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Well, I finally saw the last part of the drama written about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and I have to say, I'm hugely disappointed. I was greatly interested in the series and I ploughed on despite the hamfisted stylised aesthetic of the series and the complete lack of consideration of the art itself - I wanted to like this. I enjoyed the work of the actors. Amy Manson's Lizzie Siddal was aetherial and sympathetic. But the characterisation of the Brotherhood themselves was almost contemptuous.
I am sure that the Brotherhood indulged in bohemian pursuits, but there's something this series seems completely unaware of - you do not become art legends, inspire generations and have your name go down in history if you concentrate all your time fucking prostitutes, your girlfriends and chasing down free booze, drugs and food.
The most insulting thing in the entire series to Rossetti is aspersions cast upon his work ethic. He is depicted as a lazy, apathetic layabout who only paints when he has to. This is patently untrue and hugely insulting to his legacy. I think the writer of this miniseries missed out on the real drama of a most complex and intriguing individual, all for the modern, simplistic dash of characterisation of the carousing, bohemian artist with no restraints and no civility.
I guess I take great exception because it furthers a certain narrative that art is not hard work. In the series, often paintings are done in single montages, with no time reference. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that these masterpieces were completed in one sitting. This misconception is supported by the great volume of carousing and drinking that takes place in the episodes. Surely if they're doing THAT much partying, the art can't take up much time, right?
Art is a discipline, a way of life, a commitment. I daresay that Rossetti's problems with Lizzie Siddal were connected to that. I know I myself have found love affairs to be somewhat distracting from my own work.
It's not like a regular day job where you go to your place of work at 9, end at 5. It's not unlike being a research scientist or a mathematician. It is a lens through which you view your entire life. From the moment you wake to the moment you sleep, you're observing life, waiting for the next inspiration, and continually pursuing past inspirations, hoping to capture them faithfully. Every day is a hope of being better than the day before. Every day is a new lesson, a new commitment.
The series completely missed that, and in taking it away from Rossetti in favour of cheap drama, did him a huge, grievous disservice. I don't doubt he had his fair share of mistresses and failings. I'm sure he WAS a dog to poor Siddal. But in reducing his complexity the writer takes away from not only Rossetti's story, but Lizzie's as well.
Don't get me started on the characterisations of the other artists. I am grieved! Poor bloody William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones! My damned heroes! How dare they! And Millais and William Holman Hunt? I weep!!
The series started out all right but it just didn't GO anywhere. The only commitment the show made was to depict Rossetti as being loathesome a person as humanely possible. And while he did some seriously shitty things in his life, I think to exaggerate his failings is both unfair and lazy writing. It was also entirely unnecessary - his failings stand for themselves.
The collapse of the storytelling in "Desperate Romantics" sort of beautifully encapsulates the largesse of storytelling that has developed in our time. People seem utterly incapable of both subtlety and trusting the reader/viewer to understand and empathise, to absorb what the artist/writer/etc is saying. Things have to be telegraphed half an hour before they take place. A little isn't enough, we must drown in the plot point, because people are stupid and just won't get it. Forget elegance, forget poignancy or true impact. It must be over-the-top. It must be larger-than-life. It must overwhelm us and devour us.
What some people don't understand is that in truth, this takes the power away from the storytelling itself. It dulls us, makes us numb to the still, the silence, the quiet. Truly brilliant art, whether it be writing, music, motion picture or art, has contradictions and contrast. Light and dark. Loud and soft. When you tip that balance you risk losing the message in either style or incompetence. (This is the main problem I had with the last "season" of Doctor Who - RTD was as subtle as a slap in the face with a cock and it was without a doubt, the worst writing he's ever done, despite sparkling moments).
Perhaps my great affection for the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood makes me a tad biased. Or perhaps its my vocation as an artist, along with my tendency to roil at the slightest whiff of the Romantic Artist fallacies. I tried to like this series, I even started out enjoying it, but it spun, staggered and crashed into an incomprehensible mess, and the last scene was abrupt, slapdash and a capitulation. You could almost see the writer finishing the scene on his laptop and pushing that shit away in disgust. "Okay, whatever. Rossetti's a fuckwad. My assaulting, self-obssessed Marty-Stu (Fred Walters) gets the last word!"
