Dean Stockwell's Kim and the New Childhood

[In 2011], I read Kim by Rudyard Kipling for a bookclub and really enjoyed it. I then watched the 1950 film with Dean Stockwell and Errol Flynn.

The movie is fairly good. It was "filmed on location." This means that a bunch of outdoor shots were filmed in India; everything else was done on a sound-stage.

But the movie does have a semi-authentic feel to it (I was worried that it would be like The Ten Commandments, which I enjoy watching but is hokey in the extreme: just watch Joshua organizing the Israelites in his best "Are we ready, boys and girls?" camp counselor manner.)

Kim is surprisingly straightforward and non-hokey, sticking closely to the book up until the last twenty minutes.

At which point it suddenly takes a nose-dive into . . . I don't know. I don't know what they were trying to do. I don't think they knew what they were trying to do.

I have a theory. Up until the last twenty minutes, the film focuses on Kim, played perfectly by Dean Stockwell. At fourteen, Stockwell has the compact, dark exuberance that Kipling ascribes to Kim.

But he isn't quite old enough to play Kim at seventeen (this is a pity; if Stockwell had been only a year older, he could have played Kim's younger and older selves with little difficulty). Consequently, the action from the book is squeezed from approximately five years into 1-1/2. Kim is still a child when he goes to hunt the Russian spies.

Kipling wouldn't have a problem with this. In the book, he continually emphasizes that Kim's controllers want to mold but not break him. They release him from his "English" studies as quickly as possible. They want him educated (and loyal), not disciplined to be a rigid, unimaginative, British officer.

Though very different in their politics, neither Forster nor

Kipling had a high opinion of this version of India.

This approach dovetails nicely with Kipling's beliefs regarding India. He supported the British Empire, but he believed (correctly) that it was badly managed. He believed, for example, that the British administrators in India should NOT be upperclass boys trained in England with no real knowledge of the country or ability to work with the native people. His book Stalky & Co. is basically about the type of boys who should be sent to administer India. Stalky, specifically, is a Kim proto-type.

So Kipling has Kim released from the British system as quickly as possible. He had little to no trouble sending this boy back into a dangerous environment. In fact, he implies that Kim was safer when he was younger and more savvy. Educate him any further, and he'll be too stupid to survive.

This idea was not something that 1950 America could readily stomach. The idea of "childhood" as a pure time of innocence had been growing since the Victorian era; post-WWII, middle-class American parents didn't want their kids being trained to play the "Great Game." They wanted them in college, learning to be businessmen and therapists and school-teachers.

Subsequently, the end of the film Kim turns into a film about Errol Flynn. Errol Flynn must go rescue Kim who has recklessly decided to play "the game" at too young an age. At the very end of the film, it is heavily implied that Kim will go back to school and once he graduates, he won't need to be a spy since all wars will be over.

In fact, there's an interesting contrast (which the writers of the script presented but didn't know what to do with) between the "old school" swashbuckling Flynn, who gets a kick out of killing his enemies, and the "new school" Kim, who gets squeamish out of watching people die.

This is not completely out of keeping with the book. In the book, Kim develops a more complex understanding of morality than he starts out with. The change is necessary since Kim is cocky to the point of arrogance; he is only reined in by his mentor, the extremely pacifistic lama. At the end of the book, the lama--who has obviously been worrying over Kim's participation in "the game"--has a vision which comforts him with the belief that Kim will be able to act as a spy without losing his soul. (At the end of the film, the confused script-writers have the lama die. They obviously couldn't make up their minds whether to be pro-War or pro-pacifism. All they knew is children should have cozy lives.)

In the book, the lama's influence keeps Kim from turning into a little sociopath with no moral sense or direction except the desire to outwit people. In the film, the implication is that the lama represents a nice New Agey way to think for boys who no longer have to make hard choices where people put their lives on the line. 

Wishful, post-WII thinking. And, considering the instant inception of the Cold War, rather naive. But Kim is a child and, as a child, he must be protected!

And the infantilization begins.

The one major factor in the film's favor is Dean Stockwell. It is impossible for a late-20th century product like me not to associate Dean Stockwell-the-child with Dean Stockwell-the-adult. (Especially since at age 14, Stockwell already had that borderline look of amused insolence down pat.) I see Kim and I think . . . Al! From Quantum Leap. And they aren't that different. Kim has that Buddhist edge. But the kindness masked by insouciance coupled with incredible energy is pure Kim/Al. And Stockwell does it very well.

