Fun with Language: the Power of Connotation

The English language is filled with words that have double and triple and quadruple meanings, words that change meanings within a generation, and words that alter connotations within a few years.

For instance, in the fifth installment of Mr. B Speaks! Mr. B describes lurking in a closet to spy on Pamela. This closet would not be the type of closet we have in our houses today--complete with shelves and clothes on hangers. Rather, as Leslie Quinn will tell the judge later, "A closet was a small room like a breakfast nook. With a door. It often contained books and a desk."

An 18th century prostitute:

what "sauciness" led to in the 18th century.

Another word that reoccurs over and over again in Richardson's Pamela is the word saucy or sauciness--to describe Pamela. In modern parlance, the word means nearly the same thing it did in the 1700s: cheeky, pert, flippant, bold, impudent.

What has changed is the word's connotations--the emotions and images associated with the word. The connotations for saucy in the 18th century were far more negative than they are now.

Changing connotations is an unique, lingual phenomenon that has occurred--in the modern world--with words like handicapped. The word's meaning hasn't changed in the last twenty years; rather, the word has accumulated negative feelings; in an effort to dump the negative feelings, handicapped became special (very briefly) which then became disabled. The problem, of course, is that being handicapped/disabled (and even, frankly, "special") kind of stinks, so the replacement words will continue to accumulate negative meaning, no matter how often they are changed (however, this is less true than it is used to be since there are fewer social stigmas associated with being disabled than there used to be).

Likewise, racism unfortunately exists whether someone is referred to as Negro, black, or African-American. A change in terminology cannot single-handedly effect a change in attitude. 

The introduction of new terms to counteract negative connotations often leads to confusion over the current courteous and/or politically-correct term. As P.J. O'Rourke writes in All the Trouble in the World, regarding a discussion of Huckleberry Finn in a college classroom:

There was a great deal of fumbling with racial terms, among white and nonwhite students both. No one seemed exactly sure whether or when to say "black" or "African-American." How much better if we just called each other by our names.

An interesting example of reverse negative association is "Indian." I was taught in school to say Native American rather than Indian. Now the terms are used interchangeably by Native Americans and non-Native Americans alike. (It does get confusing when one is actually talking about inhabitants of India.)

My own practice is to be polite and call people what they want to be called. (I have black friends who don't like "African-American." After all, I don't refer to myself as "Anglo-Celt-American.") And also to give people a  break when they get confused.

* * *

To return to Pamela: by describing Pamela as saucy, a somewhat loaded adjective, Richardson opened up the door for portrayals of Pamela as a seductive harlot out for all she could get.

Now-a-days, of course, the term has a far more positive, and youthful, connotation: "The little girl was saucy to her mother."

When it came time for me to describe Pamela, I relied on Pamela's explanation of her behavior from Pamela II. In answer to a letter from her sister-in-law, Pamela describes her faults, including her sauciness:

I am naturally of a saucy temper: and with all my appearance of meekness and humility, can resent, and sting too, when I think myself provoked.

What would you expect, she goes on to write, from someone like me who has to defend herself against so many detractors? (Richardson wrote Pamela II partly in response to criticism and partly to defend himself against plagiarists who were capitalizing on the first novel's popularity by printing "false" sequels: copyright laws were close to non-existent in Richardson's day).

In other words, Pamela gets provoked and lashes out with witty barbs before she remembers herself/her station and retreats. This is the characterization I utilized, making Pamela neither as flirtatious nor as manipulative as detractors often paint her to be.

I should note that despite (or because of) the word's negative associations in the 1700s, Mr. B enjoys Pamela's sauciness, even when he is exasperated. Whatever society's views, a writer--in this case, Richardson--can make the language work for him: at least, within the confines of the text.

Where are All the Cars? Not Getting Around in the 1700s

A common argument against Pamela's innocence is "If she really is so upset about Mr. B's advances, why doesn't she just leave?"

In the fourth installment of Mr. B Speaks! Mr. B defends Pamela's failure to act by explaining that Pamela didn't have access to transportation. How was she supposed to get home?

Gentleman with His Horse

This is another difference between us and the world of the pre/early-Industrial Revolution, one so blatant yet so easily by-passed, it rather staggers the mind. So many moderns are hung up on the idea that (1) life in the historical past used to be simpler; (2) the separation between rich and poor just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

While it is true that the rich now-a-days are richer than the rich of the past, simpler is not automatically better--or fairer. The level of poverty experienced by every-day, supposedly well-off people in the 1700s is incomprehensible to just about everybody in the modern, Westernized world (and yes, I am including people who depend on soup kitchens).

There was no RTP. No buses. No bikes. Pamela couldn't climb on her moped. She couldn't call a taxi. She couldn't get a lift from a friend (not if that friend answered to someone who didn't want her to leave).

And she couldn't just go get herself a horse.

Because horses are unmechanized and bucolic and cute, many moderns (and unfortunately too many historical writers) assume that horses are also easy and cheap to care for.

Not at all.

Horses, then and now, are expensive. Remember poor Jane, sent on a soggy horse ride to visit Bingley's sisters? How her father wasn't sure if the horses were available to take her in the family carriage?

Mr. B and Pamela later go for a
ride in a carriage like this one.

The horses wouldn't be available because letting even one horse sit around in a stable, doing nothing, was something only an exceptionally wealthy man could afford. Darcy can afford to keep extra horses in his stables at Pemberley, but note that Darcy doesn't bring his carriage and horses to Netherfield. He brings his horse, nothing else. Gallivanting around in a carriage is something Darcy keeps for special occasions and emergencies, not for visiting a friend.

Pamela's best hope is to get a ride with a servant--performing an errand for Mr. B on one of Mr. B's horses--or with a farmer. And neither of those options are readily available, partly because of Mr. B's influence and partly because farmers work. In fact, a truly stunning portion of the book is spent trying to figure out HOW to get hold of transportation (and then pay for it).

Compare that to the 21st century kid who works at McDonald's to pay his car insurance--because he's got to have a car. Not that I have a problem with this, any more than Eugene--cheap, easy transportation that allows one to MOVE, rather than tying one to a parcel of land, is the true democracy.

Pamela could, naturally, walk home, but circa 1740, Romantic imagery promoting the supposedly untouched, peaceful countryside was a few decades in the future. London may have been more dangerous; that didn't make the countryside safe.

Pamela has principles, but she doesn't actually want to end up raped by a highwayman. Much better to  hold off her master with her wits.

Recent Publications: Fantasy, Romance, History (Sometimes Altogether!)

Check out these publications!

*Just Published* "Grave Bride," a short story by Katherine Woodbury about Vikings in Northern England. These particular Vikings still practice ancient rites, such as sending a chieftain to the after-life with a bride still living.

Barely.

The magazine is Cicada, part of the Cricket Magazine Group.

*Just Released in Print* A Man of Few Words by Katherine Woodbury--my retelling of Pride & Prejudice from the perspective of the hero, Darcy.

*Recently Released*  Serpent of Time by Eugene Woodbury--a fantasy novel set in authentic medieval Japan, starring a princess heroine who goes head to head with an otherworldly controller of time.

*Recently Released* Monsters & Mormons, including the short story "First Estate," a science-fiction retelling of the Book of Ruth, by Katherine Woodbury, replete with winged civilians and human aliens. This anthology is also available in print.

*More Eighteenth Century Fun* 
Mr. B Speaks! by Katherine Woodbury--my satire of academe/retelling of Pamela by Samuel Richardson, told mostly from the perspective of the rogue hero, Pamela's stalker/boyfriend/fiancé/husband, Mr. B. I am currently posting chapters of this novella through Votaries of Horror with weekly historical notes.


Also check out Eugene's translation of Demon City Shinguku: The Complete Edition (Publisher: Digital Manga)!

Illegitimacy 18th Century and Now

In the third installment of Mr. B Speaks!, Mr. B gets annoyed when the issue of his natural daughter's illegitimacy is openly discussed.

This reaction is almost incomprehensible to members of the modern Westernized world. So much so that within the past few years, several books have been published about how awful it was that women in the 50s were forced, by mean-spirited prejudice, to give up their children for adoption.

