Surprised by the media.

This month's Diabolik had two surprises in store, undermining two long held preconceptions. The first concerned the comic's language. Once I'd gained a basic grounding in Italian, I didn't expect to be lexically challenged by Diabolik, and until this month I wasn't. Then on page nine I had a repetition of the Corriere experience: words whose English translation was as foreign to me as their Italian originals. Diabolik comes across a safe 'di ultimissimo modello, in vanadio molibdeno'. I looked up the last two words and found their English equivalents were 'vanadium' and 'molybdenum', words which were utterly meaningless until I had read their definition in the Shorter Oxford. Now I suspect that my ignorance of the meaning of 'vanadium' may be peculiar to myself - as I was typing this post the browser's built-in spell checker tried to change 'vanadio' to 'vanadium'. But 'molybdenum', for God's sake!
   At school, comics went under the generic name of 'trash'. We were allowed half an hour before lights-out to 'swop trash', which we stored under our pillows. After that, to be out of bed was a beating offence. Although in my school's slang the term 'trash' was purely denotive, carrying no evaluative connotations, the fact remains that one doesn't read comics for their literary quality. Or so I thought.
   The plot in April's issue of Diabolik revolves around the collaboration of 'Il Re del Terrore' and his beautiful companion, Eva Kant, with an elderly Art Historian. They are attempting to unmask a criminal who is vandalising stolen works of art by stripping them of their jewels and substituting fake stones before selling them on. The elderly professor is a cultivated and decent man who is rather taken by Eva. Having decided on their plan to ensnare the art thief, Professor Ubold hands Eva a rose saying, 'Lady Kant, vi assicuro che se voi aveste anche solo una trentina d'anni in più, vi farei una corta spietata' [Lady Kant, let me assure you that if you were just thirty years older, I would court you remorselessly]. I was brought up short. One would have expected him to say, 'If I were thirty years younger' - it's certainly what I would have said under similar circumstances. Instead, the anonymous writer has not merely avoided cliché but has succinctly revealed Ubold's character. He appreciates Eva not simply for her outward beauty, but for her intrinsic qualities - qualities which will still be there in thirty year's time. This melds beautifully with the Professor's passion for art: he values things for what they are rather than for their superficial appearance, their cultural significance or their monetary value. The story ends with Eva sending the Professor a gift and his murmuring 'se solo fosse un po' più vecchia' [if only you were a little bit older] so demonstrating that his earlier words weren't simply for show. And so we have a story about Fine Art written with a touch of the literary art one expects in a great novel but which takes one aback when it appears in 'trash'.
   My wife didn't share my other surprise this month: the identity of the dead flatmate in White Heat which was only revealed in the final episode; she'd guessed it early on. Not that this mattered - unlike our normal TV fare White Heat wasn't a thriller or a detective drama. The series had a lukewarm reception from the critics writing in the broadsheets and, as one might expect, was universally panned by the intellectually challenged folk who contribute on-line vitriol to those newspapers' comments section. The programme was frequently compared unfavourably with Our Friends from the North. Having never watched the latter I have no opinion on its merits. As a West Countryman brought up to believe that the wogs begin at Gloucester, I was put off by its oxymoronic title. We know that north of Gloucester the country is infested by barbarians whom four hundred years of Roman rule failed to civilise. People who hideously disfigure the English language by swallowing their 'r's; untermenschen who wouldn't know what a dap was if one hit them on the head. On the other hand, we thoroughly enjoyed White Heat, so much so that angered by the sole review on IMDB I broke the habit of a lifetime and contributed an on-line comment of my own. Reviews written for IMDB have a longer shelf-life than on-line comments to newspapers and I thought it important that people shouldn't be put off viewing the series if it's repeated. I didn't attempt to counter the arguments offered by the original commentator: his limited understanding of dramatic structure and misuse of terms such as cliché suggested it would have been a waste of time. And in the end, unlike science, all opinions about literature are subjective. The only objective thing one can say of a novel, a poem, a play or a TV drama is 'I liked it' or 'I didn't'. I liked White Heat and I hope you might too.