Dark Christmas: The Nightmare Before Christmas

I confess--I didn't watch this movie until recently. I'm not a huge fan of stop-action animation. And I don't much care for skinny stick figures. 

What is remarkable, however, is how easily Jack's stick figure conveys personality. He is another of those laid-back heroes!

I also consider the problem quite remarkable: Jack's profound desire to do more, to expand, to try out new possibilities, to embrace (as Sally recognizes) a new chance.

Unfortunately, the problem rather gets lost. The end of the movie comes across more as Jack accepting his status/holiday than Jack revitalizing a stale bunch of customs. Or, maybe, it's supposed to be about Jack learning to love his own holiday....? I honestly couldn't tell. The audience is never shown the "new" Halloween filled with fresh ideas. 

The overall point, here, however, is that Christmas has always had this dark side--ghosts, demons, death. 

In some Christian churches, the altar and windows and pews before Easter are draped in black. When Easter arrives, they are unveiled. Christmas and the Winter Solstice achieve a similar effect through natural phenomenons. Although several months of winter are still pending, darkness gives way to the light. 

And changeovers always produce gray areas. Topsy-turvy. Tales about the mischief at Yuletide abound! Burton isn't the first writer to kidnap Santa Clause. Frank L.Baum wrote a similar short story that evokes much the same sense of disorderliness. And in the Chronicles of Narnia, Father Christmas's reappearance indicates that the Queen's "don't step out of line" social order is crumbling in preparation for a far more satisfying and joyous social order.

I don't know if being a musical makes Nightmare less or more topsy-turvy, but horror musicals are also quite common: Repo the Genetic Opera, Sweeney Todd and even the second half of Into the Woods.

In any case, the "sing because you are shouting back against the dark as Nowell thankfully arrives" aspect is entirely in keeping with December holidays. 

Books to Movies: Y is for Why Authenticity?

How authentic does authentic need to be?

Windwalker, the novel, was written by Blaine M. Yorgason. The movie stars two white dudes, in part because the initial principal actor, a Native American who would play the older Windwalker, got ill. (Windwalker's son is played by a Native American.)

And yet...

The movie feels quite "authentic," if such a thing matters and isn't kind of arrogant in the first place (the idea of "pure" cultures is an idea that really needs to go; there is no such thing; everything is impacted by something else).

But still, even by today's standards, it is more honest than many films. The film's characters use the Cheyenne and Crow languages (aside from the narrator's English). The story is told without reference to outside white people, not even as a lesson about how white people are supposed to think or as a showcase for how the "good" white people behave or how the "bad" white people are punished (I've said before--I'll say again--it's amazing how many white academics have managed to make the history of the world all about them, either in terms of white behavior or in terms of explaining white behavior, feeling guilty for white behavior, blaming white behavior, defining groups in contrast to white behavior...).

The setting is especially authentic as in it uses the actual American West, rather than, say, someplace in Eastern Europe. 

Most importantly, the movie is quite beautifully shot. I honestly expected something more kitschy and, well, uh, 80's looking. It's possible that the free version on Amazon has been remastered; if so, someone did a loving job. The movie is kind of slow but appealing. 

As for the book...

Despite an introduction by two Native Americans, John C. Rainer, Jr. and Verenda Dosela Rainer, Cheyenne and Apache, I had my doubts about the book. For one, the "all Indians love nature" motif is one of those "that culture is so much better than our culture" tropes I tend to be skeptical of on principle. For another, the protagonist's poetry/dialog, which encapsulates a series of learning experiences, is not exactly my choice for fiction.

However, the love of nature is a love of all nature, not just the sweet side. The starving wolves, the cold and slippery snow, the old man's initial struggles and final illness are matter-of-factly conveyed. If one is going to embrace creation, one should embrace all of it.

The learning experiences are the product of the protagonist's personality. They are part of the story rather than sermons aimed at the reader. The book is more Siddhartha than after-school special. (Still not my type of thing, but I give it kudos for doing its job.)

In fact, the end is quite touching. I got weepy as the old man reached the end of his life. As the book's introduction states, "[The Windwalker] is the story of age, its wisdom and memories."