I can't speak for children adopted during the 50s, but I can say that from Mr. B's perspective, his refusal to openly acknowledge his out-of-wedlock daughter as his daughter-by-blood is an attempt to protect--not punish--her.

The issue in the eighteenth century was not illegitimacy per se. It was status. The illegitimate sons and daughters of kings often rose to prominence and married quite well. And nobody much cared about the illegitimate sons and daughters of peasants, who were held to a far less rigorous set of social standards by their "betters" (this wasn't out of any belief in the intrinsic merit of sexual freedom, by the way: the upper-classes overlooked peasants having illegitimate children because they thought the peasants weren't human enough to know better; one of the biggest criticisms of Pamela at the time of its publication was that Richardson would actually, gasp gasp, give a servant girl such high-falutin' ideas as wanting to wait until after the wedding--for religious and pragmatic reasons--to have sex).

However, the known illegitimate sons and daughters of the merchant, gentry, and independent farming classes of this time period had a terrible time marrying respectably (the measure of social acceptance).

Mr. Knightley chewing out Emma.

Consider, for example, Jane Austen's Emma in which Emma is convinced that Harriet is the bastard daughter of a noble person (giving Harriet the right to marry "up") when it is far more likely that Harriet is the bastard daughter of someone far lower on the social scale. When Mr. Knightley tells Emma that Harriet would be lucky to marry a prosperous farmer like Mr. Robert Martin, he isn't being cruel; he is being honest about the world he, Emma, and Harriet live in.

American society was more relaxed on this topic almost from its inception, partly because American society was composed of the merchant, gentry, farming classes (their children didn't need to marry "up") and partly because the Protestantism of early America almost immediately produced a belief in innocent childhood (in both the moral and legal sense).

English society, however, was far less kind for far longer.

Consequently, one of the nicer things about Richardson's Mr. B is the lengths he goes to to protect his natural daughter: first, he keeps her rather than sending her off with her mother to a distant country: she is given into the guardianship of his sister whom she believes to be her aunt; later, she is placed in a decent boarding-house. Her mother, who has moved to Jamaica, marries there, allowing the fiction of legitimacy to continue. In time, Pamela adopts Mr. B's natural daughter (in a non-literal sense). The girl, Sally, does eventually marry well. Does she ever guess who her father really is? Probably. But so long as the fiction of her birth is maintained, she will succeed in the social milieu her father wants for her (which milieu was substantially better than the milieu she might have ended up in otherwise).

Speaking as a modern, human product of the Westernized world, I proclaim it a very good thing that parents and children no longer feel the need to go to such lengths to avoid Mr. B's fears. Speaking as a history buff, I believe historical personages (and characters) should be judged by the difficulties of their time rather than the relaxed understanding of our time. Consequently, I've never really "bought" regency romances in which the mother reveals the truth of her natural-born child's birth to that child "out of love." My guess is the writers don't understand the internal and external burdens the natural-born child would then operate under within that society and time frame. For good and for ill, the social pressures of society--even when accompanied by absolutely no legal ramifications--are tremendously powerful.

Having written the above, I think that social pressures are accepted without constraint or feelings of betrayal when they are consistent between generations. It never occurs to Richardson (or Mr. B) to "fight the system." The issue with 50s babies is that the social pressures changed so rapidly--from less pressure to more pressure to considerably less pressure--within a single generation. The social pressures were never completely assimilated and therefore became objectionable in a way that much earlier generations would never have felt.

Sliders v. Stargate: Why Stargate is Better, Part II

As stated in my previous post, I will be comparing a Sliders episode to a Stargate episode:

Sliders: "Prince of Wails"--the gang shows up on a world where the British won the Revolutionary War, and the Sheriff of San Francisco is trying to overtake the throne (think Robin Hood). The gang stops him, helped by American Revolutionaries and a repentant prince.

Stargate: "Beneath the Surface"--the gang is trapped in a world where they have been brainwashed to believe they are part of a society recovering from an extreme Ice Age when actually they are slave-workers.

(a) The Slider world entails a greater suspension of disbelief .

From the descriptions above, this doesn't seem likely. But it is. Even if the Brits won the Revolutionary War, British society was already moving towards a constitutional democracy in the 18th century. A British America would be more like, well, Canada, than some medieval throw-back.

Now, I will grant that the "underground workers" motif is also rather overdone and slightly ridiculous. Where the Stargate writers come out ahead of the Sliders writers here is that they give their bad guy reasons that are entirely sensible within the bad guy's narrow worldview. He doesn't want to create problems with Earth; he also doesn't want to change his society's structure. After all, what would his society do with all those workers if they were let out?

(b)  The gang convinces the terrorist rebels in Sliders to follow Quinn. 

How many terrorist organizations do you know simply accept a new bunch of people with no prior credentials or previous terrorist behavior and put them in charge?

Yes, the answer is zero.

Any closed, paranoid system is riddled with rivalries, inside politics, and ladder-climbing. New people--including in the U.S. Senate--rarely walk in and just start running things.

In Stargate, SG-1 are the rebels. They don't convince anyone to follow them; they just convince each other.

(c) The rebellion in Sliders is enthused by Quinn's idealism: rob the rich to give to the poor. 

In Stargate, on the other hand, the other workers don't want to rebel, and they treat SG-1 like undependable mavericks. When the SG-1 members do rebel, they don't rebel in terrorist ways. Their goal, for most of the episode, is to keep the underground society working: survival is more important than idealism.

SG-1's dissatisfaction with the system begins when brainwashed Samantha Carter suggests to the higher-ups a way to make the equipment run more efficiently. After she is turned down for, unbeknownst to her, political reasons on the surface, she becomes suspicious. Her suspicions fuel the other SG-1 members' questions and their eventual rebellion.

In other words, if this really was an underground society recovering from an extreme Ice Age, SG-1 would eventually take over anyway, just because they are the most competent people in the society.

(d) All tension in the Sliders episode is due to the team needing to save the rebels before they slide. It is entirely external.

In contrast, the Stargate tension is caused by the behavior/interactions of SG-1.

If the SG-1 members just accepted their brainwashing and went on working, there would be no main plot. There is a respectable subplot in which General Hammond becomes more and more suspicious about the disappearance of his team, and, perhaps, eventually, SG-1 would have been found. But the actual episode is less about the imposition of an external problem (evil bad guys) and more about the team members dealing with an internal problem (who are we? why is this society so badly run? are we actually meant for something better?).

In other words, the friendship of SG-1 is the main material of the episode, not rallying the troops to fight back! Working through the problem matters more than confronting the bad guy who isn't confronted until the very end in an extremely short scene.

To summarize, in general, Stargate episodes are more about the problem and less about the chase. And that I like. 

Here are some not bad Sliders episodes--although the concepts behind some of these are extremely silly, the episodes focus on the problem (mostly), not the chase:

"Eggheads" (1.6)
"The Weaker Sex" (1.7)
"The King is Back" (1.8)
"Luck of the Draw" (1.9)
"Love Gods" (2.2)

You may note the episodes are all from Seasons 1 and 2 when John Rhys-Davies was still a powerhouse on the show. He is one of the most excellent aspects of Sliders!

Sliders v. Stargate: Why Stargate is Better, Part 1

I recently started watching Sliders again after many years. As with Stargate, I enjoyed Sliders when it first came out, stopped watching (probably because I lost access to a television), forgot about it, then resumed watching over a decade later.

The difference: I'm now a Stargate fan; I re-lost interest in Sliders after a dozen episodes.

On paper, this shouldn't be so. Both shows involve single-stories for most of their initial season episodes (I prefer single stories to ongoing arcs). Both shows have a fairly enjoyable scooby gang. Both shows' devices deliver both fantasy and science-fiction plots.

However, there are differences, and ultimately, those differences account for my lack of interest in Sliders. 

The listed differences below all refer to Sliders:

(1) The overuse of the "save civilization through revolt" premise. 

Every other, if not every, Sliders episode goes something like this: the gang shows up in a world that is corrupt in some way; the gang finds the underlying rebel group, supports it, and somehow leads it to victory.

Now, to be fair, Stargate includes a fair share of these episodes although, in general, the Stargate writers are rather better at implying things aren't that easily fixed; bad guys just don't fold; they do need to be blown up.

