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?
Sunday, August 28, 2011
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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