Both book and movie exemplify a quality that I think ultimately communicates itself through any medium: the love of the author (director, scriptwriter) for the topic. 

That love is the ultimate authenticity.

Books to Movies: The Battle of the Five Armies, Boring War Bits, and How to Make a Scene Memorable

"The Gathering of the Clouds"

The politics of Thorin being unwilling to open up his property to suddenly needy neighbors is very intelligent. Does he owe Bard? Yes. Does he owe the Elvenking? Not really but Bilbo is right that there is plenty to go around. Is he afraid of exposing himself up to scavengers when his own position is still insecure? Yes. 

 

Thorin has legitimate fears though his obsession and refusal to negotiate (Bard is being entirely rational) doesn't help matters. It's very smart writing, and Jackson--using Tolkien's material almost directly--prepares us for Thorin's intransigence. He also gives Thorin relatively strong arguments--"Why should we barter our birthright?"--while still underscoring Thorin's mistakes. Richard Armitage as Thorin and Luke Evans as Bard are two of the strongest characters in the two trilogies, and their exchange at the gate of Erebor is impressive.

 

The book does use more lore and mythic tropes in this section, such as talking birds. Jackson was wise not to. Again, set-up equals pay-off. Once you've got one talking bird...

 

Even Jackson's eagles don't talk, which I've always rather liked: they are forces of nature, not partners.

 

"The Clouds Burst"

 

is the war chapter. One chapter! In the movie, it is nearly 40 minutes long. I don't see the point. 

 

I've said it before, I'll say it again: the bomb in Die Hard is seriously still the best action sequence in all action movies.

 

One major difference between the book and movie--other than the length of the battle sequences--is that Bilbo in the book observes but doesn't participate. In the movie, he gets to the top of Ravenhill to warn Thorin and is present when Thorin is killed (as well as Kili and Fili). It's actual a decent pay-off for Bilbo having the ring, so I approve, even if the war sequence is way too long. 

Granted, the final scene and lines between Thorin and Bilbo are fantastic and memorable in both book and movie. 

I will maintain, however, that they would be more memorable if the battle sequences didn't go on QUITE so long and if so many deaths weren't already piling up. Thorin and Bilbo by this point are competing with Fili and Kili's deaths. 

 

In the book, those deaths are mentioned, but herein lies the conundrum of film. In the book, the brothers die and we can feel sad but in a distant sort of way. In the movie, we have learned to care about Kili and Fili for themselves (and needed to). Subsequently, their deaths in the movie might have overshadowed Thorin's if not for the impressive acting of the leads.

 

It's the same problem as Bilbo leaving the Mountain. Has the scene been given enough weight? Too much? 

 

The battle sequences in Five Armies seem rather like video game sequences. This, then this, then this, then this. There's so many "astonishing" moments when really, there should be three: 

• Thorin emerging with his group from the Mountain
• The eagles
• Thorin's death.

Eliminating all the extra-special astonishing moments helps the one or two important astonishing moments shine!

 

In fairness, I find war sequences boring in general. I prefer war movies like The Guns of Navarone that are about getting to the object. The first half of the Five Armies movie is quite good and captivating. From that point on, I start to do things like clean my nails and feed my cats. However, since I don't find war sequences-or the game of Risk--that engaging, it isn't entirely fair for me to assess them.

 

 

Books to Movies: X is for the X-Marks-the-Spot Quest of History Movies

What should a history movie do? Be visually stimulating? Be a story? Be accurate? Can it be accurate?

I occasionally show my College Writing students a clip from Cameron's Titanic. I point out all the inaccuracies. I also point out that the movie offended some people, namely citizens of Commander Murdoch's hometown. No, Murdoch did not commit suicide because he ran the ship into an iceberg.  

I ask my students, "Do you think Century Fox should have apologized? Since they did, was the money [pocket change to James Cameron] enough?" 

Most of them think a movie is a movie but the low compensation was tacky. 

Since I'm going in alphabetical order, I picked Xenophon for the history movie here. Xenophon was an Ancient Greek who wrote about Ancient Greek stuff.

300 was the movie. 

