I've been meaning to read Aldous Huxley's Brave New World for ages. I picked up a cheap copy at a Borders' liquidation sale last March and just got around to reading it while I was traveling the past couple of weeks. All I can really say is: "meh". There are interesting things, but I described the book to a friend who had never read it as thus: The first two chapters, where we learn about the conditioning process that occurs from fertilization through adolescent development for all citizens is very fascinating. Chapters 17 and 18, where our would-be protagonists talk with the Controller about God, Science, Truth, and Beauty and their lack of place in a harmonious society are interesting. Everything else is whiny bitches.
Really, this is a problem with plenty of "dystopian" fiction. It's so concerned with portraying its authors personal take on why humanity is screwed that it feels it doesn't need to tell a compelling story or provide characters with realistic motivations. It's like reading a Platonic dialogue for the plot rather than the philosophy: you're just going to be irked by how much of a Mary Jane Socrates is. In Plato, though, this is tolerable because there really isn't any action beyond the discussion and the philosophy. In Brave New World and other books of its ilk, however, the plot is meant to be somehow meaningful, or at least illustrative, and it takes up a much more significant proportion of the proceedings.
So, the fact that our "savage" and Bernard and, to a lesser extent, Heimholtz are all complete idiots is consistently annoying. Beyond even that, Huxley shoots his entire thesis in the foot with the fate of Bernard and Heimholtz by telling us that failures in the conditioning process are more common than we've been led to believe and that there are effectively numerous colonies of "normal" humans continuing to advance the race on the fringes of Utopia in the form of the Islands. That we then finish the book with a long and completely pointless chapter following John's fate is pointless. We know damn well that, were he not a "savage" and a "social experiment" his grim end would be unneeded.
Furthermore, while Huxley does a good job in early chapters of seeming to take his society seriously and as the norm, the tone becomes increasingly tongue-in-cheek as he delves into the more ridiculous suppositions. The community sing culminating in the mass orgy, for instance, is just absurd. I get that real art is supposed to have disappeared, but that doesn't change the fact that the entire sequence is a chore to read through between the songs and the sudden, inexplicable sexual frenzy that sweeps through. Contrasted to the very well written early portions where Lenina is being scolded for her borderline monogamy (ridiculous, but believable), it's a sad failure. Further, the notion of "Ford" instead of god just became more and more painful as it entered into the character's vocabulary. As what I believed to be a tongue-in-cheek idea in the foreword, I could deal with it. As a foundational aspect of society, it just seemed utterly unbelievable -- though this has more to do with a problem I'll discuss at the end.
Finally, everything to do with the "reservation" is also just poorly executed. The notion that all world religions would have merged over hundreds of years just shows an unnecessary lack of respect for all of them. To be franks, an equally offensive (to a theist) and far more likely suggestion is that religious warfare would have wiped out the remaining "uncivilized" regions or left them with a handful of small factions fighting over scarce resources. Disease, poverty, and monogomy, not simple greed or other human instincts stamped out or tempered by the conditioning process, seem to be the reasons for the reservations to be in such disarray.
That said, Huxley has a lot of interesting ideas about what it would take in order for individuals to live as willing slaves of the government. Specifically, he focuses on the fairly obvious notion of control via the carrot. By keeping people content, you keep them from questioning you. The genetic selection, developmental behavioral training, and biological "surrogate" drugs provide the foundation for this contentment, which is then maintained throughout life by three societal pillars: Soma helps to manage those inevitable moments of disappointment and sadness. The elimination of the family in favor of government "hatcheries" and indoctrination centers reduces the odds of personal attachment and thus strong emotional reactions to overpower logic. Societally expected promiscuity works on both effects.
It's a fascinating approach, but one that time has shown to be absurd.
First of all, Huxley lived in a time where Freud was still taken somewhat seriously and where Psychology was synonymous with Behaviorism. This is no longer the case. We know so much more about the brain and how it operates now that it becomes trivial to question the basic premises upon which so much of the conditioning process is based. More important, though, is the fact that Huxley assumed a society that would continue in the wake of industrialization. He had no idea, even in his addenda and commentary, that the microcomputer, much less The Internet, was on the horizon. Mass, immediate access to information completely obliterates Huxley's future, and while a future where such technology is squashed away, the process to get there would be more violent -- and certainly more prolonged -- even than the war he suggests led to the founding of Utopia.
Of course, The Internet provides plenty of opportunity for a parallel road into a similar future. We have the sort of constant, superficial contact with people that Huxley predicted in the form of social networking. We can sit and anesthetize ourselves to our ills and those of the world by overloading on news to the point that we lose our capacity to care or by playing games or by watching cat videos. The important distinction, though, is that these problems are not government imposed or even sanctioned. They are self inflicted. Fortunately, we live in a society that has smart enough to recognize that Internet addiction and information overload are actual problems. Unfortunately, we also live in a society that continues to pursue ubiquitous computing and the social isolation it promotes before we've begun to solve the problems of the current generation of technology. I'm hopeful, but...we'll see.
Showing posts with label Books/Comics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books/Comics. Show all posts
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Scott Pilgrim
Sometime in March or April of 2008, I heard that Edgar Wright, of Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead fame, was writing and directing a film adaptation of a comic series called Scott Pilgrim and that it would star Michael Cera. I love Edgar Wright, I love Michael Cera (note that this was just before Michael Cera fatigue swept a good portion the nation along with the backlash against Juno), so I immediately went and checked out the series and fell in love with it. I've eagerly anticipated each new volume (up to the final one, which released in July) and this movie ever since. I just recently finished re-reading the books and tonight I finally saw the film, so I figured it was about damn time I blogged about it.
The comics and the movie are really cut from the same cloth, so most of what I can say will apply to both, and the same can be said of the most common criticism: what's really at stake? By far the most common criticism of the movie was that it was hard to care about Scott and even harder to see why he was fighting for Ramona. That's a pretty legitimate complaint, until you take a closer look and see the point: None of this is about being in love. It's entirely about growing up. This relationship is just a catalyst, as they so often are.
Scott and Ramona are, quite frankly, the two least likable characters in this story. Scott is an idiot with no attention span, job, or prospects. He doesn't particularly care about anything and moves through life on a whim, unwittingly hurting people left and right, often times without even remembering how things went down. Ramona is slightly more responsible in that she at least has a job and her own apartment, but she's similarly capricious. The only difference is that she's fully aware of the hurt she's created and simply runs away from it any time it catches up.
Scott's battles with Ramona's exes simultaneously force him to fight for something for a change and make Ramona confront her own baggage and acknowledge that there are things and people in her life worth keeping around. Whether or not she's "the one" or Scott really loves her is hardly the question. The issue at hand is that both of them are realizing that we have to live in this world as it is, not as we'd prefer it to be. We can't live by mooching off our friends and wasting our time on idle fancies or by staying ahead of the inevitable changes. More importantly, we can't live our lives thinking we're the perfect hero of our story. We need to take charge of our affairs and of our faults and face the hard fact that reality is tough and being a good person in spite of that is tougher.
