Afterthoughts #7

Where I delve into the themes behind the writing

Photo by Yannick Pulver on Unsplash

Welcome to A Narrative of their Own, where I discuss the work of 20th century women writers and their relevance to contemporary culture.  You are reading my bonus ‘Afterthoughts’ letter, where we delve into the themes behind the writing.

I wrote this Sunday about Helene Hanff’s 84 Charing Cross Road and many of you reached out to tell me either how much you already loved this book (and the film in many cases) or to say you now wanted to read it.  Both of which make me very happy!

There is nothing sweeter as someone who writes about books and writers than hearing that you have connected with other readers, either by tapping into the books they love or by encouraging them to pick up a book you have recommended.

As always - thank you for leaving great comments so that we can all share ideas and inspiration!

What I wanted to look at this week in my shorter Afterthoughts newsletter is the idea of letter writing as a way of expression.

Helene’s book was born out of the twenty year communication she exchanged with Frank and the other staff members of the Marks and Co bookshop.  But it could just as easily have been a fictionalised story told through letters.  This method of writing - the official term is an ‘epistolary novel’ - of telling a story through letters or documents, is not a new concept.  

A really famous (and brilliant) example of this type of narrative is We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. Although, this novel is not written in quite the same style as 84 Charing Cross Road, as here we have Helene conversing through back and forth letters with Frank and others.  Whereas in Kevin, Shriver is writing to her husband about their son and what has gone wrong in their parenting of him.  The story builds throughout to allow you to forget you are reading this as a letter, and simply becomes the narrative of the story.

In Hanff’s short novel, there isn’t any actual ‘action’ or formal ‘story’, as such.  So how does she manage to hold the attention of the reader in a book which effectively doesn’t have a specifically structured ‘plot’ or any particular descriptors given of the characters, or their surroundings, other than an apartment and a bookshop?

It’s interesting, because on paper that makes it sound like it would be simply a dull series of missives between strangers.  But there is something clever that happens when we read these letters continuously from beginning to end.  We see and more importantly feel the characters emerge from the lines of their short, oftentimes (particularly on the part of Frank), perfunctory correspondence.  Further, we can read more about the characters and their ‘story’ from what is not said within the letters, and reading between the lines is an important part of the reading of this book.

Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

Helene’s brash exterior and teasing language used to express her ‘disappointment’ at the lack of urgency the bookshop shows in providing her with her required reading reveals a softer underbelly to her character when we see the way she is involved in the lives of her friends and neighbours.

“WHAT KIND OF A PEPYS’ DIARY DO YOU CALL THIS?...This is not pepys’ diary, this is some busybody’s miserable collection of EXCERPTS from pepys’ diary may he rot. i could just spit. where is jan. 12, 1668, where his wife chased him out of bed and round the bedroom with a red-hot poker?”

Similarly, when she sends care packages to the Marks and Co staff, knowing they are still struggling with rationing following the end of WWII, we realise that this is a woman who cares.  She cares about her neighbourhood, her friends, even these relative strangers, whom she says are generous in supplying her with books that she cannot get elsewhere.  But in fact, they are initially simply dealing with a business transaction.  It is through her generosity and continual correspondence that they become more like friends.

I think there is also another fundamental element to Helene’s letters though.  The fact that she lives and works alone, from her apartment, and is struggling to make a living as a writer, and initiates these gestures of friendship to strangers across the Atlantic, indicates a loneliness and isolation on her part.  

In the 1987 film version of the book, an unsubtle hint at a possible love interest lost to the war appears with a framed photograph of a US navy marine beside her bed.  This is something which doesn’t feature in the book, and I wondered if this was the producers’ way of filling in the blanks of why she lives alone, struggling to make ends meet, when she is clearly an interesting and generous person.  

I felt this insertion of a possible lost love was unnecessary, and I preferred to assume that Helene was a single, independent female writer choosing to live alone and having close relationships with her friends and acquaintances.  Although, whilst researching for Sunday’s newsletter, I came across an interesting quote in the Los Angeles Times, claiming that when Hanff was invited to take a look at the set of her apartment for the film:

“...she saw the picture and said, “Actually, he was in the Army.”  Helene Hanff, Los Angeles Times

Which just goes to show that I was projecting my own ideas of why Helene might have chosen a life devoted to reading and writing! 

But that is of course the beauty of reading, is it not?  We get to project our own ideas and suppositions of character’s lives and motives, including building up a visual image of how they should look.  I think this is possibly why keen readers often struggle to accept the film versions of their favourite books.

What is so pleasing about the film version of Hanff’s book is that it is so faithfully adherent to the text in most places, the lost sailor excepting.  I also felt that the actors chosen, for me, represented Helene and Frank perfectly as I would have pictured them.  But I appreciate that this can often not be the case.  I do think, however, that as a piece of art, it is important to separate out the two mediums when considering screen versions of books.  We can appreciate both, in other words, as representations of a basic ‘story’, without necessarily having them be exactly the same.  

I’m thinking here of the 2022 version of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, which appeared to divide audiences, as well as the 2020 Netflix film of Rebecca, which I really enjoyed, but didn’t exactly match up to the original book with its glamorous second Mrs De Winter (played by Lily James)!  

The 1940 film of Rebecca similarly, though closer to Du Maurier’s original novel, contained a change to a major plot point.  Director Alfred Hitchcock claimed he was unable at the time to allow a known murderer in Max De Winter to walk free, especially given that there was still the death penalty in place for murder in Britain at that time.  Instead, he had to make the death of his first wife Rebecca an accident, allowing for a more ‘acceptable’ ending of Max walking free with his new, young bride. 

My two favourite film adaptations of novels are the one for 84 Charing Cross Road and the 2002 one of Michael Cunningham’s phenomenal novel The Hours.  In both cases, this is because they are mostly faithful to the original text, as well as visually superb, and have a great cast.  

I’d love to hear about any film versions of texts that have delighted/disappointed you in the comments!

I shall be back next Sunday with another literary discussion.  Until then, happy reading (or watching!) 😀

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