Tell Me A Story

Good evening, readers! While this town lies within the grip of a rain and cold, and my girlfriend is safely off to Toronto following her artistic pursuits (I’m quite jealous of her), I have decided to delve into a little pursuit of my own. Could blogging, particularly literary analysis, be called an artistic pursuit? I believe so. While I do discuss only works that have been created by those other than myself, does not every artist have influences from, create homages to, or flat out steal from other artists? In every post, I attempt to take in works that I have experienced, combine those experiences, and produce some original thought (or at least thought that is original to me). One could argue that all art is the culmination of the artist’s experiences and imagination. This argument over what should be called art, or valuable expression, is pertinent to today’s post.

I am smack dab in the chewy center of my university’s winter quarter, which runs from January to March. This the penultimate quarter of my undergraduate career; in June I will don my cap and gown and embrace reality. All of my spring quarter will be spent student teaching some brilliant young minds at a nearby high school, rendering me unable to take any classes. The class dominating this quarter, effectively my last undergraduate class, is Women’s Literature. I will admit, I was worried going in: what else could a women’s literature class offer except unadulterated hatred of men? I imagined dart boards covered with the image of the Vetruvian Man hung on every wall, and each book being the equivalent of a Lifetime film.

Now that I am four weeks in, this class has been one of the more enjoyable I have experienced in the last four years. We have been reading Sensation Fiction, a phenomenon of the mid to late 19th century. This was not highly regarded literature of the period; this was the popular fiction, the Nicolas Sparks and Stephanie Myers novels of the Victorian era. After reading “Cometh Up As A Flower” and “Lady Audley’s Secret,” I can say that I am a fan. Rhoda Braughton is the author of the first, and Mary Braddon is the author of the latter. I hope to explain why I enjoy this literature so much, and then launch into a discussion of whether Sensation Fiction has ever ended.

Sensation fiction normally focuses on events and characters quite shocking to readers at the time. There is adultery, murder, poverty, secrets, plot twists and cliffhangers galore. This kind of content would have have been titillating to audiences at the time, just like Louis CK comedy or Chuck Palahniuk novels are now. Reading about horrible, shocking, or forbidden actions and thoughts gives one a rush. For many, it’s an automatic hook, regardless of the quality of the material. This aspect of Sensation fiction is not likely to be the cause of my fascination, though. My mental and emotional selves have become numb after years of erosion. Rated R films can do that to a person.

A second aspect of sensation fiction is its experimentation with familiar conventions and plot structures. “Cometh Up As A Flower” plays with the story of the “fallen woman,” one in which a girl is seduced by a stranger, then abandoned with no reputation or promise for marriage. “Lady Audley’s Secret” plays with or begins the structure of the modern detective novel, featuring a Holmesian protagonist who relentlessly pursues his case to its end. This, in fact, may be the source of my interest. After years of consuming copious amounts of story, one internalizes the structures he or she sees most often. That is why you have a friend who can correctly guess the killer in a Law and Order episode within the first five minutes, or a friend who knows which love interest in a romantic comedy will ultimately prevail (often a pretty easy task). After internalizing plot structures very similar to the ones in these novels, it’s a pleasure to explore some of their ancestors or progenitors. The writers seem more lively and excited about their content for some reason. Even now, a reader can get a sense of the newness, of the sensationalism with which these authors viewed their material. As someone who gets a thrill from Ancestry.com, this kind of adventure is exhilarating.

Some make the argument that Sensation fiction declined in popularity during the late 19th century, eventually disappearing. As far as my definition of the genre goes, I don’t believe it has. We still have popular fiction filled with shocking material, read by the masses but relegated by critics to the bottom rungs of the ladder of quality. Twilight is a prime example. Teens everywhere were enthralled by its content: forbidden love, killer vampiric infants, and the werewolves who love them. They made a ton of money for their author, spawned a film franchise, and stole the hearts of millions of adolescents. Nonetheless, critics despise them. Many other young adult novels fall into this category. Chris Crutcher could be said to do the same thing for adolescent boys. This is not to compare Victorian audiences to children, however; romantic novels, thriller novels, and a number of other popular genres spawn works just as titillating to adults. Has Sensation fiction ever truly gone away, or has it simply evolved to meet the demands of the audience? This broad genre may encapsulate everything that wishes to shock or entertain its audience on a baser level, works that may not aspire to win Pullitzer prizes. As readers and consumers, we are still seeking sensational art, anything that can surprise us or give us a rush of sadness, anger, or bliss. Art is a addictive painkiller, and we as a society keep increasing our dosage.

No, I do not encourage substance abuse. Just a healthy addiction to metaphors.

On this last day of 2011, a day of resolutions, I feel the need to keep up with the writing goal I set last month. It is far too easy for me not to meet it, and failure would leave me without an excuse for celebration tonight. Therefore, I will soldier on in my analysis of the art of storytelling. Dear reader, I hope that you notice this blog post amongst the pile of New Years statuses clogging your newsfeed like a fat man’s arteries.

I don’t believe I have sufficient thought for delving into a long and deep exploration of a single story, so instead I will point out several aspects of stories I encountered over my winter break. Surface exploration is also good for the mind, pushing the writer to sum up information in smaller amounts of words. A word trailer, not a word feature film.

One book I encountered in November was “Incendiary” by Chris Cleave. This novel followed the experiences of an English woman after her family is killed in a terrorist bombing attack. It is a story of learning to cope and live after horrific tragedy, sometimes with humor, sometimes with sex, and sometimes with substance abuse. What most struck me about this work is the writing style. Cleave’s narrator throws punctuation to the wind, and paragraphs are anti-grammatical avalanches. This emphasizes the overflow of emotion the character cannot contain, as well as her instability. This character is not cold, factual, or dry. She is confused, angry, melancholic, and damaged. The style of writing does not deliver ideas in a convenient manner; it pours them and piles them. Nothing will be easy for this narrator, and so it should be for the reader.