So, Kim didn't grow up to be a businessman (or a monk, as one author postulates). He grew up to work in a top-secret laboratory doing science experiments that result in time-altering adventures.

The last really is much more likely.

Books to Movies: Two Towers and Where to Edit

The Two Towers tackles what I consider one of the more interesting problems for films and texts: how does one divide up scenes? 

All viewers likely remember episodes or movies where the scenes appeared to be cut out of order. There's an A&E Nero Wolfe episode which is skillfully cut but I can't shake the instinct that the scenes were originally (according to the script) supposed to go in a different order. Fritz starts an argument with Wolfe about meals; the episode cuts to the next day; in the next scene, Archie is then calming Fritz down as if the argument about meals just occurred. 

Tolkien's text of The Two Towers separates Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas's adventure from Merry and Pippin's adventures. Meanwhile, Frodo, Sam, and Gollum get their own book!

Jackson naturally sets the scenes with all the above characters side by side. He isn't strictly chronological. Tolkien was well-aware where each of his characters were day by day and hour by hour.

Jackson opts for balance rather than following an exact chronology--in the book, Frodo and Sam in the book reach the gate to Mordor after the battle at Helm's Deep. However, the gap in time would be too much for a film. The viewer needs to be reminded of Frodo's task. 

Interestingly enough, in terms of sustained interest, I think this division of scenes is one place where a film succeeds over the book. Tolkien, I posit, was wise to address Frodo and Sam's story separately rather than trying to juggle all three plot-lines at once. But in the film, the action is straightforward enough, the jump doesn't confuse (the extended version gets confusing since Jackson attempts to include a flashback, which I deem a mistake--otherwise, the three plots are quite seamless). 

But those decisions for scriptwriters can be just as daunting as for novel writers. Chapter break here? Or here? Or here?

Death in Fiction is Still a Cop-Out

I have written elsewhere (and often) about how death in fiction is a cop-out, 90% of the time. There are exceptions. But most of the time, killing off a character is a failure of imagination, an adolescent shriek of "look at my deep thoughts!" 

It's obnoxious.

*Spoilers*

The end of Professor T, Season 3, is a great example of what I mean, and it points to the difference between truly mature writing and adolescent writing. 

At the end of the season, Professor T's cop prodigy dies (or is nearly killed--the scene is presented as a death with Professor T and the fiance hovering over her body and Professor T reverting to his OCD behavior). 

I wasn't sad. I just sighed. Then, I really sighed because I'd lost respect for the writers but I happen to like Ben Miller...so now what do I do if there is another season? 

And I realized the difference between this type of "ending" and the show Bones. 

Years ago, I read a review (I wish I could remember the reviewer's name!) that stated that with Bones, whatever happens, you know people will keep going. Vincent gets shot. The characters mourn, put up a plaque, and remember him. Sweets is killed. His on-again/off-again girlfriend goes on to have his baby. Brennan and Booth evoke his name quite often. He isn't forgotten. Hodgins becomes wheelchair-bound, adjusts, and becomes the literal king of the lab.

But shows like Professor T--and Ballykissangel--treat a death like the ultimate resolution, as if all of the episodes and the characters' arcs have been leading up to...a moment of shock. 

It is VERY adolescent. It is also a great example of "killing off one's gays"--that is, killing a character JUST so other people can react to it and the reader can have a moment of social awareness.

There were other, far more interesting ways, to get Professor T to revert to his OCD behavior. Death was a cop-out.

Chrestomanci: a Character Type with Layers

Chrestomanci is one of those beloved mentor types that show up in books and television and movies. The handsome, well-dressed, wise and somewhat aloof guy who, like Sherlock, is always a little above and beyond everyone else. 

Chrestomanci, who appears in several books by Diane Wynne Jones, is somewhat more layered. He doesn't know everything. In Charmed, in which Cat--the main character--encounters Chrestomanci as a stranger and then as a rather distant guardian, Chrestomanci is not entirely sure if he trusts Cat and later faults himself for not knowing the right approach with Cat.

The Lives of Christopher Chant gives us Chrestomanci's back story. It details how he met Millie, his eventual wife. It also shows that Chrestomanci understands the pain of betrayal and the difficulty of living with previous mistakes as well as coming to understand one's self. 

And Witch Week presents a lovely final scene in which the main character, not entirely recognizing Chrestomanci, apologizes to the weary man. 