Still, SG-1 does spend a tremendous amount of time encouraging people to revolt against the Goa'uld.

The major difference: a Stargate episode concentrates on the discovery of the problem rather than on the revolt. Idealistic people being lead to revolt is, frankly, rather boring. Les Miserables' plot of Jean Valjean and Javert is two billion times more interesting than the leader of the students being stupid and getting everyone shot. (What makes the American Revolution so interesting, in my mind, is how surprisingly hard-headed and pragmatic the "rebels" were. The French Revolution, on the other hand, just makes me tired: idealism, corrupt idealism, more corrupt idealism . . . Napoleon. Okay, can it stop now?)

(2) Wade being in love with Quinn. 

Within about two episodes of Sliders, it becomes clear that the writers didn't really think through the whole Wade-Quinn equation. They actually wanted Quinn to be a kind of love-them-and-leave-them type, and having Wade along for the ride--the girl Quinn continually rejects by pursuing other women--makes Wade look somewhat pathetic and Quinn rather confused (since he is also supposed to also be harboring affection for Wade).

In reality, if Quinn were not a Lothario, he would hook up with Wade simply because there isn't anybody else comparably steady on his horizon. The fact that he doesn't . . . makes no sense.

In comparison, Stargate Samantha Carter's affection for Jack--while steadily maintained through several seasons--never gets in the way of her having a life (I consider Carter one of the most together female characters on all of television; yeah, she even beats out Scully and Bones). Also, the reason for the non-consummated relationship make sense: military rules and, frankly, Jack's incredible detachment. Carter may hold a torch for him, but she isn't an idiot. And she's got plenty of other things to do.

(3) Possibly the biggest problem with Sliders is the underlying plot device of the slide. Every episode is a "got to solve the problem before . . ." plot: every, single one. 

The irony here is that the writers treated the device of location as a deficiency--when it really wasn't--but not the timing device. In Season 3, the writers changed the underlying location rules to include all of California, not just San Francisco; this actually took away some of the show's coolness--the ways in which a single city can be altered by historical events. Without this ongoing issue, the episodes could be set anywhere: different planets, the past, the future, Mars, someone's mind. The idea of parallelism became a non-issue.

Meanwhile, the "have to slide in X hours" device continued to plague the show. Every episode is about corralling the characters, so they can leap. EVERY EPISODE. This results in lots and lots of running around, lots and lots of chase scenes, lots and lots of rescuing people at the last minute . . .

One or two episodes of this type is fine. Stargate (and Star Trek: TNG) did their own share of "got to get away before the sun/planet/starship explodes" plots--just not every single episode. AND both Stargate and Star Trek: TNG used different solutions to get away. With Sliders, sliding is the solution--every time.

(4) The premise of searching for home is weak. 

Yes, I know, this is Star Trek: Voyager's premise, but Star Trek: Voyager's premise makes sense because (a) it is actually possible within the confines of the show--since in Star Trek, space operates in a straight line, if the ship just keeps moving in one direction, it will eventually get home; (2) it is actually possible to shorten the trip; (3) the characters are already under the control of a benevolent dictator--that is, they are already part of an organization controlled by a single authority (Captain Janeway), so her insistence that she knows what is best for them makes sense psychologically.

But the first two seasons of Sliders continually underscore the idea that getting home is practically impossible, and the Earths that the characters encounter are increasingly out of sync with their original reality. Why not just stay somewhere? Why continue to follow Quinn who has no authority over the others?

I understand that at the end of Season 3, the Sliders writers inserted a new premise for leaping: the pursuit of the bad guy. However, this makes the show a serial, which I don't care for. (I endure The Mentalist by ignoring the Red John episodes as non-canon.)

Stargate, on the other hand, has the premise of protecting the planet the characters happen to live on plus the premise of FUN. When Daniel gets all archaeological and Jack starts talking about blowing things up, fun is what they are talking about: let's go explore places because it is a HOOT!

As my reviews of Stargate indicate, the show does become more and more serial after Season 4, and I have less interest in the later seasons. Still, the serial nature of SAVE THE EARTH makes substantially more sense than PURSUE THE BAD GUY. The latter becomes wearisome since not catching the bad guy is boring and almost catching the bad guy but continually just missing is aggravating and manipulative. The Earth, on the other hand, can be saved over and over and over.

In Part II, I will compare a Sliders episode to a Stargate episode.

Getting Married in the 18th Century (and Earlier!)

In Installment 2 of Mr. B Speaks! Leslie Quinn--the popular non-fiction writer--comments that 12 was the legal age for marriage in the 18th century.

While this is true--despite the wince it causes--innocent teen girls were not married off to grumpy elderly men (or youthful teen boys to robbing-the-cradle elderly ladies) as often as you might think.

According to G.J. Meyer, writing about the 16th century, during hard agricultural times, merchants and farmers actually married "in their mid-twenties or later." Even amongst the nobility, later marriages were not uncommon. Although Henry VII's mother was married at age 12 and bore Henry VII at age 13, she didn't bear any more children, likely due to complications with Henry VII's birth. Medievals may have been callous (debatable), but they weren't stupid. If you wanted kids, you waited for maturity to hit. (During the divorce between Henry VIII and his first wife, Catherine, those against the divorce argued that Catherine's prior marriage to Arthur, Henry VIII's brother, was never consummated. This is not unlikely: Arthur was sickly and may not have undergone puberty despite Catherine and Arthur both being approximately 15 when they married.)

However, while not condoning the marriage of early adolescents (and not all parents at the time did), the denouncement of the act as perverse would have confused anybody up until the 20th century. When middle-age is 35, old-age is 50, and princes are leading armies at 18, getting married at, say, 13 wouldn't seem quite so strange and icky as it does now.

In any case, as suggested above, marriage, at least for the nobility, was as much a political maneuver as a sexual one. Mr. B's sister marries "up" by marrying a lord despite the fact that Mr. B is far wealthier than all the other characters both in Richardson's novel and in my adaptation. For you Pride & Prejudice fans, Darcy is a step up from Bingley--whose father was in trade--but not as far up the scale as someone with a title.

Even without titles, the landed, untitled gentry of the 18th and early 19th centuries considered themselves--justifiably--to be far more powerful and far more respected in their small enclaves than the average aristrocrat. This would change by the mid-19th century after which dozens of wealthy Americans would pursue English marriages on behalf of their daughters for titles rather than for land or money.




These 18th century ladies, Lady Georgiana Cavendish, and Elizabeth Foster Cavendish both married at 17. When Elizabeth--or Bess's--husband died, she moved in with Georgiana and shared her husband whom she married after Lady Georgiana's death.

The First English Novel

I recently reread my novella Mr. B Speaks! and, what do you know, I liked it! (This is a very useful reaction with one's own writing.)

So I have taken a "page" out of Eugene's blog and will be posting sections of Mr. B Speaks! (slightly revised) over the next few months accompanied by historical notes. These sections will appear under the MR. B SPEAKS! tab.

The story begins with Mr. B being pulled out of his novel into the "real" world to be tried for his supposed crimes as a rake. He is pulled out just after the birth of his third child. This event is referenced in Pamela, Volume II by Samuel Richardson. Pamela, Vol. II; or Pamela's Conduct in High Life details Mr. B and Pamela's life together as a married couple while the first volume, Pamela; or Virtue Rewarded--upon which Mr. B Speaks! is based--details their courtship and first few weeks of marriage. The two books were published approximately a year apart.

Both books were wildly popular in the 18th century although the first book was more popular and lasted longer (basically, think Star Wars IV: A New Hope and Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back). Although Wikipedia claims Richardson wrote his classic (and currently, better-known) novel Clarissa because interest in Pamela was wavering, it would be more accurate to say Richardson wrote Clarissa because he figured out with Pamela what he was trying to do. Clarissa is more novel-like (and much, much longer) than Pamela.

However, Pamela bears the merit of being the first English romance novel and, for many people, the first full English novel, being told from a character's point of view, containing a clear plot structure (rising and falling action) and being its own reward--that is, the story is told for the sake of the story, not to support a travelogue or satire or sermon. Granted, Richardson skirts the line on the latter.