The book and the movie, which entered development and writing about halfway through the series, have different ways of letting Scott come to terms with these facts. In the movie, Wright has Scott acknowledge that he's fighting for himself and "earning the power of self-respect" when he confronts Gideon for the second time. This is slightly more straightforward and certainly happier than the comic's approach. In O'Malley's version, Scott encounters nega-Scott and he finally admits to himself what he's done and how many people he's hurt more than necessary by being willfully oblivious. Being the guilt-ridden penance junkie I am, I think I like this better, but both work well. In either case, Scott comes to terms with the fact that his life is his life, and he can't continue brushing it off if he wants it to turn around, and that's the important part.
So, that's my big reason for not caring a whole lot about whether Ramona appears to be worth fighting for. The other one is simply this: who are we to judge? As a rule, I've generally given up trying to figure out what it is that draws people to each other. We all have our own criteria, and it's hardly our place to judge. Most movies and books try to establish that people are right for one another with grand arm waving and a showiness that just doesn't happen in life. I prefer it when I'm allowed to just trust that these people are making the choice that they feel is best for them in their lives.
Not much else to say on the matter. The other big component is just the referential/stylistic component, which is the upfront draw. Both O'Malley and Wright have a near perfect understanding of homage and parody, and they keep the in-jokes coming at a blinding pace while keeping the bulk of the overt material readily accessible. Especially as a member of the in-group, I can't think of anything to complain about on this end.
Short version: Check out both the movie and the comics. They're not perfect, but you'll still be glad you did.
The comics and the movie are really cut from the same cloth, so most of what I can say will apply to both, and the same can be said of the most common criticism: what's really at stake? By far the most common criticism of the movie was that it was hard to care about Scott and even harder to see why he was fighting for Ramona. That's a pretty legitimate complaint, until you take a closer look and see the point: None of this is about being in love. It's entirely about growing up. This relationship is just a catalyst, as they so often are.
Scott and Ramona are, quite frankly, the two least likable characters in this story. Scott is an idiot with no attention span, job, or prospects. He doesn't particularly care about anything and moves through life on a whim, unwittingly hurting people left and right, often times without even remembering how things went down. Ramona is slightly more responsible in that she at least has a job and her own apartment, but she's similarly capricious. The only difference is that she's fully aware of the hurt she's created and simply runs away from it any time it catches up.
Scott's battles with Ramona's exes simultaneously force him to fight for something for a change and make Ramona confront her own baggage and acknowledge that there are things and people in her life worth keeping around. Whether or not she's "the one" or Scott really loves her is hardly the question. The issue at hand is that both of them are realizing that we have to live in this world as it is, not as we'd prefer it to be. We can't live by mooching off our friends and wasting our time on idle fancies or by staying ahead of the inevitable changes. More importantly, we can't live our lives thinking we're the perfect hero of our story. We need to take charge of our affairs and of our faults and face the hard fact that reality is tough and being a good person in spite of that is tougher.
The book and the movie, which entered development and writing about halfway through the series, have different ways of letting Scott come to terms with these facts. In the movie, Wright has Scott acknowledge that he's fighting for himself and "earning the power of self-respect" when he confronts Gideon for the second time. This is slightly more straightforward and certainly happier than the comic's approach. In O'Malley's version, Scott encounters nega-Scott and he finally admits to himself what he's done and how many people he's hurt more than necessary by being willfully oblivious. Being the guilt-ridden penance junkie I am, I think I like this better, but both work well. In either case, Scott comes to terms with the fact that his life is his life, and he can't continue brushing it off if he wants it to turn around, and that's the important part.
So, that's my big reason for not caring a whole lot about whether Ramona appears to be worth fighting for. The other one is simply this: who are we to judge? As a rule, I've generally given up trying to figure out what it is that draws people to each other. We all have our own criteria, and it's hardly our place to judge. Most movies and books try to establish that people are right for one another with grand arm waving and a showiness that just doesn't happen in life. I prefer it when I'm allowed to just trust that these people are making the choice that they feel is best for them in their lives.
Not much else to say on the matter. The other big component is just the referential/stylistic component, which is the upfront draw. Both O'Malley and Wright have a near perfect understanding of homage and parody, and they keep the in-jokes coming at a blinding pace while keeping the bulk of the overt material readily accessible. Especially as a member of the in-group, I can't think of anything to complain about on this end.
Short version: Check out both the movie and the comics. They're not perfect, but you'll still be glad you did.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Eclectic Update
I'm feeling really bored right now, so I'm going to pretend I'm a 14-year-old girl from 2004 and treat my blog like a diary for a night, just for shits and giggles. No single topic, just a bunch of loosely connected thoughts and facts about my life of late. If people actually like this, maybe I'll do it semi-regularly.
So, the Firefly stuff sort of imploded. Didn't realize how little I'd want to sit and watch TV, even Firefly, during the busier parts of my summer. I have not had a weekend to myself since June 11 and won't have one until just before classes start on the 23rd. I have either been elsewhere or had my grandparents in town or, in the case of this weekend, been packing any time a weekend rolled around for the last eight weeks. That might seem irrelevant during the summer, but when you consider the fact that my parents tend to forget that I am an adult and lay claim to most of my weekday evenings, it has added up to me having precious little time to enjoy this summer. In fact, the two best days I've had at home in my two and a half month stay were the two that I spent downtown on Jury duty. I got to explore and meet people and catch lawyers off guard and sit and read in peace. It was actually pretty awesome.
Speaking of reading, I've done a lot of that this summer. I mentioned that I finally got around to Pride and Prejudice in my (intentionally) somewhat controversial post on Mr. Darcy awhile back and wrote about my thoughts upon re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Beyond those two, I also read or re-read: Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere which, while not my favorite of his novels, is likely his most accessible; Boneshaker, a very solid first entry into Steampunk by Cherie Priest; Mossflower, easily my favorite of the Redwall series; and the first five books in Jim Butcher's Codex Alera series.
I wrote a little bit about the first book in this series and my thoughts on Fantasy as a whole when I started into it last summer. I'm happy to say that I have, by and large, quite enjoyed the books. They aren't without their faults. My biggest issue at first was that the first two books and more clung so closely to genre norms that I often saw Startling Revelations coming hundreds of pages in advance. During the third book, though, Butcher proves that all of the tropes were not a framework but mere scaffolding, and the series begins to move based on the considerable merits of its own setting and politics. More consistent problems, for me, include an occasional tendency towards the highly visual writing that makes Fantasy a difficult genre for me and Butcher's tendency to delve into unnecessary repetition of basic facts to make sure his audience is following along (how many times in a book do we need to be reminded of the importance of body language to the Canim?). By and large, though, Butcher keeps the pace flowing rapidly and the books are a solid read for fans, or lapsed fans, of Fantasy.
All of this reading got me to finally start working a little bit on a writing project I've been muddling over for years. Unfortunately I'm not talking about The Littlest Hobo, which tends to just make me go to very, very dark places. I've mostly got the loose details of a setting and a protagonist in place and am still trying to find the plot. I've got a couple of pages of establishing material written which I may post in the not too distant future. If anybody else would like to read about a "professional" medical test subject's experiences in a corporate dystopia, let me know.
