Significantly, one of the scenes from the novel omitted by Vinterberg is the extraordinary one in which Sergeant Troy – who has married Bathsheba but disappeared, presumed drowned – re-appears having joined a low-life travelling theatre-cum-circus troupe. At the local country fair, Bathsheba joins the audience in the tent and watches him in the role of Dick Turpin, unaware of his true identity. In its theatricality – and implicit commentary on the novel as an entertainment – the scene could have come directly from sensation fiction, where masquerade is a frequent theme (as in Collins’s No Name, in which the strong, amoral heroine Magdalen uses her talents at stage-acting to pursue her goals). In Schlesinger’s hands, the events teeter as boldly on the edge of surreal absurdity as they do in Hardy’s original (which is probably why Vinterberg avoids them as an affront to his more naturalistic sensibility).
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Schlesinger’s greater willingness to engage with Hardy’s sensational side means that, even when he departs from the novel, he gets closer to its spirit. The famous scene in which Troy dazzles Bathsheba with his phallic swordplay takes place on a barren hillside, not in the sexually symbolic “hollow amid the ferns” where, in the book, she waits “trembling and panting” for him to “produce his sword” like a “living thing” so that he can “thrust” at her. Vinterberg, in contrast, faithfully films the scene in a fern hollow, but it is reduced to just that, a fern hollow. His Troy, Tom Sturridge, has none of the dangerous sociopathic erotic energy harnessed by Stamp’s stagey yet dangerously disinhibited performance.
Like much sensation fiction, Hardy’s novel deals in gender ambiguity and in role play, with its powerful heroine who rides astride like a man. Yet the original Bathsheba is also masochistically accepting of her female fate, determined to “stand [her] ground and be cut to pieces” rather than leave Troy when her marriage to him becomes torture. Hardy’s heroine is a paradoxical character, designed to provoke, tease and confuse the reader just as she does her suitors. The new film, in contrast, presents a Bathsheba who is “hygienic” for modern audiences: an empathetic, egalitarian modern feminist, self-empowered but not motivated by power.
Is Far From the Madding Crowd really warm and sunny? The happy ending may seem to fulfil the will of some benign natural Providence, in contrast to the cruel fatalism found in Hardy’s later works. But there are hints that he is already moving in that direction. In one of the dialogues between two farm workers, the question of fate comes up. When the gloomier man complains “Your lot is your lot and Scripture’s nothing: for if you do good you don’t get rewarded,” his more optimistic fellow rejoins: “No, no; I don’t agree … God’s a perfect gentleman in that respect.” For the author of The Poor Man and the Lady the idea of God as a gentleman can only be a bitter joke. The Hardy of Jude the Obscure is already there in embryo.
Significantly, one of the scenes from the novel omitted by Vinterberg is the extraordinary one in which Sergeant Troy – who has married Bathsheba but disappeared, presumed drowned – re-appears having joined a low-life travelling theatre-cum-circus troupe. At the local country fair, Bathsheba joins the audience in the tent and watches him in the role of Dick Turpin, unaware of his true identity. In its theatricality – and implicit commentary on the novel as an entertainment – the scene could have come directly from sensation fiction, where masquerade is a frequent theme (as in Collins’s No Name, in which the strong, amoral heroine Magdalen uses her talents at stage-acting to pursue her goals). In Schlesinger’s hands, the events teeter as boldly on the edge of surreal absurdity as they do in Hardy’s original (which is probably why Vinterberg avoids them as an affront to his more naturalistic sensibility).AdvertisementSchlesinger’s greater willingness to engage with Hardy’s sensational side means that, even when he departs from the novel, he gets closer to its spirit. The famous scene in which Troy dazzles Bathsheba with his phallic swordplay takes place on a barren hillside, not in the sexually symbolic “hollow amid the ferns” where, in the book, she waits “trembling and panting” for him to “produce his sword” like a “living thing” so that he can “thrust” at her. Vinterberg, in contrast, faithfully films the scene in a fern hollow, but it is reduced to just that, a fern hollow. His Troy, Tom Sturridge, has none of the dangerous sociopathic erotic energy harnessed by Stamp’s stagey yet dangerously disinhibited performance.Like much sensation fiction, Hardy’s novel deals in gender ambiguity and in role play, with its powerful heroine who rides astride like a man. Yet the original Bathsheba is also masochistically accepting of her female fate, determined to “stand [her] ground and be cut to pieces” rather than leave Troy when her marriage to him becomes torture. Hardy’s heroine is a paradoxical character, designed to provoke, tease and confuse the reader just as she does her suitors. The new film, in contrast, presents a Bathsheba who is “hygienic” for modern audiences: an empathetic, egalitarian modern feminist, self-empowered but not motivated by power.Is Far From the Madding Crowd really warm and sunny? The happy ending may seem to fulfil the will of some benign natural Providence, in contrast to the cruel fatalism found in Hardy’s later works. But there are hints that he is already moving in that direction. In one of the dialogues between two farm workers, the question of fate comes up. When the gloomier man complains “Your lot is your lot and Scripture’s nothing: for if you do good you don’t get rewarded,” his more optimistic fellow rejoins: “No, no; I don’t agree … God’s a perfect gentleman in that respect.” For the author of The Poor Man and the Lady the idea of God as a gentleman can only be a bitter joke. The Hardy of Jude the Obscure is already there in embryo.
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