One of the biggest surprises of my year was the film “Rise of the Planet of the Apes.” I underestimated this summer hit, thinking it to be a cash grab meant to trap fans of the earlier incarnations. This film is a prequel to the classic sci-fi “Planet of the Apes.” Humans still run the show at this point, and an ambitious young scientist is researching a cure for ailments of the brain. His achievements lead him to a drug that not only repairs the brain, but improves it. A chimp he rescued from his research center, Caesar, takes this drug and uses his intelligence to lead a rebellion against the human race. A species long kept in captivity realizes its potential and overthrows it’s oppressors. Here is where I commit literary sacrilege, and assert that this film is better than Animal Farm (the novel). This is only when I compare the world building in both works, however. The film is not attempting heavy satire, and Animal Farm is (most likely) not attempting to create a fully realized fantasy world. Nonetheless, because I have experienced both works lately, I would like to point out some great things that “Rise of the Planet of the Apes” does that Animal Farm does not. The film delineates rules for its world, and does not break them in pursuit of some higher cause. The primates act like primates, and transcend their standing due to a clear cause. Its characters, though dynamic, carry with them the same core attributes throughout the story. Caesar is an ambitious, intelligent, highly emotional and driven animal, James Franco is loving intelligent, and obedient, and Draco Malfoy is evil, evil, and evil. As I asserted in an earlier post, in the novel characters’ attributes are violated so that they can act as certain devices in the plot or satire. When a story delineates the rules and limits of its world, it breaks them at its own peril; at best it can be transcendent, at worst it can be offensive. Luckily, Animal Farm fell into the first category, but in my opinion a better work would not have had to take the risk in the first place.

The last work I would like to discuss is “Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows.” This sequel to the 2009 hit has the titular hero facing a villain quite equal to himself; Professor Moriarti is a genius, warrior, and a madman. Nonetheless, what I have to point out about this film has nothing to do with the main characters. Instead, it involves Moriarty’s henchman, the sniper/assassin that does his dirty work. His role in the film has appeared in many forms throughout the years: he is a ruthless gun for hire with unlimited talent, used only to show just how great the hero is at disposing of his enemies. This offends me, as it seems that the story violates the attributes of the characters in order to advance the plot. Whenever the protagonist needs to be in peril, he is left in the open with a man who could thread a needle with a bullet from a football field away. However, when the protagonist needs to live through a harrowing ordeal, the sniper cannot seem to hit the broad side of a barn from fifty feet away. A character whose expertise is in shooting guns should not miss when he needs too; that is exactly when he should succeed. His talents are compromised by the needs of the story, and that is unfair to both the character and the audience. Sherlock Holmes can surely outsmart a marksman, right?

I hope that these small snippets of insight have been both intriguing and entertaining. Have a wonderful new year everyone, and may 2012 be the year you need, not the year you deserve.

There is nothing like reading classic literature. Just knowing that millions before me have read these very words, imagined these very scenes, and despised these very characters makes me feel like I’ve taken up membership in a very fancy club. Perhaps it is a country club: everyone pretends there is no one else on the golf course, and tries to forget there are other people having the same amount of fun. Well, here I am with my singular experience of George Orwell’s classic, Animal Farm. 

While student teaching, I have had the opportunity to make my way through this little gem. Some of the lessons spend time explaining the historical context of the novel, its allegorical connection to the Russian Revolution. Snowball is Trotsky, Napoleon is Stalin, Mollie is the Aristocracy, the cat is the morbidly obese, and Old Major seems to become some sort of Marx-Lenin hybrid. After spending some time pondering the very clear connections between the text and reality, I began evaluating the text’s merit in each genre it decided to place a hoof.

The novel is described as both fairy tale and allegory. As both fantasy and satire. Therefore, as I analyze the text, I will do so according to the genres’ rules (as well as I know them). I believe it is unfair to judge a story using expectations it never wished to live up to. The author is dead, both literally and figuratively, but stories have a way of establishing certain purposes and goals. Anyways, back to the barnyard.

A story claiming to be a fairy tale probably includes certain elements. First off, it probably carries an element of fantasy. Things in this story will not exactly match reality. Second, the story will follow a very familiar, rigid structure. Vladimir Propp can tell you just how rigid. Third, the fairy tale may attempt to teach a lesson, as in a fable, or at least resolve itself in some definitive way. This is a very poor definition of fairy tale, I know. Hopefully the crust is stuffed.

Stories claiming to be satires usually carry certain qualities. First, they parody or otherwise make light of real, serious issues. There Jon Stewart and there is South Park, but all do the same thing. Second, through this parody, they usually use representations or allegories of certain people or events. Once again, realize that I don’t have a handbook of literary terms beside me.

My assertion, dear readers, is that Animal Farm’s efforts to be a perfect satire hinder its ability to become an effective fairy tale or fantasy work. This post will sound disparaging, but it is not. I only suggest that the novel’s value comes from its allegory, not its ability to build a world and tell a unique story in that world. 

A story’s ability to build a world can make or break it. Does the reader believe that this character could exist in this setting? Does the reader believe that this event happened naturally or that the author decided it should happen? This is one of those crucial qualities of a novel, one on which readers judge quite harshly. In my opinion, Animal Farm does a pretty poor job.

From the start, it only establishes the main setting, Manor Farm. This setting is described in great detail, made quite real for the reader. Almost all of the events occur with its gates. Interestingly, the narrative never attempts to describe the outside world in a comparable manner. It gives small descriptions of neighboring farms, but these are only to establish allegorical connections between the farms and other European nations. This would not be a problem if the events could occur on Animal Farm without the rest of the world hearing about them, but that is not the case. In fact, the outside world is very aware of what is going on. Other farmers discuss the news, neighbors trade with the animals, and one human decides to serve them. The events on this small farm have global implications, involving interaction with the outside world and the realization that animals are rebelling against their human overlords! They are taking over! Without information on the outside world other than some minute descriptions of neighboring farms, it is difficult to imagine a story so heavily focused on interaction between places and societies. Why don’t the invading humans EACH grab a gun instead of half of them? Wouldn’t foreign animals want to migrate to this beautiful communist paradise? Wouldn’t CIA agents dress up in animal suits and assassinate the communist swine? The world surrounding Animal Farm does not seem stable enough to contain the amazing events occurring in one small place. And this, I believe, is the fault of allegory and satire.

The novel attempts to conform to the events surrounding the Russian Revolution. These are events that occurred in reality, in real places. By committing to this genre, the story is inherently hindered. Events in the narrative must match events in reality. Settings and the relationships between them must be maintained for maximum satirical value. Thus, the narrative’s world cannot become its own. It is a slave to ours, a shadow. 

This problem is also manifested in the novel’s characters. By forcing the personalities and actions of men onto these animals, the narrative causes logic problems while maintaining its quality as an allegory. For instance, Squealer. He is able to “turn black to white.” He is an amazingly persuasive pig, a glorious speaker. So why doesn’t he lead? He possesses a power perhaps more effective than those of Napoleon and Snowball, and yet he spends his life as a servant. I believe that this is done not because he possesses a desire for subservience, but because he is forced to represent propaganda. When such a powerful tool, almost akin to hypnotism, is made into a single character, he becomes unbelievable. A character with will, motivation, thought, and desire is very different from a soulless tool. By achieving allegory, the story loses value as a narrative.

