Books to Movies: Desolation of Smaug, Lake-Town and Character Investment

The Lake-Town chapters are somewhat different from the same scenes in the Jackson and Rankin films. In the Rankin film, Bard is the captain of the guard; in the book, he leads a group of archers but it is never entirely clear (outside of Tolkien's notes), whether he is an official military commander. In Jackson's film, elements that are implied in the book--the Master is definitely corrupt and self-serving--are fleshed out. In both the book and the movies, the dwarfs are embraced for political reasons; in the book, there is no bungled burglary. And the group isn't split with Fili and Kili and a few other dwarfs remaining behind, as they do in Jackson's film.

I consider all the changes to be smart writing:

 

1. The theme of things getting worse is established early in the trilogy. 

 

Trolls are coming too far south. The Necromancer appears to be gathering forces. The reason Smaug is a worry is because other negative forces are at work. The misery of Lake-Town's citizens is in keeping with the theme.

 

It is also implied by Tolkien that though trade is still brisk, there are increasing problems along the roads. A kind of apathy alongside the Necromancer keeps Lake-Town from expanding. The dwarfs and dragon are treated as folktales, not realities. The Master assumes the dwarfs are frauds--that's how his mind works.

 

2. Placing some of the dwarfs in Lake-Town gives the dwarfs direct investment in Smaug's descent on Lake-Town. 

 

The book does deliver a brilliant example of unintended consequences.  Bilbo does mutter, "What have we done?" as Smaug flies off. It's a fairly heavy reality-check for a kids' book.

 

Jackson's film keeps that reality check but also keeps the audience invested because the characters we have invested in are in Lake-Town. Bard is still new. And Stephen Fry, though hilarious, doesn't invite investment (Fry can do pompous bureaucratic blowhard like nobody's business; I half-expect Rowan Atkinson to wander by; Ryan Gage is a good substitute). We might care in a distant sort of way about the citizens but having known characters actually on-site helps.

 

3. Thorin leaving Kili behind is good psychology. 

 

Thorin's decision is sensible--it is also an indication of Thorin's change in priorities. Thorin is overtaken by dragon-sickness when he enters Erebor. But, like the ring, dragon-sickness works on what is already there. Thorin already had a kind of single-mindedness about the mountain. 

 

However, up till Lake-Town, he focused on the group, the dwarfs and Bilbo. Kili, of course, would have died if Thorin had taken him along. But Thorin's reasoning is no longer "one for all and all for one." Thorin's reasoning has become "my goals no matter what." He has begun to lose sight of his overall purpose. He later nearly leaves Bilbo to face Smaug alone. The psychology is consistent.

 

4. The politics post-Lake-Town's burning explain Bard's advancement. 

 

The politics are equally complex in movie and book. However, in the movie, the Master is killed (in the book, he runs off with gold and dies later). It is great pay-off for a smarmy character and creates a power vacuum. Bard is an unwilling Lord/King of Dale (Bain will be his successor and Bain's son, Brand, will help defend the region during the time of The Lord of the Rings). He mostly steps into the breach because he is the most level-headed person available and has a decent, pro-citizen reputation. He focuses on survival, not on lynching Alfrid, the Master's henchman. (Alfrid later receives a truly gruesome death in the extended version of Five Armies).

 

Thorin reacting to Bard's heritage.

In fact, one of the notable aspects of Desolation and Five Armies is that several people--Thorin, Legolas, Thranduil--respond to Bard in terms of his ancestry. Book/Rankin Bard is more aware of his lineage. Jackson Bard shares many of book Bard's traits but is less prepared for the response of the older (in terms of long-lived) characters. I like the reminder that to the elves and to the dwarfs, Bard has more authority, inherently, than many of the other humans. 

In general, one technique that Jackson uses quite well is to make a scene matter by zeroing in on a character. Lake-Town begins to matter not only because some of the dwarfs we like are there--but also because Bard and his children and their survival have begun to matter.

A Cop Can Be a Gentleman: Crabtree in Murdoch Mysteries

One of my favorite examples of a cop being a gentleman is Crabtree in Murdoch Mysteries. He is kind, honorable, chivalrous, and fair-minded. 

One of my favorite examples of Crabtree's gentlemanly behavior occurs in "Game of Kings." Station House 4 needs someone to go "undercover" at a chess tournament. Crabtree immediately bemoans that women aren't allowed to play since his girlfriend, Nina Bloom, is brilliant at the game.