Although Xenophon lived later than the events in 300, he did write about Sparta and Spartans. A rather melodramatic person, it is doubtful whether Xenophon's knowledge of Sparta was more than cursory. He lived near Sparta since he fought with them but he doesn't strike me as a guy that delves beyond what he is told. Kind of like Charles Lindbergh and the Nazis only Xenophon is slightly less irritating.


I would not say that 300 is a historically accurate film. Rather, it is a melodramatic film with the look of its graphic novel, which means...

It does its job.

In terms of history, Gary Corby's fiction books about an Athenian detective captures the Sparta upbringing somewhat better. The detective meets Markos, a great character who was raised in the Spartan way. Markos is clever and cunning and tough and practically sociopathic. He embodies why Sparta was so successful and, also, why it eventually couldn't sustain itself. Human nature cannot be so strenuously "cancelled" for a social good. It just doesn't happen.
 
300 does imply that family ties are stronger than the Spartans like to admit. It also leaves out a, uh, great deal. It also, like a good graphic novel, occasionally provides quite lovely images. And the narration by Wenham is stirring. (Wenham has one of those "marbles in the mouth" rounded voices, like James Sloyan's, that I happen to adore.) 


In sum, despite the dubious historical accuracy, I would argue that the movie, again, does its job. I get irritated by books that whine about "WHAT MY TEACHER DIDN'T TELL ME!" The fact is, when teaching history, one has to focus on what is possible. I try to teach my students that history is complicated but most of the time, I just want them to know that the Enlightenment occurred before the Industrial Revolution and that the Spanish-American War occurred before World War I. And yeah, it matters, because later times react against previous ones. People purposefully challenge older ideas as well as use them, change them, adapt them, get influenced by them. Beliefs and ideas also continue, having far longer pedigrees than modern humans often acknowledge. Historical events are not islands.

Would I have suggested changes to the 300 script? Yeah. For one, don't use "Greek." It is highly doubtful that the city-states saw themselves as having a common culture. Common cause, yes. Not necessarily a common culture.

I think it would be okay to leave in all the freedom stuff, even though (1) the Spartans had slaves (so did the Athenians); (2) most of the ideas about reason and self-governance come from Athenian writings, not Spartan ones. But the city-states were, in essence, fighting off an empire for the sake of making their own decisions. And they succeeded. (Alexander the Great eventually "united" what we think of as Greece, not the Persians.)

Although the 1962 movie The 300 Spartans has MORE anachronisms, the politics is somewhat more accurate. But it doesn't remotely capture Spartan culture, so 300 comes out ahead there. (If you are thinking The 300 Spartans looks like a World War II film with fresh-faced G.I.s.,you would be entirely accurate.)
 
Of course, capturing mindsets is a different problem from capturing facts.

Love as Hard Work in Elementary

This time of year is a great time to discuss the belief system of  Elementary's Holmes.

I love Elementary in part because Miller's Sherlock, however misanthropic, tries hard to be a good guy. 

Although Elementary often falls back on the classic motive for murder--greed--it has an interesting bonus theme:

Being in a relationship is work! And it may entail hurting others. And it's work! And not many villains like work. 

The pilot episode of Elementary presents a husband who seems as irritated by his wife's existence as desirous of her money--referring to himself in the third person, he states that the "husband wants out of the marriage." A later episode "Deja Vu All Over Again" revolves around the same desire for freedom, only in this case, the husband punishes the wife for the impulse. And the episode "Ears to You" has an ex-wife who couldn't be bothered to go through the hard work of a divorce.

The motivations are mostly all show-not-tell. But the scripts consistently avoid displays of villainous greed--or even need. Rather, the murderous significant others are unwilling to give up any of their prerogatives for the sake of the significant other, from money (sure) to lifestyles to attention. 

Another Season 1 episode "While You Were Sleeping" sets the stage. Sherlock solves the case when he hears a recovering addict admit that when she was on drugs, she only cared about herself, not her doctor boyfriend or what her choices would do to him. He later refers to the murderess--a twin sister killing off heirs to the family money--as having a "little heart."

Sherlock understands the villains' reluctance to work at relationships. He finds them difficult too.

