Shakespeare Characters: Never Quite What One Expects

I've lately come to appreciate how good Shakespeare truly is. I've always been a fan--but not because of his Great Genius or all the other labels people throw at approved-of writers. 

"Nothing new under the sun" applies to Shakespeare. I don't think Shakespeare is so great because he broke boundaries or transcended expectations blah blah blah. I think he is so great because he used archetypes and tropes in a way that captured human experience and human interest. He was the Agatha Christie of the playwright's world. He put things in the best order. He distilled a fundamental attitude or experience within a single character or scene. His writing is energetic and layered because he allowed it to be--likely, to allow for different actors to play various parts. 

(In some future post, I would point out the potential creativity and discipline of writing for money.) 

Here, I will point out that Shakespeare created lasting characters. They are archetypes, many times, but they are something more because they so exactly capture an archetype and then offer something on top of the archetype. 

Nuttiest play you will ever see.

Kate isn't just a shrew. She has her own personality and wit and ways of looking at the universe. Petruchio is her match, not her overlord. Likewise, Shylock and Falstaff have their own individualized and personalized backgrounds. The twins in Comedy of Errors are distinct. The relationships in Hamlet are believably dysfunctional because the characters come across as recognizable and real people. 

Even characters that I have ignored in the past--such as Henry VI--have something-extra that makes them not simply labels who stand on the stage and react to things. They have usable substance. 

Take Cymbeline, a play Shakespeare may not have written but obviously borrowed from him. Cymbeline feels like Shakespeare (or someone) took all his prior characters--including husbands and wives who feel jealousy--and threw them into a play alongside a bunch of his prior tropes. The play includes (I'm not kidding) kidnapped brothers grown to manhood living in the wilderness (Wales), Roman senators wandering around Briton trying to get tribute, an evil stepmother and an evil prince, and people continually running off to (again, I'm serious) Milford Haven (in Wales). The whole thing sounds like a Greek tragedy set in Swansea or Staten Island. 

I can't help but wonder if Shakespeare was badgered by his shareholders into writing a play and said, "Fine! You want a play?! Here's all my ideas in a single script--I'll trot them out one after another."

Or, since Shakespeare wasn't adverse to making money, he said, "Sure! Let's trot out all my best ideas and make a bundle!" 

The point here: only someone that good in the first place could do what Shakespeare or someone else did: use what they already had to make something that doesn't totally fall apart. 

Spoofs Allow for More Possibilities: Thank You, Shakespeare!

One of the positive of "spoofs" is that they allows the givens to remain givens, so the writers don't have to keep excusing themselves.

I came upon this thought when I considered the problem of updating/modernizing/making superheroes supposedly more progressive. Literature Devil does a thorough job proving that Stan Lee was always more interested in story than in politics. However, writers run the risk of being criticized no matter what they do--hence, growing reader interest in manga, which still focuses primarily on story. 

My suggested solution is to "pay tribute to" a classic, which is code for, Use the classic characters and plots but switch people around.

In a recent viewing of The Hollow Crown, I realized, Shakespeare allows for such tributes! Shakespeare is the preeminent example of using and reusing basic plots-- which Shakespeare somehow encapsulated better than everyone else--to achieve numerous ends. 

So one of the main characters of Henry VI is Margaret, the bulldozer of a political powerhouse who marries the inept Henry VI. Some critics believe that the three plays that make up Henry VI are really about her, rather like how huge chunks of Henry IV are mostly about Falstaff and his cronies. (The plays are named for their kings, not necessarily their plots.) 

And I realized that Sophie Okonedo is able to play Margaret--and play her magnificently--without automatically being labeled misogynistic BECAUSE the play is Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare is endlessly usable--one reason, perhaps, that he has remained such a seminal figure in literature. His plays can be modernized or spoofed (see Trevor Nun's spoof of, and tribute to, the itself-a-spoof-play Comedy of Errors). Shakespeare's plays can be cut to focus on different plots and characters. They can be set in different countries and even in space--or animation! 

Okonedo becomes the powerful and complex Margaret and excels--without apology.

Thank you, Shakespeare!  

Books to Movies: Return of the King and Emphasized Moments in Film

A common approach with film is for the scriptwriters to select out one minor reference and make it a focus. So, the lighting of the beacons is referenced in passing in The Return of the King. In the movie, it is a major moment (see below). In the book, Pippin is asked if he can sing but doesn't while in the movie, Pippin (Billy Boyd) renders a sad and beautiful dirge. (Another lovely moment in the movie is citizens of Gondor spreading flowers under the hooves of Faramir's doomed soldiers.) 

I find these moments particularly indicative of the difference between movies and books. A movie is about imagery, and the scriptwriters will focus on certain images precisely because of their charismatic quality. The lighting of the beacons is a fantastic example!

The only problem is that such a focus can take over. Jackson is quite skilled at investing each scene with "now, the characters must make a choice!" but too many scenes with choices distracts from the scene that really matters. Theoden has good reason to object to riding out to help Gondor but he keeps going over the decision again and again in the movie. Good theater but it runs the risk of detracting from the final decision.