Crabtree, in fact, attends the tournament with Nina whispering instructions in his ear using Murdoch's up-to-date technology. 

At the end of the episode, Crabtree brings Nina to the Station House to play against her real opponent, the female relation of a Russian master, who has suffered a lessening of his mental faculties. He gleefully sits on the cot beside the master. He is thrilled to watch two virtuosos at work. He demonstrates no sense of emasculation at witnessing the women's skill.

Give Characters Jobs: Blue Bloods

One of my arguments with fiction is that main characters need jobs. 

Blue Bloods demonstrates this truth excellently. Although many of the family dinner conversations are about relationships and school and friendships, nearly all of them deal in some manner with the "family business." 

Crime. Detection. Loss. Punishment. Fairness. 

Granted, the ganging up on Erin gets tiresome (sure, she can hold her own; it still gets tiresome). But some of the absolute best dialog emerges when people in the family try to thrash out a problem. I've mention elsewhere Jamie's great scene at the dinner table after he gets beaten up and family members share memories of stuff he swallowed as a kid. 

On the crime side, I like the scene in "Payback" when Jamie and Erin exchange views on the problem of "he said-she said." 

"Like trying to deconstruct a milkshake," Erin says in exasperation.

Frank and Henry then make the wonderful point that a cop can be a gentleman. 

If you are a writer and suffering from a lack of decent dialog...give your characters WORK! Some of the best dialog I've written--and the most fun--was people arguing over what belongs in museums and what doesn't, precisely because one character assessed pieces for museums. The conversation was the natural result of people discussing what they do and care about and have invested themselves in.  

Belated Happy Rat and Mouse Day

Yesterday, November 12th, was Rat and Mouse Day. It reminded me of a subplot in a Castle episode where Alexis takes care of her boyfriend's rat while he is away. It gets lost, and she spends most of the episode trying to find it (with Martha declaring that she is checking into a hotel). She apologizes to the boyfriend who is very accepting.

THAT story reminded me of a Home Improvement episode in which Brad takes care of his girlfriend's fish. It dies (from the bowl being placed too close to the light). His brother suggests they buy a replacement, so they head off with the dead fish in Brad's pocket. I actually found it somewhat unbelievable that they couldn't find a replacement, but they don't, so he has to tell the girlfriend who forgives him.

 

And...I don't buy it. Neither subplot. I believe that these excessively sweet-natured and forgiving and noble-minded teens would, eventually, forgive their significant others for killing their pets. But right then? In the moment of being told? You leave a pet with someone and it ends up lost or dead? Wouldn't you be just a little pissed...at first?

I Forgive You: Why Theories Always Ultimately Fall Apart

I'm not a fan of academic theories about why societies function the way they do/why they are unfair or fair or something else. 

I'm not a fan for numerous reasons--one reason is that the labels within these theories often take on a life of their own. Observed life is twisted to fit the theory. John Douglas discusses in one of his books on serial killers that labeling one particular serial killer unintentionally narrowed the investigation. The investigators began to look for the serial killer along the location where he was labeled to reside. They missed opportunities to look elsewhere. They weren't stupid, but they had bought into the label's presumptions.

One of those presumptions is that people will behave according to the theory rather than according to their experiences and characters--at the macro rather than micro level. 

My favorite example of how character overrides designated behavior occurs in Castle, Season 3. *Spoilers* In the search for her mother's killer, Beckett learns what her mother uncovered, which led to her death: that a group of police officers had kidnapped mobsters and held them for ransom. Inadvertently, they killed an FBI agent.

Beckett then discovers that her captain, Captain Montgomery, was one of the original officers. 

And she knows him. She knows what type of man he is. She knows what he has done for her. She knows how he has trained her. If one thinks deeply about their relationship, one could well-imagine that she would feel a deep sense of betrayal. But in the moment of his confession and her knowledge of what he plans to do, she reacts not according to some theory or pre-determined response. 

"I forgive you," she declares and pleads with him to remain alive.

Ultimately, the world is personal. 

Books to Movies: What Makes an Epic an Epic?

For "U" from A-Z List 2, I watched Exodus (author Leon Uris), starring Paul Newman, Eva Marie Saint, and Sal Mineo. I read the book years ago in high school. I didn't remember much of it except it was big and grand. 

So, if you are going to create an epic, how do you do it?