Chrestomanci is a great example of a type being deepened and expanded to become a well-rounded character. 

One of my favorite aspects of Chrestomanci is that he loves to wear elaborately embroidered dressing gowns. I can't help but think of Orson Welles in Jane Eyre. Different build. Similar aura of authority!

Mysteries on Cruises and Planes: When They Work, When They Don't

The problem with mysteries on cruises and planes is that unless the mystery is tied to the cruise or plane, it really doesn't matter that it happens on a cruise or plane. It could happen anywhere. 

Sometimes the mystery is tied to solving the mystery before the cruise docks or plane lands. In one episode of Bones, Booth wants to arrest the malefactor before the plane lands in China; before then, the plane is still "American soil." 

Overall, however, such time crutches are not exclusive to transportation. They can be tied to dawn breaking or night falling or rain coming or a holiday beginning.

Sometimes the mystery is tied to the cruise sinking or the plane crashing. The latter is VERY COMMON (see at least one episode in every mystery show ever, including Murdoch Mysteries). The first is less plausible than the second. One reason that passengers were slow to get off the Titanic is that it is actually surprisingly difficult to sink ships absent a bomb or an iceberg that rips past ALL watertight compartments. Many ships that hit icebergs in the early twentieth century stayed afloat for several hours, long enough for everyone to be rescued.

(Note to those who fear planes: even plane crashes are statistically rare if one considers the numbers of planes that take off and land every day.)

Sometimes, the setting provides the "cozy" manor house option--a passenger is killed and the only suspects are the  passengers in first class. Murder She Wrote provides a decent episode of this type with several hilarious "plane" moments, including a smuggled dog!

And sometimes, the mystery is tied to conditions of travel--one of the best is "Unfriendly Skies" in Season 1 of CSI: Las Vegas (see image above). The mystery is about why/how a passenger died on the plane, and the explanation is connected to conditions of going way up in the air.

Likewise, Columbo's cruise episode involves an intimate knowledge of ship procedures--so being on the ship does matter. 

Still--it's hard not to ask, "Why not wait for the cruise to dock?" Even in "Unfriendly Skies," the investigation takes place AFTER the plane has landed.

Consequently, one of the most common cruise tropes is the use of the boat to smuggle something, leading to spy passengers who confront each other during the voyage. Scarecrow & Mrs King provides one of the best episodes of this type, the aptly named "Ship of Spies," which takes place on a marriage cruise.  And, of course, Spy X Family's cruise ship arc! 

Hey, I treat the spaceship in my Myths Endure on Mars series like a cruise liner, and a mystery takes place on it! 

However, I made sure that (1) the mystery is related to the conditions of the spaceship, both the passengers on a particular voyage and the murder attempt's method; (2) the mystery still ends on the planet. 

After all, too many times, it feels like the ship or plane is simply window dressing--not that different from the train in Murder on the Orient Express. The suspects could all be in a snowbound manor or on an island...

Yup, Agatha Christie did those too! 

Ichabod Crane: Irving's Unlikable but Appealing Character

One somewhat unusual main character is the unlikable character. 

Ichabod Crane from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving is such a character. He is a "Yankee," which at the time wasn't entirely a positive term. (Think "yuppie.") He is interested mostly in money. He is superstitious. He is, in fact, the wonderful illustration by Norman Rockwell!

The interesting aspect of Irving's text is that Ichabod is not only the central figure--not merely a despised figure like Malvolio--but Irving treats him more objectively than Shakespeare treats Malvolio. I think Shakespeare was taking out his frustrations on lecturing social media types with Malvolio. 

But Ichabod is who he is for the sake of the story, not as a repository of ill-will. 

Generally speaking, he is an outlier amongst main characters. Most writers--and readers--prefer characters they like or characters they can defend. So even when Grendel or Dracula is made the main character, he is then defended. 

A variation on Ichabod is when the main character or narrator isn't the main actor in the story. In the book To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout manages to hold her own with Atticus and Tom Robinson. But in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde does anyone remember that the narrator is actually the lawyer, Mr. Utterson? 

I personally would like to see the story told from the lawyer's point of view. But in truth, most readers consider the titular characters to be THE characters. 

A final word about Ichabod: despite most audiences preferring a protagonist they like, even Disney followed Irving's lead. In the Wishbone series, Wishbone plays Ichabod, not Brom Bones. While not particularly likable, the character holds up, giving animators and actors traits and attitudes and behaviors to play with.

