Unfortunately, the twenty-first century has seen the demise of many worthy things: cultural literacy, equal access to health care, real movie stars (like Katharine Hepburn and Liz Taylor), and, most gut-wrenching of all, good manners. I say, dear reader, that the demise of social propriety is most gut-wrenching of all because it represents—with even more chilling accuracy than Ke$ha’s record sales, global warming, and the existence of Rush Limbaugh—the corruption, and subsequent deterioration, of society as we know it.
Too dramatic? Perhaps. But I maintain that proper etiquette is more than just behaving one’s self in public; it symbolizes an awareness for the necessity of maintaining a widely-accepted doctrine of human interaction. I say “necessity” because this set of social norms is a prerequisite for the very definition of humanity. Lions snatch up the prey that their cheetah neighbors have caught without so much as a “thank you”. Male leopards mate with their female counterparts without any sort of proper introductions or courtship. Manners don’t exist in the wild. And if we continue to allow our manners to fall by the wayside, well, the biggest, strongest members of our species may rise up to bully the rest of us, and all our intellectual advancements will be rendered powerless against a Darwinian uprising of nature, red in tooth and claw.
Still too dramatic? If you will, dear friends, attend The Tale of the Christmas Ham. I ventured into the grocery store today to purchase a ham for Christmas dinner, among a few other items. Naturally, the grocery store was filled to the brim with people preparing for their own Christmas dinners, and tensions were running high. I elected to use the self-checkout (as a side note, I believe this self-checkout concept is both a blessing and a curse, since it allows us to avoid rude cashiers, but represents a problematic devaluing of human interaction). Upon ringing up my ham, I decided that $42.75 was far too much to pay for a hunk of meat that would summarily be devoured and excreted into oblivion, and that I could find a better deal elsewhere. In the extra minute-and-a-half it took to void the purchase of the ham, I neglected to instantaneously remove my basket from the scanner, an offense that the gentleman who was waiting for my self-checkout kiosk deemed to be a truly damnable offense. When I did remove the basket to make way for our impatient friend in line behind me, he snarled “Thanks”. Surprised by his apparent agitation, I said, politely, “Sorry about that, sir”, wondering whether the ham delay had taken longer than I thought, to which he replied, passive-aggressively, “That’s all right”, and proceeded to scan his own items with not-so-subtle vitriol.
Conditioned as I am to such low-level impropriety from perfect strangers, I would not have even registered this incident had it not been for the previous day’s tale, the Tale of the Mall Parking Lot Duel. Against my better judgment, I sought parking in our suburban town’s mall parking lot yesterday (a mere three days before Christmas, mind you). After ten nail-biting minutes of circulating the parking lot, praying that the aggressive drivers around me wouldn’t T-bone my car just to take me out of the running, I finally located an SUV (large, fuel-inefficient SUV’s are standard fare in my town) in the process of vacating a space. I instantly flashed my turn signal, excited to finally end my dangerous quest. I spotted a Mercedes convertible hovering nearby, and wondered if the driver was planning to duel me for the parking spot. Since I deemed a parking spot to be a ridiculous thing to duel over (a parking spot not being, say, a family member’s honor or a plot of land), I prepared to politely yield the spot to the other person in case she was truly intent on taking it. Sure enough, once the SUV had moved on to bigger and better things, the Mercedes convertible began to viciously seize the spot, like a lioness pouncing on a wildebeest that the hyenas around her possibly had their eyes on. Having been mentally prepared for this turn of events, and consequently not invested in claiming that particular spot for my own, I remained expressionless, impassively watching and thinking about where I ought to continue my search. To my surprise, the driver of the Mercedes pulled back out of the spot, gnashing her teeth and probably cursing, drove up to my car, and rolled down her window. Curious as to what could possibly have inspired her to initiate conversation with me, I rolled down my own window and raised my eyebrows. The lady snapped, “I was following that person and waiting for her spot. I’ll just take this one that opened up down there.” And with that, she sped off in a huff before I even had the chance to say, courteously, “Well, ma’am, in that case, please, be my guest. I was unaware of your admirably diligent efforts to secure this parking space. I hope it serves you well.” Instead, I forlornly took the lust-worthy parking spot, the source of so much conflict, and wondered why people in the suburbs are so passive-aggressively rude.
Indeed, I almost prefer the outright rudeness of the city, where holding doors for others is almost unheard-of and cashiers won’t make eye contact with you even once while ringing up your groceries. At least you know where you stand with these city folk: they don’t give a damn about you, and, the sooner you’re out of their faces, the happier they are. Suburban rudeness is sneakier and more confrontational, in that people seem to go out of their way to make complete strangers uncomfortable, when the proper thing to do is to simply ignore those minor, inevitable, annoying things that may occur when people are forced to interact in public places.
I believe that it is truly too late to rectify the rudeness that is endemic to our society. Manners must be ingrained in children by their parents, and it’s obvious to me, by the way children behave nowadays in public, that manners are not on most parents’ minds. Twenty-first century people, whether they be in the wild urban jungles or in the supposedly more tame suburban oases, are returning to their primitive ways. For all our gadgets and our politics, we are not so far removed from our ancestors, those creatures who roamed the wilderness, living only by the laws of Nature. If we’re not careful, we will soon be regarded with as much respect and admiration as the humble apes, while other, more well-behaved species take our place in the world.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Shock Value
Is it ever appropriate for a writer to use gimmicks? Is an attention-grabbing opening line, a nail-biting cliff-hanger, or an ultra-graphic murder always a diversion from a weak plot or poor character development?
I have read countless novels that relied heavily on gimmicks, novels written by lesser authors who needed the bells and whistles to keep their attention-deficit 21st century readers engaged, authors who lacked the skill to execute Hemingway’s stark prose or Tolkien’s long-winded self-importance. The impetus for this particular discussion, the product of years of head-shaking at the tacky literary gimmicks that permeate modern literature, is my recent completion of Thomas Harris’s Hannibal, the sequel to The Silence of the Lambs. The film adaptation of the latter was forced upon me by my man-friend, and, although I spent much of the film’s gory climax huddling under the covers with my ears plugged, I found myself unwittingly intrigued by whatever plot points I could glean during my unplugged moments, and decided to read the next novel in the tetralogy.
Horror, suspense, and murder mysteries not being my preference, I remain open to any genre of fiction, with the simple provision being that the author exhibits competence. I have no doubt that Harris is a competent author, but, so utterly disgusted was I by Hannibal, I’m reluctant to even bother with any of his other works.
The film The Silence of the Lambs can thank the memorably disturbing character of Hannibal Lecter for its critical acclaim and its unshakeable status as one of the best films ever to be made. The character himself is indisputably a marvelous and impenetrable villain. I wish that Harris hadn’t castrated, cheapened, and made a mockery out of his own creation by writing Hannibal eight years after Sir Anthony Hopkins portrayed Dr. Lecter with such chilling profundity. In Hannibal, Dr. Lecter is lost beneath the sea of corny, diabolic villain stereotypes and the ridiculous gimmicks of the “evil psychopath with traumatic childhood experiences” archetype. Even the grotesque murders he commits fail to impress after awhile.
It wasn’t exactly the gruesome violence depicted with distasteful glee throughout the hundreds of pages of Hannibal that I found repugnant. It was the unsettling feeling that Harris was utilizing shock value to maintain his reader’s interest. I don’t like to be manipulated, whether it be in a literary or a literal context.