1. Put Herman Mankiewicz in charge of your photography.

 

Julius Caesar (1953), a filmed version of Shakespeare's play, is impressive. For one, Mankiewicz treated it like a film, not a play. The settings are not elaborate, but the characters are constantly moving as is the camera. The end result is impressive: a visual treat, not merely a thematic or splashy effects set.

 

Regarding Exodus, Otto Peminger strikes me as more pedestrian than Mankiewicz but still gifted. The film never feels "small," though a great deal of it involves conversations.

 

2. Special effects do matter--if they are part of the plot.

 

The destruction of the fort in Guns of Navarone is fantastic. And the director--who gives credit to his special effects team--intelligently has the guns themselves fall into the ocean. That's the whole point!

 

In Exodus, many of the effects occur at a distance, such as a hotel bombing. Likewise, the best special effect of Die Hard, the bombing of the lower floor by the hero, is impressive precisely because it happens so quickly and in part from the hero's perspective. The special effects are well-placed.

 

3. Cast does matter--to a point. 

 

In an epic, I think the audience will allow for less than good actors. However, I must admit that great actors help. Rex Harrison isn't even vaguely my idea of Caesar. But he's so good, what does it matter?

 

Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra is a slight disappointment until one compares her to all the other (fairly dreadful) Cleopatras out there, and then, she looks impressive in comparison!

 

Actually, the 2003 miniseries Julius Caesar, starring Jeremy Sisto, Christopher Noth, Christopher Walken and Richard Harris is quite good, precisely because the actors all match each other with Richard Harris chewing scenery up till his character's death in the first twenty minutes. 

 

From Exodus, Sal Mineo was rightfully nominated for his role as Dov while Eva Marie Saint produces one of those performances that often gets underappreciated. She is seemingly fragile yet tough without apology. She doesn't rush around shrieking, which is always appreciated.

 

4. Oddly enough: there are few obvious villains. 

 

Epics seem to rely on the grandeur and variation of human nature rather than easily identified villains. Even in Ten Commandments, the bigger-than-life villain, Yul Brynner's pharaoh, has a gentle side when he mourns his son. In Guns, the German soldiers who man the guns are ordinary youths, not sneering villains spouting evil propaganda.

 

Likewise, Exodus attempts to be as complicated as the book and the reality (not an easy task) so Sal Mineo's Dov is understandable even as he seems to be heading down the wrong path. And the efficient British soldiers who capture the terrorists are, in fact, doing their jobs.

 

4. Pacing

 

I've mentioned elsewhere that I find chase-chase-chase scenes irritating. On the other hand, the movie The Robe, based on the book, astonishes me because it leaves out such scenes, scenes that are in the book. 

 

A well-paced movie can handle even the "slow" bits without losing the viewer. In Guns, the scene in the marketplace during the wedding is gripping despite its relative quietness. 

 

With Exodus, I got somewhat distracted after the first 90 minutes (the same thing happens with me and musicals), but the first 90 minutes are fairly impressive since so much of that section of the film is quiet: no chases or bombs. The entire sequence on the boat moves at an impressive clip despite that sequence being principally about a blockade and a hunger strike.

 

5. A big issue is at stake.

 

Sort of. I think the perception that something bigger is at stake matters. Presumably, World War II would have been won whether or not the (fictional) guns of Navarone were destroyed (a character says as much at one point). The governments of ancient Rome and Israel have somewhat more obvious and long-lasting consequences. 

 

But a lone individual coming up against something far bigger than the individual (so the individual believes) partly defines the epic. Like Irving Stone's The Ecstasy and the Agony, a great deal of highly complex and historical context can be presented if it is delivered steadily through a single focus.

 

Latest McCall Smith: The Great Hippopotamus Hotel

Over the last few years, I have been reading all the books in Alexander McCall Smith's series, The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. 

I got caught up last fall. 

This past month, I read the latest: The Great Hippopotamus Hotel. 

I am astonished, all over again, that McCall Smith can resist the pull of "after so many books/episodes, I must get melodramatic!" 

Television shows suffer from this assumption all the time. Even Bones, which was better than most, gave us Pelant arc. *Sigh.*

McCall Smith, without being repetitious (though, in fairness, there are only so many crimes to go around), gives us human beings who go on living their everyday lives while dealing with the related vagaries and oddities and unexpectedness and mundaneness. There are the mysteries, of course, but the interactions are ones that we can all relate to. Dorothy Sayers, I believe, once remarked that any gathering of people can find common ground in a discussion about plumbing. With McCall Smith, one such discussion involves men and their socks! 

