August 19, 2004
By Matt Savelloni
“IT'S AN INDULGENCE TO SIT IN A ROOM AND DISCUSS YOUR BELIEFS AS IF THEY WERE A JUICY PIECE OF GOSSIP.” – Robert Heinlein
Evelyn Waugh is not a woman. If I can impart one piece of knowledge in this review, let it be that. His name is not Ev-ah-lynn, it’s Eve-lyn. Now you know more than most about the leading English satirist of his day. VILE BODIES, one of his most scathing books, exists almost as an antidote to the rambunctious, indulgent societies that sprouted out of World War I before being stomped down anew by the Second World War. Waugh is best known for BRIDESHEAD REVISITED but VILE BODIES is imbued with perhaps his deadliest poison. A snarling, snippy trip through the jaded youth of London, it upends the demographic known as the Bright Young Things. Waugh, like all great satirists, was a contemporary horrified by the behaviors of his class and did not spare the rod in this droll literary onslaught. Waugh led a tumultuous life of sexual, religious and class confusion. VILE BODIES is an example of the one certainty in Waugh’s years: his gift for composition.
What we Yanks refer to as the “Roaring Twenties” was actually a worldwide phenomenon. A close look at most decades following a great conflict reveals a similar release of cultural and social ennui. Most revolutions of enlightenment occur either at the height of or just after a war. World War I was the most brutal spectacle anyone had ever witnessed in the history of combat. Who can really blame the survivors for throwing such a wondrous bash? The ugly side of such rejoice, though, is that it brings appetites to the fore. Traditions are trampled upon and anything remotely resembling establishment is rejected to the point of extinction. These paradigm shifts introduce new conflicts – ones fought with ideas and mores – between status quo and rebellion. In VILE BODIES, however, Waugh exposes a deeper truth: the revolution is simply a front for a very confused – and scared – collection of dashed idealists.
“YOU MUST AVOID SLOTH, THAT WICKED SIREN.” – Horace
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You can think of the Bright Young Things as classier versions of the Hilton sisters. These people virtually invented the term “socialite” with their hedonistic nightlife and sleep-the-day-away enthusiasms. They tended to be younger, less established denizens like Adam Fenwick-Symes, a struggling and penniless writer. While Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Stein and Joyce languished in their expatriate lifestyle in the City of Light, Waugh and his characters would have been across the street in a bathtub-gin bar throwing rocks at them. VILE BODIES is more rough-and-tumble than most similar works of the era, which is why it holds more appeal to contemporary audiences. It is brimming with sarcasm and what righteous indignation and compassion Waugh summons for his creations is often undercut by character hubris. Of course, the reason for this paradigm shift in popular tropes extends across every demographic in Waugh’s novel. He takes just as many shots at Downing Street as he does at the clubs, districts and flats where the nihilistic results of such leaderless society frolic. VILE BODIES may showcase class conflict but in a very egalitarian manner, it spreads the blame equally amongst the haves and have-not’s.
You may have noticed I have said very little about the actual plot of VILE BODIES. Well, that’s because there isn’t much of one. Until the end, when the new war arrives and the partying, gossiping and backstabbing suddenly take on stratospheric levels of desperation. This isn’t just celebration anymore, it’s a head-in-the-sand delusion. Perhaps what’s most amazing about Waugh’s denouement – titled “Happy Ending” with tongue firmly in cheek – is that it was scribed in 1930, years before the real thing arrived in the form of the Third Reich. As we see Symes on the battlefield, we now realize that the party was simply a reprieve, a hollow high before the crashing lows of mankind intruded once again. Waugh’s astonishing work may be indicative of the Bright Young Things of the ‘20s and early ‘30s but it speaks to every irascible self-indulgent movement that followed: ‘50s rebels, ‘60s hippies, ‘70s Me Generation, 80’s Yuppies, 90’s Slackers and the current Generation Y. VILE BODIES may seem like casual satire but by the end it takes on dire immediacy with the machinations of tradition old and new once again swallowing up those who dared to indulge.
“COMEDY IS THE ART OF MAKING PEOPLE LAUGH WITHOUT MAKING THEM PUKE.” – Steve Martin
Precisely what we need right now, Steve. Let’s face it folks, cinematic comedy is in the proverbial dumper. Catering to either knuckle-dragging teenagers with the latest gross-out gag-fest, lowbrows who somehow think 1970’s TV shows make great satire or trying to woo the ladies with simpering romantic comedies, celluloid laughter is on life support. Leave it to the Brits – the funniest people on earth – to try and rescue us all.
Stephen Fry is not a household name in this country but most film lovers would likely recognize his face from his recent turn as the detective in GOSFORD PARK. He also writes, having penned some hilarious novels like THE LIAR and HIPPOPOTAMUS, and some more ambitious fare like MAKING HISTORY and REVENGE. He has also served as a journalist, lyricist, stage director, TV writer and playwright. There aren’t enough hyphens to describe this prodigious talent but his wit is rarely equaled on either side of the Pond. BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS is Fry’s cinematic take on Waugh’s VILE BODIES as writer-director-producer and probably caterer, who knows?
Rarely does material and artist meet in an unfettered environment. Reading Waugh’s words and thinking that they were in the very capable hands of Fry gives me tremendous hope for BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS as a salve for summer deadwood. Where else are you going to get a cast that includes Fry, Stockard Channing, Simon Callow, Jim Broadbent, Emily Mortimer and Peter O’Toole…in what appear to be cameo roles! It is an embarrassment of riches. Look for it in your local art house. I know I’ll be scanning the listings first thing Friday morning. Thank you, Evelyn. Thank you, Stephen. In advance.
“Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own.” – Jonathan Swift
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