Big Little Lies

This week I watched Catch 22 be translated for TV. Although I admired the look of the piece, I have to say I’m unsure if they’ve captured its absurd humour. For me it feels too stylised and glossy to reflect the messy irony of its source. Adapting a book is hard. A book is more than its plot. Storyline and dialogue can be easily replicated; narrative tone and voice much more elusive. Writer Bruce Miller's translation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale achieved it through internal monologue. Given the book was narrated by Offred, having the screen version elucidate her true thoughts ensured its sardonic spirit was not lost. Just this year Phoebe Waller-Bridge gained plaudits for her work on Luke Jennings’ Killing Eve. Not having read the book I can’t comment too much on the changes made; however, from what others have said it appears she's added her own mischievous signature to a work of genre fiction. If anything she has done what all adaptions hope to achieve: live up to the original.

The jury is out.

I would make a similar case for HBO’s Big Little Lies. The source material comes from Liane Moriarty. The Sydney writer was a bestseller before the show brought her to public attention. Her specialism lies in – well – lies. Secrets and betrayals are the river that runs through her body of work. Her ability to tantalise and tease is why she is adored by millions. She imbues her novels with all the delicious tropes of detective fiction, drip feeding clues with clever, clever subtlety, causing reader to guess, then second guess their instincts. I read Big Littles Lies last summer in three addictive sittings. The Girl has gone on to read her others, commenting favourably on them. They are perfect holidays reads. But don’t let this nomenclature fool you. Moriarty skewers middle class mores with more skill than those more feted. The privileged façade of believing one is living and behaving better than others is pierced here; it’s just done in a more sizzling way than broadsheet darlings.

The structure of the novel is quite fiendish. The first chapter begins with a curtain twitcher spying on the goings on at a school fundraiser. This is not a champagne reception in the orangery, all twinkling glass and mellifluous chatter. No, this is carousing of a sort you would not expect from 'respected' society. There’s strong words, smashed glasses, thrown fists, huge screams, approaching sirens. The chapter ends with a Greek Chorus of voices offering their two cents on an incident, which won't be revealed to the final pages. The last voice is Detective Sergeant Adrian Quinn: ‘Let me be clear. This is not a circus. This is a murder investigation.’ Not only are we in the realm of whodunnit; we’re also in the place of ‘whom did it happen to who.’ 

'Life's a beach, but not for these women,' could have been a tagline. (I'm available for tagline work.)

The second chapter flashes back to six months before the fundraiser. From hereon in we’re edging closer to Grim Reaper day, all that's left to uncover is the scythe holder, the why? wielder. With the story set before this date, we get a chance to know the characters. There’s Madeline, a mum who combines outspokenness with compassion; Celeste, who appears to have the world at her feet when in fact it weighs on them; and Jane, a new girl in town whose outsider status is exacerbated by being a young mum. Madeline and Celeste take Jane under their wing, helping her negotiate the playground drop-offs, school gate squabbles, PTA rough and tumble. All three are mothers of children the same age; they’re bound by this, but by character too: although their children mean the world to them, they aren’t their world. The word ‘mum’ is a vocation but not a definition. This standpoint is what gives them genuine friendship; they have the ability to talk about work, romance and sex – not just their children.

In the TV version Madeline, Celeste and Jane are played by Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman and Shailene Woodley respectively. The first two are established Hollywood stars; the last a brilliant turn in George Clooney’s The Descendants. It was Witherspoon and Kidman who optioned the book with a view to turning it into a movie. This plan changed into a miniseries where they then enlisted Ally McBeal writer David Kelly and Dallas Buyers Club director Jean-Marc Vallee. It being American money and stars, the book has been transposed from Sydney to LA. The first series remained largely loyal to the text, although that Greek Chorus are now talking to the police as opposed the press. Also a few subplots are dispensed with; these omissions, however, don’t feel like a betrayal of Moriaty's original, rather an understandable trade-off to flesh out its main characters. 

Kidman, Woodley and Witherspoon (left to right).

