Unwrapped

When it comes to Charles Dickens, I have more than a few gaps. I’ve never read Nicholas Nickleby, A Tale of Two Cities, or The Pickwick Papers. The Mystery of Edwin Drood remains a mystery. The Old Curiosity Shop remains . . . well, a curiosity. And every time December rolls around, I’m reminded that A Christmas Carol just sits there.

I’ve seen several film adaptations. My favourite is Scrooge, the 1935 remake with sound, starring Seymour Hicks in a delightfully crusty turn as the title curmudgeon. Later versions featuring Alastair Sim, Albert Finney, and George C. Scott were polished and respectable if increasingly schmaltzy. I never cared for Bill Murray’s mean-spirited Scrooged, which turns the penny-pinching Victorian moneylender into a cynical 1980s television exec. I did care quite a lot for The Muppet Christmas Carol, with Michael Caine’s gravitas perhaps outshone only by the...