Books to Movies: Tolkien and Left versus Right at Amon Hen

When Frodo and Sam cross, they end up in Emyn Muir.

The end of The Fellowship of the Ring, the movie, includes a great action sequence. 

And yet, it has always bothers me. (Possible solution at the end!)

The reason? The fellowship is on the west bank of the great river. They must decide whether to continue on to Minis Tirith or cross to the east bank and head towards Mordor. Frodo and Sam, of course, decide to break with the others, partly due to Boromir's actions but mostly because Frodo believes it is the right choice. 

Tolkien keeps exact track of where his characters are, not just in time but in space. What direction they are heading. Where the sun sets and rises. What they are near. Without being (necessarily) a military writer, he is well aware of natural barriers and the ability of troops to get access to supply lines. 

So it bothers me that the breaking of the fellowship appears to take place on the wrong bank.

The fellowship pulls up their boats at relatively flat ground, Palen Galen (again, Tolkien never forgot that characters can't simply get out of boats whenever they want). When Frodo escapes Boromir, he heads to Amon Hen (red star), which overlooks the falls and the small mountain-island Tol Brandir. When Frodo and Sam leave, they will head across the lake which is north of Amon Hen. 

And yet, in the movie, when Aragorn leaves Frodo at Amon Hen, he goes down the hill by turning away from the river and heading left.

An explanation for Aragorn's actions is below. It still drives me crazy. Based on the way the movie presents Amon Hen, Aragorn should head right, down to the flatter ground, away from the falls. 

After some reflection, I propose that Aragorn is heading south and west to fight orcs coming from Isengard. (There is level ground to the south.) I still have a problem with this explanation because Frodo appears to head in the same direction since he encounters Merry and Pippin. They are later defended by Boromir. Aragorn comes upon the confrontation between Boromir and the orcs without appearing to reverse course. 

The smaller map makes the above actions possible if both Frodo and Aragorn head south, encounter loads of people THERE and then Frodo heads east and north while Aragorn continues to head south and west. The bottleneck also explains how holding off the orcs helps Frodo and Sam get away.  

Except...how would Frodo get off Amon Hen in the face of the orc troupe without putting on the ring again (which he doesn't in the movie)? 

The implication, in the movie, is that Frodo initially came up the hill from the northeast--which means Aragorn should have as well.

I'm not sure I will ever be able to watch the movie without gritting my teeth at this scene. Tolkien never made mistakes about where characters are located/how characters move from Point A to Point B. In the book, Frodo meets no one--and Sam reverses course and returns to the lake--for a reason. The fellowship members have already scattered beyond Amon Hen. Getting down from Amon Hen is never the issue. Left or right, encountering the orcs there doesn't make any sense. 

But, yes, a good action sequence.

Happy April 16th!

 Today celebrates two things I love. 

The first is...

National Librarian Day!  I love libraries. I love the insides of libraries. I love the services. I love what they stand for. I love them. I use them. And I greatly appreciate librarians and their hard work. 

I also enjoy eggs Benedict, and today is National Eggs Benedict Day! 

The perfect picture would be a librarian eating eggs Benedict. 

I'll settle for eggs Benedict in the Portland Public Library's atrium (because one really shouldn't take them into the library itself). 

All the Ms: Madeline to Magariel

Laura Madeline: The Confectioner’s Tale: A Novel of Paris is one of many, many novels that involve a first-person narrator performing historical research. The history is presented in other chapters. Willig’s The Secret History of the Pink Carnation–which is quite fun–is of this type. So is Byatt’s Possession, which I couldn’t get into. Quite frankly, the trope needs a comedic tone for me to engage (I can read the history myself). 

Mike Maden: Blue Warrior uses the style of writing I associate with Patterson and Cussler. Straightforward, serviceable, with information packed into sentences: “A pair of dark aviators hid his world-wary blue eyes.” Not my style. But I have nothing against writers who produce this stuff and readers who truly enjoy it!

Sarah Madison: I reread Truth or Consequences quite often. It tackles the "lover can read the other lover's mind" trope with surprisingly and welcome astuteness.

Susan Madison: The Color of Hope is about yet another dysfunctional family. It isn’t fair, I believe, to not read each book for its own sake: its own narrative arc, its own underlying theme or belief system. And The Color of Hope does take place in Maine! But I don’t really understand the point of writing and reading the families-falling-apart-in-slow-motion stuff, unless it is a kind of exorcism for the reader. 