Agatha Christie was Right and So are Romance Paperbacks

In the recent BBC version of The Mystery of the Blue Train, the rogue husband of the murdered victim does NOT pursue the book's staid, grey-eyed heroine.

He does in the book.

I was disappointed by this alteration and considered it another example of how much the writers of the latest BBC Poirots don't "get" Agatha Christie. Don't get me wrong: I love the series, and some of the movies are pretty good--but like a great deal of television/movies/literary literature in the last decade, the stories are often edited to prevent the rogue from getting the girl.

Which is not in-line with Christie's vision.

It isn't that she was especially devoted to rogues. What makes her so entirely unique (and different from Marsh, who used the same romantic couple over and over and over, and from Sayers, who was only really concerned with one romantic couple) is that she believed in the individuality of love. She was willing to allow (in a very English tolerant way) that every relationship has its own vibe. Sometimes the good guy gets the good gal (4:50 to Paddington). Sometimes the adventurous guy gets the adventurous gal (Cards on the Table). Sometimes a tough strident woman gets a dreamer (Hercule Poirot's Christmas). Sometimes a passionate couple realize that they are actually also friends (Moving Finger). Sometimes the bad husband gets his wife back (Mysterious Affair at Styles). Sometimes the passionate exuberant gal really does want the limp, waffling idiot (Sittaford Mystery). Sometimes the girl-in-love-with-the-aloof-man learns to love someone more compassionate and real (Sad Cypress). Sometimes the taciturn brute gets the matter-of-fact Wren (Taken at the Flood).

And sometimes the rogue gets the princess.

I have found it downright refreshing how much the latter is allowed to happen lately, even in Disney. A perusal of teen fiction will tell you that not only is the rogue alive and well, he is flourishing, and nobody is being apologetic about it. Books like Jane by April Lindner (based on Jane Eyre) and The Hollow Kingdom by Clare Dunkle don't reform the supposed rogue-villain to be the "right kind of guy" but rather use him in all his roguery.

Now, I admit that like many people I find rogues such as stalky Edward somewhat problematic--although my problems with Twilight have always been more about the boringness of the heroine, rather than the bad-boy behavior of America's best-known vampire. However, the plot solution is for the rogue to grow up, not for the rogue to stop being himself.

The wrong solution (the rogue stops being himself or else) was one (of several) mistake made by the Buffy writers towards the end of Buffy's run: Spike is a bad-boy, ooh, we don't want to send the wrong message to teenage girls: Buffy and he mustn't have a real relationship!

Yeah, just check out the fan-fiction and see how well that little message of good behavior went across.

The truth is, a rogue without compassion and loyalty--a Flynn who actually does sail away--would be completely unappealing to any woman/human being (one hopes). But--and this is why the terribly insightful and human and well-lived/well-loved Agatha Christie rises above all other writers--creating a relationship where the gal is completely willing to take on the rogue with all his roguery . . . that works.

The solution is not to make the rogue less masculine or less clever or less edgy or less prone to hit people or less aggressive or less assertive or less insert-quality-usually-associated-with-rogues-and-men but, rather, to create couples that complement (not "compliment," as Bones points out to Booth though that is nice too) each other.

I will grant that not all writers can pull this off. Stalky Edward needs to get a new, more interesting, hobby. But some can. And nobody gets tired of it.

Which is why romance paperbacks will never, ever, ever die.

Ruminating on Animal Experimentation while Reviewing Project X

In keeping with the current list on the Mike-Kate Video Club, I recently watched Project X with Matthew Broderick (two of the films on the list star Broderick: War Games and Ferris Bueller's Day Off).

The movie surprised me, mostly for how much I got invested in the fate of the chimps.

For those of you who don't remember, the plot of Project X is that chimpanzees are being trained to fly machines, then exposed to lethal amounts of radiation to see how much longer they will keep flying. Pilot Jimmy Garrett decides to save a particular chimp, Virgil.

I should state now, upfront, that I am not opposed to animal experimentation. I think it is kind of pointless with things like cosmetics. I think it is downright meritorious with things like cancer research.

I should also state that I have never been a huge fan of anthropomorphizing animals in fiction or real life. In fiction, I run out of interest. In real life, I think it is unfair and disrespectful to the animal. A cat is a cat, not a human in fur. Chimpanzees, no matter how many genes they hold in common with humans, are chimpanzees.

By the way, the respecting-animals-for-being-animals-not-cute-humans ideology doesn't prevent me from eating steak.

So I basically anticipated that Project X would be a long screed about how bad and immoral and evil animal experimentation is blah, blah, blah. (I saw it when I was younger but had forgotten everything except that monkeys--well, chimps--were involved.)

It isn't a long screed. Yeah sure, that message is in there. But the message relies not on stoic idealists spouting their opinions but on the viewer becoming invested in the chimpanzees' fate.

This actually works. I was stunned. I was sad when Goliath died--I think I actually cried. I was worried about the chimps getting away. I wanted them to be free!

This is all due to how the story is told--from the inside out. The audience learns things as Garrett (Broderick) learns and experiences things. He gets interested in teaching Virgil. He sees the radiation test. He is uncomfortable with it. The entire story unfolds as a slow emotional web that gets you invested without telling you to get invested.

The one off-note is when Broderick tries to stop the second test (on Virgil) by breaking in on the head honchos and arguing against it. In terms of plot, the scene makes sense. Garrett isn't put forward as an orator or a protester. He just doesn't want the animal he trained to die.

And he makes the same argument that, what do ya know, Broderick's character made in War Games: "You can't compare the chimps to humans; the chimps will keep flying, but the humans won't because they will know they are going to die."

The first part of this argument is actually correct: You can't compare the reaction of chimps to humans--and a computer model quite frankly would be more effective here (computer models are used instead of animal testing quite often these days).

The second part of the argument is wrong, and it is the one false note in the movie. Well, okay, the sign language and flying-the-plane stuff is a little out there, but the movie establishes those outcomes as givens, so I accept them.

But otherwise, the chimps in the movie actually act just like chimps (and at one point, trash the lab, which is  fun). They act, in other words, like animals rather than humans.

And animals do not do well with stress. Animals do not do well with illness. Animals will die from straight shock and pain.

Humans, on the other hand, can go amazingly heroic things despite extraordinarily adverse conditions because their brains decide that they should. They keep flying because they believe they are protecting something higher (their country). They live longer because they believe they have a purpose. They fight the effects of illness because they don't want others to pay for their mistakes.

Believing that animals should be treated humanely is a civilized belief. But it immediately loses credence when people try to tell me animals are as good as or better than humans. Animals are animals, and if they were ever actually tried by the moral standards of humans, they would all be labeled psychopaths. When a young lion takes over an older lion's pack, he doesn't send the older lion to a retirement home or give it charity antelopes. He basically forces the older lion to starve itself to death.

Okay, put that in human terms and think about how it makes you feel.

Ewwww is the normal reaction.

But as animals, lions--and chimpanzees--can be utterly adorable, and Project X is a well-told story, using adorable (trained) animals, that never forgets to be a story.

I'm starting to think the 1980's has a lot to say for itself in terms of strong film narratives!

Guest Blogger: Mike Discusses The Problem With Comic Books

When first introduced to comic books, I fell in love when Marvel Comics. The series that hooked me was called "What If?" It always explored a variation on the events that had transpired in the Marvel Universe. Story-lines, such as "What if the Avengers had fought Galactus?" or "What if Wolverine became Lord of the Vampires?" were regularly explored and followed to an often tragic end. What thrilled me about these comics was how they played with an established, concrete history. I didn’t know it at the time, but what I really loved about the Marvel Universe was its incredible sense of continuity.

You would often see a character from another comic passing someone like Peter Parker or Tony Stark on the sidewalk. A little footnote below would exclaim "What is the Human Torch doing in Queens? Check out this month’s Fantastic Four for the scoop!" These characters lived in a connected world. Often a character would not be present in the book he guest-starred in because he was busy in his own comic or off teaming up with another hero. The writers seemed to realize and care about continuity, about what was happening, and when, in the world of Marvel Comics. And I was an addict.

