William Boyd has shown himself to be one of the finest readers & chroniclers of the Human Condition writing today. It is almost a badge of honour that he has not won an award from one of the product placement companies. My first exposure to his work was a short-story called "The Persistence of Vision" - a perfect gem. Whenever I get depressed with the current offerings in the shops, I revert and, within seconds, I am transported. If I were to say that the life of Logan Mountstuart parallels my own to an almost spooky degree, it is not to say that I have played golf with some HRH & had my matches nicked. I have never jumped from an airplane or worked as a spy. One thing is certain: William Boyd is a far better writer than Ernest Hemingway ever was.
Today, like Logan Mountstuart, as I sort out photographs and ancient family papers, I find - often depressing - aspects of that earlier life, the appalling personal loss of a loved one, letters of despair. Here and there a picture drawn by a loved child.
As I said, Mountstuart is Everyman. He was not a bold boy; nor a bad man. He was easily led, but he is a good man; honourable, in a way that Peter Scabius was false. And so, Boyd leads us alongside this fallible man; while we, on occasion, find ourselves aching to say to him "Don't!" It would be better to read the book in the first instance; the screenplay follows the same sequence and one is more prepared for the jump-shifts in time. It is what I call a satisfying read; what I would like to write if I had the talent.
The acting is universally faithful to the characters, especially Matthew Mac Fadyean, who is utterly convincing & sympathetic.
If the producers are going to transfer this to DVD, please keep it intact, as they did in the excellent VHS version of "Armadillo" - which suffered badly in the compressed version, on DVD.
It is supremely gratifying to find that there is an audience who can relate to great drama; who have the patience to follow a complex storyline and debate its merits or otherwise. Sunday is going to seem empty when it ends.