One of the most thrilling scenes in all movies is when Mandy Patinkin's Montoya says to Count Rugen, "I want my father back, you son of a bitch."

Because there is no other swearing in the movie, the moment stands out and makes an impact.   

Raskins' Aloof Heroes

Cool, calculating somewhat aloof heroes who see three moves ahead are quite popular in fiction. See House and House's predecessor Sherlock Holmes. Ellen Raskin created a few notably aloof characters, such as Sam Westing in The Westing Game and Garson from The Tattooed Potato and Other Clues.

Raskin deserves credit for her aloof protagonists being full characters who transcend the archetype. She accomplishes this feat through the following writing choices:

(1) Raskin avoids omniscience. However clever, her protagonists are operating within specific parameters alongside idiosyncratic people who don't operate entirely according to plan;

(2) Raskin gives her protagonists flaws; they are idiosyncratic themselves, beyond merely being jerks.

House, for instance, is sarcastic and grumpy. And I enjoyed the early seasons of House. But I always felt that the audience was being invited to agree with House: "Yeah, isn't it stupid to have to do that petty bureaucratic stuff like fill out charts?!"

Consequently, I never felt like House learned or grew. He understood himself better.  But he never moved forward, and I eventually gave up on the show. In comparison, Sherlock from Elementary retains his basic personality while still trying to improve (without getting lecture-y).

Raskin's protagonists are more like Sherlock than House. Sam Westing has a sweet scene in which he waxes nostalgic (I won't give away more) and Garson is haunted by choices he made in the past. However, Garson is not allowed to wallow; he too needs to learn to move on.

I highly recommend both books, especially the second which doesn't get enough attention!

Barney Miller Memorable Moment: James Gregory

James Gregory shows up in a great many classic television shows, including Columbo. I love him best, however, in Barney Miller where he plays the "old-school" Frank Luger. 

Frank Luger underscores the true tolerance of Barney Miller--not tolerance for a select group but tolerance even for the loud, tactless, old-school, supporter of corrupt politicians, fundamentally decent Luger.

What I love the most with Gregory is his physical acting. Barney Miller reminds me of The Closer; when rewatching The Closer, I often get the impression that James Duff, the producer, told a guest star, "Just do whatever you want! What character type do you want to play?" 

I feel the same with the guest stars on Barney Miller. 

The images are when Luger discovers the panties that a male shoplifter stole. He calls the man a pervert, asks him who is going to vote for, waves the panties around, and then nearly walks off with them. 

The entire sequence is utterly hilarious, made more so by rapidly changing expressions on Gregory's mobile face. 

 

The Character Between the Lines: Pamela

When I wrote my tribute to Richardson's Pamela, I had to take a character, Pamela, who appears a simpering goody-two-shoes and make her likable. I also had to give her an internal arc, which is infinitely more useful to building a character than having the character do lots and lots of stuff. 

Luckily, I was able to find clues in Pamela to the person Pamela might be behind the letters and the front she puts forward. 

Pamela herself is not always amusing. The text's humor arises from the quick-fire exchanges between Pamela and Mr. B. Like Bones and Booth, Nick and Nora, Pamela and Mr. B thrive on playing off each others' words. (One reason the second book is markedly less successful than the first is that in the second book, Pamela and Mr. B are reduced to fighting and making up rather than verbally sparring.)

Pamela is the perfect straight-woman.

The following scene from The World According to Mr. B, recounted by Pamela in Letter XVI, shows how Pamela will take hold of Mr. B's words to support her own argument.

I’d stopped by Mrs. Jervis’s parlor to tell her my travel plans to Lincolnshire where our family’s original estate is located. She was interviewing a farmer’s daughter; I didn’t want to disturb them, so I went to the back parlor and rang for Mrs. Jervis.

"Is your visitor Farmer Nichols or Farmer Brady’s daughter?" I asked when she arrived.

She laughed. "If your honor won’t be angry, I will introduce her, for I think she outdoes our Pamela."

And she brought in Pamela dressed in plain muslin with a black silk kerchief and a straw hat on her head.

A country miss, in fact. Pamela is no fool; she knows clothes make the station.

I got up and came around the oak writing desk. "You are far prettier than your sister Pamela," I said.

"I am Pamela," she told me with a quick upwards glance.

"Impossible," I said. "I can be free with you," and I kissed her lightly on the lips.

She bolted out of the room. Mrs. Jervis clucked.

"What’s she up to?" I said.

"It’s her new wardrobe. She’s been collecting odds and ends over the last week or so."

Damn Pamela and her practicality.

"Get in here," I yelled towards the door, and Pamela sidled in, scowling. "This is pure hypocrisy," I said, waving my hand at the country dress. Pamela didn’t want the life that dress represented.

"I’ve been in disguise ever since your mother brought me here. These clothes are more suitable to my degree."

I was leaning against the desk, my face almost level with Pamela’s. We studied each other, and I noted her set lips and dark, unhappy eyes.

"Oh, Pamela," I said and drew her into my arms.