There is also a hint of magical realism, which terms often makes me roll my eyes since it seems like an intellectual euphemism for "fantasy." But in McCall Smith's series, the enchantment of the country--to its characters, to its visitors--lays over everything. Magic is not unexpected, as with Mma Makutsi's talking shoes.

And the writing is very funny in a gentle, calm way that almost creeps up on the reader.  So, regarding those shoes and the small man who wants a sports car (but isn't going to tell his wife)--

What shoes allied to the female cause--as most ladies' shoes are--would remain silent in the face of the arrival at the garage of Mr. Mo Mo Malala, unashamedly planning to deceive his wife over the not unconsiderable matter of a small but high-powered Italian sports car. 

Every book is a delight!

Dysfunctional Relationships in Crime Shows: Disguise in Castle

All murder mysteries include romantic relationships gone wrong. In some shows, the dysfunctional relationship is based in the classic problem--cheating; in some, it is based on power imbalances, including unequal divisions of money; in some, it is based on unrealistic expectations.

In Castle, the dysfunctional relationships often come down to the problem of disguises. That is, one member of the couple has been hiding not just A truth (a dirty secret) but an entire alternate reality: a legal identity, a complicated past, another self.

While romance shows and novels often see disguise as an opportunity for forgiveness and reconciliation (the Duke in Twelfth Night is happy, not disturbed, by Viola's revelation), murder mysteries correctly pinpoint how the revelation of a "new" self could devastate a lover. 

As I comment in my post on Jessica Fletcher:

"[Jessica] is completely devastated [when she thinks her husband may have cheated]. It isn't so much the straying that bothers her. It is that she thought she knew [him]. Not only would her husband have strayed and kept that secret to himself, he would have kept a life-changing occurrence (his child) from her. And he simply isn't the kind of man to abandon his own child. Did she even know him?"

Do I even know you? is a question that crops up again and again in Castle. "Vampire Weekend" pits a son against the woman who raised him as well as a husband against the wife who entirely betrayed his trust. In the "The Mistress Always Spanks Twice," the victim doubled as a grad student and a dominatrix. Several Castle murderers are camouflaged as upstanding citizens while in "The Fifth Bullet," an amnesiac character accepts that he could be a murderer. In the meantime, the "3XK" killer deliberately and cruelly uses the investigators' identities against them in one of the show's darkest episodes. 

Of course, Castle also supplies a great deal of humor. There's the pizza episode with shop owners vying over who is the true "authentic terrific Nick's." In the episode "That 70's Show," the entire station house pretends to belong to an earlier era, all to help a man who hid his true feelings from other gangsters several decades earlier. 

However, my favorite example of how disguise or double identities can entirely disturb a person's mental health occurs in Season 3's "Nikki Heat" when the actress shadowing Beckett begins to adopt her clothes, hair, and mannerisms. Castle assures Beckett that he didn't sleep with the actress: "It would have been way too meta."

Ryan: We really should have a code word

so we know...

Come Dressed Up to Work Day: Happy Halloween!

A very fun trope in television shows is when characters come to work in clothes that they don't typically wear to work--for one reason or another.

Castle ran with this trope quite often. My favorite is Beckett's marvelous beaded red dress in Season 1. She is wearing it on a "stake-out" at a charity shindig for high-rollers (Castle gets them in). I don't normally like sleeveless dresses (seriously--they always look like they are about to fall off, even on royalty), but boy, Stana Katic wears it well! 

When she shows up later at the station in her normal clothes, the boys are disappointed. She merely rolls her eyes. 

The 1970s episode is another of my favorites: everybody at the station gets to dress up!

And Major Crimes offers a great moment when Tao shows up to a crime scene in a tux. 

Tao is a consultant on a show called Badge of Justice, and it just won Best Teleplay for Non-serialized 60-minute episodic Police Procedural on Basic Cable.  

He arrives in a limousine and he is dressed to the nines. Michael Chan looks sharp!

Books to Movies: Is the Flawed Character Likable?

The issue for this post is:

Can a a movie help us audience members love a flawed character?

Loving a flawed character is is not quite the same as loving a villain. Lots of viewers love villains! Fredric Lehne from Supernatural discusses how Supernatural fans adore him. In fact, he has been treated better as a fantasy villain than he has as a "realistic" villain, proving (once again) that fantasy and sci-fi fans are much more level-headed than people who favor "true to life" drama.

