Mummy, is it true?

There is so much to discuss on the topic of truth and accuracy in historical fiction that I hardly know where to begin. Let’s start with this article in The Australian: Passion for the past leaves little for nitpickers. It’s about the film, The King’s Speech, and how the director is so obsessive about detail that those who like to find fault are being quite exercised to find any. Interestingly, the film is on track to pick up lots of major awards without resorting to special effects, a sensational plot, hot sex scenes or a shark. It’s just the plain old fashioned recipe of a great script and terrific acting. But how important is it to get the details right?

I live in Oxford. Naturally I’m fond of Inspector Morse and, now, Lewis. But I’ve had to get used to the film makers playing God with the scenery. The police inspector comes out of the gate of a major college but not on to¬† the street that runs past it. He chases a villain towards the north of the city and, quick as a flash, they are in open countryside. Or, even worse, he’s now chasing him in a southerly direction. The director will probably argue that it cost less to film in open countryside than an arterial Oxford road, or that it looked better, or that it set off Morse’s pale complexion rather nicely. But each time someone plays merry with the facts, someone else is upset and, in the case of Morse, it’s everyone who lives in Oxford. Strange, to wantonly annoy your key audience.

So how lovely to hear of a film maker who is ‘obsessive’ about accurate detail. Let’s applaud him with as many Oscars as are appropriate.

Meanwhile, we have only just begun on this topic. I’ll continue with it over the next couple of posts. I’ll just leave you with this. My friend’s 7 year old son asked his mother to ask me if my book about King Arthur is true? I was disconcerted to say the least. It’s not my place to tell any child there’s no Santa Claus. I spoke to him about it and found myself describing the different levels of truth, how things may not be literally true (no, Sir Bedevere did not arrive on Port Meadow one day and have to tell twenty-one stories in order to get back to the Otherworld); but somewhere deep inside us there is a just king who is sleeping right now and needs to wake up. He accepted that (bright kid).

Yesterday I found him reading a book, author and title forgotten, but obviously it was an adventure story which, in my day, would have been ‘Biggles Flies Again’ by Capt. Johns. And so I asked him, ‘Is the story true?’ ‘No,’ he said at once, ‘of course it isn’t!’

Which raises the question, how does he know that? I discussed it with his mother, and we think that some stories have markers in them which alert you to the need to suspend all credibility; and others don’t. It’s the second kind which can be dangerous fiction. And the Da Vinci code is a prime example.

The question is, really, does it matter if gullible people get to believe things that writers make up? And what if the writer doesn’t think he/she is making it up, but is receiving it through the channel of divine inspiration? I’m not being facile here – all authors hope for that.

I suppose I’m a bit miffed that someone who believes Lorenzo de’ Medici was of the bloodline of Jesus is making a fortune. I’m not bothered about the fortune: I grieve for the truth. Because what is really important about Lorenzo will be lost in the glamour and glitz and sheer vivacity of conspiracy theories.

What does anyone else think about these matters? How far can we, should we play merry with the facts to ‘let the story have its head’. And what are facts, when it comes down to it?

PS. Dorcas Lane in ‘Lark Rise to Candleford’ has pierced ears I noticed last night. True to period, I wonder?