Adapt or die

In the battle of the Birdsongs, telly nicks it - just.

Adapt or die, goes the old saying. But in the case of Birdsong maybe it's adapt and die. I've now sat through versions made for the stage (Comedy Theatre) and made for TV (BBC One). In my head this was a Day of Judgement, a Sky Sports Super Sunday. Which one of the two great loves of my life (theatre and telly) would fare the best, or die the least? Showtime!

The adaptation in question is that of Sebastian Faulks's 1993 novel Birdsong. Trevor Nunn had a crack at it a full year ago; I had to wait untill this weekend to get Abi Morgan's BBC comeback. Okay, so it was a really long day.

The book tracks Edwardian Stephen Wraysford's doomed love affair with Isabelle, an unhappily married Frenchwoman in Amiens, before it pitches our damaged, dislocated hero into the horror of the Somme. It's the time-honoured pairing of Eros and Thanatos: sex and death. The carnal turns to carnage, and roiling sex scenes give way to the equally intimate spilling of blood and organs on the battlefield.The novel striates highly personal testament with the sheer statistical might of the First World War. It's a tough brief for both stage and small screen.

Trevor Nunn plied the route of a clunking and rushed literalism. If the book mentions a rose trellis, it's duly cranked into place. If the gendarmerie swarm across the pages, alors the Keystone Kops sont arrivés on stage. The epic sweep is swept, tidily, into Stephen's mouth. Poor Ben Barnes as Stephen must curate history for us, as well as get on with being broken and detached.

TV director Philip Martin nabs a few of theatre's tricks for his scenography. It progresses by synecdoche: the battlefields are lightly suggested. We're shown a detail and we extrapolate the rest, like a wallpaper repeat (my only gripe would be that Ypres looked like the sun-baked Med). Amiens is not much more than a trick of the light (Mr Nunn please take note). Where both adaptations fail, however, is in Faulks's monstrous tunnels under the trenches. No visuals can possibly match a reader's imagination; they shrink and fix into what Joyce snappily called "the ineluctable modality of the visible" (pay attention at the back, Trevor).

Then, ooh la la, there's all that sex. As the lovely Kurt Vonnegut says: "The most popular story you can ever tell is about a good-looking couple having a really swell time copulating outside wedlock, and having to quit for one reason or another while doing it is still a novelty."

In Faulks's version of the most popular story, Isabelle is a soft pat of inert womanhood who needs a Lawrentian reboot. She's a Sleeping Beauty to be, literally, pricked into life. Theatre took the embarrassed vicar approach and ignored the entire messy business. After this Trevor Nunnery, it was good to see the BBC at least have a go at scenes of consensual sex. There was something about the lovely imperfection of Clémence Poésy that somehow made Isabelle less of a cypher: that shocking ink-spattering of dark freckles; that guarded look in her eyes which kept her - despite all the bonking - actually impenetrable.

TV's final, imperious slap to stage is the close-up. The camera can gorge on tiny details, like the erotic brush of two ankles. Against this the theatre seems operatic, mannered. Televisual Birdsong was really all about the close-up on the lead actor's face. In Eddie Redmayne we have a translucent, lambent Stephen. A jolie-laide, as the French say of their women, with a great grouper fish mouth, he is more reactor than actor. His face clouds and clears like the weather. He is enormously watchable.

Bravo to Abi Morgan for her confident chequerboard restructuring (love; war; love). But despite having more time and more resources than the theatre, this show also suffered from abbreviation sickness. When you take the events of Stephen's life at a rolling gallop, you are left with a blur of melodrama. Characters flatten to clichés (the plucky Tommy, lions led by donkeys) and lines turn over-weighty, "There is nothing more, sir, than to love and be loved!" Viewers are also treated as birdbrains by the music, which helpfully semaphores sad bit, sexy bit, with all the subtlety of Children in Need.

On this particular Super Sunday it's a one-nil victory to telly, but the match was a bit scrappy, to be honest, the lads done all right but at the end of the day could have gone either way.

SAMUEL COURTAULD TRUST
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The monochrome set

In Pieter Bruegel’s hands, even black and white paintings can be full of colour.