The conclusion struck me as particularly vulgar in its attempt at shocking the reader. After rescuing Agent Clarice Starling like some perversion of a knight in shining armor, Dr. Lecter smuggles her away to his Lavish Mansion of Crazy (complete with bronze statuettes, candelabras, and roaring fireplaces) and manages to completely overhaul her consciousness, transforming her into his concubine. Not only did I find this offensively misogynistic (and, please, do not mistake that for a knee-jerk feminist reaction), I felt that it was a complete non sequitur. Nothing about this supposed “conclusion” was remotely consistent with Starling’s character, nor did it strike me as being all that consistent with Dr. Lecter’s character either.
Did Harris want Starling to be a bad-ass FBI agent who takes care of herself and deals with her obvious Daddy issues like a boss? Or did he want her to be a vulnerable, needy woman who tries to mask her feelings of inadequacy by attempting to hang with the boys? Or did he want her to be something nuanced, something in between? Ever the optimist, I wanted to believe that Harris’s vision of Starling was subtle, interesting, and unexpected. As it turned out, she was just another damsel in distress who knew how to shoot a gun.
And Dr. Lecter, that fantastic fictional creation who made Academy Awards rain and quotable allusions to fava beans and Chianti endure: what was Harris’s intention with him? Was his utter lack of humanity, the fact that he could eat a nurse’s tongue out of her mouth without his heart rate increasing one beat, a manifestation of his own childhood trauma? Could the fact that he watched his younger sister get eaten by Nazi deserters when he was a child account for all of his monstrous qualities as an adult? Does he want us to sympathize with Dr. Lecter, or does he want us to lust for his demise? Harris’s exploration of Dr. Lecter’s psyche was lazy and piecemeal in Hannibal, a wasted opportunity to flesh out the complexities of a character who is more and less than a man. He half-heartedly encouraged us to root for him, then turned us against him (but not really, because, after all, he did mutilate a pedophile…how bad can he be?), then made us roll our eyes at him as he transformed into some lame parody of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, pacing around a Gothic mansion and seducing a helpless woman with his macabre charms. I can only hope that Harris attempted to redeem himself in his development of this intriguing character in Hannibal Rising, the next book in the tetralogy. Dr. Lecter deserves much better.
The gimmicks in Hannibal, instead of drawing the reader in and holding his attention, distracted from what is truly competent about the author’s writing: his prose, his understanding of suspense, and the adept research that gave the novel depth. Instead of respecting his readers’ intelligence by taking a more difficult approach, Harris chose to make all of Lecter’s victims either greedy (Pazzi, the crooked Italian cop), scummy (Paul Krendler, the crooked Department of Justice official), good-for-nothing (the gypsy, the Sardinians, the Italian pornographer), or just plain deplorable (Mason Verger, the filthy rich pedophile). I find this to be a lazy gimmick that many horror writers seem to use. So bad things don’t happen to good people in fiction? Or are you just trying to make the reader tread between fearing your villain and wanting to see him triumph?
The funny thing is, fellow authors, you can create complexity in a character without resorting to gimmicks like tired archetypes and shocking murder scenes. You just have to take the time to explore the character. Had Harris spent more time exploring the admirable villain he created in Lecter than he did on setting up the feasting-on-Paul-Krendler’s-brains-out-of-his still-living-body scene, the reader might have come away with a truly memorable character worthy of the notoriety earned by Hopkins’ portrayal in the films. Instead, I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
Who’s ready for lunch?
I have read countless novels that relied heavily on gimmicks, novels written by lesser authors who needed the bells and whistles to keep their attention-deficit 21st century readers engaged, authors who lacked the skill to execute Hemingway’s stark prose or Tolkien’s long-winded self-importance. The impetus for this particular discussion, the product of years of head-shaking at the tacky literary gimmicks that permeate modern literature, is my recent completion of Thomas Harris’s Hannibal, the sequel to The Silence of the Lambs. The film adaptation of the latter was forced upon me by my man-friend, and, although I spent much of the film’s gory climax huddling under the covers with my ears plugged, I found myself unwittingly intrigued by whatever plot points I could glean during my unplugged moments, and decided to read the next novel in the tetralogy.
Horror, suspense, and murder mysteries not being my preference, I remain open to any genre of fiction, with the simple provision being that the author exhibits competence. I have no doubt that Harris is a competent author, but, so utterly disgusted was I by Hannibal, I’m reluctant to even bother with any of his other works.
The film The Silence of the Lambs can thank the memorably disturbing character of Hannibal Lecter for its critical acclaim and its unshakeable status as one of the best films ever to be made. The character himself is indisputably a marvelous and impenetrable villain. I wish that Harris hadn’t castrated, cheapened, and made a mockery out of his own creation by writing Hannibal eight years after Sir Anthony Hopkins portrayed Dr. Lecter with such chilling profundity. In Hannibal, Dr. Lecter is lost beneath the sea of corny, diabolic villain stereotypes and the ridiculous gimmicks of the “evil psychopath with traumatic childhood experiences” archetype. Even the grotesque murders he commits fail to impress after awhile.
It wasn’t exactly the gruesome violence depicted with distasteful glee throughout the hundreds of pages of Hannibal that I found repugnant. It was the unsettling feeling that Harris was utilizing shock value to maintain his reader’s interest. I don’t like to be manipulated, whether it be in a literary or a literal context.
The conclusion struck me as particularly vulgar in its attempt at shocking the reader. After rescuing Agent Clarice Starling like some perversion of a knight in shining armor, Dr. Lecter smuggles her away to his Lavish Mansion of Crazy (complete with bronze statuettes, candelabras, and roaring fireplaces) and manages to completely overhaul her consciousness, transforming her into his concubine. Not only did I find this offensively misogynistic (and, please, do not mistake that for a knee-jerk feminist reaction), I felt that it was a complete non sequitur. Nothing about this supposed “conclusion” was remotely consistent with Starling’s character, nor did it strike me as being all that consistent with Dr. Lecter’s character either.
Did Harris want Starling to be a bad-ass FBI agent who takes care of herself and deals with her obvious Daddy issues like a boss? Or did he want her to be a vulnerable, needy woman who tries to mask her feelings of inadequacy by attempting to hang with the boys? Or did he want her to be something nuanced, something in between? Ever the optimist, I wanted to believe that Harris’s vision of Starling was subtle, interesting, and unexpected. As it turned out, she was just another damsel in distress who knew how to shoot a gun.
And Dr. Lecter, that fantastic fictional creation who made Academy Awards rain and quotable allusions to fava beans and Chianti endure: what was Harris’s intention with him? Was his utter lack of humanity, the fact that he could eat a nurse’s tongue out of her mouth without his heart rate increasing one beat, a manifestation of his own childhood trauma? Could the fact that he watched his younger sister get eaten by Nazi deserters when he was a child account for all of his monstrous qualities as an adult? Does he want us to sympathize with Dr. Lecter, or does he want us to lust for his demise? Harris’s exploration of Dr. Lecter’s psyche was lazy and piecemeal in Hannibal, a wasted opportunity to flesh out the complexities of a character who is more and less than a man. He half-heartedly encouraged us to root for him, then turned us against him (but not really, because, after all, he did mutilate a pedophile…how bad can he be?), then made us roll our eyes at him as he transformed into some lame parody of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, pacing around a Gothic mansion and seducing a helpless woman with his macabre charms. I can only hope that Harris attempted to redeem himself in his development of this intriguing character in Hannibal Rising, the next book in the tetralogy. Dr. Lecter deserves much better.