Tahereh Mafi: Furthermore is quite enchanting. I didn’t continue it since I felt, at the time, rather overwhelmed with teen books about children going off to rescue people while being misunderstood. The book is unique, however, since it presents a fantastical setting and a shrewd main character without apology. 

Daniel Magariel: One of the Boys tackles violent dysfunctional family life. Not a topic that interests me, but I was impressed that the book started with action and dialog–show, no tell–rather than someone ruminating in a bedroom about someone else in the living room and how life is ever so dreary. 

Books to Movies: Galadriel and Putting Characters Face to Face

I mention in my analysis of The Hobbit--regarding chase scenes--that I consider the later trilogy's chase scene in Moria one of the most pointless of all chase scenes in all action films. 

Overall, I think the Moria scenes are well-rendered, including Gandalf's confrontation with the Balrog. The scene near Balin's tomb is especially touching, now that viewers can associate Balin with Ken Stott.

But I don't have much more to say about Moria, so I'm going to skip forward to Lothlorien and Galadriel and an interesting visual "solution" to separated characters in film.

For Tolkien, every character is limited by distance and knowledge. Characters in The Lord of the Rings continually state that they only know so much. They can't see ahead. They aren't sure what will happen when the one ring is destroyed. They are acting morally because they believe they should, not because they omnipotently know the outcome (even the books' Big Bad is limited, which is refreshing).

Even the Valar (the gods who work for Middle-Earth's God or Illuvatar), once they descend to Arda or Earth, must abide by the world's functions. They only know what is possible for them to know due to their wisdom or power but no more than that.

So, in LOTR, Galadriel  can only see within the borders of Lorien. That country is fading as is she. She is well-aware of her situation. She doesn't so much make a choice about the ring but accept a choice she made ages earlier.

Yet there is a strange scene in the film version of Towers, where Galadriel and Elrond speak by...telepathy? Not to forget: in The Hobbit, Galadriel suddenly becomes capable of transporting herself! 

What is interesting to me regarding these scenes is that Jackson is obviously trying to solve a narrative problem: how does one create a visual scene with characters who are not present physically but are present in voice or thought or opinion?

The Thai drama My School President resolves this problem in a similar way to Jackson. The two young men start talking regularly on the phone after school. But watching people phone each other isn't as interesting as watching people interact with each other. 

So, the scenes will start with them on the phone and then move to them speaking face-to-face as their conversations become more personal. The result is one of the most touching scenes in the series when Tinn comforts Gun after Gun relays the story of his father's death when he was young. 

It's a visual device that I give a pass to--

I ALSO would rather see characters interact face-to-face.

Great Heyer Character: Venetia as a Truly Independent Female Character

I am not opposed to writers using tropes, even stereotypes, in their writing, so long as they do it well. 

Georgette Heyer could produce rather tiresome types. She could also produce magnificent types who transcend their role in the text. 

Venetia is one who transcends her type. 

Venetia is presented as an independently-minded heroine. Many of Georgette Heyer's heroines are independently-minded--right up until the hero proposes and then they become coy. Venetia does not. 

To start, Venetia is a 25-year-old member of the gentry who lives in the country with her scholarly and sarcastic brother Aubrey. She is a great Beauty. She is also frank and without pretense. She and Aubrey are entirely honest with each other. 

Venetia has suitors but has honestly and without pretense told them that she is not interested. They continue to press their suits, specifically Edward Yardling, who is sententious, condescending, and absolutely sure that Venetia doesn't really mean the things she says. 

38-year-old Damerel then arrives in the region. A member of the gentry, when he was an older teen, he ran off with a married woman, who obviously seduced him. He is quite similar, in fact, to Rochester, a once idealistic young man who was sorely disillusioned and has adopted the pose of being nonredeemable out of an honest belief in his own (rather mild) rakishness (he isn't exactly a member of the Hellfire Club). 

Damerel and Venetia meet and become friends. 

Heyer is quite good at showing (as opposed to telling) the reader how the hero and heroine of her books get along. She excels with Damerel and Venetia. They share a sense of humor. They talk easily. Venetia is not in anyway shocked by Damerel's experiences. She finally feels that she has found someone that she can speak to her on her wavelength.

Neighbors and family members, however, separate them--first, by convincing Damerel of the inappropriateness of the match and then by literally distancing the couple when they cart Venetia off to London.