He nevertheless condemns their illegal and harmful solutions. When the supposed activist against the government kills the young woman who helps him, Sherlock is unimpressed by the "security" implications. Like Poirot, he cares most for the individuals "who deserve not to have taken from them their lives." And despite his own reluctance to invest in a relationship when he is not sure he has the requisite qualities--especially regarding fathering a child--he expects civilized members of a society to at least try, or, at the very least, not murder.

The theme that relationships take effort underscores the show. Sherlock attempts to build his friendship with Joan. He advises Marcus to take chances in his personal relationships. He encourages Captain Gregson to work at his failing marriage and then helps him in his later relationship with Paige. In the episode "You Do It Yourself," he gives the ultimate British compliment to the young research assistant who agrees to marry the woman he loves, becoming an instant father:

"Good show."

Happy National Letter Writing Day!

Although I'm not a huge fan of epistolary fiction (fiction in the form of letters), I am a huge fan of actual letters and cards. I think it is sad that even email is considered old-fashioned these days. A paper letter/card in an actual envelope with a real stamp is a real treat. 

Epistolary fiction that I do like

Pamela by Samuel Richardson, in part because I find the entire story so wacky. I've written a spoof/tribute: Mr. B Speaks! 

Meet Me at the Museum by Anne Youngson, which I review here--I comment that the novel is one of the few where the letter writing sounds REAL, not like someone who chopped up chapters into letter writing segments. 

Daddy Long Legs by Jane Webster. I reread the book recently and was impressed by how engaging it is and how quickly it flows. The protagonist's voice is very believable. 

Dracula by Bram Stoker, Part I--Jonathan Harker's diary, which is written to his fiance, Mina, is captivating. The rest of the novel, which is a collection of letters and newspaper reports is less interesting. 

Documents in the Case by Dorothy Sayers is very good, being also a collection of newspaper reports and letters. It is as well quite raw and rather sad. 

The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis is a masterpiece, of course, and also an example of how the epistolary style forces the author into the letter writer's mindset. C.S. Lewis was rather weary of the book by the time he finished. Thankfully, he did finish it!

Books to Movies: The Arkenstone & Getting Characters from Point A to Point B

The Arkenstone

 

Smaug: "I am almost tempted to let you 

take it." Bilbo remembers Smaug's words.

In "Not At Home," Bilbo finds the Arkenstone. It is an interesting example of how books and movies differ. The book can mention the Arkenstone relatively late--it comes up in the Lonely Mountain chapters--but Jackson was absolutely right to start mentioning the Arkenstone far earlier. In the book, it is simply a treasure Thorin values and connects to the Mountain. In the movie, it is a signal of leadership. 

 

The politics of Thorin reclaiming his heritage dovetail with Saruman's dismissal of Gandalf's fears, Thranduil's cynical isolationism, and Bard's ancestry as well as, on the bad guy side, the Master's greed and Lake-Town's police state, Azog's desire for revenge and the Necromancer's call to the Nine. That is, there is a consistent issue (implied in the book and used directly by Jackson) of determining how the social order should function. Who is in charge? Why? How? For what reason? What will be the outcome? 

 

"A Thief in the Night"

 

The decision that Bilbo makes regarding the Arkenstone receives equal weight in movie and book. However, I wish the movie had spent more time on Bilbo's actual departure from the Mountain.

 

Bilbo scaling the wall.

There's a strange issue here--how much time a writer or director should spend moving people from point A to point B. Too much "then they walked down the street and turned the corner and waited at the light" smacks of letters my mom used to write about all the chores she completed and neighbors she spoke to and errands she ran, as if her letters were a diary. (Uh, Mom, who are these people?)

 

Too little "show," however, and it seems like characters just magically transported themselves from, say, Maine to New York. (Driving never takes as long as it should on shows like Bones.) House famously had its doctors walk around hospital corridors as they spouted off dialog: they're moving from points A to B and moving the plot forward!

 

Tolkien was very aware of distances and never makes mistakes in terms of how long a journey would actually take. In fact, during a recent rereading of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, I noted how scrupulously he maintains points on the compass (without being overly and tediously committed to the equivalent of railway times tables). He details exactly how Bilbo gets away from the Mountain and how he is taken in by Elvish guards. 

 

In the movie, Bilbo shows up suddenly at Thranduil's tent.

 

He then produces one of my favorite moments in the trilogy--and another of those moments that highlight Freeman's everyman ability to respond in very human ways to dramatic moments.