Well, congratulations, BBC. You managed to screw over a bunch of incredibly talented dead guys. And one beautifully talented artist who was also sometimes a model (Siddal). How the script treated her was probably the greatest offence of all.
I am sure that the Brotherhood indulged in bohemian pursuits, but there's something this series seems completely unaware of - you do not become art legends, inspire generations and have your name go down in history if you concentrate all your time fucking prostitutes, your girlfriends and chasing down free booze, drugs and food.
The most insulting thing in the entire series to Rossetti is aspersions cast upon his work ethic. He is depicted as a lazy, apathetic layabout who only paints when he has to. This is patently untrue and hugely insulting to his legacy. I think the writer of this miniseries missed out on the real drama of a most complex and intriguing individual, all for the modern, simplistic dash of characterisation of the carousing, bohemian artist with no restraints and no civility.
I guess I take great exception because it furthers a certain narrative that art is not hard work. In the series, often paintings are done in single montages, with no time reference. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that these masterpieces were completed in one sitting. This misconception is supported by the great volume of carousing and drinking that takes place in the episodes. Surely if they're doing THAT much partying, the art can't take up much time, right?
Art is a discipline, a way of life, a commitment. I daresay that Rossetti's problems with Lizzie Siddal were connected to that. I know I myself have found love affairs to be somewhat distracting from my own work.
It's not like a regular day job where you go to your place of work at 9, end at 5. It's not unlike being a research scientist or a mathematician. It is a lens through which you view your entire life. From the moment you wake to the moment you sleep, you're observing life, waiting for the next inspiration, and continually pursuing past inspirations, hoping to capture them faithfully. Every day is a hope of being better than the day before. Every day is a new lesson, a new commitment.
The series completely missed that, and in taking it away from Rossetti in favour of cheap drama, did him a huge, grievous disservice. I don't doubt he had his fair share of mistresses and failings. I'm sure he WAS a dog to poor Siddal. But in reducing his complexity the writer takes away from not only Rossetti's story, but Lizzie's as well.
Don't get me started on the characterisations of the other artists. I am grieved! Poor bloody William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones! My damned heroes! How dare they! And Millais and William Holman Hunt? I weep!!
The series started out all right but it just didn't GO anywhere. The only commitment the show made was to depict Rossetti as being loathesome a person as humanely possible. And while he did some seriously shitty things in his life, I think to exaggerate his failings is both unfair and lazy writing. It was also entirely unnecessary - his failings stand for themselves.
The collapse of the storytelling in "Desperate Romantics" sort of beautifully encapsulates the largesse of storytelling that has developed in our time. People seem utterly incapable of both subtlety and trusting the reader/viewer to understand and empathise, to absorb what the artist/writer/etc is saying. Things have to be telegraphed half an hour before they take place. A little isn't enough, we must drown in the plot point, because people are stupid and just won't get it. Forget elegance, forget poignancy or true impact. It must be over-the-top. It must be larger-than-life. It must overwhelm us and devour us.
What some people don't understand is that in truth, this takes the power away from the storytelling itself. It dulls us, makes us numb to the still, the silence, the quiet. Truly brilliant art, whether it be writing, music, motion picture or art, has contradictions and contrast. Light and dark. Loud and soft. When you tip that balance you risk losing the message in either style or incompetence. (This is the main problem I had with the last "season" of Doctor Who - RTD was as subtle as a slap in the face with a cock and it was without a doubt, the worst writing he's ever done, despite sparkling moments).
Perhaps my great affection for the work of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood makes me a tad biased. Or perhaps its my vocation as an artist, along with my tendency to roil at the slightest whiff of the Romantic Artist fallacies. I tried to like this series, I even started out enjoying it, but it spun, staggered and crashed into an incomprehensible mess, and the last scene was abrupt, slapdash and a capitulation. You could almost see the writer finishing the scene on his laptop and pushing that shit away in disgust. "Okay, whatever. Rossetti's a fuckwad. My assaulting, self-obssessed Marty-Stu (Fred Walters) gets the last word!"
Well, congratulations, BBC. You managed to screw over a bunch of incredibly talented dead guys. And one beautifully talented artist who was also sometimes a model (Siddal). How the script treated her was probably the greatest offence of all.
