Brother Cadfael, the medieval mystery-solving monk, is a fascinating detective, at once a man of God, of science, and even of action. Derek Jacobi stars as the former "soldier, sailor, sinner, and Crusader" who has his faith tested by crimes of royal intrigue and baffling murders that seem to plague 12th-century Shrewsbury. You'll find few Benedictine monks so skilled at using a quarterstaff, but beware never to tell him your theory of how a crime "must" have been committed. "We must always be wary of 'must'," he states. "Nothing is certain." And so attest these divine mysteries based on the books by Ellis Peters. Each feature-length episode is self-contained but plays against the backdrop of England's civil war between forces loyal to King Stephen and those to Empress Maud. Eoin McCarthy costars as local Under-Sheriff Hugh Beringar, who relies on Cadfael when murder subverts his efforts to keep the peace. --Donald Liebenson
RRP: £54.99
Our Price: £17.68 (subject to change)
Editorial
Amazon.co.uk Review
Do you believe in God, brother Cadfael???
Review date: 2008-09-14 Rating: 2 out of 10
And once again, little old Jacobi is back to the charge with the promise of
more yuks and huyuks than ever in the rip-roaring, funtastic,
abso-bloody-lutely awesome series, Cadfael -- well, not really.
And I might as well say "well" with the good ole Jacobian emphasis (try
WE-e-E-elll), as we're in for more Jacobian smirks than ever, ranging from the
sad, beady eyes of a French bulldog to the glittery expression of a Lutheran
heretic centuries before his time.
So, may we say that Cadfael ranks among the greatest British series of all
time? Let's have a closer look...
I - Elementary, my dear Oswin...
I somewhere heard someone comparing Cadfael to Sherlock Holmes -- God
forbid! Upon reading the Sherlock Holmes novels, one may very well reach the
following "intelligence pyramid", ranking from:
ape (random, no reasoning) -----> Lestrade (similar to reader; some reasoning,
nothing outstanding)-------> Holmes (complex reasoning structures)
Well, in Cadfael, the antagonist (most often, Sergeant Boromir) has an "ape"
level of intelligence, whereas Cadfael has a "Lestrade" level at best. Still an
edge over the antagonist, but in order to camouflage the transparency of the
case, the scriptwriter deliberately camouflages evidence, witholds clues, and
comes up with some unexpected "Deus ex machina", often involving a plant,
which everyone seems to be carrying around ("I'm going to a
bring-your-own-clover party") just so Cadfael may use his rudimentary
botanical knowledge, which more often than not involves some four
substances/species at which Lucrecia Borgia would laugh (the holy trinity:
Hemlock, Monk's Hood, and Poppy Juice. Praised be our lord!)
The solution of the crime often involves one of few, poorly-acted adolescent
characters, who seem to be as bland as the soppy, poorly-acting adolescent
actors who represent them.
II - Bless me, brother
Is Cadfael a deist? Is Cadfael a protestant? Is Cadfael an agnostic? Is Cadfael
a cathar? In any case, it would seem safe to assert that he is no catholic. How
brother Cadfael has managed to grow so old without being burned at the stake
in Shrewsbury Square boggles the mind. From semi-lutheran maxims to the
most "American way of life" relativism, Cadfael often sounds like some
half-baked 21st century postmodern intellectual rather than a benedictine
monk.
The crassest possibilism mixed with sentences at which his XIIth century
contemporaries would have fainted ("Relics? It's just BONES!") make Cadfael
an anachronistic character, trapped in a world he never made.
One of the most astounding clichés would be the following situation:
Some fellow: "Yes, brother Cadfael, I ripped his guts out, I smashed in his
teeth, I popped his head open like a ripe watermelon, feasted on his entrails,
raped his wife, burned his house, and ate his pets.
Cadfael: "WeEeEell, Oswald Whatshisface didn't die because of that! He was
poisoned -- you are actually INNOCENT!" (I wonder how he doesn't laugh
with these ludicrous lines)
Let's not forget that he attributes all mystic experiences to the influence of
drugs! (see brother Drogadictus, constantly swigging the Poppy Juice Cadfael
gave him. Tweet! Tweet!)
And all these frailties are gingerly excused with the slightly worrying phrase:
"weEeEell, I wasn't ALWAYS a monk, you know!" (I don't want to know,
brother)
Relativism, thy name is Cadfael.
III - "Shroosbree" reloaded
Now, a note on the portrayal of medieval England.
Firstly, although the Hungarian landscapes are promising, Shrewsbury, rather
than a XIIth century fortified city, looks like the touristic headquarters of a
re-enactment company.
The people, the costumes, and the accessories, confirm this, being more
"re-enactment" level than "film level" ("re-enactment" involves middle-aged,
overwheight fellows with two kids who would rather spend the family money
on historical suits and strut and swagger with their peers than on clothes and
toys for their children). From there, it's all dominatrix-leather cuirasses, wollen
chainmail and a character who looks just like J.K. Rowling make this series
little better-looking than the old Richard Greene "The adventures of Robin
Hood" -- but at least Robin Hood was fun to watch.
Society is an absolute shambles -- there's a war on, but even so, a merchant's
fair just pops up and sleeps outside the town walls. Surprising, considering
that in times of war, soldiers would probably have eaten all their food, drunk
all their ale and requisitioned half their horses...
King Stephen (alias Burger King) appears only once, and thank God for that.
He's just one of so many woesome characters, such as the wizardly "Father
Ailnoth" who seems to have walked right out of "Prince of Persia".
IV -- And... hemlock.
With this sentence, by far the most pronounced in the series ("Camel Lights,
and... hemlock" or "Bombay gin, and... hemlock") we shall make a few parting
notes on the series.
Hemlock, in the first place, is preferable to watching its whopping 75 minutes
per episode, although mandragora might seem less drastic. Out of these 75
minutes, 45 are nothing but absurd plot developments, Jacobian smirks and
other sine substantia filling material. I firmly believe that the mysteries could
have been crammed into half an hour, or at most 50 minutes like Jeremy Brett's
Sherlock Holmes.
And the fine photography is near-useless, if you're just going to film Cadfael shocked and astounded at the comments of some Arwen elf-girl (let the little girls come unto me, sayeth Cadfael)
Uninteresting, slightly pretentious, and distinctly retrograde: Cadfael, in all its
glory.