Aaron Sorkin: gifted, but repetitive, wordsmith

“Well, that was predictable.”

The Newsroom, the latest Sorkin offering, premiered on HBO the other night, and the reviews haven’t been good. “Disappointing” and “preachy” are two words that have been bandied around a fair bit - the Radio Times says the Oscar-winning screenwriter has “forgotten to show rather than tell”, while the Guardian’s Michael Wolff lambasts Sorkin for dramatising a version of journalism that doesn’t even exist anymore.

However, if you’re a sucker for a Sorkin soliloquy, it’ll probably still push your buttons. That’s mainly because, as an excellent compilation video by one Kevin Porter (see below), shows, Sorkin is extremely repetitive when it comes to dialogue and plot arcs. A Few Good Men, The West Wing, Studio 60 and The Social Network, to name just a few, provide ample fodder for mashing together:

Will the fact that Sorkin seems to have about 10 favourite phrases that he uses to death make any difference to his latest show’s ratings? Probably not – a respectable 2.1m tuned in for the first episode of The Newsroom. Even the “critical spanking” (Daily Mail's phrase) it received hasn’t turned people off. Turns out, being repetitive is no bad thing, if you’ve got clever words to repeat in the first place.

And the poor reviews? As Sorkin might say, that’s the cost of doing business.

 

Aaron Sorkin speaks at the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Photograph: Getty Images

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

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How Dame Vera Lynn was told to “posh her accent up”

Radio 2’s 100th-birthday tribute reveals how Lynn was forced to change her voice.

“I remember seeing her near an elephant, and this elephant rolled over a bit and she had to get out of the way . . .” Vic Knibb, the vice-chairman of the veterans’ group the Burma Star Association, was one of the thousands of British soldiers serving in the Far East during the Second World War who came across Vera Lynn in the jungle, singing from the back of a Jeep, accompanied by an out-of-tune piano.

Speaking in Radio 2’s celebration of the singer’s 100th birthday, Vera Lynn: the Sweetheart of the United Kingdom (Sunday 19 March, 8pm), Knibb and others recalled what it meant to them that Lynn travelled so far to perform for the so-called Forgotten Army in Burma. Unlike other entertainers, who stayed in Europe or visited only military hospitals in the UK, she deliberately went where few others did – where she felt she was needed by “the boys”.

The programme, which featured a rare interview with Lynn herself, was dominated by clips of her recordings from the Thirties and Forties. We heard frequent extracts from “The White Cliffs of Dover”, “We’ll Meet Again” and “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square”. The contrast between these two voices, separated by more than six decades, was the most arresting thing this otherwise pedestrian documentary had to offer. The now gravelly-voiced centenarian sang, in her youth, with a smooth, effortless-sounding tone and crystal-clear diction. But how did the cockney daughter of a plumber from East Ham end up singing with received pronunciation?

The answer, as ever in Britain, is class. Lynn had no formal musical training, and as she had been performing in working men’s clubs from the age of seven, she was considered closer to a musical-hall crooner than a “proper” singer. But with her small vocal range and flawless self-taught technique, she chose her own songs to suit her voice. The BBC, for which she made her hugely popular radio show Sincerely Yours, requested that she take elocution lessons to “posh her accent up” and even at one point took her show off air for 18 months. “Every­body’s Sweetheart” wasn’t immune from snobbishness, it seems. 

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution