“A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens is one of my favourite books and is for me possibly one of the finest things ever written in the English language. It is a book that I can constantly return to, and I always find it has something new to say about the human condition each time I do.
I will, however, admit a fondness for the “pre-transformed” version of Scrooge, not because I think he’s a better person beforehand, but just because I can relate to the lonely old devil a bit more when he seems more fallible and more human. It’s a brilliantly well-observed characterisation which has much to say about what it is to be human. It’s very easy for those of us who feel awkward in social situations to get forgotten about of left behind by a world that’s too busy enjoying its own fun, and it becomes quite understandable how that might transform a reasonable young fellow (as young Scrooge undoubtedly is seen to be) into an embittered, cynical loner. The “post-transformation” version, however, seems to be the sort of avuncular enthusiast that I would go out of my way avoid at parties.
If I ever went to parties, that is…
But I suppose to think that is to probably miss the point, and as a tale of redemption and the possibilities of change, it really is hard to think of a story to beat it. As a story it can make me weep buckets and leave me full of joy and hope, sometimes on the very same page, and I genuinely do think it’s a masterpiece. I’m never sure whether the things that move me the most are the ones that resonate with others. I find the scenes where Scrooge abandons his youthful love truly heartbreaking, and a lot of the scenes at old Fezziwigs still bring a lump to the throat, and any number of the beastly visions of the future not-to-be fill me with a raging loathing of the things people do which I suspect was not really the desired effect.
The moments that most move me are of course the ones that most resonate with my own experiences, I suppose, but that’s the beauty of a great work like this. Different things will read in different ways at different times of your life. I read recently that some people believe that it is the most frightful, horrible figures are often the most sentimental, so maybe I might have to accept the possibility that I am just a horrible person. If that is true, will three Ghosts visit me one night and save me from myself, or am I doomed to a life of misery followed by an eternity of torment? Perhaps that’s what Dickens wanted us to do: examine our own lives through the eyes of Ebenezer Scrooge and wonder if we too could be found to come up short.
In school, the audience was unfortunate enough to suffer my most ham-filled performance of one Jacob Marley in our very own adaptation of the tale, whilst weighed down by a couple of hundredweight of was probably old ship’s chains (no health and safety issues in those days) and so his lines in the book always resonate and seem terribly familiar (“Ask me who I was, Ebenezer…” etc.) and I still feel a lot of empathy for old Marley even today as he only gets to see the folly of his ways when it is too late for him.
My favourite adaptation remains the Patrick Stewart version and every Christmas I do try to find the time to sit down and revel in it (this year, alas there was simply no time or opportunity for this due to my constant need to visit the hospital. My other “traditional” viewings “It’s a Wonderful Life” and The Avengers: “Too Many Christmas Trees” have also sadly had to remain in their sleeves this time around.) although the sequences with “Ding Dong!” Mr. Topper are now a running gag in our household and that particular Tiny Tim does, quite frankly, deserve everything that he ultimately doesn’t get.
On the page, Tiny Tim can seem a tragic figure, but sadly, whenever he’s cast in film productions, they always seem to pick the most annoying little actor they can find, and I usually find the portrayal of him so very nauseating that, in most film versions, I am quite happy to see the back of the little b****r…
I suspect that this is not the Director’s desired intention.
My empathies and sympathies always lie with the family who suffer his loss rather than the loss itself, and Bob Cratchit’s now legendary toast to “the founder of the feast” always, always manages to restore any faith in human nature that later scenes manage to diminish.
Those later scenes, where people gather together and rejoice in the passing of another human being, no matter how loathsome his reputation, really disturb me, which is why I think you can keep the musical “Scrooge”. I am forever appalled by the musical number where those b****rds all dance around and upon the coffin singing “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me” whilst the body of old Ebenezer lurks within. I know it’s for comic effect, but I really do find it all rather distasteful, possibly because, no matter what you may think of them, speaking ill of the dead just seems plain wrong. Maybe I just missed the point there, but then musicals have always been a strangely bewildering form of drama to me.
The book pictured is my 1950 edition which is the version I always prefer to read from despite there being other versions around the house. It's now over 60 years old and so I suppose is something of a minor antique, but then, well, aren't we all?
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