She didn’t struggle—not this time. "You have to leave," I said to her hair, "only I don’t want that." She tensed instantly, but I strengthened my hold, and she relaxed again, her cheek against my waistcoat. Poor Pamela sent off in disgrace to a life that would sap her dry.

I let her go and addressed Mrs. Jervis. "I’ll submit myself to this hussy for a fortnight and then send her to my sister. Do you hear what I say, statue?"

And Pamela muttered, "I might be in danger from her ladyship’s nephew."

Never imagine that Pamela’s memory is bad. [Mr. B earlier resisted sending Pamela to his sister because of the nephew.]

"Damned impertinence," I said.

"What have I done that you treat me worse than if I robbed you?"

I almost laughed then because whatever was between me and Pamela was very much like being robbed—of sense or self-preservation.

She wasn’t done. "Why should you demean yourself to notice me? Why should I suffer more than others?"

"You have distinguished yourself above the common servant," I said. She couldn’t have it both ways—she couldn’t write and read and befriend Mrs. Jervis and then want me to treat her like a scullery maid. "Didn’t my good mother desire I take care of you?"

She muttered. I took her chin and forced it up, and she said, nearly spitting, "My good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house and dressing room."

The latter part of the argument is described thus in the original text:

Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, cried he again, how pertly I am interrogated by this saucy slut? Why, sauce-box, says he, did not my good mother desire me to take care of you? And have you not been always distinguished by me, above a common servant? And does your ingratitude upbraid me for this?

I said something mutteringly, and he vowed he would hear it. I begged excuse; but he insisted upon it. Why, then, said I, if your honour must know, I said, That my good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer-house, and her dressing-room.

Which brings me to the issue of Pamela's "sauciness." (She is described this way more than any other.) The word sounds coy and playful and when I first started working on my novella, I was confused by the disparity between Pamela's acerbic comments, Mr. B's reactions, and references to her as some kind of giggling flirt.

However, in the second book, Pamela writes a letter to Lady Danvers in which she describes her personality: 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.

In this context, "saucy" clearly does not denote pleasant flirting but rather sarcastic zingers. This is far more in keeping with Pamela's personality as delineated by Richardson in the first novel. Although Pamela is often portrayed by anti-Pamelites as leading Mr. B on, she is actually fighting to preserve her own space with the best tool available: her quick wit.

She could hardly anticipate Mr. B would get a huge kick out of verbal sparring!

Pamela didn’t want me to read the letters; she was worried I would be offended by their bluntness. I couldn’t imagine Pamela could be blunter to the page than she was to my face, and I told her to have more confidence in me. I wanted the honest Pamela, not the Pamela who spoke round and round and round a topic, hiding her thoughts and motives.

"I have read many of your barbed reflections," I said. "And yet I’ve never upbraided you on that score." Not very often, at least.

"As long as you remember I wrote the truth from my heart," she said, "and that I had the right to defy this forced and illegal restraint."

"You have a powerful advocate in me," I said and went to my library to read.

The packet contained not only Pamela’s letters to her parents but letters from Williams [a clergyman who proposed to Pamela] and drafts of Pamela’s letters to him. I glowered over them. Pamela had certainly pled her case to Williams most affectingly, and he had definitely presented himself as more a romantic than disinterested savior.

"Do you find I encouraged his proposal?" Pamela said when I called her down and taxed her about her "love letters."

I didn’t, but, "What about the letters before these?" I said. The ones I had started nearly two weeks after I sent Pamela to Lincolnshire. I knew from Mrs. Jewkes that Pamela and Williams began corresponding immediately after her arrival.

"My father has them."

I remembered then that Mrs. Jewkes believed Pamela had given Williams a packet to send to her parents. Mrs. Jewkes had tried to retrieve it by arranging an attack on the poor man. I would not have condoned such a crude scheme, especially since it failed in its purpose.

"I want to read everything you’ve written," I said. "You create a pretty tale of romance around your troubles."

She raised her chin. "You jeer at my misfortunes."

"Considering the liberties you take with my character," I said, brandishing the letters, "I’d say we are equally outspoken."

"I would not have taken liberties if you had not given me cause. The cause, sir, comes before the effect." Pamela’s voice gets quite steely when she’s riled. I held back a smile.

"You chop logic very prettily. What the deuce do men go to school for?"

"You wouldn’t mock me if I were dull."

"I wouldn’t love you half so well," I pointed out.

She flushed. "I’d be better off married to a plough-boy," she told the worn rug, which she knew and I knew wasn’t true.

"One of us fox-hunters would still have found you," I said. I hoped I would have found her. I couldn’t imagine never having met Pamela. "What about the most recent letters, the ones after these? Are they on your person?" And when she remained silent, "You know criminals who don’t confess are tortured."

"Torture is not used in England," she retorted.

"Oh, my torture will fit the crime," I said. "I’m going to strip you, Pamela." I crossed to her and began to slowly untie the lace handkerchief that masked her bosom. She gazed at me, open-mouth, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought she wouldn’t stop me. But she slapped my hand and darted backwards.