Another example is Boxer the horse. Apparently he is only able to reach the letter “D” while learning the alphabet. His limited intellect is indicative of his representation of the working class. His manual labor is valued very highly, but his mind is not. But despite his inability to spell anything but dad, cad, and ad, he is capable of uttering full, clear sentences. At times he achieves quite exceptional oratory. A consistent character would probably be incapable of uttering such sentences. He might be able to talk much better than he could write or spell, but the difference in ability can only go so far. Once again, the efforts of the narrative to force an allegorical quality on a character hinders his value and quality in the narrative. 

The implications of these described weaknesses are intriguing: readers should become aware of the historical context, at least of the underlying basic meaning, before digging into this book. The story has little value when it is seen as a story about rebelling animals. These animals are not really animals.Watership Down is a wonderful example of a story involving animals that takes the opposite route, choosing the creation of a complete fictional world instead of reprobation of our own. This also means that Animal Farm is primarily satire. This is its strongest quality. Readers should appreciate it for this quality, not all of the others it doesn’t get quite right. 

I hope you enjoyed this shorter, simpler post on the merit of Animal Farm. I’ll be back soon with a movie review. Perhaps Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy? I hope so. 

‘Tis the late evening, beloved readers, but this is as good a time as any to reflect on a wonderful, disturbing film. This is the second of two posts I will release in November, and I hope to follow this same rule of quantity for the next several months. Will setting a public goal for myself create enough motivation to keep me going? Referencing good old Pulp Fiction, lets hope this goal does for me what Uma Thurman’s adrenaline needle did for her.

Now that my writing baggage has been drug out yet again, let us continue on to something more interesting, more meaty- dare I say it, downright more fleshy. The Skin I Live In, directed by Pedro Almovar, is a twisted tale of yet another brilliant scientist, nearly a modern-day deity, taking a path populated by human centipedes, animated corpses, human-insect hybrids, and strapping young melancholic time travelers. Passion seems to overwhelm reason and the what could be wonderful is instead utilized to destroy one person, a nation,  or the entire human race.  

The Skin I Live In is a tale of science gone wrong, of ethics being outpaced by ambition and emotion. Antonio Banderas plays the villain, a surgeon forever scarred by his wife’s burn injuries sustained from a car explosion and her resulting suicide. To the public it looks as if he is on a mission to create a new, perfect human skin through genetic experimentation; however, this is just a guise for his work to recreate his wife through the skin alteration of someone he has trapped inside his home. This is the least revealing premise of the movie I can give, so if this sounds interesting, check it out! If you continue reading, do with caution: the ramblings of a tired college student and SPOILERS lie ahead. And I will describe some pretty shocking, gross, wrong stuff. Lets dig in. 

The first half of this film involves a doctor (Banderas) who is working on a synthetic, better human skin. It turns out he has been using a person trapped in his home to experiment with this new skin, hiding the prisoner from everyone except his servant. The prisoner’s name is Vera, and it seems that the doctor has used skin therapy and surgery to change Vera into an exact copy of his late wife (who died from suicide after seeing her skin injuries from a car explosion). The servant’s son, also a lover of the doctor’s late wife, breaks into the house and rapes Vera. The doctor finds him and kills him, and then tries to comfort his prisoner. The second half of the film takes the audience back in time, to the period before Vera’s capture (but after his wife’s death). The doctor takes his daughter (traumatized by her mother’s death) to a party, where she is raped by a young promiscuous man. The daughter is irreparably traumatized, and the doctor decides to take revenge. He kidnaps the rapist, and, through extensive surgery, turns him into Vera. I don’t know who is worse off by the end, Vera or the viewer.

First off, the villain in this film is very rich and complex, despite what some may see as a certain static quality. Through his nebulous motivation and central role, he bears quite a resemblance to the character of Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello. In many other films that include similar narratives, the insane doctor would not play such a central role as the main character. The film allows us to see most events from Banderas’ point of view. We see his secret obsession with his prisoner, his reaction to his institutionalized daughter, his discovery of his daughter’s rape, and his eventual kidnap and disfiguration of his daughter’s rapist. Clearly his point of view is emphasized, as we see many events that other characters are not privy to. The audience might be supposed to identify with him, empathize with him, just by experiencing the same horrible events as he does before he goes to do horrible things. In Othello, a similar amount of focus is given to the villain. Iago is given significantly more lines than the play’s titular character, not to mention that he is given the best ones. His monologues are brilliant meditations on the nature of evil actions, gullibility, the nature of truth, and honor. The same amount of emphasis is given to the character’s motivations, as I will explain. It is clear that in both of these works the villainous character is seen as the most important, the most pivotal, and the most complex. Though both characters lack a certain amount of dynamic change in the narrative, they are the most interesting. 

Along with this apparent focus on evil main characters is a certain nebulous motivation that characterizes each one. In Othello, Iago lays out so many reasons for his hatred of the titular character that he becomes comical. First he seems to be angry at Othello for assigning Cassio a position he believed belonged to himself. Then he takes up the mantle of racism to justify his spite. Lastly, he begins asserting that Othello slept with his wife. If Othello were this bad, we would be cheering for Iago to succeed! Instead, we slowly realize that Iago will go to any length to justify his evil actions and thoughts, including the invention of an opposing evil. In The Skin I Live In, Banderas’ character is quite similar. At first his actions seem to stem from ambition, the desire to create a synthetic skin that would make humans impermeable to harm. As the identity of his prisoner is further revealed, the film suggests his purpose is to replace a wife he loved dearly. Again, the identity of his prisoner is even further revealed; the audience then learns that his actions stem from an act of vengeance for the rape and ensuing mental trauma of his daughter. Are his deeds a result of all of these factors? Perhaps they are a result of pure madness, as his servant (and secretly, his mother) suggests. This nebulous motivation points to some inherent evil in a character; when one gives so many excuses that they become pointless, the source of motivation moves from external to internal. Actions no longer look like the result of a series of events, a culmination of things beyond the person. Instead, they become the product of free will. This innate, unchangeable evil that inhabits the good doctor may be indicative of his inability to escape his own traits to escape the skin he lives in.

Unfortunately I was not able to cover all that I wanted to in this post. There was a very intriguing thematic discussion I wished to lay out, but at this point it has been too long since my viewing to recall any valuable thoughts. Nonetheless, I hope I have put down some interesting connections between the work of an artist 400 years ago and one still working today. The Skin I Live In is a very rich film, one well crafted and well thought out. If the film were skin, the director would have to be Olay’s best customer. Well done, Mr. Alomovar. Well done. 

To all those who accidentally selected the link to this page, hello again! If this blog were a yard, you would need a machete to find your way to the house. It has been centuries since the last time I posted, and so I decided to spark my inspiration by uploading an essay I wrote for my British literature class. Though it may not contain the amount of humor or self-deprecation that the other posts do, I feel it has some valuable insight on the symbolism in Othello. Soon I hope to start updating with analysis of more modern works, but please enjoy this in the meantime. 