I personally am endlessly amused by Cigarette Smoking Man in X-Files. Good villains are rather easy to love. 

But--can people love the hero who not only makes mistakes but is not always entirely appealing?

We forgive Darcy for being rude because he later helps. But I think viewers also forgive Darcy not just because Colin Firth is handsome but because he captures the self-conscious uncertainty of a guy at a party he would rather leave. 

That is, movie/television can go a long way towards selling a character who is not entirely appealing on paper. 

When I read The Warden by Trollope, I honestly thought the author was being more sardonic than supportive regarding the titular character, Mr. Septimus Harding. There is a very funny sequence in the book where Harding sneaks around to avoid his family members; he is worried that they will overbear him with their arguments before he can make the right decision. Trollope uses a slightly aloof tone--he comes across as not entirely sympathetic to Harding though he entirely sides with Harding at the end.

In the BBC production, Harding is played by Donald Pleasance! I mean...it's Donald Pleasance! He is totally adorable. Go, Harding! The audience WANTS him to get away from his overwhelming family. 

Likewise, Sean Bean in Lord of the Rings is a far more sympathetic character as Boromir than the book Boromir.

This issue may be one where movies have an edge over books--as long as one can get the right actor!

Books to Movies: The Desolation of Smaug, Mirkwood, More on Pacing, What to Keep, What to Ignore

The Mirkwood scenes keep the fairy-tale dreamlike tone from the book while moving much more quickly. They also link the spiders more directly to Dol Gulder, underscoring Thandruil's failure to act. 

And they introduce the Tauriel/Kili romance. I have mentioned elsewhere why I'm a fan--though I wish the movie had paid the romance off better (not necessarily happier, just better). I will discuss the trilogy's ending more later. 

The Wood Elves are great characters in general: "less wise and more dangerous," as both Beorn (in the movie) and the narrator (in the text) state. The Elf King, Thranduil, played by Lee Pace, is a fantastic damaged leader. 

The conflict between him and Thorin is more direct in the movie than in the book but the dispute over gems is there plus the sense of long-held grievances and lifelong distrust: "Take him away...even if he waits a hundred years...I'm patient. I can wait."

In the book, Thorin and the other dwarfs are separated during their imprisonment. The others don't know what happened to Thorin, and Bilbo carries messages between him and the others. He also reconnoiters over several weeks and waits until the feast to free the dwarfs. 

The movie speeds everything up.

Frankly, the Mirkwood sequence is one of the best in all the films with excellent pacing. It also has one of my favorite "nope, Martin Freeman doesn't need a voice over" scenes when Bilbo realizes he failed to get a barrel for himself. 

Even the chase-chase-chase scene doesn't bother me. The dwarfs escape; the elves chase them; Azog and his people join in to get the dwarfs but end up inviting the elves' ire. The sequence is engaging, has a point, has mini-emotional arcs, and is actually fun to watch. It also brings several plots together, and there's no breakaway until the dwarfs get free. Then, the movie cuts to Gandalf.

Generally speaking, the action from Beorn through to the barrels is some of the best in the trilogy! The choices of what to keep and what to discard and what to speed up are very smart.

In sum, I think there are several reasons for the apparent seamlessness: 

1. What happens next is naturally what would happen next, including Tauriel and Kili's conversations. 

2. The characters' personalities--specifically Thranduil, Thorin, and Bilbo--are well-established enough to explain certain actions and reactions. Everyone behaves believably. 

3. The main characters remain the center without feeling "showcased," so Bilbo's reaction to the ring in Mirkwood--a scene where he is separated again from the others--feels in pace with the rest rather than a breakaway. 

4. The barrel-chase scene, again, highlights personality rather than being just a bunch of people getting felled by axes and falling into water. It even has some humor, as with Bombur's barrel act! 

Consequently, The Desolation of Smaug, extended version, is the one DVD set of Jackson's movies I purchased for myself. I consider the piece fairly high quality as an actual movie.

All the Ms: MacKay to Mackenzie

Mackay, Malcolm: How a Gunman Says Goodbye is a hitman story in Glasgow. Gangs/assassins with noir nobility. Engaging. But the truth is, “gangs” and all related topics are kind of a blind spot in my brain. I can't locate my interest. (I did enjoy Red though!)