 

After all, that particular scene is occupied by McKellen, Pace, and Evans effortlessly acting at the top of their game. And here is the amazing Martin Freeman, saying, "Er, yeees." 

 

I suppose by shortening how long it takes Bilbo to get to the tent, Jackson was leaving more time for the battle scenes and...he didn't need to. I find those scenes mostly tedious.

 

To be continued...

Books to Movies: Rear Window and Rear Window

I originally intended this post to tackle the issue, What about when the movie is better than the book?

I choose the wrong "book"--Cornell Woolrich's "Rear Window," which of course, became Hitchcock's Rear Window. 

The movie is extremely close to the short story. There are differences, of course, including the dead dog (movie) and the main character's occupation as well as the love interest. But the series of events in the short story are almost directly replicated. More importantly, the short story is well-worth reading (and can be read in The Best Mystery Stories Century, edited by Tony Hillerman).

And yet, my choice defends my basic premise: Movies aren't books. A story must be changed in order to fit a different medium. And it may end up enchanting audiences in an entirely different way. 

What makes a story good versus what makes a film good? 

The short story "Rear Window" is suspenseful, in part because the reader isn't told until the end why the main character is relying on others to investigate and why the main character doesn't leave as soon as he realizes the murderer has sussed him out. I'm generally not a fan of this type of reveal--his leg is in a cast--but in this case, the character's apparently non-proactive behavior is unnerving enough to feed the story's suspenseful tone. 

It wouldn't work in a movie. Sure, every shot could show Jimmy Stewart from the waist up--like filming pregnant women only when they are sitting down. But it's unnecessary and far more interesting in the film for the visiting insurance nurse, played by the marvelous Thelma Ritter, to provide banter. 

The film's setting also captivates. Jeffries is looking out on a series of apartments that share linked courtyards. The stories of various tenants intertwine, from that of the dog owners to that of the two lonely-hearts. The tenants also provide opportunities for character-building dialog as when Jeff comments on the socialite across the way and Lisa dryly says, "She's juggling wolves." 

The entire panoply of apartments and neighbors wouldn't work in the story. The narrator comments on the different tenants but the focus must be on the possible murder. In a full-length book, every tenant could possibly receive a chapter, but it would get distracting and could possibly backfire. The narrator's focus in the text must be kept limited. 

Stories can do things that films don't. And vice versa. 

All the Ms: Mackey to Mackintosh

Mary Mackey: The Year The Horses Came, a Stone Age to Bronze Age novel, is not devoid of interest. But I find “wonderful goddess societies overwhelmed by evil patriarchal societies” rather tedious and unbelievable. Literally unbelievable. Studying history makes absolutely clear that although some systems are better than others, every society has its autocrats, its bureaucrats, its legalists, its spiritualists. The loving goddess religion of no-war and embracing inclusiveness is a myth–and not in the positive sense. As a woman, I find it less than humane. 

Jeanne Mackin: The Sweet By and By is about a woman researching Margaret Fox while trying to get over her lover’s death. The chapters skip back and forth from present to past. 

It’s a neat concept. But I don’t really get it. I feel about these type of books the same way I feel about dysfunctional marriage plots: either the couple learn to get along or they don’t; either the person dealing with death gets over it or doesn’t. 

I don’t mind the concept as a 90-minute movie. Truly, Madly, Deeply is a decent film. But I think it is notable that C.S. Lewis, on the death of his wife, only allowed himself a specific number of exam books to write A Grief Observed. Wonderful book. But there’s a point where the grief needs to be about the dead, not the self-absorption of the living, and Lewis knew that. 

Will Mackin: Bring out the Dog is a series of short stories all about military operations. I read “The Fire Truck.” At first, I felt somewhat dismissive. This story, at least, doesn’t have a plot (short stories are quite difficult to write well). But the images stayed with me, which was impressive. So I would designate the collection “slice of life” rather than “literary meanderings.” 

Anneliese Mackintosh: Bright and Dangerous Objects is another Mars novel. My Myths Endure On Mars novels take place after colonization has already commenced, about 50-100 years into the project. The two novels I’ve encountered so far are about the first colonists and why a person would go. I think something about the topic provokes the question, “Why would people go? What are they going for or fleeing from?” 