In the last few years, this has all changed. The current head of Marvel Comics, who was hired around 10 years ago now, issued a new decree for the formerly continuity- heavy Marvel Comics: "Continuity can be ignored for the purpose of a good story." It was, for Marvel at least, a revolutionary concept. Suddenly, Spider-Man and Wolverine were EVERYWHERE. The problem is that while it worked for sales, the overall quality of the writing suffered once continuity was no longer respected. "A good story" seemed to be confused for "A story that sells like hotcakes."

Along with this sudden freedom, the comic industry also learned something evil. They realized that any time they changed the status quo, their sales picked up. Phrases like "The end of an Era!" or "The beginning of a new legacy!" began gracing the covers of more and more comics. You had Team and Roster changes, heroes donning new names and costumes, heroes dying in big, publicized events and then returning, triumphantly resurrected, having fought their way back from the grave to defend their homes. These days, heroes die all the time, and their resurrection may only be months hence.

When Captain America died a few years ago, it was a pretty big deal. The entire Marvel Universe was shaken, with every hero talking about it, going to the funeral, and dealing with the reality of emotional loss. There was an incredible mini-series published at the time--Fallen Son: The Death of Captain America--which shows different heroes, such as Iron Man, Spider-Man, and Wolverine, each dealing with a different aspect of the grieving process. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance are explored in a single issue, and it’s truly an emotional and moving book.

About a year after Cap’s death, Thor used his great power to summon the spirit of Steve Rogers and visit with him. Moved by the Captain’s sadness at the use of his death for political agendas, Thor flies into high orbit, and uses lightning to silence every satellite broadcasting coverage of the anniversary of Cap’s death for one minute. One full minute of peace for his fallen friend. Again, the story was emotionally fulfilling and moving. It brought real weight to events of a fictional world. These comics not only made me miss the Captain, but also truly appreciate what the world had become after his loss.

And then, they brought him back. "Cap isn’t dead!" they told us. "He was just lost in time! See his return in the new mini-series, 'Captain America Reborn!'"

And suddenly, those wonderful, emotionally moving, and incredibly well-written books reflecting the death of Captain America lost all significance. They were rendered obsolete. Why would someone read a reflective piece on the life and death of an individual that’s still alive?

Death in comics has become a revolving door that nearly every character will pass through, disappearing for a short time before returning completely unscathed. It’s hard for a reader such as myself to really care much these days when a traumatic event comes to pass for a beloved character. They died? Aw, they’ll be back in a few months. No big deal. The most glaring example of just how bad things are in the world of comics is that even Spider-Man’s Aunt May and Batman’s butler Alfred have both died and returned. Let’s consider this. Aunt May. Really.

I think the main problem is this: If an event has no lasting impact on the life of a character, then it is of no importance to the reader either. Continuity must not only exist, it must be respected. If an event takes place, its consequences must be real and lasting. When you remove the consequences, you remove the meaning of the event.

For continuity to truly work, and for the life, adventures, and tragedies of a character to truly matter, there must be a clear beginning, middle, and end. Not only must the end be clearly defined in relationship to events,  it must be defined in time as well. When that cycle comes to an end, you can begin another. Maybe it’s a new character; perhaps it’s the child of the hero. But the life of a fictional character, especially that of a comic character, cannot continue indefinitely as it has in the past and have any credibility or structural stability.

One of my favorite comic runs in the last few years was Joss Whedon’s Astonishing X-Men. Completely free of the continuity of the X-Men comics that were being printed at the time, Whedon's comic explored a wonderful story that touched on many classic moments of the X-Men’s past. The series, while amazing, exemplifies both the problem and the solution to Marvel's continuity chaos. The series did rely on the pasts of the X-Men featured, but while there was a clear beginning, middle and end,  it did not have a clear place in the overall continuity of the X-Men timeline.

Furthermore, while the comic featured emotional growth for many of the characters, some events were spoiled by story-line ramifications appearing in other comics published before those events happened in the main series. Many events featured in the series, such as a long awaited relationship between two characters and the "death" of a hero, have since been undone; the relationship ended, the dead resurrected. Again. Perhaps most problematic is that the series actually featured the resurrection of a long missing character. (However, the character had been out of print for some time, and his resurrection did not undo what his death had accomplished.)

Unfortunately, when continuity does appear in the Marvel Universe these days, it has no real weight. Sure, if it will help sell a comic; a hero might cross over into the big company-wide story. But often, events are written and then ignored or undone according to what the sales figures dictate.

Any event that happens in the life of a character must be true to what he has experienced before and effect what he does in the future. The story must be the most important consideration. What does this story say? What did the character learn? How did he learn or grow? Once the sales of a series outweigh the importance of the story itself, the reader suffers, and the work suffers. Strong characters deserve not only strong stories, but a strong history and complete timeline. Without these things, comics will continue as literary garbage heaps, continually piling and piling yp until the audience is drowned in useless waste.

It’s time for Marvel Comics to change. And not just another reboot like DC’s "New 52" that graced shelves in the last couple months. Restarting continuity from scratch may resolve past problems, but it will still leave writers open to future problems. Soon this new, fresh slate will become as muddled and confusing as it was before. The future of comics, and other continuity-based entertainment, lies not in it's perpetuity, but rather in its end. By introducing complete character timelines (ending with death/retirement), and perhaps redesigning each story arc to function as its own graphic novel, the integrity of the characters and the stories being told would be strengthened and reinvigorated. Instead of following a character doing the same thing over and over for years without end, future comic readers can have complete epics featuring heroes whose lives are worth caring about, remembering, and, who knows, inspiring others.

Papa Whedon's Influence

Tom Whedon became an associate/supervising producer of Golden Girls in Season 5. This is one of the best seasons of Golden Girls. It also marks a slight change in the humor used on the show. Don't get me wrong: Seasons 1-4 are funny. But Seasons 5 on have, well, that Whedon Family touch.

It's hard to explain the difference (unless you are a Joss Whedon fan), but it's the difference between the cute funniness of say, Charmed, the Thin Man dialog funniness of Bones (which I quite like), and the ultra tongue-in-cheek funniness of Buffy. Season 5 of Golden Girls gains that tongue-in-cheek edge.

For example, Rose's St. Olaf's stories, while as outrageous, become so outlandishly satirical, they catch you off guard. Here is a story from Season 3 and one from Season 5:

Rose (3.15): I remember when I was a little girl back in St. Olaf. There was this old lady who lived up the street. She never smiled. I mean, she always looked angry. The kids said she'd kill anyone who even stepped on her property. We used to call her Mean Old Lady Hickenlooper. It turns out she had no smiling muscles. I explained to her that a smile is just a frown upside down. From then on, whenever I passed by, she would stand on her head and wave . . .

Rose (5.1): You know, there are all sorts of things that people get that doctors can't diagnose. Gustav Lundqvist got sick from something mysterious, and he nearly died - well, he did die, in fact. Then at the cemetery, Beatrice Lundqvist, his wife, kept screaming, "He's alive! He's alive! I can hear him from the grave!" Well, everyone thought it was the hallucinations of a grieving widow, so they sedated her. But when she woke up from her sedation, she told them that he had said from the grave, "We never paid our '78 through '86 income taxes!" And his partner said, "Only Gustav would know that! He must be alive!" So, they all raced to the cemetery, and the entire town started digging like crazy, kneeling by the grave, using their hands even, dirt flying and Beatrice screaming. And when they opened that coffin, there he was...dead as a doornail. The point is, Gustav didn't die from his mysterious disease at all! He lived and recovered. The trouble is, he recovered while he was buried, so by the time they got to him, he'd died of suffocation. Another tragic aspect was, the IRS was waiting at the cemetery to arrest Gustav's partner, Bergstrom. So, Bergstrom killed himself right then and there, by grabbing the gun from Sheriff Tokqvist and shooting himself. What they did then was, since the grave was still open, and everyone was right there, and Gustav and Bergstrom had been partners, they put Bergstrom in with Gustav and had a double burial. Unfortunately, later they found out that Bergstrom wanted to be cremated.

The first story is funny (and silly), but the second one includes a degree of wacky irony that I've only ever seen in Son Whedon.