I've been watching HIMYM with my mom lately (which is both weird and perfectly natural) and I've noticed that none of the characters beyond Barney, and, to a lesser extent, Robin, are terribly consistently defined in terms of personality. Ted can be perfectly charming and respectful in one episode and nearly as big a sleaze as Barney in the next; Marshall can't decide if he's the straigh-man or the goofball; and Lilly swaps between erudite and childlike at a whim. Honestly, though, I think that's part of why the series works and an important distinction between it and Friends, to which it will probably always be compared. None of us fills exactly one role in our social groups. We put on and take off hats as the situation demands it. It's nice to see characters who are similarly varied, even if the end result is sometimes more like season 5 and less like season 4.
Been cooking lots of Mexican/Tex-Mex lately. It's kind of like when I was first learning to cook and all I could really make was stir-fry and chili. My family was so blown away that they kept on asking me to make that same thing. Now I keep on getting talked into making tacos, guacamole, and salsa for people. As much as I love it, I'm hoping to move on to something new soon. Lots of ideas for soup recipes, especially ones that involve lentils and kale (though not together...yet). Here's hoping that the occasional weirdness of cooking at altitude won't kill that plan.
Not a lot of videogame action this summer. The same thing that killed the Firefly coverage killed that. Did finally cave in and pick up Jade Empire on Xbox Originals, though. I was...a bit disappointed. After reading IGN's 10.0 review, I was expecting something a little more. Part of the problem is that silent protagonists don't work as an emotional repository when the rest of the world talks. Bioware obviously realized this by the time they were making Mass Effect, and it's amazing how taking a certain amount of control away from the player -- giving the protagonist his/her own voice and words -- enhances attachment and even ownership. Bioware is apparently going a step further even in the Dragon Age sequel, allowing the user to select only the tone of the response, not even giving any sort of textual summary at the time of choosing. I'm excited to see how that will work out.
That's it, I guess. Hopefully everybody found something of interest.
So, the Firefly stuff sort of imploded. Didn't realize how little I'd want to sit and watch TV, even Firefly, during the busier parts of my summer. I have not had a weekend to myself since June 11 and won't have one until just before classes start on the 23rd. I have either been elsewhere or had my grandparents in town or, in the case of this weekend, been packing any time a weekend rolled around for the last eight weeks. That might seem irrelevant during the summer, but when you consider the fact that my parents tend to forget that I am an adult and lay claim to most of my weekday evenings, it has added up to me having precious little time to enjoy this summer. In fact, the two best days I've had at home in my two and a half month stay were the two that I spent downtown on Jury duty. I got to explore and meet people and catch lawyers off guard and sit and read in peace. It was actually pretty awesome.
Speaking of reading, I've done a lot of that this summer. I mentioned that I finally got around to Pride and Prejudice in my (intentionally) somewhat controversial post on Mr. Darcy awhile back and wrote about my thoughts upon re-reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Beyond those two, I also read or re-read: Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere which, while not my favorite of his novels, is likely his most accessible; Boneshaker, a very solid first entry into Steampunk by Cherie Priest; Mossflower, easily my favorite of the Redwall series; and the first five books in Jim Butcher's Codex Alera series.
I wrote a little bit about the first book in this series and my thoughts on Fantasy as a whole when I started into it last summer. I'm happy to say that I have, by and large, quite enjoyed the books. They aren't without their faults. My biggest issue at first was that the first two books and more clung so closely to genre norms that I often saw Startling Revelations coming hundreds of pages in advance. During the third book, though, Butcher proves that all of the tropes were not a framework but mere scaffolding, and the series begins to move based on the considerable merits of its own setting and politics. More consistent problems, for me, include an occasional tendency towards the highly visual writing that makes Fantasy a difficult genre for me and Butcher's tendency to delve into unnecessary repetition of basic facts to make sure his audience is following along (how many times in a book do we need to be reminded of the importance of body language to the Canim?). By and large, though, Butcher keeps the pace flowing rapidly and the books are a solid read for fans, or lapsed fans, of Fantasy.
All of this reading got me to finally start working a little bit on a writing project I've been muddling over for years. Unfortunately I'm not talking about The Littlest Hobo, which tends to just make me go to very, very dark places. I've mostly got the loose details of a setting and a protagonist in place and am still trying to find the plot. I've got a couple of pages of establishing material written which I may post in the not too distant future. If anybody else would like to read about a "professional" medical test subject's experiences in a corporate dystopia, let me know.
I've been watching HIMYM with my mom lately (which is both weird and perfectly natural) and I've noticed that none of the characters beyond Barney, and, to a lesser extent, Robin, are terribly consistently defined in terms of personality. Ted can be perfectly charming and respectful in one episode and nearly as big a sleaze as Barney in the next; Marshall can't decide if he's the straigh-man or the goofball; and Lilly swaps between erudite and childlike at a whim. Honestly, though, I think that's part of why the series works and an important distinction between it and Friends, to which it will probably always be compared. None of us fills exactly one role in our social groups. We put on and take off hats as the situation demands it. It's nice to see characters who are similarly varied, even if the end result is sometimes more like season 5 and less like season 4.
Been cooking lots of Mexican/Tex-Mex lately. It's kind of like when I was first learning to cook and all I could really make was stir-fry and chili. My family was so blown away that they kept on asking me to make that same thing. Now I keep on getting talked into making tacos, guacamole, and salsa for people. As much as I love it, I'm hoping to move on to something new soon. Lots of ideas for soup recipes, especially ones that involve lentils and kale (though not together...yet). Here's hoping that the occasional weirdness of cooking at altitude won't kill that plan.
Not a lot of videogame action this summer. The same thing that killed the Firefly coverage killed that. Did finally cave in and pick up Jade Empire on Xbox Originals, though. I was...a bit disappointed. After reading IGN's 10.0 review, I was expecting something a little more. Part of the problem is that silent protagonists don't work as an emotional repository when the rest of the world talks. Bioware obviously realized this by the time they were making Mass Effect, and it's amazing how taking a certain amount of control away from the player -- giving the protagonist his/her own voice and words -- enhances attachment and even ownership. Bioware is apparently going a step further even in the Dragon Age sequel, allowing the user to select only the tone of the response, not even giving any sort of textual summary at the time of choosing. I'm excited to see how that will work out.
That's it, I guess. Hopefully everybody found something of interest.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Looking Back: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
The first time I read the Harry Potter series, I pushed through all 7 books in 17 days. That included time spent packing, moving, and waiting to be in contact with people from whom I could secure the next volume. Once I finally finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, at the end of that marathon, I was exhausted and, admittedly, a bit depressed. It was hard to feel anything about the book in particular, other than the wonderful, dreadful knowledge that it was all done. As time passed, and I reflected on the final volume in particular, I had a few nagging issues with it, but I wasn't confident enough in my recall to make any formal complaints. Last summer, I had a bit to say while re-reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It was a good re-experiencing these books in a less hurried (or should I say harried*) way, and I've been waiting for the opportunity to do the same with The Deathly Hallows.