Damerel's acquiescence to the separation is rather irritating. Continually throughout the novel Venetia's entirely truthful and objective statements are not taken seriously by the people around her. She says the same things again and again, but no, no, no, she couldn't possibly mean them! "We" have determined that she actually thinks entirely the opposite! She's a "good girl." Venetia obviously finds this continual dismissal of her actual statements less than palatable.

For Damerel to do the same thing seems unlike him since he appears to be one of the few people (Aubrey is the other) who takes Venetia seriously. 

However, Damerel is suffering from what Venetia calls "idiotish nobility." I will allow him to be an idiot, temporarily. 

Venetia rescues the situation when she realizes that her mother, whom she believed to be dead, is actually very much alive, having divorced Venetia and Aubrey's father and married a pompous member of the Prince Regent's set. The mother is, bluntly, not good ton. If Venetia has anything to do with her, she will "fall." 

So Venetia does. 

Edward--the supposed worthy suitor--then reveals his small-mindedness and inherent spiritual meanness by trying to pull a Darcy ("I struggled against my feelings for you, but failed") without Darcy's growth (Edward determines that he should have never given into his feelings).

Venetia shrugs her shoulders. She told him. Again and again and again. He didn't listen. Sucks to be him. 

Venetia returns to Damerel's country-seat to find him in a kind of stagnating holding pattern: morose and utterly unhappy. She informs him that she has made friends with her fallen mother. Like the princess in Shrek, she is now--reputation-wise--an ogre. 

The final outcome is not so extreme. Heyer, like Austen, understood that true social destruction is not entirely wise. Venetia has a powerful and wealthy uncle by marriage as well as good friends in the neighborhood. Damerel is not as irredeemable as he imagines. They will not "fall" as far as they expect. 

However, the text does make one incredibly insightful point. The uncle protests that a man of Damerel's age is set in his ways. He has established patterns that are difficult to break. He won't "reform" overnight. 

My personal feeling is that the uncle worries too much. Damerel has obviously reached a point in his life where change will be more organic and natural than forced. Still, the uncle has a point. 

Venetia once again shrugs. She knows exactly whom she is marrying. She knows exactly what she wants. She has always known, if only people would listen instead of trying to "fix" her. Her brother Aubrey agrees that she and Jasper (Damerel) will suit, and Aubrey knows her better than anyone. 

Venetia does more than behave in "appropriate" and expected independent ways. She is actually independent in her thinking. 

A wonderful character!

All the Ms: MacMillan to Mad Scientists

Gilly MacMillan: There’s a suspense/mystery genre in which women–mothers, daughters, sister, lovers—either end up in dangerous circumstances or go out of their way to save loved ones from dangerous circumstances. I don’t really get it, but then I don’t really get survivor memoirs either. What She Knew, about a son’s abduction told mostly from a mother’s point of view, is quite well-written. Not my cup of tea. (I would be more interested in the boy looking back on the event years later.)  

Robert MacNeil: And then there are all those famous people who turn around and write books because, I guess, that’s what famous people do. Robert MacNeil wrote Breaking News amongst others. News reporters getting excited about themselves interests me almost as much as actors getting excited about themselves. (Not at all.) On the other hand, the book begins by comparing reporters to Gadarene swine, who rush off the cliff to pursue unsubstantiated stories. I have to say: fantastic analogy! And to MacNeil's credit, he seems to have been open to a range of popular culture.

Elizabeth Macneal: Circus of Wonders is told by several characters about the circus life–including the internal competition–in the 1860s. 

Debbie Macomber: Debbie Macomber’s books fill over a shelf in the library. I chose a Christmas book, Christmas Letters. And I was reminded why I don’t read Debbie Macomber. I like romances. I like romances between everyday ordinary people. But I don’t care for her stuff. It’s not dissimilar to how I like fantasy and sci-fi yet can’t get into Andre Norton. I’m not sure what the reason is but I suspect, with Macomber, that the issue is tone. The book is supposed to be, I think, cute and warm-hearted and whimsical. I found the characters rather tiresome. Like I was supposed to be admiring how cute and warm-hearted and whimsical they were on every page.

Molly MacRae: Plaid and Plagiarism is the first book in a mystery series set in Scotland. So many mysteries! I have to get more and more selective.

The Mad Scientist’s Guide of World Domination gave me a chance to read a short story by Harry Turtledove, a sci-fi writer I know about but have never read. I don’t know if all his stories are written in the same style as “Father of the Groom”--a mad scientists turns his daughter-in-law-to-be into a literal bridezilla–but it’s an engaging style for a short piece: conversational and funny, rather like reading a comedian’s take on contemporary America.