And I've wondered, How much was Son Whedon influenced by Papa Whedon? Or does humor just run in families? Or were Papa Whedon and Son Whedon discussing Roseanne and Golden Girls over the dinner table in 1989?

Another similarity is between Son Whedon's Buffy women and the Golden Girls (whose personalities are solidified in Season 5).

For example, Rose and Willow could be aunt and niece. They are both lovable innocents who deep-down have fiercely competitive spirits. Both may blurt out surprisingly caustic thoughts when pushed.

Blanche, more than in the other seasons, gains an Anya/Cordelia say-it-like-it-is quality in her outspokenness:

Blanche (5.2): And the thing is, after all this, I've decided not to sell my book. It's too good to sell. They can publish it after I'm dead, like Vincent van Gogh.

Dorothy: Van Gogh was a painter, Blanche.

Blanche: Whatever. It's all the same thing. We're all artists, we're all misunderstood. He cut off his hair; maybe I'll cut off mine.

Dorothy: He cut off his ear.

Blanche: [after a beat] I have too many earrings...I can trust you, Rose. You're from Minnesota. People from Minnesota are honest; they don't lie. What could you possibly find to lie about on a farm? Lots of lakes and nice pale people. Read, Rose, don't talk. [as Rose reads] I must publish a guide to go with my book: it's too full of references people could not possibly understand. It will be taught in universities.

Rose: Blanche, you are exhausted. You have to sleep.

Blanche: "To sleep, perchance to dream..." [gasps] My God, what a wonderful line! Oh! I'm getting so good, I can't stand it! I ought to write it in my book, that line. What do you think, Rose? What page are you on?

Rose: Well, to tell you the truth, Blanche, I don't understand any of this. It doesn't seem to make any sense.

Blanche: You're from Minnesota. What have you read, for God's sake? Silas Marner? Paul Bunyan? Give me back my book. This is why Hollywood won't get it, either. I won't have my words coming out of Glenn Close's mouth. I'd rather die!

Dorothy, with her sarcasm and eye-rolling competency, and tiny Sophia, with her pointed bon mots, together make the perfect mirror to Buffy!

I won't push my argument any further. It is, I will grant, something of a stretch. But you know, if the Whedons were writing clever 19th century French novels, there would be an entire subculture of literary analysis devoted to comparing father and son.

Maybe it is just as well they write for television.

Academic Spoofs in Pamela tribute, Mr. B Speaks!

Mr. B Speaks! is partly a spoof. Mr. B has to defend his marriage to Pamela against a group of academics, and I used their objections/conversation to spoof a number of silly academic ideas I've encountered as both a student and an instructor.

My primary spoof is of "just call me Gary" Gary. Gary is the type of professor who thinks he is edgy and contemporary and prides himself for climbing on the latest political bandwagon. Unfortunately, Gary is not a complete construct (an image of pompous academe rather than a representative of actual academic members). I've met Gary. The following passage from Mr. B Speaks! summarizes Gary's attitudes:

"The whole novel is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot. People hid their heads in the sand. Just like they do today.”

Deborah said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

Dorothy is Gary's nemesis. She is a young reviewer of romance novels, and she mirrors the attitude of a number of my young female students. They are completely blithe about their place/role in society. They don't feel put-upon. They take for granted that a woman can do whatever she wants in terms of a career/future. They don't feel the need to back "women's" issues or vote to support only female politicians.

From my point of view, the Dorothys of the world are what feminism is all about! However, someone like Gary--a chauvinist who thinks he isn't because he adopted the right "feminist" attitudes back in the 60's--the Dorothys of the world are a massive, scary threat.

Gary was trying to reprimand the young, romantic girl, Deborah. Personally, Mr. B would try flirting with her, but the man just blathered on about himself.

“So,” Mr. B heard the ridiculous man say, “I guess you’re one of those young ladies who adores authors like Jane Austen.”

“Sure,” Deborah said.

“I will grant, she is an important female writer.”

“Walter Scott believed no author matched Jane Austen at describing ordinary life and personalities.”

“Yes. Well. But won’t you admit that, despite her ability and her importance to women’s literature, Austen was mired in middle class values?”

Mr. Shorter, Mr. B's solicitor, leaned over to Mr. B and said, “What kind of gallantry is that man employing?”

“He isn’t,” Mr. B said, rubbing his temples. “He’s Polonius.”

“I like middle class values,” Deborah said.

“Of course you would say that,” the professor said in an irritated voice. Apparently, the professor didn’t like being contradicted.

And Mr. B was against female free-thinkers?

The professor said snippily, “I bet you wish you were Elizabeth, hmm, being chased by that handsome Darcy?”

“Not really,” Deborah said. “A lot of women do read books that way. And men too. Sort of what would I do? But I like to explore the author’s characterizations. Like Mr. B is way more of a homebody than most people picture him. Of course, he served in Parliament, but I think that was just out of a sense of obligation.”

Mr. Shorter snorted, but Mr. B couldn’t disagree. Except that a home without Pamela wasn’t much of a home.

“I’m sure Mr. B is quite conservative in his politics,” the professor said disdainfully.

“You could ask him,” Deborah said.

There was a short silence. Mr. B smiled to himself. The professor was a coward. He probably gravitated to female scholars because they were less trained in rhetoric and therefore easier to bully.

Deborah said, “Or Leslie Quinn. She might know.”

Some female scholars, that is. Mr. B laughed out loud. He glanced over his shoulder.

The professor was crimson. He didn’t look at Mr. B but hunched his shoulders and glared at Deborah, who was trying not to giggle. “I suppose progressive thinking is too much to ask from computer-obsessed students.”

Mr. Shorter muttered, “These Literary Fairness folks aren’t the most tolerant people.”

The "I'm pro-woman--how dare a woman contradict me with her conservative ideas!" attitude is, I'm sorry to say, real (though fading).

Leslie Quinn and Dr. Matchel (another member of the Committee for Literary Fairness) represent the two sides of Women's Studies, Dr. Matchel representing the negative or more narrow side. I'm actually kinder to her than I am to Gary because, like many disenchanted feminists, I believe that Women Studies started out with good intentions. I even believe there are decent Women Studies scholars. But the need to have an agenda/political purpose hurt more than helped that discipline.

Dr. Matchel, for example, is the kind of feminist who will support a CAUSE, no matter how very faulty, simply because it is pro-women. Thus her attitude towards Deborah--

Dr. Matchel cried, “These romance novels have done more to undermine women’s rights than any other type of literature.”

“Oh, that’s old-school,” Deborah said. “Like people who think women should only have supported Hillary in 2008.”

Again, Dr. Matchel is quite real. The above exchange is based on an actual exchange I saw on PBS during the 2008 Democratic convention.

Dr. Matchel is off-set by Leslie Quinn, who has the right academic credentials but writes for the popular rather than academic press (i.e. she actually makes money at her writing). Dr. Matchel and Gary's contempt for "popular" writers is, unfortunately, also quite real as is their discomfort with people who haven't jumped through all the right academic hoops (just recently, I've been placed in the uncomfortable position of having to defend my teaching credentials--my expertise of over five years teaching at multiple institutions--against people who automatically devalue adjuncts due to our supposed lack of education classes; yeah, that makes sense).

In the courtroom, there is also a gruff judge (who prefers murder mysteries and is only sitting in judgment on an eighteenth-century novel because so many eighteenth-century novels are under attack), a therapist (member of the Committee for Literary Fairness who wants to personalize everything), and Lonquist, a librarian. Lonquist is a member of Readers for Authorial Intent. His job is to pose (my) objections to literary revisionism. In the following exchange, the Committee for Literary Fairness wants contemporary--that is, their--standards applied to Pamela.

Gary said sullenly, “I would think some contemporary standards would be accepted as givens—in a civilized courtroom, at least.”

“Which contemporary standards?” Lonquist said. “Based on twenty-first-century Western culture, Mr. B can hardly be faulted for wanting no-strings-attached sex.”

The judge barked, “We will use the standard of customs as established in the eighteenth century. Was lesbianism a discussed topic in the literature of the day?”

Dr. Matchel said, “It was a forbidden topic that nevertheless underscored most women’s writings.”

Leslie Quinn said, “No.”