"You’ll give me the letters?" I said.

"Yes," she said and fled.

The underlying sexual threat is the one area where Pamela is not completely comfortable. The rather remarkable thing about Richardson is that despite the sententiousness of much of the text, he was a great observer of human nature. When Pamela actually does behave her age (and isn't acting a spokesperson for Richardson), she behaves that age with utter believability. Like many a teenage girl, she can be ironic and sarcastic and sardonic and, frankly, rather obnoxious--but, when placed in a setting outside her knowledge, she will get bewildered and scared.

Unfortunately, Richardson didn't have the consistency of characterization that would place him at the forefront of English novelists (and I'm not sure he cared), but he definitely had the skill to create strong--and witty--characters.

 

Stopping Christie Murderers: Crazy is Harder to Stop, Murder is Easy and Endless Night

These posts present fictional crime prevention detectives who go into novels, specifically Agatha Christie novels, to stop the murders there. 

*Spoilers* 

Not many but some of Christie's murderers are nuts, such as Miss Honoria Waynflete from Murder is Easy. And the problem with crazy is that craziness is difficult to stop. 

Take Michael from Endless Night. Although he goes crazy after the murder, he doesn't start out that way. Like most Christie murderers, he is self-protective. He doesn't plan to put himself at risk. The murder at the end is an aberration in an otherwise careful plan.

That is, Christie's murderers usually kill within a mindset and current set of experiences; they want various things out of their real lives that they will protect by not behaving stupidly. The things they want are often the things that make them vulnerable. And because they are vulnerable, they can be stopped. 

With the truly crazy, their craziness is their protection. While Michael's link to Greta immediately gives away his nefarious plan, Miss Waynflete's link to the dead parrot, by itself, wouldn't convince anyone of anything. Unfortunately, my crime prevention detectives would have to catch her in the act of trying to do someone in.

The point here is an important one: my recent personal contact with a suicide brought home to me how much the human spirit, evolutionary or emotionally or culturally or morally, isn't prepared for acts that violate social norms. And social norms do matter! (By themselves, they do an exceptional job keeping society functional.) Consequently, I've always thought it was unfair to blame police and other investigators for not imagining as a reality the unimaginable.

The point here is also the reason that I don't buy the "sane person who murders a dozen people to hide one murder" as occurs in The ABC Murders. I don't think truly non-serial-killing people do that. Something inherent holds us back from that one-on-one level of evil. And, in fact, Christie does a decent job with her serial murderer. He may actually be what he thinks he isn't. (I will come back to The ABC Murders in a later post.)  

To put the matter more cynically: people justify themselves, and they have to live with their justifications. And some acts simply are too difficult to justify unless one is nuts. Michael in Endless Night goes crazy because he can't leap the gap--not when he was likely falling in love, unintentionally, with the wife he killed.  

Quinn's Colin Bridgerton: Imperfect Yet Lovable

My comments are based on the book, not the Netflix show. I watched the first two Bridgerton seasons and enjoyed them. And I will likely watch the later seasons if they ever show up in the library. But I don't have enough interest that I would pick up another streaming service right now. 

Romancing Mr. Bridgerton is one of my favorite Quinn books, in part because it is about writing. In fact, I use a passage from the book to teach description to my students, specifically the passage about sensory adjectives and similes when Penelope discusses Colin's diary with him. 

Both Penelope and Colin are strong characters. I am praising Colin here because Quinn makes him imperfect yet entirely lovable and that achievement is admirable. 

Colin is the third oldest son. He travels quite a lot, being somewhat at loose ends as was typical of young men of that time period and class--those whose parents weren't pushing them towards the military or church. He is whimsical and kind-hearted. He also carries about him a kind of observer's distance. He gets on well with his family yet he seems to hold onto the role of outsider. 

When he discovers Penelope's secret--that she is writing columns under a pseudonym for a society page--he is at first alarmed. He is also jealous.

My image of Colin--personality-wise.

Penelope won't give up her craft, and she treats it and refers to it as a craft. She has been writing the pieces for years and has steadily honed her skills. The pieces are lightweight but as anyone who has tried comedy writing versus drama writing can attest, comedy writing is infinitely more difficult. Short, pithy, and memorable is not the easiest style to pull off. 

And Colin--a travel writer without an audience and at loose ends--covets what she has accomplished. He has to acknowledge how he feels before he can move forward in a relationship with a woman that he finds captivating. 

I think Quinn wisely has Penelope and Colin interested in different types of writing. Penelope is basically a journalist and commentator while Colin is more of a travel writer, Gerald Durrell-style. They can encourage each other rather than compete directly with each other for commissions and fans. 

Yuzuru Hanyu's Gift or Extravaganza as a True Gift

"If less is more, just imagine how much more more would be," Frasier tells Niles.

It's a hilarious line. It also has a grain of truth. 

In the series The (Weird) Director Who Buys Me Dinner, the character Min Yum Dam states at one point, "If we're going to charge more for tickets [to a pop idol's concert], we need to do more, so people get their money's worth."

