Books to Movies: Keeping Characters Together in The Two Towers, Good and Bad

Since audiences invest in certain characters, keeping them together visually  makes sense. 

In the book, Eowyn does not go to Helm's Deep. In fact, the purpose for Helm's Deep is somewhat different in the book than in the movie. Theoden and his riders do retreat there--and women, children, and the elderly as well as goods are being safeguarded there--but only because Helm's Deep is one of many holdings. It is rather like British civilians retreating to the underground even though London wasn't exactly safe (people stayed in London anyway). 

However, it makes sense to bring together the main characters in this particular plot thread, so Legolas, Theoden, Aragorn, Gimli, Eowyn and the Rohan ride together. Unlike in the book, Eomer is absent, which makes for a great final scene in the film. In the book, Gandalf fetches a new character to ride to the rescue--but in a movie, again, the character who has already earned viewer investment is a better choice for a pay-off.

I think wanting to keep characters together--and in mind--is why the elves show up at Helm's Deep. And it makes for a great visual. 

And it makes me wince every time. 

Tolkien is extremely exact about distances and supply chains. There's a reason the Fellowship brings along Bill, and there's a reason Bill is sent away. Aragorn and others are constantly making decisions about goods versus weight versus travel time. There is a VERY good reason why Boromir was able to reach Rivendell without being pursued but 9 people setting out from Rivendell have to be more cautious. And an equally good reason why moving armies from, say, Rohan to Gondor is time-consuming and impossible to completely disguise. (Theoden's troops take a "back roads" approach to Gondor but once they reach a certain point, their presence is a known variable.) 

No matter how stealthy they were, I simply don't buy the idea that hundreds of elves from anywhere could just show up in Helm's Deep without the enemy being aware or, for that matter, Theoden's own scouts. 

The one reason I kind of let it pass is because it references a point not raised in the film or directly in the book (but brought up elsewhere). There were three fronts during the war, including Lothlorien. 

Of course, in reality, the elves should have stayed in Lothlorien to cover that "front." 

Oh, well. Visuals won over reality.  

 

Don't Give the Audience What It Thinks It Wants

Re-post from 2011.

I recently posted about ignorant characters. I point out problems with such characters. What I don't mention is how the ignorant character is often preferable to the noble, omniscient, triumphant, perfectly good or perfectly evil character. 

The problem with the latter is how often filmmakers and authors do the equivalent of what Plinkett describes below--they make that noble, omniscient, triumphant, perfect character the focus of every prequel. 

Giving the audience what the audience (supposedly) wants is a mistake.

* * * 

In Plinkett's latest Star Wars' review (which is amusing though not as complete as the others), Plinkett, like always, makes a very cogent point.

Here is the cogent point in my own words:

Just because Darth Vadar became an iconic image of Star Wars doesn't mean the prequels needed to be about him. Just because Darth Vadar is important to us doesn't mean he was important to that universe at that time.

There is a writing conundrum here. Yes, it helps when you are writing a novel/short story/movie/show to use motifs and plot-lines and characters that people actually enjoy and recognize.

However, if all you do is stick together the most common motifs/plot-lines/characters, 9 times out of 10, the product will be a dud--or, at least, remarkably lacking in staying power.

Plinkett does a thorough job proving that, unfortunately, this sticking-togetherness is how Lucas approached the prequels. He took iconic images from IV, V, and VI and simply expanded and rehashed those images in the prequels even when the rehash made no sense.

So, for example, instead of the robe Obi-Wan was wearing in IV simply being the kind of robe people wear on desert planets, suddenly it became the robe ALL Jedi wear.

And instead of the training tools on Han Solo's ship simply being what was at hand, suddenly those tools became the way ALL Jedi are trained.

The result is unimaginative. And irrational.

It also highlights a very important principle. Classic motifs are good. Classic motifs backed by an actual vision are BETTER.

In a large, but not unmerited, segue, C.S. Lewis' Narnia series has been criticized for basically being a collection of every single fairytale/folktale/mythological image/motif C.S. Lewis encountered in the course of his extremely well-read life.

But as many critics, including Lisa Miller of The Magician's Book, have pointed out, it isn't the images and motifs that delight us, it is what Lewis did with them. He wasn't pretending to create new stuff; he was taking what he knew and rearranging it into a new pattern. He had a vision.

Every writer has to have a vision. Without the vision, the writing sags. And should the writer give up that vision to satisfy the audience's supposed desire for an iconic image, the audience will feel the vision dribbling away.

The writers did NOT make

Frasier a repeat of Cheers. 

Which is one reason why writing to satisfy fans doesn't always work. The fans LOVE a couple of minor characters, so the writer(s) make those characters a bigger part of the drama, and, hmm, what do you know, the show is less satisfying.

On the other hand, refusing to give the audience what the audience wants out of sheer "BUT I HAVE TO BE DIFFERENT" perversity isn't too smart either.

The solution is writers who give the audience what the audience wants without losing their vision. This, of course, isn't easy, but I see two solutions:

1. Writers can give the audience what the audience wants without losing their vision when they like what the audience likes.

