind of books that would never be made into movies!

Summer Reading: The Frederica Potter Quartet

Two nights ago I finished my other summer reading goal (mentioned here): A.S. Byatt's Frederica Potter Quartet. Actually, I read the first book, The Virgin in the Garden, last March, and the others, Still Life, Babel Tower, and A Whistling Woman, this summer. I'll probably get several blog postings out of the series: because I enjoyed it so much; because it's so dense with character, incident, allusion, and commentary (and nearly 2000 pages total); and because in my opinion people don't talk enough about it! Earlier this summer The Sheila Variations did a big series of posts about Byatt, including reviews and excerpts of the first three Frederica novels... this is a great resource and made me excited to read more Byatt!

I'll begin by simply describing and discussing the series and its books. Basically, the Quartet looks at England from 1953 to 1970, centering on Frederica Potter (aged 17 when the story begins), her family and friends. I have no idea how autobiographical the series is supposed to be, but there are certainly similarities between Frederica and her creator, A.S. Byatt--they share a birthday (though Frederica is a year older), they are both from Yorkshire, they went to Cambridge when it was rare for a woman to do so, etc. Frederica is not the most likable character--others often perceive her as pushy or irritating or superficial--but I am actually quite fond of her. I feel like I often have "Frederica moments."

In the first book, The Virgin in the Garden, it's 1953, and Elizabeth II is about to be crowned, and up in Yorkshire they are producing a big outdoor play about the life of the first Queen Elizabeth, written by a man named Alexander Wedderburn. Frederica fancies herself madly in love with Alexander (who is probably twice her age) and is thrilled when she gets cast as the young Elizabeth. Much of the novel takes place backstage, and I have to say, Byatt completely gets what theater people are like. Though the characters are British people from a half-century ago, they are totally recognizable to anyone who's hung around actors. For this reason alone--a character like Frederica in a setting like the theater--I loved the book. Meanwhile, Frederica's siblings are also learning about sex and love. Stephanie (calm, pleasant, a few years out of college) falls in love with Daniel Orton, an intense, big-boned clergyman. Marcus (about 15 years old and very awkward--he seems to have Asperger's, though this is never stated) gets into a dangerous relationship with a mentally disturbed teacher named Lucas Simmonds. Their stories did not resonate with me as much as Frederica's did, and I thought Byatt sometimes strained for metaphorical or other significance. Still, even though The Virgin in the Garden seems plotless at first, it's actually based around some compelling narrative questions. Will Stephanie actually marry Daniel? What is Lucas Simmonds doing with Marcus? And, to whom will Frederica lose her virginity?

Maybe the second book's title, Still Life, should have tipped me off that it would have less of a plot. It's the shortest of the four books, but for me, it felt the loosest and least compelling. The other books in the Quartet follow disparate plotlines with increasing urgency, until they all draw closer together and come to a head. Still Life doesn't do that--instead, Byatt-as-narrator breaks in to discuss the philosophy and representation of color, metaphor and language, Vincent and Theo Van Gogh, her own goals in writing this novel, etc. I find this irritating and pretentious--or at least, poorly dramatized. Still, I love all the characters, and the individual steps of their journeys are often well done. Frederica goes to Cambridge and is in her element, surrounded by books, learning, and young men. But life is harder for Stephanie, who struggles with the old work vs. family conundrum. *SPOILERS* In lieu of a really well-built climax, Byatt kills Stephanie off in a freak accident (she's electrocuted by an un-grounded refrigerator--the perfect death for a reluctant housewife). I resented feeling like this sympathetic character was killed to make a point about the status of women, as well as to make Frederica distraught enough to marry her current boyfriend, the wealthy "man's man" Nigel Reiver. Also, Still Life introduces a lot of characters who become important in the next two books, but don't have much of a function in this one (e.g. charismatic minister Gideon Farrar). In the scheme of the Quartet, this novel feels like a placeholder.

The next book, Babel Tower, though, comes roaring out of the gate and doesn't let up. It has the strongest plot, the most at stake, and the fiercest questions animating it. We jump forward in time to the mid-sixties: Frederica now has a 4-year-old son, Leo, and is chafing under her husband's control. In the longest chapter of the Quartet, Nigel becomes physically abusive and Frederica and Leo run off to "Swinging" London. There, Frederica seeks a job, a divorce, and custody of her son--not easy, because this is before the days of no-fault divorce. Meanwhile, a derelict man named Jude Mason has published a book called Babbletower, which gets put on trial for obscenity. Excerpts from Jude's story weave in and out of Byatt's--it's about a utopian community that degenerates into a Sadeian nightmare, and the question is whether its literary merit outweighs its gruesomeness. Personally, I think it's great, and gutsy: a fable about the dangers of unlimited freedom, a kind of warning to the 1960s idealists. It also brings in the big theme of "group behavior," which continues to the end of the series. (It's even present in the earlier novels, though not as obviously. The backstage scenes of Virgin are all about group behavior!)

Anyway, Frederica's divorce trial and Jude's obscenity trial coincide, along with the hippie/mod mid-sixties, resulting in a really big, explosive novel about freedom, censorship, individuality, and society. Another major theme of Babel Tower, and the Quartet, is interconnectedness. Not only does Byatt love symbolic patterns and interdisciplinary allusions, the characters' relationships are also tangled. For instance, Frederica's brother-in-law, Daniel, answers phones for a crisis hotline, which Jude Mason keeps calling, and Daniel's boss and Jude are both published by Frederica's boss...

Frederica takes a lesser role in A Whistling Woman, the complex interrelationships of her friends and acquaintances coming to the fore. In terms of intellectual concerns, this novel pays new attention to the social and natural sciences. Much of it takes place at the University of North Yorkshire, which is touting a multidisciplinary approach and planning a conference on Body and Mind (another theme that runs through the Quartet). Byatt, too, takes a multidisciplinary approach to the late '60s: the university conference and Frederica's pop-intellectual talk show allow her to analyze things from a variety of perspectives. Meanwhile, the themes of group behavior and individual freedom continue from Babel Tower. A group of hippie students is agitating for an "anti-university," and a religious cult is forming nearby. One of my favorite parts of A Whistling Woman involves Brenda Pincher, a sociologist who pretends to be a cult member but is actually there to observe how cults form. Brenda's letters to a colleague get increasingly paranoid and desperate; this, and other events, build up the tension in the same way that Babel Tower did.

As you can see, the books get more complex and harder to summarize as the Quartet goes on, and by the end of it, your head can really spin with all that Byatt has crammed in there. Still, I think my two favorite books--The Virgin in the Garden and Babel Tower--can stand on their own; Virgin because it's the first entry and Babel Tower because it is so different from, and so much better than, the book that preceded it. A Whistling Woman is a good and satisfying conclusion, but I wouldn't recommend it if you haven't at least read Babel Tower first. Still Life is a must if you want to get the most out of the series, and there are some great scenes in it, some good observations, but ultimately it wasn't compelling enough for me. (Byatt has much more to say about the '60s than the '50s.) Still, at least one person thinks it's the best of Byatt's novels, and if it's not explosive like the other three, it--as its title suggests--is quiet and contemplative, and perhaps I'll like it better when I reread it. As I surely will, sometime. It will take much more than one reading to wrestle with all the ideas that Byatt has put into her Quartet.