Clare Mackintosh: The Last Party. The genre is crime novel with tough, liberated woman. I’ve come to the entirely presumptuous conclusion that Welsh, Scottish, and Northern English crime novels are terribly Swedish or something. All dark corners and Kojak-type characters. Well-written (better written than the American equivalent in many ways) but…not my style. 

Sophie Mackintosh: The Water Cure is a dystopia novel told by several voices after a father dies on an island. And nobody seems happy–or appears to have a sense of humor. Not my type of thing at all. 

Perilous Interference: Why Not to Get Involved in a Christie Investigation

*Spoilers* 

One of the stranger Poirot novels is Peril at End House. Poirot helps a young woman who he is believes is being stalked by a killer...only to discover that she was playing him the whole time. She's a murderer. 

How far did Poirot's interference inspire and aid her? If no one had picked up on her hints--"Someone is trying to kill me"--would she have still committed the book's primary murder?

I tackle this problem in an earlier post: "Detectives Who Cause Deaths."

The problem here is less about the ethics and more about the writing. 

I think the murderess may have still committed the murder: she is something of a sociopath. And Poirot is susceptible to damsels in distress. Still, the issue points up the plot's weaknesses. 

In sum, my prevention detectives would simply need to warn the murderess's cousin--the true target--to stay away. And I don't think they would need to witness the murder first in order to rewind and issue the warning. Objectively-speaking, simply asking around would expose the young woman's mercenary nature and her less than respectable friends. The cousin staying away is good sense. 

The book isn't one of my favorites precisely because so much depends on Poirot not questioning the young woman's motives. And Christie appears to side-step Poirot's accountability at the end. 

On the other hand, Christie appears to have set up Poirot deliberately. She explores detective compliance in other books. When does interference actually create more problems? 

Ordeal by Innocence directly addresses this question. Arthur Calgary returns from a trip to discover that a young man he gave a ride to years earlier was hung for a crime committed during the time the young man was with Calgary. He insists on investigating, only to discover that actually the young man did plan the crime. Calgary's investigation stirs up a lot of unhappiness and exposes one of the young man's victims. The book is a more solid mystery than Peril since the detective's culpability is addressed upfront.

As I mention in the earlier post, Dorothy Sayers also tackled an investigation having unintended negative consequences. In Gaudy Night, when the professors accuse Wimsey of harassing people forced to commit terrible deeds due to social inequity, Wimsey responds by asking them to consider his "real" victims--the people killed while he was investigating, usually from fear of exposure. The question of when and when not to get involved continues throughout the book, up to Harriet's choice between a "safe harbor" (where "real world" events impinge only through the mind) and an "unsafe" life/marriage with a complicated guy, where the outcome is less sure.

Neither Christie nor Sayers argue that Poirot and Wimsey shouldn't be involved. They are pointing out that getting involved may have a cost. (My definition of a non-Mary Sue is that non-Mary Sues eventually accept that cost instead of having their "safety" preserved by the author no matter what.)

My prevention detectives have a mandate to stop murders. That doesn't mean they can't be careful and wise about how they go about it. They are more likely to be careful and wise if they understand and accept the possible ramifications.

Books to Movies: Desolation of Smaug, the Dragon, Pay-Offs, and the Dragon's Treasure

"Inside Information"

Bilbo's discussion with Smaug is more direct in Jackson's film, person-to-dragon. The ring is only partly effectual, which makes sense IF Smaug is one of Sauron's minions or at least sympathetic to his cause. Sauron--the Necromancer--is waking up/drawing to himself orcs and wargs and spiders and other bad stuff. Consequently, the ring works around Smaug only to a limited extent. The "rules" here are consistent within Jackson's universe. (The use of the ring in the book also makes sense since the Necromancer is occupied with returning to power and Smaug is more of an independent villain; however, in truth, Tolkien was likely still figuring out the ring's "rules" in The Hobbit.)

I do regret that Bilbo doesn't play a stronger role in bringing down Smaug. In the book, Bilbo spots the gap in Smaug's underarmor. He reports the event to the dwarfs. A thrush overhears and tells Bard.