Yuzuru Hanyu's Gift is a great example of making something worth more. I wondered at first how Hanyu had managed 12 programs over 2+ hours without getting worn out (and, in truth, he does get worn out, but his final programs are as impressive as the earlier ones). 

I ordered the DVD from Japan. The version I ordered has no subtitles. However, I had little trouble following the show's concept, which is an emotional autobiography of Hanyu or, rather, his different personas. Between programs, while Hanyu changes and recovers, the arena offers movies with voiceovers, dancers, the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra and a separate band that appears to include the composer of works made specifically for Hanyu as well as a number of seriously skilled rock-n-roll guitarists. 

In addition, every program--aside from Hanyu's recreation of a set piece from one of his competitions--uses different costumes, different music, different lighting, different backdrops, and Hanyu's frankly more physical style of skating than what one sees in the official competitions. 

I like it! One reason I wanted to own Gift is because I've often felt, watching the more official pieces, that Hanyu is more captivating--and is having more fun--when he seems to embrace the ice, to sweep low and brush his fingers along it, to almost play with his performances. 

The result with Gift is intense emotional self-disclosure coupled with genius proficiency and high production values, a combination in Japanese art that never fails to slightly unnerve me. (When Americans "disclose," they tend to "disclose" for the Protestant purpose of being personally saved--I told you stuff and now I will go home and cook dinner; the British do it with loads of irony--I told you stuff but don't take any of it seriously; I'm sure Japanese "disclosure" follows its own form, but it always catches me by surprise.) 

In any case, Yuzuru Hanyu's Gift is a gift of MORE! And worth the cost of the DVD. 

Books to Movies: Two Towers, Is Message Really Necessary?

The heavy-handed messages in the second film are the filmmakers' choice, not Tolkien's. When characters preach in his works, which they seldom do, they talk from within their own characterizations and knowledge. Manwe and Mandos (Maiar in The Silmarillion and therefore, minor deities) act as Manwe and Mandos, not spokespersons for Tolkien. 

In fact, Tolkien appears to believe quite emphatically that since people can't know the future, they should be careful about forcing a particular futuristic outcome--and their opinions about that particular futuristic outcome--on others.

Two Towers the film does have a message: Hope is better than despair and people should fight for it. 

I'm generally opposed to message-heavy fiction. It violates the principle of show-not-tell and depending on the message, it can come across as rather trite and preachy. 

I think Two Towers (barely) pulls off its messaging for two reasons: Bernard Hill and Sean Astin, who deliver the message speeches: 

Bernard Hill as Theoden: "Where is the horse and the rider? Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red dawn." 

Sean Astin as Sam: "How could the world go back to the way it was?"

I think the (bare) success is because of the characters who make the speeches. First, their speeches don't sound trite.  Second, the speeches come from within their personalities. Theoden is a poet warrior. Sam has a liking for poetry and a disposition to reflect on stories and their meaning. And third, the poetry of the speeches is quite lovely (and drawn from Tolkien). 

Granted, Ian McKellen's White Shores description to Pippin in Return outshines the others because it is entirely Gandalf's reflection and wish. It is consolation, not a message. And, well... McKellen! 

I personally would have advocated for Sam's speech being slightly cut or split between Osgiliath and later. Films are a visual medium. If I want speeches, I can go on social media. (I don't.) 

Lessons from All the Ms: What to Do with So Many Characters

I have discovered in reading the first few pages of books by M authors that despite a wide range of writing styles and topics and tones (there truly is something out there for everyone!), specific writing choices consistently cause problems. 

One of those problems is too many characters. 

I recently read (in March 2025) an "M" author book in which so many characters were thrown at my head at once, I immediately lost interest. 

So...how does one produce a book with a "cast of thousands" without overwhelming the reader? Fiction, after all, to a large extent, is about investment in the individual. If I want to read about large groups of people doing stuff, I'll read the encyclopedia. 

I suggest two methods characterize the writers who manage to successfully present a complex story with multiple characters: 

1. Stick to a single POV. 

The single POV explains the great success of Cherryh's Foreigner Series. It is an exceedingly complex series with multiple political "sides" occupied by strong personalities. Yet Cherryh has managed to keep all personalities distinct. To a huge extent, the non-confusing nature of the story (despite overlapping political/social/scientific worlds) is due to the third-person limited voice of Bren Cameron (main character) and Cajeiri (heir apparent to the main political body). Because we, the audience, see everything through their eyes, the things they see make a great deal of sense.

2. Avoid the "in-joke."

In my "M" reading, the book I encountered that turned me off was a mystery in which the author wanted to mention every single character in a previously established English village. It reminded me of romances in which the authors wants to bring back every single couple from previous books, sometimes in a single chapter. 

I understand the impulse: writers fall in love with characters and want to give them cameos. And this approach can be quite successful with established readers, who enjoy the cameos.

But a cameo is a cameo, not a plot.  