The gimmicks in Hannibal, instead of drawing the reader in and holding his attention, distracted from what is truly competent about the author’s writing: his prose, his understanding of suspense, and the adept research that gave the novel depth. Instead of respecting his readers’ intelligence by taking a more difficult approach, Harris chose to make all of Lecter’s victims either greedy (Pazzi, the crooked Italian cop), scummy (Paul Krendler, the crooked Department of Justice official), good-for-nothing (the gypsy, the Sardinians, the Italian pornographer), or just plain deplorable (Mason Verger, the filthy rich pedophile). I find this to be a lazy gimmick that many horror writers seem to use. So bad things don’t happen to good people in fiction? Or are you just trying to make the reader tread between fearing your villain and wanting to see him triumph?
The funny thing is, fellow authors, you can create complexity in a character without resorting to gimmicks like tired archetypes and shocking murder scenes. You just have to take the time to explore the character. Had Harris spent more time exploring the admirable villain he created in Lecter than he did on setting up the feasting-on-Paul-Krendler’s-brains-out-of-his still-living-body scene, the reader might have come away with a truly memorable character worthy of the notoriety earned by Hopkins’ portrayal in the films. Instead, I’m left with a bad taste in my mouth.
Who’s ready for lunch?
Monday, September 5, 2011
Why I Choose To Be Quaintly Old-Fashioned
Many a time over the course of the last several years, friends, family members, acquaintances, colleagues, and strangers have commented on one, defining characteristic of mine: "Wow. She is really technologically-challenged."
It is no secret that I hate technology, and technology hates me. We share a mutually antagonistic relationship. I inadvertently cause monumental technological malfunctions, while technology gives me emotional break-downs by spitefully choosing to malfunction the night before an assignment is due. There was a time when I would have liked to be technologically-competent. It would sure make the submission of assignments less ulcer-inducing. So clearly, my intent is not malicious. Technology, on the other hand, is filled with contempt towards us inferior humans.
While I am not what you would call a manual laborer, I prefer to perform most tasks independently. For instance, I do not feel the need to obtain a Smart Phone that will do my taxes, tell me which medication to prescribe my patient, attend a parent-teacher conference on my behalf, and track incoming low-pressure systems. In fact, I think that these highly advanced devices are breeding a generation of exceptionally stupid humans with poor social skills and minuscule attention spans. As the technology is progressively getting smarter and more competent, we are devolving into slack-jawed, drooling, inept humanoids who while away the empty hours by playing Angry Birds.
One might describe my attitude towards technology as "contemptuous". One might be correct, if one were referring to the specific genus of technology that includes Nooks, Kindles, Droids, iPhones, BlackBerrys, iPods, iPads, iSnores, iBarfs, iMasticates, and anything that can be described as a "tablet". (As an aside, I, for the life of me, cannot understand what exactly a tablet is. As far as I've been able to discern, a tablet is a laptop that has survived an eating disorder and is now slender, confident, and popular.) However, if one were referring to the other genera of technology--the ones that include nuclear war-heads, military fighter planes, automatic weapons, Hummers, WebMD, broilers, and electric toothbrushes, my attitude would more accurately described as "fear".
Yes, friends, I will confess: I am terrified of the technological advances that our society has made in the last century. I believe that we have opened Pandora's Box, or discovered the One Ring, if you're more of a Tolkien geek than a mythology geek. (I'm a little bit of both.) In my opinion, the technology is rapidly outsmarting its creators, and, at the rate we're going, we'll end up being enslaved by our more powerful inventions, ultimately leading to the systematic eradication of the human race at the hands of malicious Droids and motile iPads.
What's that you said? I'm crazy? Well! Allow me to explain. Every time I get in a car, for instance, I find myself reflecting on the fact that my life is being placed in the hands of an unfeeling machine that knows more about me than I know about it. It knows how far away from the steering wheel I like to sit. It knows my favorite XM radio stations (all classical, jazz, and musical theatre, duh). It knows how hot or cold the temperature needs to be for my comfort. All I know about it is the fact that the engine works by a series of combustion reactions, and the only reason I even know that is because they taught us that in medical school. (Don't ask me why they taught us that. I think it had something to do with farts.) The car does not have to do what I want it to do. And if it chooses not to do what I want it to do, I would have no idea how to encourage it into submission. So really, am I all that crazy?
Furthermore, I think that the technology knows it has the upper hand. It knows of our sick obsession with its many wonders. Don't you think that Facebook knows that it's turned teenagers into a herd of creepy, self-involved, instant-gratification-obsessed stalkers who know that the girl they sat next to in homeroom five years ago and once borrowed a highlighter from is now pregnant with twins, whom she has already named Crispin and Thos and who are currently measuring 14 cm long? When I was in high school, my friends wouldn't know about something that was happening in my life until I told them. Nowadays, teenagers have the unique ability to know every detail about people to whom their actual social connection is tenuous at best. It's creepy. It's odd. It's totally not indicative of how human interactions should be. And Facebook, in my humble opinion, wouldn't have it any other way. It knows that, if it hinders our ability to interact properly with our fellow humans, the technology will have an even easier time of dominating us. Our best efforts at enacting an uprising would probably involve someone posting a status update about enacting an uprising and a bunch of people "liking" it.
And so I revel in my ancient laptop and my Samsung cell phone with the sliding keyboard. I listen to my iPod Mini from 2004, even though I have no idea how to add more songs to it, since I deleted iTunes in a fit of technology-directed vitriol last year. I read books made out of paper. I write my appointments in a daily planner. I send letters and cards in envelopes, utilizing the much-maligned U.S. Postal Service. I insist that a human being scan my shampoo and Listerine at the drug store, rather than going through the automated self-checkout (that stupid thing never works for me, anyway. It knows I'm onto it!). I am proud to be considered charmingly eccentric in my old-fashioned habits. Because I know that, when the robots take over, I'll be ready and able to fight back, while the rest of you are downloading books onto your Kindles and playing Angry Birds.
Still think I'm crazy? Well, forget you. I'm going to the barn to churn some butter! Peace out!
It is no secret that I hate technology, and technology hates me. We share a mutually antagonistic relationship. I inadvertently cause monumental technological malfunctions, while technology gives me emotional break-downs by spitefully choosing to malfunction the night before an assignment is due. There was a time when I would have liked to be technologically-competent. It would sure make the submission of assignments less ulcer-inducing. So clearly, my intent is not malicious. Technology, on the other hand, is filled with contempt towards us inferior humans.
While I am not what you would call a manual laborer, I prefer to perform most tasks independently. For instance, I do not feel the need to obtain a Smart Phone that will do my taxes, tell me which medication to prescribe my patient, attend a parent-teacher conference on my behalf, and track incoming low-pressure systems. In fact, I think that these highly advanced devices are breeding a generation of exceptionally stupid humans with poor social skills and minuscule attention spans. As the technology is progressively getting smarter and more competent, we are devolving into slack-jawed, drooling, inept humanoids who while away the empty hours by playing Angry Birds.
One might describe my attitude towards technology as "contemptuous". One might be correct, if one were referring to the specific genus of technology that includes Nooks, Kindles, Droids, iPhones, BlackBerrys, iPods, iPads, iSnores, iBarfs, iMasticates, and anything that can be described as a "tablet". (As an aside, I, for the life of me, cannot understand what exactly a tablet is. As far as I've been able to discern, a tablet is a laptop that has survived an eating disorder and is now slender, confident, and popular.) However, if one were referring to the other genera of technology--the ones that include nuclear war-heads, military fighter planes, automatic weapons, Hummers, WebMD, broilers, and electric toothbrushes, my attitude would more accurately described as "fear".
Yes, friends, I will confess: I am terrified of the technological advances that our society has made in the last century. I believe that we have opened Pandora's Box, or discovered the One Ring, if you're more of a Tolkien geek than a mythology geek. (I'm a little bit of both.) In my opinion, the technology is rapidly outsmarting its creators, and, at the rate we're going, we'll end up being enslaved by our more powerful inventions, ultimately leading to the systematic eradication of the human race at the hands of malicious Droids and motile iPads.
What's that you said? I'm crazy? Well! Allow me to explain. Every time I get in a car, for instance, I find myself reflecting on the fact that my life is being placed in the hands of an unfeeling machine that knows more about me than I know about it. It knows how far away from the steering wheel I like to sit. It knows my favorite XM radio stations (all classical, jazz, and musical theatre, duh). It knows how hot or cold the temperature needs to be for my comfort. All I know about it is the fact that the engine works by a series of combustion reactions, and the only reason I even know that is because they taught us that in medical school. (Don't ask me why they taught us that. I think it had something to do with farts.) The car does not have to do what I want it to do. And if it chooses not to do what I want it to do, I would have no idea how to encourage it into submission. So really, am I all that crazy?
Furthermore, I think that the technology knows it has the upper hand. It knows of our sick obsession with its many wonders. Don't you think that Facebook knows that it's turned teenagers into a herd of creepy, self-involved, instant-gratification-obsessed stalkers who know that the girl they sat next to in homeroom five years ago and once borrowed a highlighter from is now pregnant with twins, whom she has already named Crispin and Thos and who are currently measuring 14 cm long? When I was in high school, my friends wouldn't know about something that was happening in my life until I told them. Nowadays, teenagers have the unique ability to know every detail about people to whom their actual social connection is tenuous at best. It's creepy. It's odd. It's totally not indicative of how human interactions should be. And Facebook, in my humble opinion, wouldn't have it any other way. It knows that, if it hinders our ability to interact properly with our fellow humans, the technology will have an even easier time of dominating us. Our best efforts at enacting an uprising would probably involve someone posting a status update about enacting an uprising and a bunch of people "liking" it.
And so I revel in my ancient laptop and my Samsung cell phone with the sliding keyboard. I listen to my iPod Mini from 2004, even though I have no idea how to add more songs to it, since I deleted iTunes in a fit of technology-directed vitriol last year. I read books made out of paper. I write my appointments in a daily planner. I send letters and cards in envelopes, utilizing the much-maligned U.S. Postal Service. I insist that a human being scan my shampoo and Listerine at the drug store, rather than going through the automated self-checkout (that stupid thing never works for me, anyway. It knows I'm onto it!). I am proud to be considered charmingly eccentric in my old-fashioned habits. Because I know that, when the robots take over, I'll be ready and able to fight back, while the rest of you are downloading books onto your Kindles and playing Angry Birds.
Still think I'm crazy? Well, forget you. I'm going to the barn to churn some butter! Peace out!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
My Black Swan Theory: All About Pedophilia, Paranoid Delusions, and Pointless Sex Scenes
What made you decide to see Darren Aronofsky's Black Swan? Was it the Oscar buzz? The allure of seeing Natalie Portman in a tutu? The promise of a steamy lesbian sex scene?
I saw Black Swan many moons after Portman nabbed the Oscar, and many moons after the hype died down. What drew me to the film was the numerous references my Psychopathology professors made to it when explaining the diagnostic elements of paranoid schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, psychosis, PTSD, and other psychobabble terms that psychiatrists get all wiggly about. In spite of myself, and my general disdain for psychiatry, I was intrigued.
Having now seen Black Swan twice, I feel 100% confident in my interpretation of the film. Contrary to what the trailers and marketing led me to believe, this is not a ballet movie, nor is it a movie about steamy lesbian sex. It's not even a movie about Mila Kunis trying to upstage Natalie Portman, or a hot French guy trying to get in Natalie Portman's tights. It's a movie about mental illness. More specifically, it's a movie about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)-Induced Acute Psychosis, Secondary To Childhood Sexual Abuse.
I may be giving Aronofsky & Friends too much credit with this theory, but this wouldn't be a theory of mine if it was not unnecessarily over-blown and absurdly intricate. At any rate, there were several puzzling moments in this film that, after careful consideration, coalesced into a magnificent revelation: Nina (Portman's character) was molested by her missing father!
Follow me on this for a hot minute.
First, we hear nothing at all about Nina's father for the entirety of the film. He's simply...non-existent. Not even one, "Your father would be so proud" from Nina's mom, Whatever-Her-Name-Is, The Lady With The Cake (seriously, how delicious did that cake look?). I find this suspicious.
Second, there is abundant imagery concerning Scary Old Men (hereafter referred to as SOM). The fact that the story being performed is Swan Lake, a tale whose villain is basically a SOM in demonic form, is significant, as is Nina's fascination with the hot French guy who directs the company. The hot French guy is not exactly a SOM, but he's not exactly age-appropriate for Nina, who looks like she's sixteen and pre-menstrual. We also see a SOM on the subway, and the SOM actually catches Nina's eye and makes some weird, lascivious gestures. The final SOM is a statue at the opening night gala. Nina stares at this SOM with horror in her eyes for quite some time, which made me wonder: What is her deal with Scary Old Men? My feeling is that the SOM recall the repressed memories of her father, who terrorized her in her childhood and is no longer in the picture. It's also interesting that she experiences a hallucination involving Rothbart (the demonic SOM from Swan Lake) doing the nasty with Mila Kunis's character, Lily, who morphs into Nina. Overtly, Nina's horrified response to this vision can be explained by her fears that Lily is attempting to replace her in the company, but I'm not so sure. I think that this scene is a recurrence of her own repressed memories of being ravaged by a Scary Old Man. Why choose a sexual encounter to demonstrate how threatened Nina is by Lily? This sexual component permeates her interactions with the hot French guy, as well: while the teacher/student nasty-doing is not unique to Black Swan, it's interesting that the hot French guy is much older--old enough, in fact, to perhaps remind Nina of her missing father? She certainly seems ambivalent towards the hot French guy when he begins making advances; then, as she begins to embrace the Black Swan component of her character (the sexuality that she repressed as a consequence of the shame she felt about being molested?), she starts to take control of their encounters.
Third, Nina appears to be socially delayed, a hallmark of individuals who have experienced sexual abuse. Her environment, demeanor, and speech patterns are all infantile, which may be a strategy employed by her subconscious to recapture the innocence she lost in her childhood. She is further infantilized by her mother, who seems overly protective. I interpreted her mother's patronizing micromanagement of Nina as a compensatory measure for the guilt she felt over failing to prevent Nina's molestation.
Fourth, Nina obviously suffers from anxiety, a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Patients who have experienced trauma often have triggers for their anxiety symptoms. I believe that Nina's triggers are the prospect of failure and, later in the film, the possibility of disappointing the hot French guy, who is the manifestation of her abusive father. Her anxiety is evidenced by the self-mutilation (which we knew originated long before the events of the film), the pointless theft of Beth's possessions, the refusal to step out of her rigid comfort zone, the frequent purging, and the slavish attention to detail that she employs in order to perfect her art.
Fifth, physical abuse is clearly on Nina's mind, based on the history of self-mutilation, and the other violent imagery that peppers this film. Self-mutilation is a defense mechanism that patients who have suffered from childhood abuse at the hand of a parent may utilize in order to justify the conflicting feelings they experience towards their abuser. Furthermore, Nina's hallucination in the bathtub involves blood, as do the hallucination of the Giant Freaking Hang-Nail (ew), the mirror-image hallucination of stabbing herself with the nail scissors, and the Winona Ryder vs. Winona Ryder's Face knife battle. I found it difficult to find a place for the violent imagery in my Molestation Theory, but I believe that Nina's fear and fascination with violence is evidence of her childhood abuse. On that note, did anyone else notice how Nina obtains a large plank of wood to brace her bedroom door shut? Is this, perhaps, a remnant of a protective measure she employed as a child in order to ward off the attacks from her father?