 

However, again, regarding rules--Jackson does a decent job creating a background/set-up for Bard and the arrow that will bring down Smaug (whilst throwing in a William Tell moment). In a playwriting course in college, I learned that one of the primary rules of play and movie scripts is pay-offs: pay-off your set-ups. Jackson understands this rule. If Bard matters, then Bard knows the story of his ancestor. If Bard knows the story of his ancestor, then Bard feels an obligation to finish that ancestor's job. If Bard is going to finish the ancestor's job, he needs a way to do it: an arrow and knowledge.

Back to Bilbo and Smaug, Smaug is the supreme example of "the devil lies by speaking half-truths." His conversations with Bilbo are excellently used by Jackson. Bilbo has good reason in book and movie to distrust that the dwarfs will keep their word. They have sent him alone into danger on more than one occasion. Thorin is becoming increasingly self-serving. Smaug's words increase his distrust, which unfortunately dovetails with his own observations.

Inherent hobbit toughness and indifference to power give Bilbo an objectivity that only the late-arriving dwarfs retain. Thorin is increasingly not himself. 

"Not At Home"

The difference between movie and book here reminds me of the book War of the Worlds, where a great change has occurred but the narrator does not yet know why. Bilbo and the dwarfs explore the mountain before they realize Smaug is dead. 

I like the chapter and the limited perspective. However, very few action movies can handle such narrow points of view effectively. Even War of the Worlds (1953) opts for an aerial, omniscient point of view near the end. Independence Day resolves the problem in a clever way by having the Big Bad looked at by several limited points of view. Die Hard gives several perspectives but never forgets exactly what John McClane knows and doesn't know at any given moment (fantastic movie!). Bourne Supremacy keeps the points of view narrow so that Bourne's knowledge mostly runs the narrative (by necessity).

 

So, the narrow perspective can be done. World fantasy and a narrow third-person perspective is far more difficult.

One huge difference between book and Jackson's movies, of course, is that in the book, the dwarfs and Bilbo inadvertently send Smaug to Lake-Town--they don't first try to outwit and contain him. (As Tolkien says, Smaug has a rather "overwhelming personality").

Smaug at the forges.

Their efforts to fight him make them more heroic in the movie than in the book--and indicate that Thorin's noble and warrior nature lurks beneath all the self-justifications--but the outcome is the same. 

 

The book is so strong, I would argue, because it is realistic about human nature and politics. Any action--however justified--will have inadvertent consequences. Smaug needed to be handled. There was simply no way that Smaug could be handled without fairly devastating fallout. Tolkien doesn't retreat to "but it's the heroes--they can't do anything wrong!" territory, and neither does Jackson, though Jackson has them try a little harder not to force the problem elsewhere.

 

The Treasure in General

One great thing about Jackson's sets, especially the dragon hoard, is that they look as impressive as they ought to look.

 

While watching Treasure Island with Christian Bale, a movie I otherwise quite like, I was disappointed that the treasure when discovered seemed...kind of lame. In truth, it is realistically impressive. BUT it doesn't live up to all that waiting and wondering.

 

Jackson gives viewers what a movie and a half has prepared them for--the visual does equal the anticipation.

 

Visual = anticipation is a difficult problem in film, in part because, well, money! Humans can always imagine bigger than what can be delivered. The good movie attempts to deliver. 

 

Books to Movies: Verne and the Problem of the Travelogue Continued

Can the travelogue have a successful narrative arc?

Like most seeking-for-parents/family movies, In Search of the Castaways is a shaggy dog story, which means it is entirely in keeping with Verne's approach. As Wikipedia states about the book, the search for the children's father along the 37th parallel south provides A "pretext to describe the flora, fauna, and geography of numerous places to the audience."

That is, the search for the parent provides a pretext to send ordinary people into various dangerous and exciting situations. It's not that different from Hitchcock's Torn Curtain. 

This approach works with books in part because the individual chapters are rather like graphic novel/manga volumes--the adventure and momentary interactions are the point. Out of the Verne books I've read, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea grabs me the most (despite the singular inability to explicate Captain Nemo's motivations) because the under-ocean setting is so enthralling. I can imagine that for budding sci-fi readers in the late-1800s, Verne offered something that captured both the steampunk impulse and the exploration impulse.

