Héra: Lots of Action Doesn't Equate to a Deep Character

Apparently, the writers or producers or someone connected to the War of the Rohirrim believes that their main female character is a cut above all those other Tolkien female characters because she is a full character.

She isn't. 

Héra must be one of the most boring female characters I've ever watched. I kept the movie going but lost interest about 1/2 hour into the movie. It likely didn't help that I had just finished listening to Andy Serkis read The Simarillion, a tome that produces seriously complex villains and protagonists (and Tolkien accomplished this complexity despite focusing mostly on the mythic elements). The characters of War are lacking in complexity. 

Since I knew that the movie's writers and producers thought they had conquered some milestone with Hera, I had to ask myself, "Why? How could any decent writer not perceive how bland her character is?" 

Victorian explorer.

Remarkable personality!

I decided that far too many writers and producers mistake a character doing lots of things with a character having a personality. 

In the previous post, I comment that HOW Denethor and Theoden handle their despair reveals their character. 

In comparison, Hera spends the movie behaving like the good girl at the high school prom. 

Sure, she occasionally says, "Oh, no, should I really?" but she says it two seconds before she does it. The implication is that her strength comes not from facing and conquering challenges but from knowing exactly what to do when...

Uh, sorry writers of War of the Rohirrim but upperclass Victorian women trained in etiquette knew the same stuff (some of them had fascinating lives anyway!).

This "I always respond as I should" attitude is MILES away from Eowyn feeling trapped between her royal responsibilities and her warrior desires with the prior position having more merit in many ways. (In the book, Eowyn is left to rule over the king's people when he rides out to battle; she is put in charge of protecting the equivalent of the country's capital.) 

I think Arwen is a more static character. Jackson does a better job with Tauriel, who is also trapped between choices. Tolkien gives us Luthien who takes personal (not just daring) risks during her adventures. 

And even Arwen (of the film trilogy) is faced with despair and chooses to return and to hope in reaction to that despair. She appears to make choices, not to already know what all the choices are.

In comparison *sigh* Hera does stuff: this and then this and then this and then this. And then this. And then this. 

Stuff is important. But if the character doesn't have an underlying personality that determines HOW they do that stuff and why they struggle over doing it...

Doing lots of stuff doesn't equal a strong character. 

Books to Movies: Theoden and Denethor as Ultimate Show Not Tell Characters, Why are They So Good?

Theoden and Denethor are a great example of how, ultimately, film should be a show-not-tell medium. The non-messaging of Theoden-versus-Denethor is extraordinarily powerful! It sells its "message" better than the pointed messages at the end of Two Towers. 

Why?

1. Actors equal in ability. 

John Noble and Bernard Hill are strong actors of equal ability. I'm not entirely sure I would put them on the same set together or put either of them in the same frame with Christopher Lee. There's only so much scenery to chew! 

But within their individual scenes, they hold the stage. They have powerful presences. They are also not afraid of tenderness or imperfection or scary weirdness (the same holds true for Lee, who suggested an extra scene in The Hobbit where Saruman is shown to fall under Sauron's influence--I sometimes think that villains are the most balanced actors in the world). 

2. Both actors have great action sequences, accompanied by great lines. 

In show-not-tell, HOW characters react to events matters, a point I will come back to when I discuss why the War of the Rohirrim fails. Granted, in real life, people's characters and personalities are often reflected in less emphatic experiences. But in truth, even in real life, how we handle a singular event can say a great deal about us.

Subsequently, it helps in film to give characters something to handle. 

Theoden has an angry wizard, a dead son, a march, a blockade, a final stand, a ride to Gondor, and a freaky dragon/dinosaur to handle. He is confused and hesitant, drawing inward as he contemplates that "the days have gone down in the West" and asks, "How did it come to this?" Consequently, his fierce determination at Helm's Deep and later on Pelennor Field is courageous and hope-filled. 

Denethor has a pissed-off wizard, dead son, Pippin, an attack, a second supposedly dead son, and a dying culture (Jackson's sets, inspired by Alan Lee and John Howe, are magnificent--Minis Tirith is redeemed at the end of the third movie, altering from almost a sepulcher to a shining city).  

Consequently, Denethor's vainglorious attempt to burn himself and Faramir alive is despairing and pathetic. In direct contradiction of his self-absorbed beliefs, barely anyone notices Denethor throwing himself off the top cliff of the city's plaza. There is a war going on, after all.  

As a comparison of honor and the need for hope, Theoden and Denethor are show-not-tell at its finest. 

Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe: Objectivity as True Kindness

Many people have attempted to capture Nero Wolfe's personality. Among them are William Conrad, Francesco Pannofino, and Maury Chaukin. 