Accountants as Heroes: The Auditors and The Other World's Books Depend on the Bean Counter

Van Dine famously wrote that murder is the only satisfactory problem for a full-length mystery. And generally speaking, most of the Golden Age mystery writers agreed with him. Sayers challenged the notion with a suicide and a second-degree murder. She also wrote a few short stories--as did others--in which theft was the main mystery.

However, generally speaking, the form relies not only on murderers but on Columbo type murderers who plan meticulously and cover up their acts and even murder again.

And many, many mystery shows follow suit.
 
The Auditors, however, makes accounting malfeasance the dirty secret. There is a murder in the wings and several attempted murders/assaults. But the main issue is people stealing money for their own greedy reasons.

And it works!

It works because the stakes are fairly high. Entire lives can be derailed by the scheming, grifting, and lying carried out by management and employers.

In fact, one of the reasons that I like these heroic accountants so much is that their concern about money is not some manifestation of greed. Quite the opposite! By focusing on how things get paid for, they show a greater concern for real people and real solutions than so-called compassionate and sensitive people who look down on such "penny-pinching." The theme here is one I tackled in my story "Golden Hands," a take on Rumpelstiltskin: why assume that the king doesn't have good reasons to want more money? 

In The Auditors, the main character, Shin Cha II, is a man on a mission. He appears ruthless but is motivated by an exact understanding of the crimes and their cost. His prodigy, Goo Han Soo, is a friendly, kind young man who comes to understand his mentor better. 

*Spoilers.* 

The Auditors also supplies good villains; in fact, the eventual primary villain's  psychology is disturbingly familiar these days: I'm so righteous, my sins are necessary to combat the unrighteous. 

And The Auditors gives us some ambiguity. The department is semi-pitted against a member of upper management, Hwang Dae-woong, who turns out to be a supporter in the end. 

The tension between Shin Cha II and Hwang Dae-woong is fantastic since Shin Cha II is a "by the book" operator while Hwang Dae-woong doesn't see the harm is some nepotism, some minor grifting, some handouts. To him, that's the oil that keeps business running. However, he is inherently a moral guy: some actions truly are unimaginable. The two characters are frenemies and provide some of the best and funniest scenes in the series.

So The Auditors is well-crafted. And it provides a nice variation on the detective hero! 

Another great accountant character is Seiichirou Kondou from The Other World's Books Depend on the Bean Counter. One of the best scenes in the light novels and manga is when Seiichirou must persuade the court that his ideas about how to handle the miasma will actually save money--a long-term solution as opposed to housing and clothing and rewarding the Holy Maiden. Another great scene is when he persuades the prince to impress the Holy Maiden by using his income to do stuff for her.

Accountants in both series are cool. However, in terms of sheer dramatic entrances, Shin Cha II wins here! 

The Dragon Character: Totally Meta

Going through characters created by "G" authors reminded me of Gannett's My Father's Dragon. And that got me thinking of the character of the dragon. 

So here is a 2023 post, reposted.

* * * 

I mention in the previous fairy tale post that dragons are just awesome! 

That is, unlike other natural, supernatural, and fantastical creatures in the fantasy universe, they tend to stand alone. They are not necessarily villainous, even when destructive. They are too cool for that. They may be good. They may be bad. Whatever they are, they are above it all. 

Books containing dragons, consequently, also seem to occupy a category of their own. They tend more towards "meta" than just about any other group of fantasy books. 

Tanith Lee's The Dragon Hoard

The Dragon Hoard is a very funny book about a wry, level-headed prince, Prince Jasleth, who has no choice but to set out to find a treasure. He joins up with a group of princes headed on an adventure, namely to retrieve a hoard guarded by a dragon. The adventure is headed by Prince Fearless, whose father is utterly indifferent to the quest and considers it mostly a waste of time. 

Jasleth ends up doing much of the heavy lifting on the quest--in a wry, level-headed, occasionally exasperated way--yet he remains good friends with his companions. In the end, the hoard is obtained without anyone conquering the dragon, who went off to see the dentist about its "nine hundred and fifty-four teeth."

Patricia Wrede's Dealing with Dragons (and sequels)

In Dealing with Dragons, Princess Cimorene escapes her tedious life at court and goes to work for the King of the Dragons (who is female). She wants the job and gets extremely irritated with princes who show up to rescue her. "Go away!" 