Sixth...well, we might as well talk about the steamy lesbian sex scene, since it's what attracted 95% of the heterosexual males that saw this film. Why include this pointless scene, other than to provide men with lighter fluid for grilling alone? The truth is, I don't have an answer for that question. I can only speculate that Lily was a projection of Nina's repressed sexuality, which has lain dormant since the molestation occurred. As Nina gets in touch with the darkest corners of her psyche in order to portray Odile (the "Black Swan"), the shameful feelings that have caused her to deny her sexual urges are replaced with steamy, and then violent, feelings of lust and rebellion against her dominating, controlled conscious mind. The violent, scary things that happen when she has these sexual fantasies (the image of Nina smothering herself with the pillow just after she has the O; the image of Nina creepily hovering over herself in the bathtub just after she tries to have the O) are fragments of her childhood associations of sex with pain and terror. As to why this had to be such a prolonged, steamy scene between two gorgeous women...uhhh, profit motive?
Regardless of whether or not you believe that Nina's father was molesting her, Black Swanis rife with interesting psychological nuggets and the potential for speculation. Above are six reasons why I believe that the film is about a young woman who suffered from a terrible childhood trauma that her subconscious struggled to sequester from her conscious mind, until the pressures of attaining perfection as a dancer forced her to tap into those repressed feelings of fear and shame. Are there any other interesting theories out there?
I saw Black Swan many moons after Portman nabbed the Oscar, and many moons after the hype died down. What drew me to the film was the numerous references my Psychopathology professors made to it when explaining the diagnostic elements of paranoid schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, psychosis, PTSD, and other psychobabble terms that psychiatrists get all wiggly about. In spite of myself, and my general disdain for psychiatry, I was intrigued.
Having now seen Black Swan twice, I feel 100% confident in my interpretation of the film. Contrary to what the trailers and marketing led me to believe, this is not a ballet movie, nor is it a movie about steamy lesbian sex. It's not even a movie about Mila Kunis trying to upstage Natalie Portman, or a hot French guy trying to get in Natalie Portman's tights. It's a movie about mental illness. More specifically, it's a movie about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)-Induced Acute Psychosis, Secondary To Childhood Sexual Abuse.
I may be giving Aronofsky & Friends too much credit with this theory, but this wouldn't be a theory of mine if it was not unnecessarily over-blown and absurdly intricate. At any rate, there were several puzzling moments in this film that, after careful consideration, coalesced into a magnificent revelation: Nina (Portman's character) was molested by her missing father!
Follow me on this for a hot minute.
First, we hear nothing at all about Nina's father for the entirety of the film. He's simply...non-existent. Not even one, "Your father would be so proud" from Nina's mom, Whatever-Her-Name-Is, The Lady With The Cake (seriously, how delicious did that cake look?). I find this suspicious.
Second, there is abundant imagery concerning Scary Old Men (hereafter referred to as SOM). The fact that the story being performed is Swan Lake, a tale whose villain is basically a SOM in demonic form, is significant, as is Nina's fascination with the hot French guy who directs the company. The hot French guy is not exactly a SOM, but he's not exactly age-appropriate for Nina, who looks like she's sixteen and pre-menstrual. We also see a SOM on the subway, and the SOM actually catches Nina's eye and makes some weird, lascivious gestures. The final SOM is a statue at the opening night gala. Nina stares at this SOM with horror in her eyes for quite some time, which made me wonder: What is her deal with Scary Old Men? My feeling is that the SOM recall the repressed memories of her father, who terrorized her in her childhood and is no longer in the picture. It's also interesting that she experiences a hallucination involving Rothbart (the demonic SOM from Swan Lake) doing the nasty with Mila Kunis's character, Lily, who morphs into Nina. Overtly, Nina's horrified response to this vision can be explained by her fears that Lily is attempting to replace her in the company, but I'm not so sure. I think that this scene is a recurrence of her own repressed memories of being ravaged by a Scary Old Man. Why choose a sexual encounter to demonstrate how threatened Nina is by Lily? This sexual component permeates her interactions with the hot French guy, as well: while the teacher/student nasty-doing is not unique to Black Swan, it's interesting that the hot French guy is much older--old enough, in fact, to perhaps remind Nina of her missing father? She certainly seems ambivalent towards the hot French guy when he begins making advances; then, as she begins to embrace the Black Swan component of her character (the sexuality that she repressed as a consequence of the shame she felt about being molested?), she starts to take control of their encounters.
Third, Nina appears to be socially delayed, a hallmark of individuals who have experienced sexual abuse. Her environment, demeanor, and speech patterns are all infantile, which may be a strategy employed by her subconscious to recapture the innocence she lost in her childhood. She is further infantilized by her mother, who seems overly protective. I interpreted her mother's patronizing micromanagement of Nina as a compensatory measure for the guilt she felt over failing to prevent Nina's molestation.
Fourth, Nina obviously suffers from anxiety, a symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Patients who have experienced trauma often have triggers for their anxiety symptoms. I believe that Nina's triggers are the prospect of failure and, later in the film, the possibility of disappointing the hot French guy, who is the manifestation of her abusive father. Her anxiety is evidenced by the self-mutilation (which we knew originated long before the events of the film), the pointless theft of Beth's possessions, the refusal to step out of her rigid comfort zone, the frequent purging, and the slavish attention to detail that she employs in order to perfect her art.
Fifth, physical abuse is clearly on Nina's mind, based on the history of self-mutilation, and the other violent imagery that peppers this film. Self-mutilation is a defense mechanism that patients who have suffered from childhood abuse at the hand of a parent may utilize in order to justify the conflicting feelings they experience towards their abuser. Furthermore, Nina's hallucination in the bathtub involves blood, as do the hallucination of the Giant Freaking Hang-Nail (ew), the mirror-image hallucination of stabbing herself with the nail scissors, and the Winona Ryder vs. Winona Ryder's Face knife battle. I found it difficult to find a place for the violent imagery in my Molestation Theory, but I believe that Nina's fear and fascination with violence is evidence of her childhood abuse. On that note, did anyone else notice how Nina obtains a large plank of wood to brace her bedroom door shut? Is this, perhaps, a remnant of a protective measure she employed as a child in order to ward off the attacks from her father?
Sixth...well, we might as well talk about the steamy lesbian sex scene, since it's what attracted 95% of the heterosexual males that saw this film. Why include this pointless scene, other than to provide men with lighter fluid for grilling alone? The truth is, I don't have an answer for that question. I can only speculate that Lily was a projection of Nina's repressed sexuality, which has lain dormant since the molestation occurred. As Nina gets in touch with the darkest corners of her psyche in order to portray Odile (the "Black Swan"), the shameful feelings that have caused her to deny her sexual urges are replaced with steamy, and then violent, feelings of lust and rebellion against her dominating, controlled conscious mind. The violent, scary things that happen when she has these sexual fantasies (the image of Nina smothering herself with the pillow just after she has the O; the image of Nina creepily hovering over herself in the bathtub just after she tries to have the O) are fragments of her childhood associations of sex with pain and terror. As to why this had to be such a prolonged, steamy scene between two gorgeous women...uhhh, profit motive?
Regardless of whether or not you believe that Nina's father was molesting her, Black Swanis rife with interesting psychological nuggets and the potential for speculation. Above are six reasons why I believe that the film is about a young woman who suffered from a terrible childhood trauma that her subconscious struggled to sequester from her conscious mind, until the pressures of attaining perfection as a dancer forced her to tap into those repressed feelings of fear and shame. Are there any other interesting theories out there?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Beard penises?