Grisailles – monochrome images usually painted in shades of grey and white – have a long tradition. Early examples appeared in the 14th century as miniatures or manuscript illuminations and then later on the outside of the folding panels of altarpieces, where they imitated sepulchre statues and offered a stark contrast to the bright colour of the paintings inside. With their minimal palette, grisailles also offered painters a chance both to show off their skill and to add their bit to the age-old artistic debate about paragone: which was superior – sculpture, with its ability to show a figure in three dimensions, or painting, with its powers of illusion? By pretending to be sculpture, grisailles could better it.

The first artist to paint grisailles as independent works for private enjoyment and contemplation was the Netherlander Pieter Bruegel the Elder (circa 1525-69), whose folk scenes of peasants carousing or of hunters in a snowy landscape have long been staples of art’s quotidian, earthy strand. Only about 40 works by him are now known and of those, just three are grisailles (not a term he would have recognised; he referred to the pictures simply as “painted in black and white”). This trio of survivors has been reunited for the first time, at the Courtauld Gallery, with an accompanying selection of copies and engravings – a mere ten pictures in all – for a fascinating one-room exhibition.

The grisailles show a deeper and more intellectual artist than the sometimes slapstick figure who would dress as a peasant in order to gatecrash weddings in the Brabant countryside and record the drunken and playful goings-on in his pictures. They reflect the position of the Low Countries in Bruegel’s time, caught between the Catholicism of their Spanish overlords and the emerging Protestantism that had been sparked by Martin Luther only eight years before Bruegel’s birth. These tensions soon erupted in the Eighty Years War.

Of the three paintings, two show religious subjects – The Death of the Virgin (1562-65) and Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (1565) – and one is a scene that would have been familiar in the streets around him, Three Soldiers (1568). This last, lent by the Frick Collection in New York, shows a drummer, a piper and a standard-bearer in the elaborately slashed uniforms of German Landsknechte mercenaries. Such groupings featured often in German prints and Bruegel’s small picture is a clever visual game: painting could imitate not only sculpture, but prints, too. What’s more, the gorgeously coloured uniforms (mercenaries were exempt from the sumptuary laws that restricted clothing to sedate colours) could be shown to be just as arresting even in black and white.

If this is a painting about painting, the ­religious works have, it seems, added layers of meaning – although it is always difficult with Bruegel to work out what that meaning is and how personal it might be. The Courtauld’s Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery shows Jesus stooping in front of the Pharisees and saving the accused woman from stoning by writing in the dust, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” That he spells out the words in Dutch rather than Hebrew, which was more usual in other images of the scene (and which he uses on the tunic of one of the learned men observing the mute play), suggests that this picture – a plea for clemency – was intended to serve as a call for religious tolerance amid mounting sectarian antagonism. While the gaping faces of the onlookers recall those of Hieronymus Bosch, the flickering calligraphic touches and passages of great delicacy are all his own.

The picture stayed with Bruegel until his death, so it had a personal meaning for him; more than 20 copies were subsequently made. Included in the exhibition are the copies painted by his sons, Jan and Pieter the Younger (a coloured version), as well as the earliest known print after it, from 1579, by Pieter Perret, which shows some of the detail in the crowd around the central figures that has been lost in the discoloured panel.

If the sombre tones of grisaille are suited to the pared-down faith advocated by Luther, the death of the Virgin was a familiar topic in Catholic and Orthodox iconography. Bruegel’s picture, from Upton House in Warwickshire, depicts an episode that doesn’t actually appear in the Bible. A group of Apostles and mourners has gathered around the Virgin’s bed, the scene lit by the heavenly light emanating from the dying woman and the five flames from the candles and the hearth that correspond to the five wounds suffered by her son on the cross. Domestic items litter the room – a slice of orange, slippers, a dozing cat – and there is a sleeping attendant, unaware of the miracle of Assumption that will shortly unfold. Here is a moving nocturne in which the mysteries of religion emerge from and disappear back into the shadows.

While Bruegel’s peasant works display a delight in physical pleasure, these three bravura works, painted for humanist connoisseurs and for himself, portray the sober, spiritual concerns that come to the fore once the last drop has been drunk. 

The exhibition runs until 8 May. For more details, go to: courtauld.ac.uk

Michael Prodger is an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 11 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle