moi
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As a fan of the late lamented Inspector Morse, I was apprehensive about watching Endeavour tonight. I'm never sure about prequels, and almost didn't watch this.
However within five minutes I was hooked. Morse arrives in Oxford to help with a murder enquiry, and has to rent himself a room. A landlady shows him into a typical 1950's shabby boarding house room, saying, "This was Mr Bleaney's room."
"Mr Bleaney" is one of my favourite poems by Philip Larkin.
The story then evolved, with crossword clues, poetry and classical music being an integral part of the solution. Morse, a non-drinker, is introduced to Guinness by Inspector Thursday and takes to it like a duck to water. A red Jaguar also appears briefly in the story.
At the end, as Morse drives away, he looks into the read-view mirror and in it we see John Thaw looking at him. Spooky!
I haven't given away any details of the murder in case any of you have taped it to watch later. But if you didn't see it and there is a repeat, I thoroughly recommend it.
Here's the poem: Mr Bleaney
“This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.†Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,
Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. “Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.â€
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook
Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
“I'll take it.†So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try
Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why
He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.
But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread
That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.
However within five minutes I was hooked. Morse arrives in Oxford to help with a murder enquiry, and has to rent himself a room. A landlady shows him into a typical 1950's shabby boarding house room, saying, "This was Mr Bleaney's room."
"Mr Bleaney" is one of my favourite poems by Philip Larkin.
The story then evolved, with crossword clues, poetry and classical music being an integral part of the solution. Morse, a non-drinker, is introduced to Guinness by Inspector Thursday and takes to it like a duck to water. A red Jaguar also appears briefly in the story.
At the end, as Morse drives away, he looks into the read-view mirror and in it we see John Thaw looking at him. Spooky!
I haven't given away any details of the murder in case any of you have taped it to watch later. But if you didn't see it and there is a repeat, I thoroughly recommend it.
Here's the poem: Mr Bleaney
“This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.†Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,
Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. “Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.â€
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook
Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
“I'll take it.†So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try
Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why
He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.
But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread
That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.
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