Shakespeare’s Othello is a tale of love corrupted by evil; love corrupted by jealousy, revenge, and pure spite. At the center of this intrigue is an infamous handkerchief, proof of Desdemona’s infidelity and Cassio’s betrayal. It is used to drive Othello to conclusions he could not come to by observation or knowledge of his loved ones’ character. Desdemona’s handkerchief comes to symbolize the concept of honor, specifically how honor is defined externally and arbitrarily in this world as opposed to definition by true, internal traits. Through Desdemona’s supposed infidelity, Cassio’s supposed betrayal, and the parallel drawn between the handkerchief and wedding sheets, this cloth shows how one’s value is determined by others, not any of our true thoughts and deeds. This is another source of tragedy in the play: that no matter the worth of our true selves, it is the self seen and created by others that we are judged upon.

            This definition of the handkerchief’s symbolism derives from a conversation Iago and Othello have in the fourth act. First, Iago explains Desdemona’s supposed gifting of the handkerchief in very simple, trifling terms: “Why then, ‘tis hers, my lord, and being hers, / She may, I think, bestow’t on any man” (4.1.12-13). Othello then alludes to the handkerchief’s symbolic importance: “She is protectress of her honor too; / May she give that?” (4.1.14-15). Iago seems to question the power of the cloth as a symbol, while Othello attributes to it the ability to represent honor. This belief defines Othello’s arbitrary judgments of his wife and friend, and guides him toward his tragic actions at the conclusion.

            Desdemona proves numerous times throughout the work that she is intrinsically honorable, yet when the handkerchief’s symbolic value is weighed against her, there is no doubt of her infidelity. After being ill-used by her husband, she swears she has done no wrong: “If e’er my will did trespass ‘gainst his love / Either in discourse of thought or actual deed…Comfort forswear me!” (4.2.152-159). At the risk of her own well-being, she swears she has kept her honor and fidelity towards Othello. Nonetheless, the handkerchief has much more persuasive power. After revealing the origin of the handkerchief, Othello speaks of its symbolic importance: “To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition / As nothing else could match” (3.4.67-68). After commanding her to retrieve the handkerchief several times, Othello states: “Fetch me the handkerchief! My mind misgives” (3.4.89). Desdemona’s honor is the handkerchief, and has nothing to do with the thoughts and deeds she describes above. The symbolic power of the handkerchief externalizes the source of her honor, allowing it to be determined arbitrarily by supposed actions and misinterpreted words. The narrative’s tragedy is derived from this irrational determination, all tied to the symbolism of a small piece of cloth.

            Cassio is doomed by a similar unjustified assignment of dishonor. While Cassio makes entreaties to Desdemona to help him attain his previous position, he claims a similar sentiment to her own: “If my offense be of such mortal kind / That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, / Nor purposed merit in futurity, / Can ransom me into his love again, / But to know so must be my benefit” (3.4.114-118). He, like Desdemona, will accept punishment for his misdeeds if Othello wishes it so. His loyalty is unquestionable, though perhaps his gullibility is a fault. Nonetheless, the symbolic power of the handkerchief trumps any deed or thought Cassio could conjure. Once Iago describes the handkerchief in the possession of Cassio, Othello seems set in his thinking: “Now do I see ‘tis true. Look here, Iago: / All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven” (3.3.444-445). Cassio’s honor lies with the handkerchief, and has nothing to do with the loyalty and devotedness he describes. Once again the source of one’s honor is located outside of his actions or deeds, given to an insignificant piece of cloth.

            A piece of evidence more abstract than the others presents itself in the parallel drawn between the handkerchief and Desdemona’s wedding sheets. In the fourth scene, she calls for Emilia to have them laid on the bed, the same bed she will be murdered upon. Later, Othello references these sheets as he speaks of her impending murder: “Thy bed, lust-stained, shall with lust’s blood be spotted” (5.1.36). Taking into account that Desdemona’s handkerchief is spotted with strawberries, the two pieces of cloth take on very similar appearances. Furthermore, the two objects are similar symbolically. Wedding sheets are a symbol of a woman’s honor, a symbol of the relationship she shares only with her husband. The handkerchief represents the same, though in a more detrimental way. It is not the commonality that is most intriguing, however; the difference between these two sheets is the more personal nature of the wedding sheets. No person “bestows” wedding sheets upon another person, but a handkerchief may be make its way through several owners without being given a thought. This is yet again indicative of honor being outsourced to an external, arbitrary object. Othello uses possession of the handkerchief to signify possession of the wedding sheets (by another man), jumping to an irrational conclusion through misplaced symbolism.

            One source of tragedy in Othello is that characters with pure thoughts and deeds are judged by arbitrary means and doomed by the symbolic power of insignificant objects. The handkerchief becomes representative of characters’ honor, but is only used destructively to prove dishonor. Othello falls into a trap along with many other humans: he has difficulty judging the internal value of a person, and so depends on the external. Iago hits upon this truth as he convinces Othello of his wife’s infidelity: “Her honor is an essence that’s not seen; / They have it very oft that have it not” (4.1.16-17). Those that have the appearance of honor often do not have it (like Iago) and those that appear to have no honor often do (such as Cassio and Desdemona). This statement falls both ways, and defines the issue of the handkerchief. It takes on its symbolic power not because it has any real value, but because it is needed as a visual representation of something invisible. This misplaced symbolism drives the innocent toward their doom, and positions the handkerchief as a dangerous Shakespearean macguffin. 

Hello there, weary web wanderers. If you have come upon this blog accidentally while looking for a recipe or celebrity news, this is your chance to escape. If you came here on purpose searching for the musings of a genius, hurry and hold in the power button of your computer. If, for some reason, you have a taste for the nonsensical ravings of someone living in a cold, dark basement, you have come to the right place. 

This blog post will be spent on a novel I recently finished, one that was immediately put on my list of all-time favorites. Watership Down, by Richard Adams, follows a group of rabbits as they flee their warren and embark on an adventure to find a new home. Does this sound like the makings of a classic fantasy work? No, not really. UNLESS the rabbits wear armor and carry swords like people! And speak in our language! That sounds great! Redwall anybody? Narnia? If these worlds are more your style, Watership Down might disappoint. It is set in the real world, and its rabbit characters play by real-world rules. Despite the restrictions inherent in this formula, Adams delivered an engaging, emotional adventure story about a developing leader, loyal friends, and the consequences of power and responsibility. I recommend this novel with no hesitation, and it will hold a privileged spot on my shelf for years to come. 