I'm now happy to say two things about this book. One, my complaints still stand; and two, they are still largely overshadowed by a handful of key moments.
I'll start with the complaints because, well, that's just the sort of man I am. For one, the entire arc of the book is just alien to the rest of the series. Much of that comes from the fact that Hogwarts isn't present to provide structure of classes and quiditch term breaks. Stranger, though, is that, in this volume, Harry starts out on a mission. In every other book, Harry heads to school just hoping to God for a normal year. We know that isn't going to happen, but we also get to see everything develop and come together slowly with a few peaks of action or character building thrown in. It's almost a mystery structure: Weird stuff going on...One of the professors is acting weirder than normal... OMG, Voldemort!
In Deathly Hallows it's...well, it's just OMG, Voldemort! The whole time. It's a bit overwhelming. It's also strange because it gives Harry sort of a list of mission objectives to complete.
To me, it just feels less like a narrative and more like a lot of checking off of lists. It doesn't help that Harry, Ron, and Hermione are barely escaping death everywhere they go. Leave for The Burrow, barely escape death. Go to a cafe in London, barely escape death. Go to the Ministry, barely escape death. Go to Godric's Hollow, barely escape death. Go to a random forest, barely escape death. Go visit Luna's dad, barely escape death. Get captured by Death Eaters, barely escape death. Go to Gringotts, barely escape death. Go to Hogwarts, barely escape death. That's nine times, off the top of my head, that the kids almost die! That's nine times more than in any other Harry Potter book! Obviously, this is a very dangerous trip!
As borderline awkward as all of this is, though, it's not nearly my biggest complaint. That would be reserved for the long list of material that I feel is almost entirely unnecessary. There's a lot of time spent on the life (and lies) of Albus Dumbledore in this book. Most of it is there to give a false sense that Harry might have serious doubts or turn his back on his mission. I never thought that would happen. The only other purpose it serves is to humanize Dumbledore a bit, but I really don't think that was needed. Adults will assume that his wisdom was hard-won, and kids can stand to have a blemish-less hero once in awhile. It's all interesting to a degree, but not nearly as much as it is distracting. If Rowling can go on ahead and tell us what characters' lives are like in between the main ending and the epilogue through unofficial channels, she can do the same with Dumbledore's home life.
I also fail to see the point of removing Ron for a whole 80 pages of story. I suppose it serves to slap us in the face with the continued mutuality of Hermione's feelings and of his role in the group beyond comic relief, but it just seemed cheap to have him gone for one small vignette and suddenly back.
My biggest problem, however, remains with the eponymous Deathly Hallows and the half-assed introduction of wand lore. I really don't see how the Deathly Hallows were in any way necessary. The Resurrection Stone gave us a nice scene with Harry walking to his demise, I suppose, but it did nothing for the Cloak, and the nature of the Elder Wand then gets all mired up in the BS wand lore stuff. I would have much preferred they stick to the, "Hey, I died for everybody. You can't do any harm to anybody anymore. Suck it!" approach to the ending. Instead, they conflate it with the "Your wand is now mine by way of Draco's actions" Deus Ex Machina by which Harry doesn't even have to be the one to fire the killing curse at Voldy. If that was really the whole reason for all of that wand bull -- pretending that Harry never killed anybody (he did, think of why he didn't stun Stan Shunpike, and then the fact that he did the same to others on his trail) -- then it's just, well, dumb. I'll also note that, when push came to shove, none of the "good guys" were terribly opposed to using any of the "unforgivable curses". The readiness with which Harry uttered his first "imperius" always rubbed me the wrong way.
All said and done, though; as much as the various points above irritate me, it's still a more than adequate ending. Why? Because Harry experiencing Snape's memories is the most important chapter in the entire series. Because Rowling still knows these characters. Because I never actually wanted to stop reading, either time through the book. I meant to take four or five days to cover Deathly Hallows on this outing. I couldn't last longer than two, and I really tried.
*I really ought to be shot
I'm now happy to say two things about this book. One, my complaints still stand; and two, they are still largely overshadowed by a handful of key moments.
I'll start with the complaints because, well, that's just the sort of man I am. For one, the entire arc of the book is just alien to the rest of the series. Much of that comes from the fact that Hogwarts isn't present to provide structure of classes and quiditch term breaks. Stranger, though, is that, in this volume, Harry starts out on a mission. In every other book, Harry heads to school just hoping to God for a normal year. We know that isn't going to happen, but we also get to see everything develop and come together slowly with a few peaks of action or character building thrown in. It's almost a mystery structure: Weird stuff going on...One of the professors is acting weirder than normal... OMG, Voldemort!
In Deathly Hallows it's...well, it's just OMG, Voldemort! The whole time. It's a bit overwhelming. It's also strange because it gives Harry sort of a list of mission objectives to complete.
Primary Objectives:
1. Find horcruxes.
1a. Find the locket
1b. Find the cup
1c. Find something related to Rowena Ravenclaw
1d. Get the snake alone
2. Figure out how to destroy horcruxes.
2a. Recover the sword of Godric Gryffindor
2b. Break into the Chamber of Secrets in unlikely fashion
to retrieve Basilisk Fangs.
2c. Learn that the dumb, fat, evil kids randomly learned
how to cast a ridiculously potent fire spell.
Bonus Objective:
3. Unite the Deathly Hallows.
To me, it just feels less like a narrative and more like a lot of checking off of lists. It doesn't help that Harry, Ron, and Hermione are barely escaping death everywhere they go. Leave for The Burrow, barely escape death. Go to a cafe in London, barely escape death. Go to the Ministry, barely escape death. Go to Godric's Hollow, barely escape death. Go to a random forest, barely escape death. Go visit Luna's dad, barely escape death. Get captured by Death Eaters, barely escape death. Go to Gringotts, barely escape death. Go to Hogwarts, barely escape death. That's nine times, off the top of my head, that the kids almost die! That's nine times more than in any other Harry Potter book! Obviously, this is a very dangerous trip!
As borderline awkward as all of this is, though, it's not nearly my biggest complaint. That would be reserved for the long list of material that I feel is almost entirely unnecessary. There's a lot of time spent on the life (and lies) of Albus Dumbledore in this book. Most of it is there to give a false sense that Harry might have serious doubts or turn his back on his mission. I never thought that would happen. The only other purpose it serves is to humanize Dumbledore a bit, but I really don't think that was needed. Adults will assume that his wisdom was hard-won, and kids can stand to have a blemish-less hero once in awhile. It's all interesting to a degree, but not nearly as much as it is distracting. If Rowling can go on ahead and tell us what characters' lives are like in between the main ending and the epilogue through unofficial channels, she can do the same with Dumbledore's home life.
I also fail to see the point of removing Ron for a whole 80 pages of story. I suppose it serves to slap us in the face with the continued mutuality of Hermione's feelings and of his role in the group beyond comic relief, but it just seemed cheap to have him gone for one small vignette and suddenly back.