Dr. Matchel bridled. “Of course, popular non-fiction ignores such crucial subtexts.”

Leslie Quinn said good-humoredly, “Oh, I’m not saying that homosexuality wasn’t an aspect of eighteenth-century England or that people never discussed it. I just don’t think eighteenth-century literature is imbued with hidden messages about the love that dare not speak its name. People do write about other things, you know.”

“They were prejudiced,” Gary said.

“So you’ll use eighteenth-century culture to promote your position, then attack it to defend your position?”

The Committee for Literary Fairness glared at Lonquist.

The judge waved a hand, “I’m not concerned with critical theory relativism. I want to know how Mr. B behaved. Please continue, Mr. B.”

The emboldened lines (my emphasis of, um, my text) summarize my problem with most academic silliness. Dr. Matchel and "just call me Gary" Gary are less about reading--letting the characters speak--and more about promoting a particular agenda; less about falling in love with characters, lines, plots, authors, and more about promoting a particular theory which can be applied to current events. They are less about valuing interesting thoughts and ideas and more about categorizing those thoughts and ideas into appropriate, non-appropriate, acceptable, non-acceptable, profound-according-to-us, too-too reactionary categories.

Silly academics is, in other words, about anything but actual books and words.

Not every college/university in infected by this attitude and even within departments that are infected, there are always a few hold-outs. But unfortunately, the attitudes are still there to be spoofed.

I'll leave you to guess what happens to Mr. B (taking into account that I am a romantic).

Thor

So it isn't often that you put in a superhero/action movie and get Shakespeare!

At least, not lately. Actually, Shakespeare explored all the classic action plots! However, superhero/action movies these days tend to involve more bad guys v. good guys story-lines than father-son show-downs. So when I put Thor into the DVD player, the last thing I expected was King Lear with Thor taking the Edgar role and Loki taking the Edmund role.

It's a family drama!

That wasn't the first surprise. The immense Chris Hemsworth (at 6'3," he qualifies as immense) as Thor also surprised me. After all, what is Thor called upon to do or be other than immense-guy-who-smashes-things?

Okay, so the script demands that he undergo a change. At the beginning of the film he is arrogant and lordly and at the end of the film, he is sweet and down-to-earth (ha ha).

What makes Chris Hemsworth (directed by Kenneth Branagh) remarkable is that he is both arrogant/lordly and sweet/down-to-earth right from the beginning. In the beginning, he is arrogant but also guileless and charming (that smile!). At the end, he has been humbled, but he still carries himself like a king. As a result, his growth as a character is believable; as an acting feat, it is more than a little impressive.

I was also impressed by the use of Loki. At first, my reaction was "well, duh, of course Loki is the betrayer," and I was even a little miffed that the scriptwriters were being so obvious. But within thirty minutes or so, I realized that I wasn't sure what Loki would do next. Which is exactly how Loki ought to come across! He's the ultimate ambiguous character, and the writers (and Tom Hiddleston) nailed his attitudes/perspective (by the way, Branagh tends to use his own people in movies when he can; Hiddleston starred with Branagh in Wallander).

I was glad to see more of Agent Coulson whom I really like and who is in Iron Man 2 far less than I'd anticipated. Thor makes up for that lack. My favorite scene with him is when he tells Barton to wait; he wants to see what happens when Thor grips the hammer. (Marvel fans: Is Barton supposed to be the Green Arrow? Or am I getting my franchises confused?)

This brings me to the excellence of Branagh as a director. I wasn't sure if I would see any of Branagh in this movie. Although he does direct epics, they tend to be non-supernatural-elements epics, and I wasn't sure if anything of Branagh could show up in a Marvel movie.

I'm glad to say, his touch is there. Branagh's strength is his ability to pull ordinary human elements out of heroic, Shakespearean moments. Although I knew that Thor wouldn't be able to pick up the hammer (on earth) the first time, I was moved by Barton's caustic but sympathetic remarks, Coulson's willingness to wait (in the rain) for Thor to try, and ultimately, by Thor's weary disbelief at his failure to reclaim his own weapon. Likewise, Odin is fully believable in his defensiveness over Loki's pain while Thor's guilt, confusion, and love towards Loki are heart-wrenchingly authentic.

The music helps! By the way, that's Patrick Doyle whom Branagh almost always uses as his composer.

Oddly enough, the only false note is Natalie Portman. The interactions between her, Darcy, and Selvig are  natural and amusing (and Thor being tasered is one of the funniest parts of the movie), but there simply isn't enough of Thor and Jane together to merit the ending. This is actually a problem in these Marvel movies. So far, no one has really lived up to the "cool girl next door who dates the superhero" persona except Kirsten Dunst (Spiderman) who did it so effortlessly, I keep expecting her to show up again.

I'm really hoping Joss Whedon doesn't spoil the run by killing off a major character in his usual Whedon style. Take a lesson from Branagh, Joss! It is possible (and far more interesting) to create heroic moments without ending a life. (Yes, I'm glad Loki isn't dead.)

The DVD had a preview for Captain America which looks interesting. How does it compare to Iron Man and Thor?

Agatha Christie and the Nature of Evil

On his blog, Eugene argues that although there is a place in fiction for bad guys with no discernible or human motives, "corrupting [the world] using the kind of enlightened people who contribute to PBS and wouldn't be caught dead (or living dead) at McDonald's or Walmart and earnestly believe they're doing the right thing for the greater good (and for your own good) is a much more rewarding challenge."

One of the best short stories ever written about this type of internal corruption is "The Edge" by Agatha Christie. It isn't one of her mystery stories; rather, it is usually found in her ghost/occult short story anthologies and is incredibly creepy.

I will now give away the plot.

In the story, a upright, virtuous, charitable, socially respected, attractive woman, Clare, becomes downright evil.

The corruption begins when she discovers that Vivien, the wife of the man who jilted Clare, is having an affair. Clare decides not to tell him, praising herself for such disinterested goodness (it would only hurt his feelings; she would be telling him for the wrong reasons . . .). Actually, her true motive (or, at least, one of her initial motives) is a sense of power. When Vivien behaves in a catty fashion, Clare lets her know what she knows. She makes Vivien promise to give up the affair for Clare's silence.

Clare is only partly silent, however. She uses subtle, cutting remarks in social settings to remind Vivien what she knows. This goes on for years until Vivien finally persuades the husband to move away. When Clare finds out, she virtuously informs Vivien she can no longer keep silence.

"I daresay it seems very strange to you," said Clare quietly. "But [my reason] honestly is [conscience]."

Vivien's white, set face stared into hers. "I really believe you mean it, too. You actually think that's the reason."

"It is the reason."

"No, it isn't. If so, you'd have done it before. Why didn't you? I'll tell you. You got more pleasure out of holding it over me--that's why."

Despite Vivien's correct surmise, Clare holds to her intent at which point Vivien throws herself off a cliff (it sounds far more dramatic and surprising than written; in the story, Vivien's decision has a dream-like quality: she runs off waving as Clare watches stupefied). Clare goes mad.

Setting aside the initial issue--which isn't really the point--Clare's relishing of power over a single human being in a small village in England is exactly the kind of mundane, petty cruelty that can occur at the purely interpersonal level. It is remarkable storytelling--and proves that while Christie may not have gone in for long exploratory novels regarding human behavior, she certainly understood it very well.

Iron Man 2 and Character Studies

I finally saw Iron Man 2, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. It was not at all what I expected.

Series action movies appear to follow a pattern. The first is the background movie, the movie that establishes the hero or heroine's context. Batman Begins, Iron Man, Spiderman, Die Hard, The Matrix, Pirates of the C, Fellowship of the Rings, Star Wars IV, Raiders of the Lost Ark, The Terminator, and Bourne Identity all establish how the main character came to be.

These first movies tend to be tighter than any of the others with strong set-ups and pay-offs. In general, not always, they tend to be the best made (though not always the most interesting).

The second movie falls into one of two categories, being either a movie with bigger guns, bigger suits, bigger action where lots and lots of stuff happens. Or a character study.