First of all, I think that the story’s concept should be discussed a bit further. Where most authors place a fantasy story in a fictional world, Richard Adams decided to place this rabbit saga in our own “real” world. In this way, Watership Down is akin to Fantastic Mr. Fox. He studied the behavior and biology of rabbits, and he restricted the setting to an area he knew very well. This does something very interesting for the story. Like any story being placed in an existing world, this story has to play by the rules of reality. Rabbits cannot carry swords, they cannot build castles, and they cannot communicate with humans. They live underground in simple warrens, they have limited memory and intelligence, and they fight with their weight, teeth, and claws. Nonetheless, the story obviously bends some rules. Rabbits can communicate with other animals, they have a widely accepted culture and religion, and they are able to construct elaborate plans and execute them. Watership Down finds a perfect balance between reality and fantasy, intertwining them to the point where even the bent rules look straight. Lastly, what this concept creates for the story is a sense in the reader that the story is occurring right under his or her nose. The reader does not need to create an alternate reality, but instead must alter his or her own reality to accommodate the story. All of these limits attached to this work make it a very ambitious one indeed, and all the more impressive that it is successful.

The second aspect of the work I would like to discuss is “journey” structure of the narrative. Like Lord of the Rings or other works featuring the “Hero’s Journey,” Watership Down follows its protagonists across the land as they attempt to find peace and happiness in a new home after the destruction of the old home. They come across new enemies, friends, and even figures from their past as they make their way to the titular rabbit paradise of Watership Down. This novel , unlike LOTR, has no ultimate villain or character-character conflict driving the journey. The purpose of the journey is not to destroy evil, but to find good. In this way it is similar to the Odyssey, and I wish I could spend some more time comparing the two. 

In the last parts of the novel, the protagonists have already found their new home on Watership Down. Much time is spent with another rabbit warren, Efrafa, somewhere close to the protagonists’ home. Efrafa is a warren run by a villainous, violent rabbit called General Woundwort. He runs his burrows with an iron fist, and intends to kill or absorb the protagonists into Efrafa to consolidate his power. He becomes the villain at the end of the story, creating a great character-character conflict for the reader to enjoy. However, spending so much time at Efrafa nearly undermined the “journey” aspect of the story. Is it still a journey for the last half of the book if the characters have stopped traveling and repeatedly return to another location? I was unsure if the story would succeed in completing itself in a satisfying way, but after finishing the novel I believe I understand what it was doing. Efrafa seemed to be the antithesis to Watership Down, and the villain the antithesis to the heroes (as always). One cannot exist while the other does. Thus, the journey is not complete until the home is found and established. 

One reason this story was able to continue on in such an engaging manner was the creation of a menacing, fantastic villain, the third aspect of the story I would like to address. General Woundwort is treated with all the seriousness of Lord Sauron. He is given an origin story, several chapters to establish his evil, and multiple confrontations with the protagonists in which he reveals his power and cunning. He is quite the match for the heroes, and in the end it is good fortune and selflessness that saves them. Woundwort is given a worthy, ambiguous ending, and from that point on is a boogey man to the rabbit children. It is this amount of seriousness and effort with which the character is addressed that makes him so engaging to follow. He is not just the embodiment of evil. Far from it. He is in his own way a hero, someone standing up for rabbits against the perils of man and beast. His philosophy, however, is what makes him a villain. It is amazing that in a story about heroic rabbits, so much time was spent on the villain. Ever since Morton took the side of the devil, villains have taken a much larger and more important role in our stories. We want to know their motives, their origins, and how they do what they do to stop the protagonists. This more nuanced approach gives the reader more to chew on, and more worry about as the story concludes. 

Speaking of concluding, I would like to conclude this blog post with a final thought on the novel. One work that it heavily reminded me of was Gulliver’s Travels, the (very) classic novel written by Jonathan Swift. No, not the Jack Black movie. The final part of Gulliver’s journey takes place in the land of the Houyhnhnms, a race of intelligent horses who live in a community of complete peace and satisfaction. Gulliver becomes enthralled by their society and the way in which they live, and never wants to leave. He begins to see his own society as barbaric and animalistic. In Watership Down, there is no Gulliver. We follow what would be the Houyhnhms in their own journey, studying their own language, customs, and culture. If this were a modern film, there would have to be a central human that follows and speaks with the rabbits. Could you imagine a story in the “Aliens” universe with just aliens? It would be great, but would receive no support or funding. In effect, we are Gulliver. We travel to the land of these rabbits, and we follow their culture. Then, we think about our own. Just as we bend our world to accommodate for this tale, does it bend our world a bit in return? 

“… although he hated the Yahoos of this country, yet he no more blamed them for their odious qualities, than he did a gnnayh (a bird of prey) for its cruelty, or a sharp stone for cutting his hoof. But when a creature pretending to reason could be capable of such enormities, he dreaded lest the corruption of that faculty might be worse than brutality itself. He seemed therefore confident, that instead of reason, we were only possessed of some quality fitted to increase our natural vices …” (Part IV, Chapter V)  - Gulliver’s Travels

I’ll begin this post with a huge THANK YOU to anyone who has read my past posts and has decided to return for the textual torture that is this blog. Obviously, it has been eons since my last post. College and other assorted life activities have a way of sucking up time, and though I wish I had the time to read/watch/play, think, and write, I do not. There seems to be Dyson vacuums penetrating the fabric of space and time, devouring anything labelled “free” or “leisure” or “creative.” A passage from Chuck Palahniuk’s Lullaby comes to mind:

“Old George Orwell got it backward. Big Brother isn’t watching. He’s singing and dancing. He’s pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you’re awake. He’s making sure you’re distracted. He’s making sure you’re fully absorbed.

He’s making sure your imagination withers. Until it’s as useful as your appendix. He’s making sure your attention is always filled.

And this being fed, it’s worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what’s in your mind. With everyone’s imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.”

Is it hypocritical to quote someone else discussing the lack of creativity and imagination in the world created by distracting television, movies, and books? Sorry teacher, I’m not raising my hand for that one. Needless to say, I believe the world would be a much better one if everyone were pushed to be original, imaginative, creative, and informed. Silence would mitigate some problems, but it is not just sound that distracts us. We need the silence of sound, the silence of sight, the silence of time in order to dig deep into ourselves. But who wants to look at their own profile when they could be “friending” or stalking hundreds of others?

Onto the actual topic of the post, a film I caught a week ago that I have been very interested in watching. This film is Midnight in Paris, the 41st film by Woody Allen. My interest in the director has begun fairly recently, sparked the realization that my parents thoroughly enjoy him and claims that he creates very “unique” films. After watching Vicky Christina Barcelona, I knew that this was a director I should follow. He has an ability to depict romance in a way that is both nonsensical and very real. While we laugh at the characters, we connect with them; we have felt these kinds of love, and familiarity breeds comedy.