Moments ago, while watching a rerun of Scrubs on Comedy Central, I bore witness to the most nauseatingly sexist display of advertising douchebaggery ever to sully the airwaves.
Allow me to set the scene: a breathy female voice says, "Get close", in what I can only imagine is some filthy, over-paid ad moron's idea of a clever double entendre. Carmen Electra, clad in a ludicrously tight, short, low-cut dress that reveals about 97% of her fake double-D's, sashays toward the camera, batting her eyelashes seductively. She flirtatiously says, "Hey guys, how do you expect to get a close shave if your beard is laying down?", sounding every bit as uneducated and illiterate as I've always imagined Carmen Electra to be. The next shot is--and I am not making this up--a field of beard hairs leaping to attention like an army of penises who have just spotted Carmen Electra's shiny, silicone cleavage. Carmen then sidles up to the man whose five-o'clock-shadow demands the assistance of the obviously superior razor for which the commercial is advertising, and she proceeds to suggestively caress his face. The ad concludes with a close-up of Carmen's heavy-lidded sex face, leaving me to wonder how exactly this ad is supposed to be selling razors.
I am fully aware of the old adage that "sex sells". I am also aware that feminine beauty is prized above feminine intelligence, which is why everyone knows who Carmen Electra is, and only my boyfriend and I seem to know who Rachel Maddow is (I love you, Rach!). Therefore, it doesn't shock me that this company decided to use a sexy, beautiful female to get the attention of their audience of beard-sporters. However, it sure would be nice if these ad idiots (or Adiots, as I like to call them) would show their consumers an inkling of respect by avoiding such blatantly sexual advertising for a product whose connection to sex is tenuous at best. The failure to do so results in the tacky, tasteless, trashy TV spot that sucked ten seconds out of my precious evening.
I have a love-hate relationship with advertising. It's sort of the way I feel about the Kardashians. They make me sick to my stomach, but, for some reason, they oddly fascinate me. I try to avoid them as much as I can, yet, every so often, I find myself pondering their mysterious origins and how they came to dictate the course of all our lives. I think I need TiVo.
Allow me to set the scene: a breathy female voice says, "Get close", in what I can only imagine is some filthy, over-paid ad moron's idea of a clever double entendre. Carmen Electra, clad in a ludicrously tight, short, low-cut dress that reveals about 97% of her fake double-D's, sashays toward the camera, batting her eyelashes seductively. She flirtatiously says, "Hey guys, how do you expect to get a close shave if your beard is laying down?", sounding every bit as uneducated and illiterate as I've always imagined Carmen Electra to be. The next shot is--and I am not making this up--a field of beard hairs leaping to attention like an army of penises who have just spotted Carmen Electra's shiny, silicone cleavage. Carmen then sidles up to the man whose five-o'clock-shadow demands the assistance of the obviously superior razor for which the commercial is advertising, and she proceeds to suggestively caress his face. The ad concludes with a close-up of Carmen's heavy-lidded sex face, leaving me to wonder how exactly this ad is supposed to be selling razors.
I am fully aware of the old adage that "sex sells". I am also aware that feminine beauty is prized above feminine intelligence, which is why everyone knows who Carmen Electra is, and only my boyfriend and I seem to know who Rachel Maddow is (I love you, Rach!). Therefore, it doesn't shock me that this company decided to use a sexy, beautiful female to get the attention of their audience of beard-sporters. However, it sure would be nice if these ad idiots (or Adiots, as I like to call them) would show their consumers an inkling of respect by avoiding such blatantly sexual advertising for a product whose connection to sex is tenuous at best. The failure to do so results in the tacky, tasteless, trashy TV spot that sucked ten seconds out of my precious evening.
I have a love-hate relationship with advertising. It's sort of the way I feel about the Kardashians. They make me sick to my stomach, but, for some reason, they oddly fascinate me. I try to avoid them as much as I can, yet, every so often, I find myself pondering their mysterious origins and how they came to dictate the course of all our lives. I think I need TiVo.
Friday, August 5, 2011
A Message From The Depths of Reality TV Purgatory
These days, many bizarre things pass for entertainment. For example, there's a show on one of the network channels in which people attempt to traverse an obstacle course comprised of bouncy slides and spinning igloos. There are also, of course, the numerous iterations of dating shows like The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, The Spinster, The Old Maid, The Viagra Addict, and the Old Man in the Nursing Home Who Hits on the Janitor. On the rare occasions in which I actually sit in front of the TV with a big bowl of kale chips, hoping to be dazzled by the products of the multimillion-dollar television industry, I invariably find myself wondering, "Is this supposed to be entertaining?"
It's no secret that I'm a snob about, well, everything. You think classical music is all about Beethoven? Pfft. You've don't know who Camus is? Pshaw. You can't even pronounce Camus correctly? The horror! Thus, it should come as no surprise that I'm extraordinarily discerning when it comes to TV shows. Which brings me to...
The Real Housewives series.
No, you did not misread that. No, you're not mysteriously suffering from hallucinations. I am actually, sincerely, profoundly addicted to The Real Housewives shows. I cannot explain it. I cannot justify it. I can only admit it.
I confess, loyal readers, that this addiction has plagued me for nearly a year. In an attempt to take control of so raging an obsession, I have long desired to write a blog about the strange, disturbing television series that has hijacked my delicate sensibilities, compelling me to spend hours staring in rapt horror at the daily antics of aging, self-obsessed women when my time would be better spent doing...well, pretty much anything else.
For those of you who are blissfully unfamiliar with The Real Housewives monstrosity, allow me to bring you up to speed. The Bravo series follows the trials and tribulations of well-to-do women living in interesting locales such as Orange County, New York City, Atlanta, New Jersey, etc. We learn about their husbands, finances, children, and interpersonal conflicts, all in such gory detail that I have had several disturbing dreams about Teresa Giudice's complicated feud with her sister-in-law. Divorces and gigantic falling-outs between friends are the norm, as are bankruptcy, lawsuits, evictions, and dinner parties from Hell.
It shouldn't surprise you that much of the general public latches on quite easily to the series. It's scandalous, brainless fluff to fill the boring days of middle-class American life. But the fact that I've latched on to this series with alarming fervor should surprise anyone who knows Ms. Incendiary Wit--she who scorns popular music and can't stomach the notion of Chick Lit.
To make amends with this distressing source of cognitive dissonance, I choose to assert that my penchant for the Real Housewives is simply a devotion to cultural and sociological studies of gender relations in Western society. For example, I've learned from The Real Housewives of Atlanta that racial stereotypes associated with black women are allowed to persist in modern society for multiple reasons, not simply because of a hegemonic desire to maintain the status held by women of color. Would anyone argue with me when I say that NeNe Leakes single-handedly hinders the progress of black women every time she opens her mouth?
Similarly, the idea that attractive women use their feminine wiles to ensnare men with money who will, in turn, lavish them with jewels, cars, plastic surgery, and beautiful homes is reinforced with stunning conviction in every permutation of The Real Housewives. Gorgeous, fit women with incredible tans, gigantic breasts, and immovable foreheads croon over the hideous, paunchy, Black American Express-card wielding men they married in the most disgustingly obvious displays of legal prostitution.
However, to say that all of the Real Housewives are kept women is a fallacy. Many, if not most, of the Real Housewives (and I think ALL of the Real Housewives of New York City) make their own money. Granted, not one is a nuclear physicist or a cardiothoracic surgeon, but the career-minded women do well for themselves in the fashion industry, business, marketing, and many other fields that are not terribly intellectually-demanding. One of the Atlanta Housewives is an attorney. An Orange County Housewife owns an insurance distribution company. So the title "The Real Housewives" is a bit of a misnomer, as a good portion of the women are not housewives, and, indeed, many are not even wives at all.