On screen, however, I prefer more of a definitive narrative arc. 

So, can the travelogue be transformed into a arc? 

One of my mom's favorite novels, Nevil Shute's Trustee from the Toolroom, is a "searching" travelogue that would make a great movie! The main character--a non-wealthy, unassuming man of mechanical genius--has to get across the world by relying on contacts (nope, not email! contacts created through letters). He has to problem-solve various hiccups, including how to retrieve and safely guard his niece's inheritance from her dead parents' yacht. 

The parents thankfully don't turn out to be alive. And yes, frankly, I prefer that. I always found the BBC Little Princess far preferable to versions that keep the father alive. To me, that story is about survival and revelation, not about a return to the status quo. Likewise, Trustee is about the uncle doing everything he can for his niece, not about everything going back to what it was before.

Hey, written in 1960, Trustee would now be a historical film!

Overall, one approach to turning a travelogue into a film is to present a series of events, cameos, and interesting settings. There's nothing wrong with that approach!

The other, which is more movie-like, is to make the journey itself a matter of character development or revelation--that is, the characters solve problems rather than having things happen to them. In many ways, this solution is the mystery novel solution: the protagonist/traveler as detective moving towards an epiphany. 

Books to Movies: Verne and the Travelogue

A few years ago, I read some Verne books and watched a great many Verne movies. Links to reviews and other commentary are listed below.

This time around, I decided to watch ones I hadn't watched before, including Jackie Chan Around the World in 80 Days and In Search of the Castaways

First, the problem: 

Do main characters in a film need more than a series of adventures?

Many stories fall back on MacGuffins: a pointless or offhand excuse for characters to go and do interesting things. The pointless excuse doesn't need much focus or even a pay-off. It just needs to happen. 

 

Film is a visual medium. It seems like the one medium where MacGuffins would be standard (and they kind of are). After all, does it much matter why the characters are, uh, stealing The Declaration of Independence or trying to escape Germany?

 

However, I would argue that the MacGuffins is more noticeable in films than in books. 

 

Verne wrote travelogues (see the link below about Verne versus Wells). Quite honestly, while reading Verne's books, I don't much care why the characters are stuck on a submarine or going around the world. The travel is what matters. 

 

But in a movie, it rather does matter.

 

Surprisingly enough, Brendan Fraser's Journey to the Center of the Earth comes closest to capturing Verne's vision of an ongoing series of adventures. Though, honestly, my favorite part of that movie is the main characters trying to pronounce Icelandic names.

 

As for Jackie Chan's version:

It is clearly a tribute to Cantinflas. The main character is the stunt-performing "servant"--in this case, the stunt-performing research assistant.

Phineas Fogg, though not exactly the Phineas Fogg of the book, values efficiency and time management and argues with his girlfriend about fantasy versus realism (dogs playing poker without opposable thumbs).

In many ways, the movie is very meta. A scene in a French art gallery involves Jackie Chan performing stunts with buckets of paint and...Vincent Van Gogh! In fact, the movie is one feat of slapstick after another, not my favorite movie genre. But everyone in the movie seems to be having fun, which I'm not always sure of with modern remakes.

As for a narrative arc...actually, there is one! Jackie Chan's character, Lau Xing, is responsible for pressuring Fogg to take the journey so Lau Xing can return an important object to his village. In many ways, arguably, the movie is an excuse for Jackie Chan and a host of his fellow martial artists to have a confrontation in China. 

The movie does end with Fogg et al. back in London. And it is engaging enough not to flag too much after the China scenes. But it does lose its impetuous. 

A classic narrative arc ENDS with the climax--the Death Star blows up; Hans falls from the skyscraper; Dorothy gets home; Wells' character learns what happened to the aliens.

Around the World in 80 Days, the book, has a kind of climax or epiphany--but I'm not sure a movie is the best way to deliver it. It seems a great many scenes to sit through for a character to say, "Oh, now, I get it."

Links to posts about Verne:

• Verne and Wells
• 2,000 Leagues Under the Sea
• Around the World in 80 Days
• Part 1 
• Part II
• Part III

 

 

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 confident in 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.