Serial killers

If Bridgerton can make it to Netflix, why not the Regency Romances of Georgette Heyer?

Regency Romances have always been my preferred comfort reads. But it wasn’t until Bridgerton premiered on Netflix that I first heard of the woman who wrote the books that the series was based on. Delighted to stumble upon an undiscovered author of this period, I hastened to download my first ever Julia Quinn and settled down to devour her in one gulp. 

 

Well, imagine my disappointment when I found the book very heavy going indeed. At this point, perhaps, I should mention that when it comes to Regency Romances, my benchmark is the late, great Georgette Heyer. Her plots are ingenious, her characters are captivating, her dialogue positively sparkles, and she brings the historical milieu alive with the lightest of touches. Julia Quinn, not to put too fine a point on it, achieved none of the above – well, in my opinion, at least.

 

But as I forced myself to read until the very end, I couldn’t help but wonder why this series of books had found a visual home on Netflix while nobody seemed to have the slightest interest in making a series out of the splendid novels that Georgette Heyer wrote in her lifetime. What I wouldn’t give to watch a series that featured the most feisty of Heyer’s heroines, feminists of their time, who found a way to flourish in the male-dominated world of Regency England? 

 

Can you imagine The Grand Sophy on the small screen? With Jacko the monkey perched on her shoulder, a tiny but lethal pistol tucked away in her reticule, her riding habit clinging to her statuesque form as she cantered through Hyde Park? Or the lovely Venetia, languishing in the countryside with only her disabled brother for company, where she meets – and subsequently, tames – the tempestuous Lord Damerel? Or the infamous Lady Barbara Childe, the scandalous widow who sets all of Brussels talking with her wild ways as the countdown to the battle of Waterloo begins?

 

I could go on, because every book of Heyer’s could provide great material for a TV series; but for some mysterious reason, she just doesn’t make the cut. 

 

The same is true of another great favourite of mine: Daniel Silva and his series of spy novels featuring the Israeli assassin, Gabriel Allon. But though, over the years, we have heard the odd muttering about how a TV series or movie is in the making, nothing has appeared on our screens as yet. And now, with the Israel-Gaza conflict dominating headlines and dividing world opinion, I guess we will have to wait for calmer times until someone is going to risk bring Allon to life on the small screen. 

 

Until that happens, I would be quite content to see Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti series, set in beauteous Venice, brought to a small screen near us (there is a German production that has done that, but I’d rather hold out for an Italian or English version). Or, at the very least, I would like to see S.J. Bennett’s series of books in which Queen Elizabeth (yes, the very same!) moonlights as a detective in her spare time translated to TV. 

It would be like The Crown and Christie coming together to create magic, and who wouldn’t pay good money to see that? 

 

Facts about fiction

Many may try, but only some writers can actually bring a world alive in their books

 

What can I say? I am a sucker for a good, old-fashioned Regency Romance, all tightly-laced corsets, heaving bosoms, swooning/sassy heroines, and a swashbuckling rakish hero who is eventually reformed by his love of a good woman. So far, so clichéd. But what brings these somewhat hackneyed plots alive is the skill of a great writer, who can create an entire universe in which you are only too willing to suspend your disbelief, let alone your cynicism.

 

You can imagine my excitement then, when I heard that a new series called Bridgerton was being released on Netflix. Set in Regency London and populated with a multicultural cast, this was based on a series of novels by Julia Quinn, recreating what will always be – to me, at least – the world of Georgette Heyer. 

 

So, I cleared my evening and settled down for some binge-watching. But half-way through the first episode I began to experience the first stirrings of dissatisfaction. And that only grew as I ploughed through the rest of the episodes. This was nothing like the Regency romps I had loved for most of my life.

 

Never mind, I told myself. This incarnation of Bridgerton owed more to Shonda Rhimes than it did to Julia Quinn. Maybe I should go to the original and get my fix of Regency-era drama. So, I downloaded The Duke and I, the novel on which the show is based, and settled down to read it in one greedy gulp.

 

At least, that was the intention. But to be honest with you, I found it heavy going. The plot was predictable, the dialogue was clunky, and the characters lacked a certain three-dimensional depth. It had all the tropes of Heyer’s Regency Romances but none of the sparkle and wit that makes Georgette’s books both effervescent and evergreen in their appeal. 

 

Just to confirm my initial impression, I went back to re-read my well-thumbed copies of Heyer’s best work. I started off with The Devil’s Cub, and within minutes I was entranced once again by the exploits of the Marquis of Vidal and his reluctant love interest, Mary Challoner, whose courtship has the most unpropitious of beginnings (she shoots him in the arm with his own pistol!).

 

Once I had started, there was no stopping me! I seamlessly went on to re-read The Grand Sophy and Venetia. I couldn’t find my copy of Regency Buck so I downloaded it on my Kindle and read it again, chuckling anew at the exploits of Judith Taverner and the Earl of Worth. And I am now immersed in The Infamous Army, a book that Heyer set around the battle of Waterloo, and which features Lord and Lady Worth, now a staid married couple, witnessing the star-crossed romance of their brother, Charles Audley with the audacious society beauty, Lady Barbara Childe. 

 

As I slipped effortlessly back into the universe of Georgette Heyer, it occurred to me that when it comes to genres of fiction, the world is divided into Masters of Their Game and The Rest of the Field. And no matter how hard The Rest may try, they can never measure up against The Masters. 

 

In spy fiction, for instance, there is the original Master, John le Carre, who made the Cold War his own, spinning fabulous tales revolving around the twin characters of George Smiley and the sinister Soviet spy, Karla. Since then, there have been many writers who have tried to recreate that universe, but no matter how good the books, they just don’t have the same appeal as Le Carre’s oeuvre. 

 

When it comes to murder mysteries, there is no bettering P.D. James. There is no better exemplar of British humour that P.G. Wodehouse. Nobody examines and elucidates the inner life of women better than Elena Ferrante. And nobody can write a cheery bonkbuster better than Jilly Cooper.

 

Part of their mastery lies in the fact that they make it all look so easy. It’s only when you see lesser writers trying to recreate their magic that you realize just how difficult it actually is. And that makes you appreciate their genius even more.