Regardless, they all have one thing in common: The Real Housewives, like most Real Women, love love love love LOVE getting attention. Why else would an otherwise sane person consent to having cameras capture her precious, intimate moments with her children and husband for all the world to see? Who would desire to have the scrutiny of strangers, strangers who never hesitate to publicly criticize the parenting, financial, and relationship decisions made by these women? The answer is: any woman who is starved of her daily required intake of attention. In lieu of sufficient attention from her husband, children, and/or other loved ones, a woman WILL seek attention from any living, breathing individual, including strangers. I would argue that this is true to an even greater extent for women who are attractive, whether it's attractive for their age (like the 40-something Cougars who permeate the series) or simply HOT HOT HOT(like Gretchen Rossi of the Real Housewives of Orange County). This is because attractive women tend to expect more, because they believe that their aesthetic appeal renders them entitled to more: more attention, more bling, more romance. When attractive women with wealthy lifestyles are left wanting more, well, The Real Housewives franchise blossoms.
At the end of the day, the women on The Real Housewives shows are sad, sad individuals with some deeply-rooted psychopathology that causes them to desire the approval and love of strangers. I shouldn't be feeding into their narcissistic quests for self-acceptance, right? Right? Oh, please, somebody come and disconnect my cable! I can't stop watching this crap!
It's no secret that I'm a snob about, well, everything. You think classical music is all about Beethoven? Pfft. You've don't know who Camus is? Pshaw. You can't even pronounce Camus correctly? The horror! Thus, it should come as no surprise that I'm extraordinarily discerning when it comes to TV shows. Which brings me to...
The Real Housewives series.
No, you did not misread that. No, you're not mysteriously suffering from hallucinations. I am actually, sincerely, profoundly addicted to The Real Housewives shows. I cannot explain it. I cannot justify it. I can only admit it.
I confess, loyal readers, that this addiction has plagued me for nearly a year. In an attempt to take control of so raging an obsession, I have long desired to write a blog about the strange, disturbing television series that has hijacked my delicate sensibilities, compelling me to spend hours staring in rapt horror at the daily antics of aging, self-obsessed women when my time would be better spent doing...well, pretty much anything else.
For those of you who are blissfully unfamiliar with The Real Housewives monstrosity, allow me to bring you up to speed. The Bravo series follows the trials and tribulations of well-to-do women living in interesting locales such as Orange County, New York City, Atlanta, New Jersey, etc. We learn about their husbands, finances, children, and interpersonal conflicts, all in such gory detail that I have had several disturbing dreams about Teresa Giudice's complicated feud with her sister-in-law. Divorces and gigantic falling-outs between friends are the norm, as are bankruptcy, lawsuits, evictions, and dinner parties from Hell.
It shouldn't surprise you that much of the general public latches on quite easily to the series. It's scandalous, brainless fluff to fill the boring days of middle-class American life. But the fact that I've latched on to this series with alarming fervor should surprise anyone who knows Ms. Incendiary Wit--she who scorns popular music and can't stomach the notion of Chick Lit.
To make amends with this distressing source of cognitive dissonance, I choose to assert that my penchant for the Real Housewives is simply a devotion to cultural and sociological studies of gender relations in Western society. For example, I've learned from The Real Housewives of Atlanta that racial stereotypes associated with black women are allowed to persist in modern society for multiple reasons, not simply because of a hegemonic desire to maintain the status held by women of color. Would anyone argue with me when I say that NeNe Leakes single-handedly hinders the progress of black women every time she opens her mouth?
Similarly, the idea that attractive women use their feminine wiles to ensnare men with money who will, in turn, lavish them with jewels, cars, plastic surgery, and beautiful homes is reinforced with stunning conviction in every permutation of The Real Housewives. Gorgeous, fit women with incredible tans, gigantic breasts, and immovable foreheads croon over the hideous, paunchy, Black American Express-card wielding men they married in the most disgustingly obvious displays of legal prostitution.
However, to say that all of the Real Housewives are kept women is a fallacy. Many, if not most, of the Real Housewives (and I think ALL of the Real Housewives of New York City) make their own money. Granted, not one is a nuclear physicist or a cardiothoracic surgeon, but the career-minded women do well for themselves in the fashion industry, business, marketing, and many other fields that are not terribly intellectually-demanding. One of the Atlanta Housewives is an attorney. An Orange County Housewife owns an insurance distribution company. So the title "The Real Housewives" is a bit of a misnomer, as a good portion of the women are not housewives, and, indeed, many are not even wives at all.
Regardless, they all have one thing in common: The Real Housewives, like most Real Women, love love love love LOVE getting attention. Why else would an otherwise sane person consent to having cameras capture her precious, intimate moments with her children and husband for all the world to see? Who would desire to have the scrutiny of strangers, strangers who never hesitate to publicly criticize the parenting, financial, and relationship decisions made by these women? The answer is: any woman who is starved of her daily required intake of attention. In lieu of sufficient attention from her husband, children, and/or other loved ones, a woman WILL seek attention from any living, breathing individual, including strangers. I would argue that this is true to an even greater extent for women who are attractive, whether it's attractive for their age (like the 40-something Cougars who permeate the series) or simply HOT HOT HOT(like Gretchen Rossi of the Real Housewives of Orange County). This is because attractive women tend to expect more, because they believe that their aesthetic appeal renders them entitled to more: more attention, more bling, more romance. When attractive women with wealthy lifestyles are left wanting more, well, The Real Housewives franchise blossoms.
At the end of the day, the women on The Real Housewives shows are sad, sad individuals with some deeply-rooted psychopathology that causes them to desire the approval and love of strangers. I shouldn't be feeding into their narcissistic quests for self-acceptance, right? Right? Oh, please, somebody come and disconnect my cable! I can't stop watching this crap!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Did Hell just freeze over?
There are many good reasons to tell a story. In fact, I think we all learned about these reasons in elementary school. We tell stories to inform, to entertain, and to persuade. I believe that, with the Harry Potter franchise, Warner Brothers has epitomized a fourth reason for story-telling, with blockbusting conviction: to make a shit-ton of money.
A quick Google search will surely yield the exact box office totals for all eight of the Harry Potter flicks. Whatever the number is, I doubt that any of the masterminds behind the series are ever going to eat Ramen Noodles for dinner again. These movies have made Big Bucks.
Where am I going with this? Well, I was a fan of Harry Potter before Harry Potter became Harry Pot-of-Gold. And I'm happy that these books (which are really, really fantastic, by the way) have been adapted to the screen and are reaching larger audiences through a different medium. However, I have always felt that the films are a bit...empty, compared to the books. While the books are brimming with whimsical humor and imagination, the films are rather dull and formulaic. I can practically see some Warner Brothers exec in the background of each shot, smoking a cigar and jingling his money bags.
To illustrate this point, let me take you through an exercise. I can remember almost every minuscule detail of the outrageously convoluted plots of each of the seven Harry Potter books; I have even been known to recite lengthy passages verbatim. Conversely, I can only remember one or two important factoids about each of the first seven Harry Potter films (I will share my profound thoughts about the final film at the end of this fascinating post). That is how forgettable and soulless I found the film adaptations of the stories I have cherished and adored for much of my childhood and adulthood thus far. For example:
Movie 1: Introduction to Dan Radcliffe's solitary facial expression: Shock-and-Awe.
Movie 2: ...Nothing comes to mind. Oh, right: the movie ends with an awkward applause scene that somehow centers around a teary-eyed Hagrid.
Movie 3: Completely different art direction and cinematography. Sirius and Lupin are way too old. Left out tons of important plot stuff.