My biggest problem, however, remains with the eponymous Deathly Hallows and the half-assed introduction of wand lore. I really don't see how the Deathly Hallows were in any way necessary. The Resurrection Stone gave us a nice scene with Harry walking to his demise, I suppose, but it did nothing for the Cloak, and the nature of the Elder Wand then gets all mired up in the BS wand lore stuff. I would have much preferred they stick to the, "Hey, I died for everybody. You can't do any harm to anybody anymore. Suck it!" approach to the ending. Instead, they conflate it with the "Your wand is now mine by way of Draco's actions" Deus Ex Machina by which Harry doesn't even have to be the one to fire the killing curse at Voldy. If that was really the whole reason for all of that wand bull -- pretending that Harry never killed anybody (he did, think of why he didn't stun Stan Shunpike, and then the fact that he did the same to others on his trail) -- then it's just, well, dumb. I'll also note that, when push came to shove, none of the "good guys" were terribly opposed to using any of the "unforgivable curses". The readiness with which Harry uttered his first "imperius" always rubbed me the wrong way.
All said and done, though; as much as the various points above irritate me, it's still a more than adequate ending. Why? Because Harry experiencing Snape's memories is the most important chapter in the entire series. Because Rowling still knows these characters. Because I never actually wanted to stop reading, either time through the book. I meant to take four or five days to cover Deathly Hallows on this outing. I couldn't last longer than two, and I really tried.
*I really ought to be shot
Monday, June 28, 2010
Fickleness and Fidelity
I used a car ride home the last couple of days as an excuse to read Pride and Prejudice. For years, I've been meaning to read this classic novel, and I'll admit that my curiosity has only been piqued by the abundance of women I know who have declared their undying love for Mr. Darcy. There's little I can say that hasn't been said about the book itself. Austen is rightly celebrated for her dialog, as it brings her characters, particularly the supporting cast, to life brilliantly. Indeed, without it, the novel would mostly be flat. But it is there, so all is splendid. Tangentially, I could complain about particulars of Regency Era grammar: The awkward, unrestrained use of commas; an abuse of semicolons that puts my own to shame; and the freedom with which pronouns are used without any attempt to establish a clear antecedent...but I imagine that these aren't issues particular to Austen, and the joys far outshine the frustrations.
Since I can't really say anything that hasn't been said already about the novel as a whole, I want to focus on one tangential aspect which I already mentioned: Mr. Darcy and his seemingly universal adoration. Now, I know that I'll draw a lot of flack for this from any lady readers I may have, but I just want to say this:
Dear Darcy Devotees,
shame on you
I say this because, in many respects, there is little remarkable in Darcy. Certainly, he is generous and intelligent and believably flawed, and he goes to great lengths to provide for Lizzy's happiness; but the same can be said of any number of well written romantic leads.
If you are interested in the particulars of his character at the end of the novel, then he is simply what I would call an extended introvert. That is to say, an introvert who has realized the importance of putting on an approachable air, of reaching out to others instead of expecting them to tolerate you in the expectation that you are ultimately worth getting to know. This is a fine sort of person in my mind, but people in general still don't take too kindly to introverts. Even those who have learned to deal perfectly well with polite company and new relations rarely radiate any sort of approachability, and just as infrequently are they any good at doing the approaching. This just weirds most people out, including plenty women I know who still claim to adore Darcy.
So, it clearly isn't Darcy himself that is so much more widely loved than any other male romantic lead in literary history. This leaves us with just a handful of means of explaining the ardor so many claim to hold for him, and none of them are particularly flattering. The first two reasons are Darcy's wealth and appearance. Neither of these seem particularly likely, though. We are reminded regularly of both, but neither is an essential part of his character or a particular reason for Lizzy's love for him (even if both are contributing factors). Since it is obvious why loving Darcy for either of these reasons would be disagreeable, and since it is also a highly unlikely case that it is so, we will abandon the entire possibility.
What's left, then, is to love Darcy for his (apparent) changeability. I say this because it is Elizabeth's rebuke that leads him to see the limitations of his ways and to begin to work on his seemingly haughty tendencies. It is the way he changes as a response to his unrequited love that causes Elizabeth to eventually change her opinion of him. It could seem, therefore, that Darcy is changing for Elizabeth. I ought not need to explain how this ties in with popular cliches (the tamable bad boy) or why it's a terrible reason for being into a guy (thousands of bad, even abusive, relationships). The big problem, however, is that it's clearly a misreading.
From everything we are told from the start by those close to him, Darcy has always, at heart, been a warm and generous man. It is just that his warmth and generosity are, at first, only shared with those in whose company he is comfortable. His apparent haughtiness is, likely as not, a byproduct of a combination of natural shyness and introversion (much like his sister's) and a firm understanding of his breeding and capacities. Darcy has seemingly been told from birth that, while anybody is worthy of his charity, only certain people are worthy of his knowing -- and most of these people will want to know him well enough that they will tolerate his aloofness and mild snobbery. He sees no cause to think otherwise until he meets Elizabeth. It is important to note that he does not change for her, as suggested above. It is not a desire merely to please Elizabeth that causes him to warm to those he may have previously thought beneath his station. No, Darcy opens up because of Elizabeth. She incites in him an awareness of the value of all people, an understanding that being a gentleman does not simply mean extending basic courtesies, but extending oneself to all.
So, it really makes very little sense for you to be in love with Darcy. Darcy will not change to be what you want him to be. He will become the man he was always meant to be; and that is a man you might admire, but probably wouldn't be terribly comfortable with. It makes perfect sense to rejoice in Darcy and Elizabeth's happiness and in the unexpected felicity they find. It makes perfect sense to celebrate Darcy's goodness and generosity in acknowledging his mistakes and working to amend for them for the sake of Elizabeth's happiness. However, what makes no sense is to be in love with Darcy. Those qualities which have been mentioned as universally laudable are hardly unique to him. Personal experience tells me that precious few of you are willing to tolerate introversion and apparent pride to the degree Darcy shows it long enough to gain the intimacy to see beyond it. And if your chief desire is to love a man who loves you as totally as Darcy does Elizabeth, well, you're barking up the wrong tree for an abundance of obvious reasons.
As for those of you who haven't read Pride and Prejudice: do. It's good for you.
Since I can't really say anything that hasn't been said already about the novel as a whole, I want to focus on one tangential aspect which I already mentioned: Mr. Darcy and his seemingly universal adoration. Now, I know that I'll draw a lot of flack for this from any lady readers I may have, but I just want to say this:
Dear Darcy Devotees,
shame on you
I say this because, in many respects, there is little remarkable in Darcy. Certainly, he is generous and intelligent and believably flawed, and he goes to great lengths to provide for Lizzy's happiness; but the same can be said of any number of well written romantic leads.
If you are interested in the particulars of his character at the end of the novel, then he is simply what I would call an extended introvert. That is to say, an introvert who has realized the importance of putting on an approachable air, of reaching out to others instead of expecting them to tolerate you in the expectation that you are ultimately worth getting to know. This is a fine sort of person in my mind, but people in general still don't take too kindly to introverts. Even those who have learned to deal perfectly well with polite company and new relations rarely radiate any sort of approachability, and just as infrequently are they any good at doing the approaching. This just weirds most people out, including plenty women I know who still claim to adore Darcy.
