Endless winter
As the mega-month of Farch drags on, we find ways to wait it out.
Nathalie Atkinson
I watch a lot of British television series, because they know from damp, bleak weather. But what happens once you’ve caught up on all Dr. Who, Broadchurch, The Bletchley Circle and have watched Idris Elba twice in Luther? I don’t think it’s a spoiler to explain that the recent Endeavour is so named because it’s the Christian of Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse novels and enormously popular Oxford procedural series. The gruff loner only ever went by Morse and we learn his given name only in the swan song episode in the early 1990s. The 1964-set reboot prequel Endeavour, then, explores who he was before. Call it an origin story, in satisfying crime-solving instalments.
In the initial TV movie and five later episodes of what is now a burgeoning new series (particularly since the Inspector Lewis sequel seems to be on indefinite hiatus), actor Shaun Evans — a soulful ginger and the next Benedict Cumberbatch, we think — humanizes the vulnerable, stubborn and lovelorn young Oxford dropout and captures the mood and mannerisms the late, great John Thaw first created as the middle-aged Morse in 1987, without simply being a mimic. That, and the workingclass Quadrophenia wardrobe has us hooked.
If that still doesn’t sate your anglophilia this F-word season, I recommend the streaming service Acorn.tv (they hooked us up even after the free 30-day trial ran out). Among the many stiff-upperlip offerings are the jolly good first two seasons of QI (short for Quite Interesting), Stephen Fry’s BBC comedy panel game show. QI awards points for the right answer, and for wrong answers that are clever.
For more continental fare, we’re binge-watching Spiral, a French crime series on Netflix that began in 2005 and could best be described as a cross between Law & Order and The Shield. There are episodic cases but it all feeds into a greater, season-long story arc, set in and around the grand courts of the Palais de Justice and quartiers of Paris too gritty for tourist postcards.
Ben Kaplan
SupperWorks is in Ottawa, Toronto, London and Waterloo, and, if there’s any decency, soon will be in the rest of the world. It's a kitchen with tons of ingredients for interesting and complete meals. When my wife went with her mother our collective bad mood was lifted for one solid week. All of a sudden, we were eating porcupine meatballs and shrimp marinara as opposed to, say, frozen pizza and toast. For my wife, a fun bonding experience. For her mother, a surprising step outside of her culinary comfort zone. And for me, a real treat of coming home every evening and being greeted by smells other than from my newborn. That the company is Canadian owned and operated is terrific. That it makes cooking good food a great experience is even better. (Both my wife and her mother told me they had a great time). We got the cheapest possible package for $189 and that included six meals, each which fed my entire brood three times. For one week, it felt good to eat like a king.
Chris Knight
Is it a spoiler to say that Sherlock Holmes fakes his death in “The Final Problem”? Probably not, since the short story was first published in The Strand Magazine some 120 years ago. Surely the statute of limitations has expired on that one.
The original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle have lost none of their timeliness or fun, however. Fans were so upset by Holmes’ death that they pestered Doyle to undo the deed. He held out for eight years before writing the prequel The Hound of the Baskervilles, and another two before The Adventure of the Empty House had Holmes explaining to Dr. Watson how he had merely simulated his own death at Reichenbach Falls.
Modern readers have no need to wait, with the complete writings available in numerous editions. (Barnes and Noble Classics put out a nice two-volume set in 2003, with a complete though not overwhelming introduction.) They make for a cozy winter’s-night reading; fireplace optional but recommended.
Holmes’ methods are thrilling to rediscover even in this century. In “The Sign of Four,” he distils his thinking to his ever-patient straight man Watson: “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” And in “The Five Orange Pips”: “The ideal reasoner would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it.”
His insouciance is on full display in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” when he tells Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard that the murderer he is looking for “is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt penknife in his pocket.” He then declares the case solved, telling Lestrade to simply find the man who fits the description: “This is not such a populous neighbourhood.”
Holmes’ methods may be timeless, but the character continues to evolve and conquer new media. He took to the stage in 1899, made his first film appearance the following year and began his radio career in 1938 with Orson Welles as the detective. TV adaptations started in 1951. The newest Holmes, TV’s Sherlock, is also one of the best, and like the novels make for perfect weather-avoiding entertainment. They’re not strictly adaptations, being set in present-day London, but Sherlockians (or Holmesians if you prefer) will recognize much that is familiar in the character played by Benedict Cumberbatch.
Even Watson (Martin Freeman) shares with his literary forebear the distinction of being a British doctor wounded in a war in Afghanistan. It’s a sad testament to history that there have been few periods in the last 200 years when this would not have been possible.
Being a British series, the three seasons of Sherlock present a conveniently small number of episodes to catch up on; there are only nine, although at 90 minutes apiece they are more like movies than TV episodes. The first, A Study in Pink (not to be confused — OK, to be confused — with Doyle’s “A Study in Scarlett”), brings together Watson and Holmes, along with Holmes’ older brother Mycroft (Mark Gatiss) and Lestrade (Rupert Graves).
You don’t need to know anything about the Doyle stories to enjoy the detective work in Sherlock, although there are numerous, sometimes cheeky references. A telegram, sent in 1923’s “The Adventure of the Creeping Man,” becomes a text message in the TV show. And a clue — “Rache” written at a crime scene — takes on a distinctly different meaning than in “A Study in Scarlett.” Two seasons’ worth of Sherlock can be found on Netflix, with the third now airing on PBS and available on DVD. A fourth has been greenlit, with plans for a fifth taking shape. The game remains afoot.
Scott Stinson
There are few more valuable lessons you can teach your child than the harsh truth of betrayal. That person with whom you have formed an alliance, maybe even a friendship? They are only as loyal as the next offer they receive. Your own mother would sell you out for the right price.
In our family’s case, mother often has, because we have since the holidays been playing Munchkin, a game that describes itself as the essence of Dungeons and Dragons, “but without the stupid role-playing.”
It’s simple: players draw c ards, which determine whether they are human or some other race such as elf or dwarf. They can also be of certain classes: wizard, cleric, etc. Players will also receive items, such as armour, headgear and weapons, all of which range from good, such as the Chainsaw of Bloody Dismemberment, to middling, such as Rat on a Stick. Play proceeds by drawing more cards, which could be useful items — or a monster that the player must try to defeat. The monsters range from weak (Tequila Mockingbird) to deadly (Unspeakably Awful Indescribable Horror). Depending on what items the player has amassed, and their race and class, they will either defeat the monster and move up a level or suffer the Bad Stuff. Crucially, players can ask for help from others, but they can also use cards to curse, hinder or help their opponents. I might be a wizard orc who is using the Huge Rock to fight the Large Angry Chicken, but my son could hit me with the Cotion of Ponfusion to bring about my doom.
Does it sound nerdy? It is nerdy. Fun, though. Our son, who is 11, loves it. Our daughter, who is eight, finds the backstabbing too emotional. She just plays with the cards.