Mackay, Shena: A collection of short stories. From Dreams of Dead Women’s Handbags, I read “The Stained-Glass Door,” which is depressing modern life made poetic. And I began to ponder if short story writers inevitably write depressing short stories with contemporary settings. There are plenty of sci-fi and romance short stories out there, but frankly, it is harder to write a short story with plot than a rambling depressing story with supposed meaning. 

Mackel, Kathy: Alien in a Bottle is a book about a kid who wants to blow glass and gets help from aliens. Not a plot I ever would have thought of!

Makechnie, Amy: Ten Thousand Tries has a great first-person narrator in the person of a twelve-year-old boy with attitude who wants to be the best soccer player ever. The book starts out strong and is one of those I can imagine coming back to.

MacKenzie, J.R.: A Temptation Tale: A Father Tom Novel is a novel about Catholic priests in which a cat plays a character.

Despite being a cat-lover, I don’t really get these types of books, books where felines tell part of the story or provide reflections. I adore A Man and His Cat, the manga series, but I think the reasons for my adoration are two: (1) the cat is not a reflective human in cat skin; the cat is a weird cat that does weird things, even scattering its litter and poop on the floor; (2) the series, by the second volume, expands to cover the main character’s entire world: his best friend, his rivals, his students, his children, his past—including his dad and, most importantly, his wife who has died. Everyone bonds over cats!

In fairness, A Temptation Tale is also about a community. But the cat seems oddly irrelevant, and I moved on.  

MacKenzie, Ian: Feast Days is contemporary self-awakening in Brazil (Americans in Brazil). The writing is very contemporary: vignettes as story, at least in the beginning. I did like the line in the first chapter, “Every man tells himself he could have been a spy in another life.” 

Mackenzie, Jassy: Random Violence begins with the death of the victim. Although Columbo episodes start this way (or rather with the murderer’s plan), I don’t care for the approach in books. And even with Columbo, I sometimes just skip to the parts where Peter Falk shows up. The actual investigation interests me more (even with Matlock, I sometimes skip the court scenes–again, the actual investigations interest me more).

Chivalry: Bert and Lydia in Murdoch Mysteries

A great example of chivalry occurs in one of my favorite Murdoch Mysteries, "Dead End Street." An autistic woman has created a cityscape, specifically of her street, including clues to a murder. 

The autistic woman is cared for by her brother, Bert. And I love Bert's chivalry. What I like is not that Bert is "look at me as I swoon over my sacrifices." Other people on the street imply that Bert's wife left him because he cares for his sister. But Bert never makes that argument. Nor does he act put upon or burdened. He makes no excuses. He deals with issues as they arise. His sister's condition is a reality, no more, no less. 

He doesn't come across--as some Murdoch characters do--as enlightened. He comes across, rather, as entirely matter-of-fact. 

And the episode makes great points, including a point about "political correctness." When the inspector uses the term "imbecile," Crabtree replies, "I believe such people as Lydia are no longer referred to as imbecile. It's felt to be demeaning. The correct term nowadays is moron."

Bert amused by Lydia contradicting Murdoch.

Crabtree isn't being a jerk. He is generally a totally nice guy (and actually one of the most enlightened). The point is: terms change. And what we deem enlightened today may not appear so enlightened tomorrow. Or even accurate. 

I like history that does what the episode does here: presents a modern issue within the context of its time. People only know what they know. And they do the best they can. 

In the context of his time and now, Bert is a great guy.

The Violence of Back to the Future

As many people doubtless remember, one of the objections to the first Back to the Future was that it teaches violence as a solution. I've always considered this a rather petulant objection.

1. The movie isn't about violence. It is about assertiveness. Marty's dad is a wimpy guy who gets some spine and voila, it changes his future. Spielberg carries the theme into the next two films, although he changes it slightly (possibly in answer to the objectors) by making Marty's assertiveness a matter of "Just saying, 'No'." But it's the same idea in different form.

2. However, let's suppose that the film is a kind of Hamlet meets Rambo declaration regarding the uses of violence to improve life...what is the answer? When the bully starts harassing the girl is Marty's dad suppose to call the police, lecture Biff on his non-PC behavior, write a strongly worded article, try a diplomatic solution? And when Biff starts wrenching on his arm, should Marty's dad have called a cease-fire and asked the UN to get involved?

Now, granted, movies set up their own problems or strawmen. Which is why evil capitalist businessmen abound in droves in Hollywood. Set 'em up, kick 'em down, shake your finger a lot. And Biff is an over-the-top villain.