So, it clearly isn't Darcy himself that is so much more widely loved than any other male romantic lead in literary history. This leaves us with just a handful of means of explaining the ardor so many claim to hold for him, and none of them are particularly flattering. The first two reasons are Darcy's wealth and appearance. Neither of these seem particularly likely, though. We are reminded regularly of both, but neither is an essential part of his character or a particular reason for Lizzy's love for him (even if both are contributing factors). Since it is obvious why loving Darcy for either of these reasons would be disagreeable, and since it is also a highly unlikely case that it is so, we will abandon the entire possibility.
What's left, then, is to love Darcy for his (apparent) changeability. I say this because it is Elizabeth's rebuke that leads him to see the limitations of his ways and to begin to work on his seemingly haughty tendencies. It is the way he changes as a response to his unrequited love that causes Elizabeth to eventually change her opinion of him. It could seem, therefore, that Darcy is changing for Elizabeth. I ought not need to explain how this ties in with popular cliches (the tamable bad boy) or why it's a terrible reason for being into a guy (thousands of bad, even abusive, relationships). The big problem, however, is that it's clearly a misreading.
From everything we are told from the start by those close to him, Darcy has always, at heart, been a warm and generous man. It is just that his warmth and generosity are, at first, only shared with those in whose company he is comfortable. His apparent haughtiness is, likely as not, a byproduct of a combination of natural shyness and introversion (much like his sister's) and a firm understanding of his breeding and capacities. Darcy has seemingly been told from birth that, while anybody is worthy of his charity, only certain people are worthy of his knowing -- and most of these people will want to know him well enough that they will tolerate his aloofness and mild snobbery. He sees no cause to think otherwise until he meets Elizabeth. It is important to note that he does not change for her, as suggested above. It is not a desire merely to please Elizabeth that causes him to warm to those he may have previously thought beneath his station. No, Darcy opens up because of Elizabeth. She incites in him an awareness of the value of all people, an understanding that being a gentleman does not simply mean extending basic courtesies, but extending oneself to all.
So, it really makes very little sense for you to be in love with Darcy. Darcy will not change to be what you want him to be. He will become the man he was always meant to be; and that is a man you might admire, but probably wouldn't be terribly comfortable with. It makes perfect sense to rejoice in Darcy and Elizabeth's happiness and in the unexpected felicity they find. It makes perfect sense to celebrate Darcy's goodness and generosity in acknowledging his mistakes and working to amend for them for the sake of Elizabeth's happiness. However, what makes no sense is to be in love with Darcy. Those qualities which have been mentioned as universally laudable are hardly unique to him. Personal experience tells me that precious few of you are willing to tolerate introversion and apparent pride to the degree Darcy shows it long enough to gain the intimacy to see beyond it. And if your chief desire is to love a man who loves you as totally as Darcy does Elizabeth, well, you're barking up the wrong tree for an abundance of obvious reasons.
As for those of you who haven't read Pride and Prejudice: do. It's good for you.
Friday, August 7, 2009
On Fantasy (the genre)
Today I started reading Furies of Calderon, a novel that starts a fantasy series that I've been assured by people whom I trust to be very good. Forty pages in, there's already been considerable action and some interesting seeming characters...but I really don't give a shit yet. I'm going to push through and see if things change, but I think I'm starting to figure out what it is about traditional fantasy (and the space fantasy sub-genre of sci-fi) that has made it so hard for me to get into it for the last several years: I don't have the patience for the window dressing.
In order to effectively engage their audience, any author needs to suck their readers into the world of their story. With fantasy, that's an even more ambitious task because the world often looks so little like our own. The author needs to help the reader understand not just the social and physical environment in which the characters reside, but the social and physical properties of the world. This makes fantasy a very visual genre. Often times, we are introduced to the realities of this world through elaborate set pieces or plot sequences designed to illustrate way things work. Since I'm not a visual thinker, I'm easily distracted by overly visual descriptions. They get me working to create an image as opposed to comprehending the idea.
Best case, for me, is that the author quickly establishes these things as mundane and moves beyond the overly ornate descriptions. Worst case is that the window dressing becomes not just a fact of the universe but a major part of the plot; the author remains enamored of his or her imagery and the novel trades proper character and plot development in favor of a series of ever escalating set pieces - like a bad action movie in text form.
Now, urban fantasy (and many genres of sci-fi) manage to get away with things for me because they exist on top of our world. Instead of establishing whole new realities, they propose an altered version of ours. This frees up their ability to focus on what is unique and lets me, as a reader, establish a means of contrasting this world with mine instead of needing to construct it from the ground up. The other way that urban fantasy (though not most sci-fi) tends to be able to effectively introduce its world is by having the reader learn about it along with the protagonist. This is a device that is utilized effectively by most of Neil Gaiman's urban fantasy as well as by Harry Potter (which, I believe, would also be considered urban or modern fantasy).
Maybe, if I stick it out, Furies of Calderon and further books in the series will show me the light. Maybe they will reignite a love for traditional fantasy in me and help me find the patience to give some other books a chance. I'm a bit worried about the overly-capable young female rogue type character and the underdog young boy who will rise to great importance; but I've read enough of the Dresden Files to know that Jim Butcher is a capable author who is willing to toy with cliches enough to keep them interesting. I'll make sure to report back when I'm done.
In order to effectively engage their audience, any author needs to suck their readers into the world of their story. With fantasy, that's an even more ambitious task because the world often looks so little like our own. The author needs to help the reader understand not just the social and physical environment in which the characters reside, but the social and physical properties of the world. This makes fantasy a very visual genre. Often times, we are introduced to the realities of this world through elaborate set pieces or plot sequences designed to illustrate way things work. Since I'm not a visual thinker, I'm easily distracted by overly visual descriptions. They get me working to create an image as opposed to comprehending the idea.
Best case, for me, is that the author quickly establishes these things as mundane and moves beyond the overly ornate descriptions. Worst case is that the window dressing becomes not just a fact of the universe but a major part of the plot; the author remains enamored of his or her imagery and the novel trades proper character and plot development in favor of a series of ever escalating set pieces - like a bad action movie in text form.
Now, urban fantasy (and many genres of sci-fi) manage to get away with things for me because they exist on top of our world. Instead of establishing whole new realities, they propose an altered version of ours. This frees up their ability to focus on what is unique and lets me, as a reader, establish a means of contrasting this world with mine instead of needing to construct it from the ground up. The other way that urban fantasy (though not most sci-fi) tends to be able to effectively introduce its world is by having the reader learn about it along with the protagonist. This is a device that is utilized effectively by most of Neil Gaiman's urban fantasy as well as by Harry Potter (which, I believe, would also be considered urban or modern fantasy).