Midnight in Paris is a comedy set in the titular French city portraying a screenwriter (Owen Wilson) who believes he was born in the wrong time. He decries the modern era of vapid, sell out writers who create decadent art for the masses with no standard of decency or quality. Walking the streets of the beautiful Paris, he longs for the past decades ago in which the city was filled with artists all striving to progress the methods of human expression. His golden age is the 1920s, when expatriates populated Paris, collaborating and competing with each other to create beautiful works of one kind or another. He is unhappy with his career, his wife, his friends, and his time. Throughout the course of the film, though, he is allowed to fulfill his fantasy: every night at midnight a car picks him up and whisks him through time to his golden age, where he fraternizes with great artists and falls in love.

First, I want to discuss the simplicity with which the film works to achieve the same ends as a movie that costs twice as much. When the main character travels to a different time, the film uses no special effects or gimmicks to convey this to the viewer. It utilizes language, setting, and character to give a distinct look and feel to each chronological “place.” The film does not suggest that the audience is too stupid to understand what has taken place, and instead challenges the audience to follow it. This was a refreshing and engaging aspect of Midnight in Paris, one that won it respect. The moment when I realized: “Oh my god, he’s talking to F. Scott Fitzgerald….. oh my god that’s Hemingway! He went back!” was a wonderful one, one that allowed the film to get a firm hold on my attention.

Another aspect of this “simplicity” comes from the way in which Woody Allen creates humor. He needs no physical gags, effects driven action or miniature fictional monsters to make one laugh. Instead, he explores our relationships- how we converse, how we think about each other, how we love each other, to come up with humor. I found myself laughing at how wrong Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams are for each other. She would take every idea in his head (whether he had stated it or not) and just destroy it right in front of him in a way that was downright ridiculous. McAdams’ parents expressed their skepticism of her choice of fiance at every turn, and even go so far as to hire a private investigator to find where he goes every night at midnight. One of my favorite characters is a “pseudo-intellectual” played by Michael Sheen. Every chance he gets he quotes a famous author or spouts off an infinitesimal detail from the biography of a French artist. Owen Wilson’s character cannot help but despise him, and his wife can’t help but adore him. As one can see, the comedy in an Allen film comes from the characters. This is a deeper, richer comedy- one that connects with the audience and drives the story (something I am very concerned with).

Because this post is very long, I will keep the last part of my discussion brief. There was one aspect of the film that bothered me, and it seems to be a trope in art that I dislike whenever I see it. This film, and many others, are completely capable of exploring and conveying their themes and messages through various mediums in the text. Dialogue, plot, setting, etc. Midnight in Paris explores the idea of one believing they missed some sort of “golden age,” a time that would have been glorious to live in, one that is tremendously superior to the present. It shows the audience how the main character deals with getting his wish, and whether his belief holds true after the plot runs its course. Nonetheless, the film STILL feels it necessary to explicitly state the message out loud. One of the characters states the “lesson learned” near the end of the film, and I just cringed at it. I get it Woody Allen! The journey was beautiful! I didn’t need to tell me what the journey was about when I was with you the whole time! When a master clearly shows his capability to show instead of tell, it disappoints me when he covers his tracks by doing both.

I hope you have enjoyed my thoughts on Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. This movie is a beautiful, simple, classically made odyssey through the history of art and a city as beautiful now as it was a century ago. It features more great actors than one could count, and its story is both hilarious and insightful. Check it out if you can. With any luck, I will be updating soon with more thoughts from the summer-infected mind of a story-lover.

12/09/2010

Hi everyone! And by everyone I mean the seven people who glance at the first paragraph of my blog. Thanks for returning and reading yet another tantalizing entry into the blogosphere. My plan for my winter break is to create three posts here, either for books, movies, or games. This post is one of those rare ones involving a creature of literary nature. Once again, I will not attempt to describe why I like or dislike the work. I hope to establish my level of interest and my belief in its quality, and then move on to a deeper discussion of elements I found interesting.

Today I will discuss the massive tome, Without Remorse by Tom Clancy. I admit this is the first Clancy novel I have ever read, and I was informed that this book was removed from the ongoing narrative arc of his canon enough for me to enjoy and understand it. Despite my initial concerns and qualms with the book, it won me over and delivered a satisfying, entertaining, edge-of-your-armchair read while maintaining a daunting 640 pages. Not once did I find myself bored, though looking at the book I figured I would. After warnings about a dull rising action I had prepared myself for endless exposition, but in fact the book was very well paced. The first quarter of the book became a little unrealistic and moralistic for my tastes, but Clancy reeled it in and controlled these aspects for the remainder of the story. Overall, I consider this book not a literary masterpiece, not a work of unsurpassed genius, but a unique piece of entertaining fiction from an author far above those writing cheap paperback spy stories.

Without Remorse takes John Kelly, a recurring character in the Clancy-verse, on a journey of vengeance. After losing the woman he loved to drug dealers from her past, he launches a crusade against the cartel and everyone involved with it. This draws the attention of the police, starting a manhunt for a murderer trained to kill. Kelly is also recruited for a mission in Vietnam, a very important one which could change the war and Kelly himself. Balancing these two missions, the novel also develops a new relationship for its hero and Sandy O’Toole, a nurse at a Baltimore hospital. There are many more events in the story, but this description should suffice. As you can tell, its packed full with events! You will not want for plot. Throughout this post I will discuss the reltionship between a man and his tools, Clancy’s creation of a hero, the novel’s position between war and peace, and the moralistic aspects of the story.

The first aspect of the novel I would like to discuss is Clancy’s near obsession with a man’s “tools,” meaning whatever he uses to get a job done. The book describes cars, boats, planes, guns, knives, and silencers with such exactness that it becomes unbearable at times. I myself couldn’t comprehend a quite a few sentences explaining the correct angle a boat’s hull should use to ride the surface of a wave. This is an interesting theme for the story, as it really demonstrates the uselessness of a man without the right tools for a job. The hero is not an unrealistic one, one that could kill 8 people by looking at them or breaking a man’s neck with his index finger. John Kelly is a man for whom over-preparing is a part of the plan. Every minute detail is thought of before he takes his next step. This is why he achieves his goals and kills the bad guys. Not because he can’t help himself. This obsession with tools also shows how much these characters know about their jobs and what they do. This book is full of experts in each field, ones that could describe every part of a tool and take it apart to show you. It goes a long way toward establishing their abilities in a certain field, whether that be flying, boating, or killing. Other than this effect, the exact descriptions of tools and tech just suggested to me that Clancy wanted to show off his gearhead and gunhead knowledge. When I felt this way I became mildly annoyed, but it was probably just because I was reading incomprehensible information written by a man far more knowledgeable than me.