In Wrede's universe, having a princess is considered something of a cache for a dragon but also something of a bother. Few of them are as helpful as Cimorene and many of them run away before being rescued since they get tired of the life. 

In any case, the dragons are mostly occupied with their internal affairs and don't care much one way or the other. Having a princess is like having a BMW: a nice perk but not entirely necessary. 

Oliver Selfridge's The Trouble with Dragons

Trouble with Dragons is one of those books I tracked down when I got older, I love it so much. 

The dragons in Selfridge's book are unapologetically destructive, though they go after princesses and princes (people in shiny outfits) more than ordinary folk. But they are like tsunamis and volcanoes, a force unto themselves. 

The true villain is the Prime Minister. Since dragons in his kingdom lay brilliant sapphire eggs after eating a princess--and the sapphire eggs make gorgeous and expensive sapphire goblets--and the prime minister is making a bundle off the goblet factory--he encourages the prince/king to keep sending princesses out to be slaughtered. And it's very sad but eh, what can one do?!

Until a clever, resourceful, and wise princess, Celia, comes along to change things. 

In the end, the dragons retreat to the stars. They aren't punished--but they do need to stop burning stuff down and eating up farmers' herds of cows. So  they become legends. 

More on Characters: Types and Stereotypes

Books on writing often tout that all good writing is character-driven and that all good characters are complex. Complex characters have names and backgrounds and hobbies and tics. If they are angsty/"realistic" characters, they have dark pasts and foibles and unrelenting grief. 

But stories can be told in many different ways.

(1) Good writing can rely on types

(2) Types and stereotypes are not the same. 

(3) Good writing can also rely on stereotypes. 

(1) Tolkien relied on types. Agatha Christie relied on types. Shakespeare relied on types. Tolkien created types. So did Whedon when he invented Buffy (who is actually a deliberate reversal of a "type").

(2) Types are not the same as stereotypes. The difference is the universal quality. Types can move between cultures. Miss Marple is very English, but her type is still recognizable in her descendants, Mme Ramotswe and Mrs. Pollifax (Gilman).

Malahide gives Alleyn nuance.

A stereotype, on the other hand, is a cliche specific to time and place. Ngaio Marsh claimed she was using characters (unlike Christie), not types in her mysteries when actually she was using stereotypes. Don't get me wrong--I enjoy Marsh, but I don't think her characters are transferable beyond a very specific time and place. Alleyn belongs specifically to his upperclass English milieu and there is little of him that survives beyond it. He is a collection of time/place-based cliches: the reticient, fastidious, upperclass British detective working amongst worshipping subordinates in the 1940s to 1950s. 

In 1937 Lost Horizon, Howard

is the Terry character.

(3) Charlotte Perkins Gilman uses stereotypes in Herland. Van is the questioning (good) and progressive intellectual of his day. Jeff is the soft-spoken idealizer of women. Terry is the brash, domineering he-man. They are specific to a utopian polemic and don't need to function much beyond that.

More importantly than types versus stereotypes, Gilman is consistent. She could be more critical of Van (as my Terry is) but once she establishes their characters, she doesn't suddenly change mid-way through the story, forcing them to behave a certain way, so she can achieve an end. Terry's obnoxiousness is grounded in a particular perspective that doesn't vary and isn't inherently conspiring. Terry never lies, and he isn't deliberately scheming. In fact, Van feels some sympathy for Terry, trapped in a world that is outside his comfort level.

I believe that being fair with the reader is 90% of what keeps a story a story, rather than a lecture. I generally dislike "character remembers an important clue from years earlier" moments. But IF the story establishes that such memory retrieval is possible, then having the memory resurface doesn't bother me as much. 

Stereotypes can not only be fair, they can be very funny. In the Monk episode "Employee of the Month," almost all of the characters are stereotypes: the inept stock boys, the weedy manager, the disgruntled retail worker. The stereotypes are so accurate, so right-on, they are hilarious, but they are hilarious within a very specific time, culture, and place. A type, like Monk himself, has more universal qualities. Monk IS the Sherlock Holmes of his time and place and therefore, carries within him the universal qualities that made Sherlock Holmes universal. 

So stereotypes have their place. However, to truly invest in a story, types are more useful in long-run than stereotypes. In my critique/tribute to Herland, I give Terry not only more background but stronger arguments. He doesn't merely stand in for something; he considers what he wants and thinks. 

A human being faced with a new world potentially provides a universal experience.