Hollywood's Murder on the Orient Express (1974) versus Death on the Nile (1978) is a good example. Murder on the Orient Express is, quite frankly, a series of cameos. But they have a purpose. The actors play their classic roles with such skill, several were nominated for their performances. The mystery, not the cameos, runs the movie.

Death on the Nile (1978), however, is about the cameos BEING cameos. Ha ha ha. Isn't it sooo clever to see THAT star acting so over-the-top? (Granted, Ustinov is rather like that anyway; he does far better in the TV movies.)

In one romance series, the need to bring back so many characters resulted in the main characters utterly changing personalities. I have mentioned elsewhere that one of the few reasons I'll give up on an author isn't politics or bad writing but, rather, the betrayal of a character. In this particular case, I thoroughly adored the Jon-Donovan novels up to the last book in which suddenly the mature intelligent main characters who exhibited nuanced reactions to the world started throwing around clever put-downs about all the people they didn't like. The book wasn't a story; it was a series of Tweets. 

Pulling in characters for the sake of showing them off often, unfortunately, results in characters being a series of Tweets.

Fiction truly ultimately is about investing in individual people. (Which is why fiction simply for itself is such a threat to totalitarian states and mindsets.)  

Art of Art's Sake: Chariots of Fire

The most heart-felt moment of Chariots of Fire is the voice-over in the final race. 

The character Eric Liddell, in his typical kindly and upfront way, wishes all the other runners well. (The character of Liddell in the movie accords with reports of his character in various biographies.) 

The race then begins. Liddell's sister is watching. In the movie, she is concerned that his passion for racing is distracting him from God (in real life, she was quite supportive of his racing). The finale offers an opportunity for Liddell to express/explain the connection between his racing and his honest passion for God and Christianity. It is a connection echoed by Sister Peters and Tolkien and C.S. Lewis:

"God made me for a purpose--but he also made me fast." 

The statement as spoken by the actor, Ian Charleson, is not a boast but a joyous thankful embracing of his individual self and individual talents. 

As C.S. Lewis stated in The Screwtape Letters, "[God] would rather [a] man thought himself a great architect or a great poet and then forgot about it, than that he should spend much time and pains trying to think himself a bad one."

Thoughts on First-Person in Fiction and Essays

A unique Bones episode told from

the point of view of a dead boy.

I have mixed feelings about first-person in fiction. It is ubiquitous; these days, I read far more of it than I used to. But I'm always somewhat wary of it. Like with fiction based on letters, I can't drop the sneaky suspicion that it is too easy. Oh, just write a memoir already. 

Additionally, I have formed the uneasy impression in the last few years--I read a great many small press books on my Kindle, and I enjoy many of them--that first-person is a kind of fall-back position for being able to quickly establish character, except it doesn't always work. I sometimes develop less feel for the characters than I do with third-person texts. Everything is being discussed out of the perspective of a single mind, but I can't see the person or sense how that person interacts with others: what makes that person unique. The stream-of-consciousness stuff begins to blend together.  

I think good first-person is so difficult because it requires enormous control. As someone once remarked to me about The Curious Incident of the Boy in the Nighttime, "By the time the book was over, I wanted to get out of the boy's head." 

And the reader admired the book! For that matter, I consider Blossom Culp, the narrator of Ghosts I Have Been, to have a fantastic voice. 

But. Still. 

I use Terry and Alim as first-person narrators in His in Herland because the original text is in first-person. I used the god of love as a first-person narrator in my take on Northanger Abbey because I didn't trust that I could pull off Austen's omniscient narrator (I did the next best thing). In both cases, I tried to remember that THIS narrator would use particular references and vocabulary. Terry is hard-headed, pragmatic, and little wry. Alim, who is looking back on events, is more philosophical. Ven, the god of love, is "what have I signed up for?!" off-the-cuff-smoking-pot-behind-the-convenience-store guy. 

I thankfully returned to third-person in my other books. 

The one entirely valid reason to use first-person is for the reason listed below: the first-person narrator is able to supply a first-hand account.

* * * 

Re-post from 2008 with tweaks:

From Ohio Northern University

I occasionally get students who believe they should never use first-person in an essay, especially a research essay. Once upon a time, one of their teachers forbade the use of first-person, and the students took it to heart. The reasoning is that by banning first-person, the teacher will prevent students using non-credible evidence. 

Considering the number of my students who use [the equivalent of A.I.] and still fail their essays, the banning of first-person bears no relationship to the ability of students to think critically.

There's a lot of ridiculous non-first-person evidence out there which has no more credibility than a teenage driver claiming, "I never speed." A claim, introduced with an "I" or not, is still a claim, and any claim is disputable (as is all evidence).

I've seen the results of this logical fallacy in my students' writing; they confuse claims with support, thinking any statement without "I" is evidence (there's a huge difference between arguing, "Cats make great pets" and proving that cats make great pets). They also confuse claims with facts, thinking any statement without "I" is a fact: The United States is having a recession. Newsweek says so. I can use this "evidence" in my paper!

All evidence/claims are testable, both personal evidence ("I experienced") and non-personal evidence. Determining credible evidence has nothing to do with first-person and everything to do with the credibility of the speaker/researcher/study/source.

