Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
In an asinine world of literary flatulence, there’s a new kid on the block; and his name is Dickens, Charles Dickens.
In what can only be described as a first; we have a debut novel that cavorts down the oiled slip and slide with all the artistic elegance of a three-legged hippopotamus with gout. In a move previously unthinkable and certainly ill-considered, Dickens has taken one of the world’s most beloved musicals and turned it into a dour, albatross dropping of a novel that sucks all the feel-good euphoria out of Carol Reed’s 1968 musical movie, Oliver!
This a book with no singing and dancing. No cheeky repartee. It’s a book that misses the mark at almost every turn. It’s an unnecessary, miserable mess and Dickens should be ashamed.
Whereas Oliver! filled us with the foolish, but cheery exploits of a bunch of cheeky, light-hearted pickpockets, Dickens’ version portrays these likeable characters as nasty, manipulative thieves who cruelly exploit the homeless, and corrupt our young, titular character.
For example, in the movie, Mr Bumble, played with honesty and realism by the irrepressible and brilliant ex-Goon Harry Secombe, is unfairly shown here a self-important sadist, browbeaten by his wife and brutalising of his charges.
Likewise, the likeable Artful Dodger, a larrikin, played in the film with such charisma by Jack Wild, is seen here as a snub-nosed, flat-browed common-faced boy who is as dirty a juvenile as it is likely to see. Why would Dickens do this? Why turn the cheeky cockney geezer into some sort of true criminal? We can only assume that Dickens is some sort of contrite manipulator of reason and sanity; a middleman of conscience who is trying to convince us of his skill with language, but only succeeding in alienating the good sense of us learned readers.
As the novel continues, we learn that Fagin is not a very nice man either; and that he, Nancy and Bill Sykes have neither the singing skills nor choreography required to lift this past the tawdry mess that is slides into.
We can only hope that Salman Rushdie’s forthcoming so-called ‘serious retelling’ of Olivia Newton John’s Xanadu retains some of the original charm.
NO STARS
Review by: Joe Kirkup