Movie 4: Dan Radcliffe must have taken some acting lessons and learned how to do a convincing crying scene. Cedric Diggory is pretty hot. All the guys mysteriously have the same ridiculous mullet-style hair-do.
Movie 5: Lots of new characters and dream sequences. Snooze-fest.
Movie 6: I SERIOUSLY REMEMBER NOTHING ABOUT THIS MOVIE.
Movie 7.1: Naked Harry and Hermione make out. WTF?
So there you go. There are some stories that just don't translate well into film, and the story of Harry Potter is one of them. To put it simply, the story works perfectly well AS A SERIES OF BOOKS. But there are too many characters, details, and settings to cram into a three-hour script spoken by children and adults with English accents over booming sound effects and a soaring musical score. It's too overwhelming to make any sense at all, even to devoted fans like myself who already know the books better than they know their own academic disciplines. So why try to force such a story into a format that doesn't serve it well, and why disappoint the fans of the series by doing so? I'll give you a hint: CHA-CHING!
I have no interest in making Warner Brothers even more filthy rich by continuing to be disappointed by their lackluster adaptations of the story I adore. Therefore, I was somewhat unenthusiastic about The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. Sure, it has about a 97% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes at press time, but I attributed that to some sentimental notions on the part of the critics over the end of an era. Either way, I went into DH2 expecting to be disappointed.
Well, after all these years and all these disappointments, Warner Brothers and all their billions of dollars in revenue finally got it right.
DH2, unlike its predecessors, was thoroughly memorable. It moved me (to tears, and many times, but don't tell anyone). As I left the theater, sobbing like a child on an airplane, I wondered what was different about this one. Had I, like the movie critics I had been scoffing at for their rave reviews of the film, experienced a wave of nostalgia due to the end of the Harry Potter era? No, that wasn't it. I realized, after carefully analyzing my feelings (cut me some slack, I'm on summer vacation and have too much time on my hands) that this film was superior to the previous Harry Potter films simply because it actually TOLD THE STORY.
It didn't hit the major plot points in a perfunctory, check-list fashion. It didn't throw characters at you for no reason. It didn't deviate too much from J.K. Rowling's perfectly good vision, but it also didn't dogmatically adhere to every last detail. It took liberties without falling short of the mark. In other words...it was kind of like the Lord of the Rings movies.
It's no secret that I'm a lifelong fan of the Lord of the Rings trilogy: both the books and the remarkable, outstanding films directed by Peter Jackson. But it wasn't until fairly recently that I became aware that the strength of these films lies in the fact that Peter Jackson and company clearly decided to adapt the books to the screen not to make money, but to TELL THE STORY! (Sure, it doesn't hurt that they made a ton of money off the films, but it truly doesn't seem to be what they were all about when they set out to complete this project). And believe me, their motivations came through in the films: in the loving, genuine, sincere way that the story came to life, in the sensitive, nuanced performances of the actors, in the dedication to making Middle Earth seem as real to the viewer as our own world. This last Harry Potter film more closely resembles a Lord of the Rings film than a Harry Potter film, and, in my opinion, there can be no higher praise.
A quick Google search will surely yield the exact box office totals for all eight of the Harry Potter flicks. Whatever the number is, I doubt that any of the masterminds behind the series are ever going to eat Ramen Noodles for dinner again. These movies have made Big Bucks.
Where am I going with this? Well, I was a fan of Harry Potter before Harry Potter became Harry Pot-of-Gold. And I'm happy that these books (which are really, really fantastic, by the way) have been adapted to the screen and are reaching larger audiences through a different medium. However, I have always felt that the films are a bit...empty, compared to the books. While the books are brimming with whimsical humor and imagination, the films are rather dull and formulaic. I can practically see some Warner Brothers exec in the background of each shot, smoking a cigar and jingling his money bags.
To illustrate this point, let me take you through an exercise. I can remember almost every minuscule detail of the outrageously convoluted plots of each of the seven Harry Potter books; I have even been known to recite lengthy passages verbatim. Conversely, I can only remember one or two important factoids about each of the first seven Harry Potter films (I will share my profound thoughts about the final film at the end of this fascinating post). That is how forgettable and soulless I found the film adaptations of the stories I have cherished and adored for much of my childhood and adulthood thus far. For example:
Movie 1: Introduction to Dan Radcliffe's solitary facial expression: Shock-and-Awe.
Movie 2: ...Nothing comes to mind. Oh, right: the movie ends with an awkward applause scene that somehow centers around a teary-eyed Hagrid.
Movie 3: Completely different art direction and cinematography. Sirius and Lupin are way too old. Left out tons of important plot stuff.
Movie 4: Dan Radcliffe must have taken some acting lessons and learned how to do a convincing crying scene. Cedric Diggory is pretty hot. All the guys mysteriously have the same ridiculous mullet-style hair-do.
Movie 5: Lots of new characters and dream sequences. Snooze-fest.
Movie 6: I SERIOUSLY REMEMBER NOTHING ABOUT THIS MOVIE.
Movie 7.1: Naked Harry and Hermione make out. WTF?
So there you go. There are some stories that just don't translate well into film, and the story of Harry Potter is one of them. To put it simply, the story works perfectly well AS A SERIES OF BOOKS. But there are too many characters, details, and settings to cram into a three-hour script spoken by children and adults with English accents over booming sound effects and a soaring musical score. It's too overwhelming to make any sense at all, even to devoted fans like myself who already know the books better than they know their own academic disciplines. So why try to force such a story into a format that doesn't serve it well, and why disappoint the fans of the series by doing so? I'll give you a hint: CHA-CHING!
I have no interest in making Warner Brothers even more filthy rich by continuing to be disappointed by their lackluster adaptations of the story I adore. Therefore, I was somewhat unenthusiastic about The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. Sure, it has about a 97% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes at press time, but I attributed that to some sentimental notions on the part of the critics over the end of an era. Either way, I went into DH2 expecting to be disappointed.
Well, after all these years and all these disappointments, Warner Brothers and all their billions of dollars in revenue finally got it right.
DH2, unlike its predecessors, was thoroughly memorable. It moved me (to tears, and many times, but don't tell anyone). As I left the theater, sobbing like a child on an airplane, I wondered what was different about this one. Had I, like the movie critics I had been scoffing at for their rave reviews of the film, experienced a wave of nostalgia due to the end of the Harry Potter era? No, that wasn't it. I realized, after carefully analyzing my feelings (cut me some slack, I'm on summer vacation and have too much time on my hands) that this film was superior to the previous Harry Potter films simply because it actually TOLD THE STORY.
It didn't hit the major plot points in a perfunctory, check-list fashion. It didn't throw characters at you for no reason. It didn't deviate too much from J.K. Rowling's perfectly good vision, but it also didn't dogmatically adhere to every last detail. It took liberties without falling short of the mark. In other words...it was kind of like the Lord of the Rings movies.
It's no secret that I'm a lifelong fan of the Lord of the Rings trilogy: both the books and the remarkable, outstanding films directed by Peter Jackson. But it wasn't until fairly recently that I became aware that the strength of these films lies in the fact that Peter Jackson and company clearly decided to adapt the books to the screen not to make money, but to TELL THE STORY! (Sure, it doesn't hurt that they made a ton of money off the films, but it truly doesn't seem to be what they were all about when they set out to complete this project). And believe me, their motivations came through in the films: in the loving, genuine, sincere way that the story came to life, in the sensitive, nuanced performances of the actors, in the dedication to making Middle Earth seem as real to the viewer as our own world. This last Harry Potter film more closely resembles a Lord of the Rings film than a Harry Potter film, and, in my opinion, there can be no higher praise.
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