William Conrad plays Nero as a gruff guy with a heart of gold and even a sentimental streak. I'm not sure Conrad is capable of playing someone like Wolfe any other way, even if the director demanded otherwise. I watched Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe with Conrad's personality in mind and quite enjoyed the early episodes. However, I never entirely warmed to Lee Horsley as Archie. 

Jake and the Fatman is more or less the same relationship in modern (for the time) L.A. (then Hawaii, then L.A. again). I consider Jake and the Fatman more accurate to the Nero Wolfe universe, especially Jake as Archie: the raw, hands-on, physical guy who exhibits both respect and a certain irreverence for "the Fatman." 

Francesco Pannofino and Pietro Sermonti in the MHZ Nero Wolfe have decent chemistry as Nero and Archie. Pannofino also plays Wolfe as having a heart of gold, but the heart of gold is more buried than with Conrad. I quite like the MHZ production, in part because I love the house and also because the chef, as in the A&E production, is given equal screen time. Nero Wolfe's household is replicated, not merely his personality and cases.

However, Maury Chaykin--directed by Timothy Hutton--captures the Nero Wolfe of the books best. Wolfe is not (merely) a gruff smart guy. And he is not a snarky, one-liner quip machine (see Sherlock and House). He is passionate and romantic, stating at one point that he gained weight to inure himself to that side of his character. 

More than anything else, he has a underlying belief system that makes him appear cold and uncaring but is, in truth, inexorably honest and right. He is more like Sherlock from Elementary, who points out to Kitty that letting people pay for crimes they didn't commit--however emotionally satisfying--is not in the long run good for anyone, including society. 

Ethics is the reason Wolfe refuses to let the spoiled heiress simply park herself in his home. He has let plenty of young women park themselves in his home when needs warranted. But Wolfe doesn't lie or play games or forget the long-term consequences of any act. He tells her the truth, even though he could have massaged the situation to give emotional satisfaction and still claim an award.

He exhibits true respect for principles. To Debra Monk, playing the wife of a murdered man, he states, "[The woman who got killed] is the one who asked for your promise. So the responsibility [for that promise and her death] was hers." He relieves the burden on the wife's mind--he later honors the dead woman's purpose in requesting the promise.

Again, the behavior may seem uncaring. But in fact, it is ultimately more fair, honorable, and human than any outsized emotional response. 

Archie--more impulsive than Wolfe--often disagrees with his boss. Overall, however, he is more likely to see things from Wolfe's point of view than not. In a Venn diagram of life, they see life through the same honorable lens. 

Sayers's Characters, including Villains, in the Golden Age of Mysteries

The Golden Age mysteries often get compared to each other. 

Comparisons seem to be how humans survive (Is that dark alley safe or unsafe? Is that person a stranger or friend?). Consequently, I think that comparisons are often inevitable. 

However, I think the impulse should be fought. Or at least monitored. It is completely unnecessary to consider Christie better than Sayers or Sayers better than Christie or Marsh better than either of them. I've read all three. I enjoy all three. I'm not going to stop enjoying all three. 

I think where comparisons get interesting is not deciding who is better or worse. I think comparisons get interesting in examining how the writers differ.

Marsh, who worked in the theatre, wrote characters from the perspective of a playwright: where they stand in a scene, how they look, how they move. 

Christie distilled human characteristics into brief and very relatable portraits. 

Sayers creates individuals within context. 

One of my favorite Sayers' character is Charles Parker. In Unnatural Death, Sayers describes him as "one of those methodical painstaking people whom the world can ill spare." In many ways, Parker is like Bell from Elementary: a guy who looks at an issue from as many sides as possible. AND does the hard work of collecting the requisite information. He also has the masterful ability to be unafraid and unimpressed by Wimsey. He isn't tactless or revolutionary but he also isn't a sycophant. If he thinks Peter is behaving pompously, he says so. 

Sayers's villains also have a quality that I think most villains have (and the reason villains who confess when faced with THE TRUTH never entirely convince me). They think themselves justified. Even the most evil of her villains, from Unnatural Death, is entirely normal on the surface. That villain's world has narrowed to MY rights, MY needs, MY desired outcome. 

In fact, like C.S. Lewis, Sayers conveys the normality of the villainous behavior, so the villain of Murder Must Advertise is NOT, as Wimsey recognizes, the Big Bad. He is too impulsive; too easily caught in dumb behavior. He got away with the murder initially because it was put down to an accident. But he was never going to get away with much for long. 

Sayers understood the stories and justifications that heroes and villains tell themselves. 

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."