In general, I prefer character studies. And a surprising number of sequels to movies in the above list fall into that category.  Spiderman 2 is an exploration of how being a superhero affects Peter Parker's life. Empire Strikes Back is a study of Luke's fears and need to grow in the force. Bourne Supremacy is an exploration of Bourne's desire to understand, and forgive, himself. (I'm skipping The Dark Knight because I just don't know what to make of it.)

And Iron-Man 2 is an unexpected study of Tony Stark's personality. There isn't really a character arc in the sense that Tony changes, but he does come to terms with how much people in his life have tried to help him. The scene with his father (on film) is supremely touching, and Robert Downey, Jr.--like always with Stark--does an excellent job keeping the character consistent (no hugs and tears for this guy) while indicating that he has expanded in self-knowledge (there's a kind of House quality about Stark).

I was very surprised! I had expected big guns, big suits, blah, blah, blah.

Now, there are sequels which fall into the bigger guns, bigger suits, etc. category which do work. The Two Towers (non-extended) is quite a tight little film. Terminator 2 (non-extended) more than adequately continues the story (with a soupcon of character study).

However, despite Hollywood's belief that less doesn't equal more, big guns/big suits/lots of stuff happening sequels tend to be duds. Pirates II is one of the few movies in my entire life that I turned off because I was bored out of my skull. It takes a lot to bore me television/movie-wise (I can always do something else while I'm watching!). The first 45 minutes of Pirates II is shaggy dog story world, only more pointless. Stuff happens to happen. It's tedious.

Likewise, the sequel to Raiders is just a bunch of stuff happening for less than believable reasons.

I would love to say that series which use character studies as their second movie have the best shelf-life, but unfortunately, this isn't true. Star Wars plummeted into abysmality after Empire. Spiderman 3 was a terrible disappointment. On the other hand, Terminator 3, while not one of my favorite films, did hold its own, and the Die Hard series was surprisingly rejuvenated with Live Free or Die Harder. 

All I can say is, I sure hope Avengers doesn't muck up Iron Man's winning streak. (You hear me, Joss Whedon!)

Stargate: Season 6 Review

Redemption 1 & Redemption 2: Corin Nemac becomes a member of the team. The problem here is that Corin Nemac is supposed to be Daniel's replacement, but he comes off more flyboy jock than geek. Though Michael Shanks is quite buff (rather startlingly so), he always managed to project more diplomatic/investigator persona than soldier persona. Colin, on the other hand, looks like a gunny from JAG.

Still, he is a sweetie with a dry sense of humor.

Some good problems are presented. Anubis is a fairly boring bad guy, but the episode includes strong McKay-Carter interactions and a smart way to get rid of the Russian gate. (I love how the Russians would rather rent out their Stargate than fund their own program: it's so real!)

Descent: Okay underwater adventure. Like the next episode, this episode is prepping us for Stargate: Atlantis.

Frozen: And Stargate becomes the X-Files!

This was the first episode of the entire series that felt like a total non-story to me: stuff happens only for what needs to take place later on.

Nightwalkers: Adrian Cole is an interesting problem. Unfortunately, he will eventually be paid-off in a dismal fashion.

Abyss: One of my all-time, absolute favorite episodes. I love the setting (the gravity manipulation), Baal's clothes (seriously; they are incredibly sexy), and, of course, Daniel and Jack's deadpan interchanges.

The episode makes complete sense in terms of characterization. Jack isn't the ascending type. And Daniel isn't the sit-back-and-not-get-involved type. I love how it is heavily implied that Daniel helped solve the problem of getting Jack out.

Shadow Play: Another great example of Dean Stockwell's acting ability. He does an excellent job playing a non-playboy scientist.

(Even if this episode is a retelling of A Beautiful Mind. For awhile, after A Beautiful Mind came out, everybody was doing these types of episodes!)

The Other Guys: A fabulous episode! Patick McKenna and John Billingsley are hilarious. I love the Trek references though my favorite line is Jack's: "Why look everybody—he's got Coombs with him!"

I mustn't forget Felger shooting randomly when he and Coombs arrive on the ship and Coombs walking down the middle of the corridor while Felger tries to act cool by skulking in the shadows.

My only problem is that the ending implies the whole thing was a dream. According to the commentary, the events happened, just not the kiss.

Allegiance: Tok'ra and Jaffa tale. Interesting tensions are presented. There are some GREAT Jack moments which underscore his role as a natural leader. Also, Melek—a fairly interesting character—is introduced.

Cure: This episode opens with another great Jack moment. The writers are definitely compensating for the loss of Shanks by giving viewers extra-Jack.

The episode has an "ends justify the means" plot with no definitive villains. I like how the "ends" themselves are quite problematic which is very real (no such thing as utopias on Stargate).

This episode also explains the origin of the Tok'ra which is fairly interesting. The Queen of the Tok'ra is a real class act.

Prometheus: This is a conspiracy theory episode. Unfortunately, the SGC as a big secret society breaks the magic for me. A faux fun secret society like in Men in Black is one thing; a real secret society turns the good guys into people invested in protecting their specialness: erk.

But at least I now know where the spaceship—which shows up in Stargate: Atlantis—came from!

Unnatural Selection: Replicators again! At least now they have a human face, but the story is rather shaggy and depressing and obviously just done to set up problems later on.

Another Teal'c like: Ben & Jerry's!

Sight Unseen: A rehash of earlier Stargate ideas—bugs, confused civilians, otherworld devices that cause problems on earth—not all that interesting an episode.

Smoke & Mirrors: An N.I.D./Senator Kinsey episode. Great beginning! There's a nice pay-off at the end.

And I get a kick out of the continual mention of "Daniel Jackson" (yes, folks, he is coming back).

Paradise Lost: Maybourne shows up! I like how Maybourne can't stay away from the SGC. Criminals return to what they know.

Which brings up: would it really be a good idea to set Maybourne loose in the universe?

Metamorphosis: Nirrti shows up! And dies!! What a way for her to go!!!

It really is quite a good pay-off.

Disclosure: A flashback episode. Generally, I dislike these, but this one includes a nice summary/overview of the Stargate universe/mythos.

And I love the diplomacy at work: let the United States fund the intergalactic space program; they will have all the responsibility while we reap the rewards of their research! (Hmmm. Seems familiar . . .)

Forsaken: Pretty interesting problem, but, again, a rehash of a previous problem with a rather abrupt pay-off.

The Changeling: One of the best Stargate episodes ever! I love Teal'c's heroism. I love how the episode pays off with Jonas delivering similar lines to those he speaks at the beginning of the episode.

I also love how everyone plays the perfect role in T's alternate universe (of course, Jack would be fire chief!) and how Daniel is actually playing himself, ascended, as well as "the resident psychologist."

Great episode!!

Memento: Interesting look at first contact with a people who behave much like Earthlings. I admire the philosophy behind the episode (the Stargate philosophy is that exploration is better than playing it safe, no matter what the consequences). However, I wish that Kalfas hadn't been dismissed/overcome so easily. Just because we know SG-1 are the good guys (hey, we watch the show!) doesn't mean Kalfas should trust them.

Prophecy: Good episode, but it also illustrates a problem that plagues Season 6.

Jonas was brought in to replace Michael Shanks: he took Daniel Jackson's position on SG-1; he also took Michael Shank's position on the show in terms of plots/lines.

And at first, this worked, but as the season continued, Jonas needed to develop more of his own personality. This particular episode, however, was pure Daniel. Its problem is the kind of problem that would happen to Daniel, not Jonas, and Jonas behaves like Daniel, not like himself.

Naturally, it is possible that the producers knew that Michael Shanks was coming back at this point, but overall—despite some good episodes—the entire season has the feel of treading water.

Full Circle: Final episode of Season 6. Fairly good action sequence. Daniel's decision to finally, ultimately, completely interfere makes sense considering what is at stake.

And Jack gives a great line: "Personally, I think this whole 'ascension' thing is a bit overrated."

However, again, the episode is used to set up things that will happen later on. The show has become a serial.

To a degree this serial business is inevitable. Star Trek: Next Generation managed better than most shows in retaining its one plot/episode approach. Stargate post-Season 4 is something of a compromise. Like Season 5, Season 6 does offer fun/interesting/even great single episodes. But there's this feeling of madly generating story-lines to keep the viewer hooked.

Seasons 1-4 are still the best!