There seems to be a lot of critical enthusiasm for the second series of a programme called Broadchurch, which seemed to have passed me by, first time round. Then I looked it up and realised why I didn’t watch it. Weeza put on Facebook today that she had watched a film called Under The Skin last night, but had been unable to finish it because, well made as it was, the plot involved an abandoned child and she couldn’t take it and wished she could scour her memory.
It’s the new dramatic porn, isn’t it? At one time it was sexual abuse of children, or it was autobiographies of people who had been cruelly treated, usually by their parents, in childhood, which then turned to dramatisations of such awfulness. Now, it’s abduction and murder. Not real-life cases, however distressing, but fiction.
No, I can’t take it and I don’t want anyone to make money out of it. I can only sympathise with those who write of personal experiences and hope that they find it cathartic, but I don’t feel able to pollute my mind with horrible things that can’t be forgotten. I certainly can’t accept using such stuff for simply commercial purposes.
As a subject, it’s hardly new. Look back to the New Testament and the Massacre of the Innocents, for example, though this was not reported for queasily salacious effect. Oliver Twist. Murder on the Orient Express. But the plot didn’t centre on cruelty to children in these stories, as it does now.
And let’s change the subject and finish with the usual Z good cheer. Zerlina and Gus were delightful, we had bacon and eggs for breakfast and later made cakes and did lots of good things. Tomorrow, young Hadrian will be here, and it seems that he’s recovering, so I hope we can have fun too. Tonight, I ate smoked trout with pasta in a cream and wine sauce and lots of vegetables. And I’ve caught up on the washing, if not the ironing.