Part of this rounding of characters involves giving greater prominence to their home lives and families. Madeline is a mother of two, in her second marriage. Her youngest daughter Chloe is a particular delight. Precocious in wit and music taste, she is responsible for some laugh out loud zingers. Celeste’s husband is played by Alexander Skarsgard, in his most challenging role. Jane’s son Ziggy (Iain Armitage) is the rope caught in an adult tug-of-war; his presentation of a child strangled by grown up stupidity is nuanced and smart.

Ziggy is where the lies start. Early on in school he is accused of hurting another child. Jane does not think he’s capable of such a thing. She believes the little girl is lying. When an accuser is so young, it’s difficult to denounce them; therefore, Jane and Ziggy are powerless. They are new to the community and have no cache to defend the claim. Dividing lines are drawn. On one side Madeline, Celeste and Jane; on the other, everyone else. Moriarty’s work demonstrates how little lies can render someone ostracized. Just one throwaway comment can destroy a child’s reputation. Of course, children can be forgiven for the lies they tell: they are too young to understand lies gain oxygen, mileage beyond the school gates. What can’t be forgiven is how adults behave. In their search for truth they resort to childish name-calling, factions, fall-outs. Having children is meant to mature you, yet here in protecting it infantilises, causing them to act with prejudicial cruelty. Our loyalty lies with the three characters because they believe that protecting one’s child shouldn’t come at the expense of harming another.

It’s not just the children who lie: it’s the adults too. The big lie they tell is the one they tell themselves. Most of which are down to self-preservation. I’m happy. I’m content. Nothing bad has happened to me. Nothing bad will happen to me. It’s easier to hide behind the sofa than confront the intruder. Easier to say it never happened than accept it did. It’s easy to lie to others: to say, ‘I’m fine. I’m happy. I have a charmed life.’ But the mind can't be deceived. You may change the locks each time it comes. Each time it kicks your doors in. But it will come. It will keep coming. Coming until you stand and say, ‘Here I am. I know what you are; I know what you do.’ Only internal truth can defeat such pain. The book as well as the series does a tremendous job at showing the complexities of facing trauma head on.

'The worst lie is the one we tell ourselves.' (I can't help this tagline thing.)

The second series that has just started picks up from the first. Initially, there was no intention of a follow-up, however the success of the first put pay to that. Moriaty was tasked with writing a novella of sorts, which was then adapted by Kelly. The director has changed too with Andrea Arnold now at the helm. Arnold is an interesting choice. She is a Brit with experience in gritty dramas. I’ve seen Fish Tank and Wuthering Heights by her. Both are set in tough environments with characters battling for a way out. Her recent American Honey is a road trip picture where teenagers sell magazines to the wealthy and comfortable. In all of her pictures the broke form the focus for her sympathies. Big Little Lies does not have such characters. What may have interested Arnold then, who grew up on a council estate, is the opportunity to puncture middle-class sensibilities. The conservative values of materialism over socialism is seen when Renata decries her husband’s financial impropriety, ‘I’m not not going to be rich. I will not not be rich!’ Just because a story contains wealthy characters doesn’t mean it’s promoting them.

Another addition to series two is Meryl Streep, who plays the avenging angel – or is it devil? Streep is an incredible actress. A national treasure in countries where she's isn't even a citizen. Like Tom Hanks, she is the grounded millionaire we all love. In this role we appreciate her as a terrific actress. For someone so likeable to affect such dreadfulness shows her skill. Her scenes with Witherspoon, cat claws at dawn, are a delight.

Meryl as Mary Louise.

All in all, the second series is ticking along nicely; although, its tone is different to its first. For a start, there’s no whodunnit at its centre. No balcony fall in the distance. This one feels more meditative and reflective, examining the fallout of the fall. A big murder story dissolving into little human stories. Big Little Drama then. With a third series unlikely, we might just be looking at a perfect two-hander.

Big Little Lies is available on Sky Atlantic. (Thanks to The Girl’s mum and dad for paying the monthly subscription and allowing us to leech off their SkyGo account.)