A writer like Tom Clancy meets success or failure depending on his heroes. They lie at the center of espionage or action novels, and their development or actions drive the plot. Is the hero interesting? What are his motives? What is his past? How does he feel about his mission? How important is saving the world to him? The answers to these questions develop the character, giving the audience someone about which they want to read, or someone they would rather avoid. In my opinion, Clancy has developed a very intriguing hero in John Kelly. The specter of Kelly’s past floats in the background for the entire novel, casting shadows without ever revealing itself. The reader always wonders what horrible things he has done and seen in his years as a SEAL and what lengths he had to go to in order to save the world before. I’m sure reading other Clancy novels would flesh out his past, but the mystery of it really works here. What happens to Kelly at the beginning of this story establishes his motives and attitude for the rest of the work. It is his wife’s death and his lover’s murder that push him over the edge, driving him on a murder spree against the drug dealers of Baltimore. These events give him an emotional depth not found in a lot of action heroes, and they help establish a good base for the moralistic elements of the novel. Lastly, Kelly is a hero that always questions his actions. He is not the super-confident killer who always believes in the mission and murders without question. It is this constant curiosity about his own motives and those of others that keeps Kelly honest and sane in a world of madness. Clancy’s hero is not perfect, and even he knows it. He is, however, the only man for the job.

A minor complaint I had with the novel was with the moralistic characters and dialogue. I’m fine with subtle hints or actions indicating a character’s inherent goodness or evil, but the characters in this novel are anything but subtle (at times). The worst of this element lies in the first half of the book, before Kelly’s lover Pam is killed by drug dealers from her past. Kelly and his friends have arguments over how they should help Pam, how loving Kelly is, how beautiful Pam is, how strong and brave everyone is, blah blah…. Seriously. Just show the audience what you’re talking about. I don’t need to hear it. I need to feel it. The good characters practically ooze good, and then continue to contemplate their goodness to make it more apparent. The evil characters rape and murder with glee, laughing at their victims and bragging about it afterwards. All of them are like this. Not one second-guesses himself. Apparently good characters are so innocent as to question their own goodness, and evil characters are beyond reproach and shame.Perhaps they do things Without Remorse? Eh? I am most likely overstating this, but it seems Clancy has very distinct ideas of what good and evil are, and even though he tries to muse on them, it just makes them more clear.

The last element of Tom Clancy’s Without Remorse I would like to discuss here is the work’s clear position on war and peace. Siding with the realists (or cynics, depending on who you are), the book implies that worldwide, consistent, everlasting peace cannot truly be achieved. This goal is unattainable. War is necessary to make temporary peace, a fleeting happiness that makes the world a bit better for a bit of time. As John Kelly says, “I can’t save the world.” No one is powerful enough to end all evil, to end all war. This book feels so strongly that it depicts those who oppose this doctrine as traitors. One of the only people who feels this way, Wally Hicks, commits treason by leaking information on military operations to Russian Intelligence officers. He nearly ends the lives of over twenty men. He is cold, calculating, and, it seems, evil. Perhaps his intentions are good. The book doesn’t even seem to care. Tom Clancy is a man who has written a dozen novels on war, military operations, espionage, and good versus evil. In the Clancy-verse, evil cannot be wholly destroyed. It can only be subdued.

One of the most prolific and talented writers in the world today, Tom Clancy has contributed many great characters and stories to readers everywhere. Check out at least one of his books before you die. 

I have returned for one post! I have been thinking about a short film I watched a few weeks ago, When You’re Ready to Stop Starting Over. This darkly humorous piece of cinema had the audience from start to end, and had me thinking about it for weeks. Obviously, this will only make sense to those of you who have seen the film. Good luck to the up and coming director, and to the extremely talented cast and crew. Here we go!

When You’re Ready to Stop Starting Over. The title carries an air of finality and fatigue. It describes the frame of mind of someone ready- not for a new beginning, but an ending. The story the film tells is exactly that: the ending, of not one, but two people corrupted by want and lust. The finality and fatigue in the title are mirrored by the characters in some very intriguing ways throughout the film. Other themes are handled in equally interesting ways. At its heart, the film is a humorous caveat for those of the world willing to give up anything, even their humanity, for a “hotrod” or a “hot bod.” (Hilarious, right?)

One of the main characters is a young man obsessed with getting behind the wheel of every classic muscle car gracing the pages of his gearhead magazines. We can even assume this desire “drove” him to take up the valet job at an apparently high class theater. When the car of his dreams pulls into the parking lot, he decides that just driving it isn’t enough. He is tired of driving the vehicles of the rich directly to parking spots. He wants to own this model of metallurgy and claim the control he never had. He is “ready to stop starting over?” Unfortunately, to do so he must seduce the driver: an old woman with the libido of a frat boy- a cougar in heat. To own the car, he must be owned himself; he must give up the power he wants to have. 

The film gives us the story of their relationship, which can be more readily described as a competition. The young man is waiting out the cougar’s death (which takes a lot longer than expected), and the cougar milks him for all he’s worth (literally and figuratively). Whether she does this knowing his intentions or not, it is unclear. Throughout this segment of the film, we get some interesting commentary on relationships and sex. This piece of cinema portrays a relationship as it might be described in a biology textbook: some are mutual, and some are parasitic. The old woman ages much slower than the young man, who seemingly “catches up” with his partner over the years. He pays dearly for his materialism, and his “lover” collects it like taxes. Whether she knows his intentions or not (she honestly should), her burning passion revitalizes her body and sustains her life. Sex (and related acts) lose their passion and humanity when used toward materialistic ends. Before engaging in acts of passion with the old woman, the man glances at her car in his magazine; he might as well have taken Viagra. He might as well be having sex with the car. Whatever keeps his sexual drive in high gear doesn’t seem to matter to the cougar, whose true desire is to sleep with a young man for the rest of her life. The film provides an interesting perspective on love, or what happens when love becomes a mask for our baser instincts. 

The ending diverges from Shakespeare’s rules of comedy as the couple’s plans go up in flames. To explain this reference, someone told me that the way to distinguish a comedy from a tragedy is from the ending; one ends in a wedding, and one ends in death. Both “lovers” die, but do they both receive just punishment? The cougar finally dies after what seems like a 50 year reprieve from the effects of old age. On her last day, her body showed the signs of old age and encroaching death. Yet, we see her celebrating ANOTHER BIRTHDAY- an event signifying rebirth, a restart, another year of torturing the man who wants her for her car. She dies and falls in to her birthday cake, catching herself on fire along with the house. Perhaps she was “ready to stop starting over.” If we assign her the power in the narrative, maybe (in a way) she was letting the man go after years of paying his debt. Or, perhaps old age claimed her in extraordinary fashion, saving the young (now old) man. 