In a well-intention desire to prevent excessive grandstanding, teachers who ban first-person are confusing cause with effect. A superfluity of "I think that..." "I believe that..." "I must be right because..." may be the result of a me-centered culture (and can get annoying), but it has little to nothing to do with whether the speaker can actually be trusted or whether the speaker's evidence is meritorious. I often tell my students, "Personal evidence is the strongest evidence you have; it just isn't enough except to your parents and your friends." 

But to say that personal evidence carries no weight at all is such an obvious untruth that students are liable to follow the teacher's instructions while missing the point. 

Here's a claim: Non-credible arguments in the college environment will not go away until students are forced to be intelligent (but not cynical) about all information. And...[2025 update]...A.I. doesn't help. Or at least, it rather troublingly enforces how gullible students actually can be. The Internet says it (without "I"!) so it must be true.

Thankfully, I can report that there are students out there who get the problem. They do prefer to think for themselves, which, of course, makes them in the long-run, more objective.

The Brassy Female Character: Peck's Blossom Culp as a Standard Current Writers Should Aim For

One of the more annoying things about trends is that readers/viewers/critics tend to behave as if nothing has ever happened before, such as--

Behaving as if no writer before 2020 wrote strong female characters.

Peck's Blossom Culp proves that assumption utterly wrong (so does Shakespeare, but Shakespeare comes with more baggage). 

Blossom Culp is a fantastic female character in four of Peck's books. Though she appears in an earlier book, the first book primarily about Blossom is Ghosts I Have Been, whose plot has a link to the Titanic! She is exceedingly proactive--she scares boys to stop them tipping over a privy. She defends another girl on the playground. She helps her mentor, Miss Dabney, to out-maneuver a shyster spiritualist. She gains the ability to see ghosts and ends up traveling to England where she poses in Madam Tussauds.

So Blossom Culp is a great character but she does interesting things. She is also great because she has personality.  

In comparison, the scriptwriters of The War of the Rohirrim apparently consider their main female character to be preferable to all other LOTR female characters because she is "complex." I guess "complex" means "does a lot of things with confidence after a brief pause." 

But in truth, the main female character of The War of the Rohirrim is boring. 

Blossom is not boring. Like Agatha Christie's nurse in Murder in Mesopotamia, she is observant and somewhat blunt. Christie's nurse is more tactful. But both characters have a brassy good-nature that precludes cynicism (cynical narrators can be enticing--they can also get a bit wearisome like the Genie constantly breaking the fourth wall). They are intelligent about human nature  at a practical everyday level. 

Blossom Culp is younger than Christie's nurse, of course, being about twelve in the first book. She is also adventurous, tough, smart and clever (the two traits are not synonymous) and human. She is kind. She isn't perfect. She has her weaknesses, one of them being the next-door neighbor boy, Alexander. Consequently, she is well-rounded, especially since she has a sense of humor with a pragmatic view of life:

"I was never threatened with imprisonment after the first hour or so." 

"I could have done better, and I might have done worse. But that's true of life in general."

The Voice of Characters: Cadfael and Others

Patrick Tull

I remark in an earlier post that one issue with books-to-movies is when the character doesn't match the image in one's head. Although I am a big fan of Sir Derek Jacobi, I don't really see him as Cadfael. I like the early Cadfael series anyway. But I never forget that I'm watching Sir Derek Jacobi. 

A related topic here is when someone SOUNDS like the character. The first Ellis Peters' books I listened to were read by Patrick Tull. He isn't one my favorite readers since I like readers who read at a fairly steady clip, and Tull lingers on words. But the voice--oh, my!--was perfect, exactly how I imagined Cadfael would sound. Stephen Thorne was the second reader I encountered, and he is quite good both as Cadfael and as a well-paced reader. I "see" Cadfael through their voices.

Stephen Thorne

Ian Carmichael is the same. His voice, that is. I will occasionally watch the Wimsey TV movies starring Carmichael, but I can never not wince a little: he doesn't match Sayers' description of Peter Wimsey or my own image of Peter Wimsey at all.

And yet, he TOTALLY gets Wimsey. His voice is perfect. 

In reverse, I think David Suchet is perfect as Poirot in the series, but I don't like him as a reader. (I far prefer Hugh Fraser.) Likewise, Barbara Rosenblat as Mrs. Pollifax makes her sound about two decades older than she is in the books, which is just odd. 

Good reading is a skill. And a good reader makes a difference. Voice can be as much a "character" as any other part of an actor. 

Art for Art's Sake: Perfect Scene in The Silmarillion

One of the most remarkable aspects of Tolkien's Middle Earth theology is the preservation of the agency of the individual. Even the Maiar, those beings below Iluvatar who reside on the edges of Middle Earth, are separate sentient beings who must make their own choices. Their lack of knowledge; their idiosyncratic interests; even their preferences re: friendship are not perceived as sins or mistakes or failings. 

In fact, reading (or listening to Andy Serkis read) The Silmarillion brings home how often humans do unfortunately interpret "righteousness" as seamlessness or sameness. 