Maybe, if I stick it out, Furies of Calderon and further books in the series will show me the light. Maybe they will reignite a love for traditional fantasy in me and help me find the patience to give some other books a chance. I'm a bit worried about the overly-capable young female rogue type character and the underdog young boy who will rise to great importance; but I've read enough of the Dresden Files to know that Jim Butcher is a capable author who is willing to toy with cliches enough to keep them interesting. I'll make sure to report back when I'm done.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Re-examining Harry Potter
A bit under two years ago, shortly after the release of the seventh and final Harry Potter book, I blitzed through the entire series. I ready all seven books in under three weeks, while moving, and with multiple day waiting periods between the fifth and sixth and sixth and seventh books. At the ripe old age of 20, I was able to appreciate what I hadn't been able to when I first tried to read the series as a Tolkien obsessed 12-year-old; and I got thoroughly sucked into J.K. Rowling's world. This over-exposure hit me hard. I briefly fell in love with one of the fictional characters. I spent a couple of days when I finished being about as depressed as I've ever been over the fact that I didn't live in that world. After the dust had settled, I started to wonder what had captivated me so strongly, and I vowed that I would re-read the series more slowly, and out of order, to try and figure things out.
Last summer, I went back and re-read Prisoner of Azkaban (the third book) and Half Blood Prince (the sixth book), which had been my favorites after an initial reading. I read them more slowly and deliberately. I am currently re-reading Goblet of Fire (the fourth book, which is a favorite for many readers), and I think I can say a few things with certainty.
First, the reason these books are successful is simple. Very few people have been exposed to well-imagined fantasy worlds that remain accessible to the average reader. I've been put off by lots of traditional fantasy in recent years simply because immersion into the world is too hard to achieve. This is either because it feels like it hasn't been fleshed out (everything outside the scope of the book is uncharted and essentially non-existent) or because it is too far apart from reality as I know it. Rowling has handily avoided both of these pit-falls. The vast majority of the time, I feel as though there is a world out there much larger than the one that Harry's adventures take place in, and the fact that we're discovering the very existence and intricacies of this world along with Harry helps.
Second, and less positive, the books are a far cry from perfect, even for young adult literature. I don't feel like I noticed it as much with PoA or HBP, but re-reading GoF, I feel like Rowling spends a lot of time at the beginning of the novel trying to reintroduce certain elements of the world she's created or past plot points. Virtually all of these moments feel forced, largely because they involve a lot of telling. Having the narration switch tone and move away from the current action is distracting, and I think that Rowling could have avoided this easily.
One way would be through better use of dialog. For instance, in an early chapter of GoF, we are introduced to the characters of Bill and Charlie Weasley for the first time. This is also the first time that Harry has met the characters. Everybody is preparing to go to the Quiditch World Cup, and the characters are talking excitedly about the sport. Suddenly, narration shifts location and we hear about Harry's exploits as the seeker for the Griffyndor house team over the past three years. This easily could have come in the form of dialog from Bill and Charlie, whom, having just met Harry for the first time, would have good cause to try and use the subject to try and strike up conversation. I mean, consider the following dialog, template
Bill: "I hear you're quite the Quiditch star yourself, Harry."
Charlie: "Made seeker on the house team as a first year, didn't you?"
It gets the point across without feeling forced or breaking the action, and would even open up room for some banter to help us get to know these characters better faster. We could easily have covered things like what happened with Sirius the year prior or Harry's dislike for Divination class through conversation instead of narration.
Another way to avoid this obtrusive telling would be to simply have more respect for your audience. Yeah, relevant plot points from the last book may need to be brought up, but some mundane aspects of the wizarding world don't need to be explained again. We don't need to remind people how awesome Harry's Firebolt broom is, for example. Nor do we need to be reminded which ghosts are associated with which houses or that Harry received his broom maintenance kit from Hermione the year before. These aren't important to the plot. They are trivia, and trying to put all of your readers on equal footing in terms of trivial knowledge is a waste of time. Also, people like to remember or figure these sorts of things out on their own. It adds an "aha" or an "oh, yeah" moment that makes us feel intelligent.
Neil Gaiman plug! The thing that most impressed me about the (Newbury Award winning) young adult novel Graveyard Book was the level of respect that Gaiman showed his young readers. This is exemplified best by the fact that we are never explicitly told within the confines of the text that Silas is a vampire. We are shown this fact in numerous ways, but we are never clubbed with it. We are free to realize it at our own speed. If you're completely unfamiliar with vampire lore or oblivious to the language used to describe his existence between life and death, then you could go the whole book without realizing this fact, and it wouldn't detract from your ability to appreciate the story at all. This is the perfect example of the kind of respect that Rowling, in her desire to include everybody, sometimes lacks.
As the book goes on, though, and as the main plot and the new material pick up, these moments become rarer, and I find myself more continually enraptured in the world of Hogwarts. It's been a delightful place to visit again, and I fully intend to buy the whole set for myself in the not-too-distant future. I only hope that re-experiencing Deathly Hallows this Fall won't be as painful as I'm afraid it will be. The more I think about that book, and in particular its ending, the more I'm certain I don't like it nearly as much as the rest. I'll make sure to let you all know.
Last summer, I went back and re-read Prisoner of Azkaban (the third book) and Half Blood Prince (the sixth book), which had been my favorites after an initial reading. I read them more slowly and deliberately. I am currently re-reading Goblet of Fire (the fourth book, which is a favorite for many readers), and I think I can say a few things with certainty.
First, the reason these books are successful is simple. Very few people have been exposed to well-imagined fantasy worlds that remain accessible to the average reader. I've been put off by lots of traditional fantasy in recent years simply because immersion into the world is too hard to achieve. This is either because it feels like it hasn't been fleshed out (everything outside the scope of the book is uncharted and essentially non-existent) or because it is too far apart from reality as I know it. Rowling has handily avoided both of these pit-falls. The vast majority of the time, I feel as though there is a world out there much larger than the one that Harry's adventures take place in, and the fact that we're discovering the very existence and intricacies of this world along with Harry helps.
Second, and less positive, the books are a far cry from perfect, even for young adult literature. I don't feel like I noticed it as much with PoA or HBP, but re-reading GoF, I feel like Rowling spends a lot of time at the beginning of the novel trying to reintroduce certain elements of the world she's created or past plot points. Virtually all of these moments feel forced, largely because they involve a lot of telling. Having the narration switch tone and move away from the current action is distracting, and I think that Rowling could have avoided this easily.
One way would be through better use of dialog. For instance, in an early chapter of GoF, we are introduced to the characters of Bill and Charlie Weasley for the first time. This is also the first time that Harry has met the characters. Everybody is preparing to go to the Quiditch World Cup, and the characters are talking excitedly about the sport. Suddenly, narration shifts location and we hear about Harry's exploits as the seeker for the Griffyndor house team over the past three years. This easily could have come in the form of dialog from Bill and Charlie, whom, having just met Harry for the first time, would have good cause to try and use the subject to try and strike up conversation. I mean, consider the following dialog, template
Bill: "I hear you're quite the Quiditch star yourself, Harry."
Charlie: "Made seeker on the house team as a first year, didn't you?"
It gets the point across without feeling forced or breaking the action, and would even open up room for some banter to help us get to know these characters better faster. We could easily have covered things like what happened with Sirius the year prior or Harry's dislike for Divination class through conversation instead of narration.