But the basic problem remains. This guy is a bully who pushes people around. A martyr would take it. A Rambo would shoot his head off. In a fantasy, he would be turned into a frog. In a Disney movie, he would fall on his own sword or off a cliff. In an Anne Perry novel, he would suddenly confess and tell you all about his bad relationship with his evil father. Jean Luc Picard would lecture him about free will before blowing up his ship. The Vulcan would have nerve-pinched him. 

But the easiest solution is just to hit the guy. Yet the objectors never seem to stop to think about the problem as an actual problem. Here's a situation: what do you do about it? Which question is, I think, one purpose of fiction.

I suppose what the objectors dislike is that Marty's family benefits from this punch, which, as I've noted in my (1) response kind of misses the point of the punch, or what the punch represents. It's a kind of weird literalness which insists on taking the action literally but subjectifying the result to a bizarre degree. So, the movie was JUST about the punch, but the viewers won't understand that it's JUST about the punch; they will extrapolate the punch for use in their own lives. So viewers are too left-brained to see the punch as symbolic but too right-brained to say, "Hey, this is just a movie."

When, the fact is, standing up for yourself violently can make a difference in the future, good or bad. The whole point of turning the other cheek isn't that the Rambo approach doesn't work. Jesus Christ was advocating an alternative for entirely separate reasons from the effectiveness of violence. He was saying, "Let it go, even though you could take the guy's head off." Which is very different from saying, "Hey, this doesn't work." The Romans believed bulldozing Palestine would solve their problems in that area, and it did (temporarily). It didn't solve them for anybody else, but it certainly solved them for the Romans. (Their particular end-of-the-line came from an entirely different direction.) On the more positive side, the Revolutionary War worked too. Of course, the French Revolution didn't, but Waterloo certainly worked for the British.

I will agree that protestors behaving violently is pointless and chilling. But again, it isn't because violence doesn't work as a statement. A number of academics have complete bought into it, much as they bought into riots during the lockdowns. The question is, Should violence be used? and Is it effective in the long-run? But those questions can only be asked if violence is realistically addressed, not turned into something entirely metaphysical (bad for you but good for me).

Regarding the Futures, I will admit, I think the truck is a bit much. I can well believe that Marty's dad learning to stand up for himself and not get pushed around could result in a slightly nicer home and a better relationship between the parents, a writing career for the dad, and more motivated kids. I don't see how any of that translates into a new truck. After all, a more assertive father might decide that Marty shouldn't have any kind of car ("Pay for it yourself, son. I did when I was your age.").

I will also admit that there is value in Marty's final insight--when faced with Old West Biff, instead of reacting with a gun fight, he throws up his hands and goes, "Are you kidding me?" 

But suppose he had needed to face off Biff in a high-noon situation? Hey, Star Trek: TNG solved that problem with technology! But Worf still shot his gun. 

Sometimes, one does have to handle a physical confrontation. Better to do it well than not. 

Books to Movies: Plays are Not Movies Either, Shaw's Pygmalion to My Fair Lady

The position I maintain in this A-Z list is that books are not movies. When an artist switches mediums, that artist needs to be prepared to make changes. 

Agatha Christie understood this truth very well. The plays she wrote of her own books are not the same as the books. In one case, she actually changes the identity of the murderer. In another, she changes the love interest. In another, she leaves two people alive. And so on...

The point here is that a movie is ALSO not a play (and, to make things more complicated, a stage drama is not a musical). One of my favorite Hitchcock's, Rope, points the difference. Based on a play, it was filmed in several long takes in a single location, like a play. I think it is a great experiment, but I can also see why it is seldom repeated. Although the film mimics a play, the elements that benefit a play are missing: spectacle and context.

Musical productions such as Webber's Phantom and Les Miserables the Musical provide continual spectacles--almost a series of magic tricks--while the songs perform the same function as soliloquies: they encourage the audience to invest in specific characters. 

A stage drama relies far more on context, the overall experience. The eye can roam more naturally than it does with film. The result is about the drama's overall impact or purpose, though the stage type itself can make a difference. I saw Ian McKellan live in both Richard III and The Cherry Orchard during a study-abroad Theatre in London program. Richard III was captivating but mostly I remember it as a series of images. Cherry Orchard, which was performed in a smaller theater with audience members on three sides (a thrust stage), was gripping. I still remember hanging over the "standing room only" area watching Ian McKellan WALK. I was utterly captivated. 

