Lured by the overwhelmingly positive reviews, I recently watched Disney’s adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s 1980s’ novel Rivals, and found myself completely gripped. The series ends on a cliffhanger but it was obvious, from reviews, that Cooper’s book ties up all the loose ends. Desperate to know what happened to my favourite characters, I decided to track it down. It was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Although I’m in awe of the writing team that managed to turn something so deeply problematic into a compelling, incredibly entertaining, critique of Thatcher’s Britain.
The show, like the book, is set in a middle to upper-class, rural town and its surrounds, the kind of area that tourists associate with English countryside, beautiful landscapes, ancient buildings bathed in golden light, crowned by dreaming spires. But its glorious vistas are marred by the fact that it’s primarily populated with scheming, power-obsessed men and downtrodden women. But, unlike the show, Cooper’s novel contains few, if any, redeeming characters or features. I’d read that the adaptation toned down some of the excesses of Cooper’s narrative but I had no idea quite how much had been tweaked or omitted.
Cooper’s extensive cast of characters are linked by connections to a local, commercial TV company run by domineering, power-hungry Tony. Tony hates local MP, and former celebrity show-jumper, Rupert with a passion. The feeling’s mutual. Into the mix come the O’Hara family, bohemians who might have been lifted from the pages of Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle. There’s Declan, a former BBC presenter/interviewer adored by the viewing public, his jaded wife Maud – former actress now fading beauty – and three children including Taggie who keeps everything together. Adept at cooking, Taggie is kind and pure of heart, like a figure plucked from a fairy tale – 18 in the novel, 20 in the show.
The plot, of show and novel, hinges on a challenge to Tony’s monopoly over local TV and his subsequent leadership of the community. In the show this is juxtaposed with a slowly unfolding romance between Taggie and the much older Rupert; and between wealthy, working-class business owner Freddie and the unsung wife of another of Tony’s employees. Both of which are present in the novel but buried in a morass of extraneous detail and a host of peripheral characters. The show managed to make Taggie’s growing attraction to serial womaniser Rupert credible but barely - their earliest encounters include a cringeworthy scene in which Rupert casually thrusts his hand up Taggie’s skirt. Rupert is, we’re given to understand, a product of his times, a lonely, misunderstood man whose intrinsic good is demonstrated by his enduring love of animals. Similarly, Tony’s misogynistic, homophobic attitudes are contrasted with leftie Declan’s outrage over the appalling treatment of Tony’s female staff. But the source material differs extensively from the screen version. Rupert and Declan bond over their attitudes towards Tony but as part of a panel for a beauty contest revel in debating the merits of one contestant’s tits versus another’s crotch. "Animal-lover" Rupert is actually famous for brutalising his horses during his show-jumping years – but in Cooper's universe that apparently demonstrates his need for unwavering love and validation.
Cooper’s women are often sympathetically drawn but united in their lust for male approval, Cameron an ambitious, talented TV producer is undone by Rupert’s impressively large cock, falling in love in an instant. Unlike the show, the women here willingly collude in the propping up of male egos. This, Cooper seems to be saying, is just how things are, men want to be masterful, and women want masterful men - although preferably ones who also love dogs. Cooper’s world is hetero to the core, the few queer characters are hideously stereotyped or unpleasantly vilified. Cameron’s insecurities are shown to stem from her mother coming out as a lesbian whose butch – Cooper’s description is too offensive to repeat – partner was, of course, desperate to molest teenage girls.
I imagine there will be the usual, tedious few who excuse the unpalatable attitudes that pervade the book as simply a reflection of the times. And, on one level, they would be right but I think it’s important to recognise that Cooper’s England is not an unfiltered depiction of the era but represents an unabashedly centre-right, conservative perspective. This may have been a deeply toxic time but it was one that also boasted a significant, thriving left-wing counterculture from gay rights groups to feminist activists and anti-racist campaigners, none of whom are given any real credence here - to put Cooper's novel in context The Handmaid's Tale was published in 1985, three years before this; and authors like Toni Morrison and Angela Carter were already gaining recognition for their work. Although Cooper's narrative’s a highly effective reminder that history is not linear and progress towards a more balanced society is far from inevitable. The fleeting commentary on Reagan’s presidency and a “backlash” America longing for traditional family values and the leadership of a strong male patriarch was depressingly redolent of the kind of rhetoric spouted by Trump and his ilk - and lapped up by millions. So, interesting as a cultural document but little else, and even that interest was near impossible to sustain over 700 pages of decidedly-pedestrian prose.