Another way to avoid this obtrusive telling would be to simply have more respect for your audience. Yeah, relevant plot points from the last book may need to be brought up, but some mundane aspects of the wizarding world don't need to be explained again. We don't need to remind people how awesome Harry's Firebolt broom is, for example. Nor do we need to be reminded which ghosts are associated with which houses or that Harry received his broom maintenance kit from Hermione the year before. These aren't important to the plot. They are trivia, and trying to put all of your readers on equal footing in terms of trivial knowledge is a waste of time. Also, people like to remember or figure these sorts of things out on their own. It adds an "aha" or an "oh, yeah" moment that makes us feel intelligent.
Neil Gaiman plug! The thing that most impressed me about the (Newbury Award winning) young adult novel Graveyard Book was the level of respect that Gaiman showed his young readers. This is exemplified best by the fact that we are never explicitly told within the confines of the text that Silas is a vampire. We are shown this fact in numerous ways, but we are never clubbed with it. We are free to realize it at our own speed. If you're completely unfamiliar with vampire lore or oblivious to the language used to describe his existence between life and death, then you could go the whole book without realizing this fact, and it wouldn't detract from your ability to appreciate the story at all. This is the perfect example of the kind of respect that Rowling, in her desire to include everybody, sometimes lacks.
As the book goes on, though, and as the main plot and the new material pick up, these moments become rarer, and I find myself more continually enraptured in the world of Hogwarts. It's been a delightful place to visit again, and I fully intend to buy the whole set for myself in the not-too-distant future. I only hope that re-experiencing Deathly Hallows this Fall won't be as painful as I'm afraid it will be. The more I think about that book, and in particular its ending, the more I'm certain I don't like it nearly as much as the rest. I'll make sure to let you all know.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Why Watchmen is Truely Graphic Literature
It took me a lot longer than it should have to give Watchmen a read. I'd been hearing comic aficionados reference it as one of the pinnacles of comic writing for years, and even ignorantly expounded its virtues upon others when hearing the comic format come under attack. It was just last summer, though, that I finally decided to spend the money and finally give it a read; and what I saw blew me away.
I knew that I wanted to use mixed verbs in the above sentence, but I honestly couldn't decide which order to put them in.
You see, in terms of narrative, Watchmen is far deeper than your typical comic book, and is much more similar to a traditional novel. For one thing, it's not high in action. It's primarily a study on the psychological effects of vigilantism on its practitioners and the general public. For another thing, it lacks an easily identified hero. Sure, there are protagonists, and they happen to be (mostly former) masked crime fighters, but it's not purely a strong sense of justice that motivates their exploits. Watchmen makes no qualms about the fact that many in its cast took on this burden out of a desire to feel power over others; a grating sense of paranoia; desire for money or fame; and even a sense of sexual freedom. Watchmen's cast is adult. It is resonant, and honest, and refreshing, and it really makes you think about yourself.
If this wasn't enough to differentiate Watchmen from your typical comic fare, Watchmen also takes time to touch on the unimaginable ramifications of even a single "super being" coming into existence and the exceptional costs of true peace.
At the same time, Watchmen's visual aspect is far too powerful to ignore. It's not a work that would retain its full impact without its graphic component. There are portions of the book, for example, Walter Kovac's Rorschach test, where Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons juxtapose text and imagery in a way that invokes an intense response. The inclusion of the pirate comic that just wouldn't make sense in a purely textual format, and long, wordless passages that do as much to help us understand the characters and world better than any other possible method could also require that Watchmen be a graphic novel.
There's a Watchmen movie in production right now (I believe the picture I used is from its viral marketing campaign), and despite the incredibly promising nature, I don't think it will work. There's too much content in Watchmen and too many shifts in style to jam into a two, or even three hour movie; and there's not enough action to make it the type of special effects blockbuster that the general populous will expect from a comic book adaptation.
I feel that, if Watchmen is to be brought into cinema in any way, it needs to be in the form of a Band of Brothers style mini-series. Ideally, it could be 12 chapters, one for each original issue. It shouldn't need any storyboard beyond the comics, and it would need to incorporate material from the Pirate Comic and the between chapters material. It would need to remain adult (pretty much relegating it to HBO/Showtime, the only corporations that would touch it anyway). Steep orders, but it's what's needed to truly pay tribute to this masterpiece.
And I do feel comfortable calling it that. I've lent my copy to three friends, none of whom are involved with comic books. Two of them now own their own copy, and we reference it frequently. It's that good. Watchmen reinvigorated my faith in the graphic medium. As I get money, I fully intend to delve into other important bastions of this hobby (starting with some of Neil Gaiman's Sandman series). You owe it to yourself to check it out.
I knew that I wanted to use mixed verbs in the above sentence, but I honestly couldn't decide which order to put them in.
You see, in terms of narrative, Watchmen is far deeper than your typical comic book, and is much more similar to a traditional novel. For one thing, it's not high in action. It's primarily a study on the psychological effects of vigilantism on its practitioners and the general public. For another thing, it lacks an easily identified hero. Sure, there are protagonists, and they happen to be (mostly former) masked crime fighters, but it's not purely a strong sense of justice that motivates their exploits. Watchmen makes no qualms about the fact that many in its cast took on this burden out of a desire to feel power over others; a grating sense of paranoia; desire for money or fame; and even a sense of sexual freedom. Watchmen's cast is adult. It is resonant, and honest, and refreshing, and it really makes you think about yourself.
If this wasn't enough to differentiate Watchmen from your typical comic fare, Watchmen also takes time to touch on the unimaginable ramifications of even a single "super being" coming into existence and the exceptional costs of true peace.
At the same time, Watchmen's visual aspect is far too powerful to ignore. It's not a work that would retain its full impact without its graphic component. There are portions of the book, for example, Walter Kovac's Rorschach test, where Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons juxtapose text and imagery in a way that invokes an intense response. The inclusion of the pirate comic that just wouldn't make sense in a purely textual format, and long, wordless passages that do as much to help us understand the characters and world better than any other possible method could also require that Watchmen be a graphic novel.
There's a Watchmen movie in production right now (I believe the picture I used is from its viral marketing campaign), and despite the incredibly promising nature, I don't think it will work. There's too much content in Watchmen and too many shifts in style to jam into a two, or even three hour movie; and there's not enough action to make it the type of special effects blockbuster that the general populous will expect from a comic book adaptation.
I feel that, if Watchmen is to be brought into cinema in any way, it needs to be in the form of a Band of Brothers style mini-series. Ideally, it could be 12 chapters, one for each original issue. It shouldn't need any storyboard beyond the comics, and it would need to incorporate material from the Pirate Comic and the between chapters material. It would need to remain adult (pretty much relegating it to HBO/Showtime, the only corporations that would touch it anyway). Steep orders, but it's what's needed to truly pay tribute to this masterpiece.
And I do feel comfortable calling it that. I've lent my copy to three friends, none of whom are involved with comic books. Two of them now own their own copy, and we reference it frequently. It's that good. Watchmen reinvigorated my faith in the graphic medium. As I get money, I fully intend to delve into other important bastions of this hobby (starting with some of Neil Gaiman's Sandman series). You owe it to yourself to check it out.
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