In contrast, everybody in Tolkien's universe has a unique and personal set of interests and hobbies and loves and wants. 

Consequently, one of the greatest scenes in the book occurs after Morgoth (Melkor) has stolen the Silmarils with the help of the ever-hungry Ungoliant. The Maiar Yavanna then commends the elf Feanor for creating jewels that could restore or replace the Silmarils. The Maiar ask for the jewels.

There was a long silence, but Feanor answered no word. Then Tulkas cried, "Speak, O Noldo, yea or nay! But who shall deny Yavanna? And does not the light of the Silmarils come from her work in the beginning?"

But Aule the Maker said, "Be not hasty! We ask a greater thing than thou knowest. Let him have peace for awhile." 

Love of one's creation is a state of mind deserving of respect. 

Over and over through The Silmarillion, Tolkien praises the desire to make stuff. Even when it goes wrong, the desire to build and fashion and write and produce is never in itself condemned. 

The view here agrees with both Tolkien and Lewis's attitudes toward art. They believed that God was the ultimate creator and when we try to create we are attempting to emulate God. Creation, even imperfect creation, is always the opposite of destruction and negation. It always bears about it the imprint of heavenly favor.

A glorious view of life and deity! 

People Don't Change: The Proliferation of Financial Records

Ancient Egypt was hugely popular in the nineteenth century--and still is. Professor Amanda Podany in her Great Courses CD and DVD on Ancient Mesopotamia comments that people are often confused by her focus: Mesopotamia rather than Egypt, even though Ancient Mesopotamia is the older culture. 

Ancient Egypt, in all truth, is somewhat misleading about what the ancient world was like. Those pyramids! They don't just loom over the landscape, they loom in importance over the history and the lives of Ancient Egyptians. (By the time  Hatshepsut comes along, the pyramids were to the Egyptians of that time period what the medieval era is to us. To Ramses, the pyramids were ancient.) Yes, the pyramids were huge work projects, employing a great many people, and yes, they reveal beliefs about the afterlife... 

But Ancient Mesopotamia reveals what truly pushed human civilization forward from Day 1. The majority of cuneiform tablets from the area are about...

Accounts! 

I can confirm this reality. Reviewing my parents' paperwork, the largest file (just as large if not larger than the letters and journals and stored children's artwork) is...

BILLS! Account agreements. Banking forms. The file would be even larger if some of the documents hadn't be shredded.  

Archaeologists love this stuff, by the way. 1,000 years from now, archaeologists and anthropologists will try figure out our lives--how we lived, where, on what--from tax documents. Which doesn't mean the more imaginative, family-oriented, individual, belief and art-type stuff doesn't exist: imagine trying to figure out everything about United States culture or history from those ubiquitous newsprint circulars that show up in our mailboxes every weekend. Archaeologists and anthropologists could figure out quite a lot from those circulars! But what they figured out would only scratch the surface. And they wouldn't be able to guess that I throw out most of mine--I don't even use them to line the cage of my non-existent hamster. 

What survives the MOST is, itself, up for interpretation. 

The Scarlet Pimpernel: Do Spies Make Good Spouses?

Anthony Andrews' Scarlet Pimpernel is carried to a huge extent by Jane Seymour's vibrant beauty and Anthony Andrews' exceptional skill at exuding bravado and insouciance. Unlike the book, the film's story starts with the courtship, and the question immediately arises: Why would a sharp-witted actress marry a seemingly shallow idiot, if not for his money?

Without abandoning the character's vapid cover, Anthony Andrews manages to give Sir Percy a hint of something deeper when he is around Marguerite. He is boisterously happy to woo her and lets her believe that there is, in fact, "more" there.

 

When they marry and he comes to believe that she sent a family to the guillotine, he retreats entirely behind his adopted persona. Marguerite rightly perceives him as hiding from her. But the lover is still there.

 

This double or, rather, triple face is only possible because Andrews is that good. He manages to give Percy an aura of sincerity no matter what he is doing. When Marguerite complains that she can't confide in him, he is truly upset. He manages to convey that underneath all the frippery and shifting attitudes, a base personality remains.

 

Generally speaking, however, I don't buy it. The history of spies reads like the history of die-hard grifters. Le Carre's version of spies--and for that matter, Andrew Robinson's Garak in Deep Space Nine--is much closer to the truth. In one episode of Deep Space Nine, Garak keeps telling stories to the doctor, as if he were four or five different people: soldier, friend, traitor, exile. All of them are true. All of them are lies. 

 

The slipperiness of an entire personality being constantly in "code" doesn't bode well for a relationship. Though it may be true that one person can never totally understand another, the sheer bewilderment of a person never being one thing--no base personality--would make it difficult to go forward with that person...

 

Unless, of course, the lover LIKES being in love with a chimera.

 

Loid [using Crunchyroll's spelling] and Yo are exceptions here, of course, since they are decent, family people who just happen (oops!) to be a spy and assassin rather than a spy and assassin who are trying to pretend to be decent people.