I would have yet a different reaction to a movie version of either play. 

Shaw's Pygmalion and then My Fair Lady showcase the changes that occur when a story moves from stage drama to musical to movie. 

One major change is who Eliza ends up with. In the stage drama, she ends up with Freddy, not the professor. Shaw provides a long explanatory essay at the end of Pygmalion regarding Eliza and Freddy's future. Their ineptness at running a flower shop leads to the couple being continually supported by the Colonel and Higgins. Shaw remarks, 

"And it is notable that though she never nags her husband, and frankly loves the Colonel as if she were his favorite daughter, she has never got out of the habit of nagging Higgins that was established on the fatal night when she won his bet for him. Galatea never does quite like Pygmalion: his relation to her is too godlike to be altogether agreeable."

Shaw is right at the human level. A movie, however, creates investment at the personal level. In My Fair Lady the movie, the camera focuses on the professor--the audience is drawn to him (quite literally) and invests in him. Since the couple have chemistry, the audience can "buy" into Eliza returning to him rather than going off with Freddy. (The musical numbers further that bond. Besides, in a musical, the leads always end up together.)

On stage without music, Freddy is one of several people Eliza can go off with. He isn't really the point anyway. Professor Higgins isn't either. The point is the scenery or--if the director goes in for bare bones--the lack of scenery. It's the costumes. It's the cast. It's the banter at full volume. It's the entire stage.

On the same study abroad when I saw McKellan, I saw Heartbreak House (another Shaw) with Paul Scofield, Vanessa Redgrave, and Felicity Kendal (Good Neighbors). It was a fantastic production with the addition of music (the director was Trevor Nunn). What I remember now is the main characters standing about the sumptuous drawing room in the final scene. The combination of set and lighting created a portrait. (I remember equally sumptious sets from a production of The Importance of Being Earnest staged by SPAC's in-door theater.)

Back to My Fair Lady: despite my deep love and admiration for Julie Andrews, I do think Hepburn was the right casting choice for the movie. Hepburn pulls off waifish half-orphan. Andrews to me is way more put-together. That nearly queenly persona works on stage--it may even be necessary on stage. But it would have changed the movie's tone--THIS Eliza wouldn't marry either Higgins or Freddy. She would go on tours to America and become a hit in her own right (while outwitting the Nazis).

Prevent the Christie Murder: Save the Teenage Girl

*Spoilers*

One of the saddest deaths in Agatha Christie books--and proof that she was capable of great pathos--is the teenage girl in The Body in the Library, the one who is used to replace the target and confuse time of death. 

She is young, pretty, and utterly taken in by the slick bad guy who persuades her that he is an agent looking for upcoming stars. It is the wildly implausible, wished-for idea--the equivalent of winning the lottery: "She was strolling along the boardwalk, an agent spotted, her, and she became an overnight sensation."

That type of thing does happen--but an examination of stars' backgrounds indicates that many more of them have networks already in place when they arrive in Hollywood. The rest scrimp and save and take whatever jobs come along until they get their breaks. 

But the myth of the "Instant Star" is a popular one, and the young girl falls for it. The 1984 Pamela Reeves is presented as excited and innocent and completely trusting in her good fortune. She tells her friend who is excited on her behalf but keeps her secret. Pamela goes to the hotel, expecting to be chaperoned while she is made up for a screen test...

Only to be drugged and then killed. 

Agatha Christie mentions in several books the importance of a young woman having reliable adults who look out for her. Christie's position is far less sermonizing than she sounds. She was a concerned but not hovering mother. She also believed quite firmly in young women taking chances and leaving the family nest--parental figures who can't let go also come in for her criticism. And she shows great compassion to the parents in Body in the Library, who cannot have foreseen their child's willingness to ignore "Don't Talk to Strangers" when the pay-off was so alluring. (Likewise, children stop considering a stranger a stranger if that "stranger" asks them to help find a pet.) 

The mother and daughter relationship

in Bertram's Hotel is characterized

primarily by abandonment.

Christie's point is that there is little to protect this young woman EXCEPT savvy (which Pamela Reeves does not have) and a culture that keeps its eye out. 

My murder prevention detectives would be able to easily protect Pamela--warn her parents, scare off the murderer, distract her--but not if she gives them the slip. They are dealing with a potential victim who is truly that self-defeating, as many parents have discovered. 

There's a reason teenagers are considered borderline nuts.