The audience in my theater watched the man succumb to a heart attack right as he reached his goal, and many sounded very sympathetic. Why? Yes, great filmmaking had crafted a character that we had been identifying with, a character we wanted to reach his goals. However, is he not paying the price for his materialism and “putting on” an old woman for years? Then again, maybe he had suffered enough. An interesting aspect of his death is that the narrative refuses to let the car become a macguffin. It kills off the hero before he meets his goal; therefore, we have no idea how satisfying it actually would have been. Had he ever driven the car before? The film led me to believe this was the first time he touched the wheel, giving more credence to my theory that the woman held the power in the narrative. The man’s goal was to own the car, and he was willing to be owned to achieve it. He pays his debt, but is not paid in return! This lack of balance in the narrative suggests to me that it is not only a darkly humorous work, but also a cautionary tale- if the only way to get what you want is to put on facades and give up your humanity, you are feeding urges that ought not to be fed. This film punishes the man who gives into his baser instincts, on some level appreciating a set of morals. 

Obviously, this is not a review of a film. This is not even a formal analysis. It is what I could get down of my thoughts on a film whose narrative captivated me. After sorting through it for a few weeks, this worthless dribble is the product. For those of you able to make sense of it, consider translating the holy works of dead languages. For those of you that haven’t understood one sentence thus far: A ball big laugh up pie indubitably brown. 

Thanks for reading!

Last night, I witnessed the musical Wicked for the very first time. I believe it achieves perfection on so many levels, and creates a story so deep and engaging, it is nothing short of a masterpiece. I will first discuss the aspects of the musical that most interested me, and then I will briefly discuss a trend Wicked perpetuates that I find quite intriguing.

When I say that the show achieves on many different levels, it truly does. It would be difficult not to rave about every aspect of Wicked, either because it was truly that good or the spectacle of it all is too mesmerizing. The aspects of the musical that most impressed me were the set and costume design, the two lead actresses, and the story. I would discuss the songs and singing, but I don’t feel knowledgeable enough to do them justice. Needless to say, they were amazing. The only issue I had with the show was a pacing problem in the second act, close to the ending. This sole detractor could not damage my love for Wicked, but not to discuss it I feel would be doing a disservice to the review.

 The set designer had a very daunting job: creating the land of Oz. Rolling fields, a university, Fiyero’s castle, and the Emerald City itself come alive in rich color and dazzling lights. Every environment felt real, yet strange in an Ozian kind of way. The Emerald City was built with a flare for lights and glamor, and it reminded me of a green Hollywood. The big city was definitely differentiated from the farmland outside of the town where Dorothy landed. Rows of corn and the colors of dusk surrounded the bleak tomb of Nessle Rose. Overall, the set design made Oz seem like a land far away, though one familiar enough to be endearing.

The costume design synchronized well with the image I gathered from the book and forms of hearsay. Being a young woman, Galinda’s costume emphasized fashion and youth, utilizing tight dresses and flashy accessories. Eventually it evolved into an image of elegance as Galinda became an important politcal figure. Elphaba’s costume, obviously the most well-known, evolved throughout the show as well. Much thought was put into the gradual formation of the iconic Wicked Witch, including her hat, broom, cape, and dress. I was most impressed with, once again, the Emerald City. Its citizens exuded “Hollywood” in personality and dress. Flashy, gaudy, glamorous, fashionable, the costumes screamed “Big City.” I was very impressed with the thought put into each costume and its components. Each setting had different inhabitants, and costumes made this very clear. I would talk about how great the make-up was, including that used for the animals and monkeys. However, I wouldn’t be able to go much farther into it beyond saying “It was great.”

I was in possession of the program which would allow me to tell you the names of the lead actresses. But I lost it. Anyways, let me just say that they were phenomenal. The role of Galinda called for an actress who could be the epitome of annoyance and a pivot point of morality. She had to be the popular girl with the grating voice and awful arrogance, as well as the loyal friend torn between two visions of “good.” The woman who played her performed excellently, with a “larger-than-life” persona that fits perfectly in a grandiose theater. The role of Elphaba called for, first of all, an actress with an air of heartbreaking sadness. It called for an actress who could seem like a complete outsider, yet one who seemed on the brink of a marvelous breakthrough. And when she accomplished that breakthrough, the role called for an actress who could defy gravity, breaking every law  in the name of goodness and love. The actress portraying Elphaba did so with a a brilliant subtlety, using every single feature to convey the emotion of the moment. These brilliant actresses carried the play on their shoulders, and this was no small task.

The plot of the musical is truly a masterpiece- perhaps not its parts, but holistically. How in the world does one connect Wicked to The Wizard of Oz? This would appear to be a painstaking task, but Gregory Maguire did so with a flair that follows only a true artist, one who thoroughly enjoyed his act of creation. The ways that Wicked creates the world of The Wizard of Oz are quite astounding. From the origins of the three sidekicks to the true motives of the Wizard, Wicked gave its source material a depth that it once lacked, an emotional complexity it could once only dream of. This great story stems partially from the choice of main character. Elphaba is an infinitely more interesting character than Dorothy. Dorothy, being a human, may have been meant to establish a comfortable window into Oz for a human audience. Elphaba, however, is a character who is not just a window. She is a person, with a complex personality, a set of morals, and an unflinching will to be anything other than herself. For many reasons, Wicked surpasses its source material to deliver a tale that reflects the values of our time, and one that asks some important questions about morality and power.

Now for my paragraph of complaining. The second half of the show had a grandiose task to accomplish. It had to cover an extraordinary amount of time, and many events that some would call “major plot points.” In the 60-90 minute time frame the act allowed, it was very difficult to squeeze in these plot points in a way that did not feel rushed. The emotional pay-off of the story felt diminished to me, and I believe this is because it breezed by fairly quickly. Adapting the many events of a book into a musical is a very ambitious mission, I know. But I thought the plot and characters would have been better served if the musical focused on a narrower plot and put its effort into Elphaba’s emotional arc.

Finally, Wicked perpetuates a trend in narrative creation that I find incredibly interesting. A plot element that has found its way into every form of art, a narrative focus on a supposed “villain” has become a popular way to comment on morality or flesh out an already popular franchise. I won’t go through the trouble of listing examples, because chances you already know them. Another reason I will refrain from doing this is because this blog isn’t world famous. Its impressive enough that I wrote a post! So far, this movement has produced valuable works with engaging characters and commentary. I do wonder what it says about our culture. Do we have a more complex view of good and evil? Do we now question stereotypical images of a villain, looking deeper to attempt to understand his/her motives? Perhaps this acknowledgment of a person’s depth, no matter what they seem to be, can only to lead to art that is more rich, intellectual, and morally valuable. I’d like to think so.