If you want to write romance novels, it helps if you like romance novels.

2. Writers can give the audience what the audience wants without losing their vision when the writers and the audience agree on what the writers are trying to do.

To clarify this second point, not all novels/stories/movies/shows have to focus on the latest popular topic: vampires, for example. People vary; interests vary. There are a lot of audiences out there to satisfy. I would argue that people want much of the same thing within their separate genres, but that leaves a lot of room for individual creative vision-making.

Hey, there's even room for those people who think that reading stream-of-consciousness profundities about Life in Middle Class America is NEW and DIFFERENT! (Shhh, don't tell them they are being pandered to.) The point is, the writers and audience agree that that is what is going on.

In other words, the rules are agreed to--even when the rules are Monty-Python randomness.

Back to characters--the connection between this repost and characters is that giving the audience the characters they love as ALREADY those characters, despite the movie or book being a prequel, destroys the characters. I found Jill Paton Walsh's The Attenbury Emeralds a disappointment because it presented a young Wimsey as already ahead of everyone else in the mystery. There was no learning curve. He met Charles Parker but didn't learn from Parker, a policeman already. 

In truth, I think filmmakers read into audience engagement something that isn't necessarily there. Yes, we like Gandalf's wise remarks to Pippin. We also like Gandalf's snappishness. And we like his confession to Galadriel that he is afraid. We like the noble, semi-omniscient bloke. But we like the imperfect, struggling bloke as well. 

 

As my obnoxious (but accurate) fifteen-year-old self said, 

"If everyone is special, then no one is special."

If there is no contrast between the character THEN and the character NOW, there is nothing for us to delight in. 

The Ignorant Characters of E. Nesbit

The ignorant character is the character who comments on the action without fully understanding it. 

Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird closely observes and comments on the world--while not understanding entirely what she is witnessing. In one of the most gripping scenes of the book/movie, Jem and Scout and Dill surprise Atticus who is sitting vigil outside Tom Robinson's jail cell to stop him being lynched. Atticus is cool and collected until the children arrive. Scout observes the change in behavior without fully understanding that she is observing a suddenly frightened father. 

Scout is ignorant due to age (her age and understanding increase in the book). Other characters, like Watson and Hastings, are ignorant in comparison to Sherlock and Poirot's genius.  

The problem with the ignorant character is that so much naivety or missing-the-point can grate. It is generally excused more with children but even there, as E. Nesbit shows, it can fall a bit flat. 

E. Nesbit wrote a series of connected short stories told by Oswald Bastable (they are told in third-person but ostensibly written by Oswald, who occasionally forgets that he is a character, not the narrator). They are mostly hilarious. But there are a few places where Oswald observes behavior that he supposedly doesn't understand but amuse the adults within the book. 

[Oswald] placed the ungoated end of the rope in the unresisting hand of the fortunate detective [who won the children's lottery]. Neither Oswald nor any of the rest of us has ever been able to make out why everyone should have laughed so. But they did. They said the lottery was the success of the afternoon. And the ladies kept on congratulating Mr. Biggs.

The difference here between Scout and Oswald is that Lee doesn't make a mockery of Scout. Scout is entirely reliable as a narrator. The conclusions for what she has closely observed are left up to the audience. In fact, I use the scene from To Kill a Mockingbird in my literature course to illustrate how fiction is different from non-fiction. The audience is never told why Atticus behaves the way he does. 

Nesbit doesn't tell anyone either--but the "hmmm, now, now, why did that happen, I wonder?" tone is laid on a bit too thick in places. It's not that different from the hilarious jokes-in-passing in Pixar's Toy Story, where they work perfectly, becoming a bit-too-self-conscious in some of Pixar's other movies. 

Nesbit is generally quite remarkable with child characters. The Railway Children possibly captures better than any of her books the day-to-day thoughts and reflections of ordinary kids. The adults who step in to help don't turn the siblings' behavior into punch lines.  

Celebrating Eugene Woodbury

My oldest brother Eugene died at the beginning of this year. Today, June 8th, is his birthday. 

Tributes to Eugene can be found on his blog:

• A Tribute to Eugene's Interest in Engines
• A Tribute to Eugene's Time in Japan
• A Tribute to Eugene's Writing and Translation Work

As I mention on his blog, I intend to republish his novel about his mission--Tokyo South--and several of his translations, which original works reside in the public domain. The republished novels will become available through his blog.

The photos are Eugene; Eugene and Kate; Eugene at the center with his siblings. 

All the Ms: How Deep Does Culture Go?

In a previous post on the Ms (the list where I try out all the fiction books in the "M" section of the library--try out as in, I read the first chapter or first 10 pages), I comment that "[s]o-called great authors are as much slaves to trends as anyone else."

The issue here is a fascinating one. It is also one that I change my mind about every time I reflect on the issue:

How much are artists a product of their time periods and how much do they transcend those time periods due to their imaginations? 

On the one hand, Shakespeare definitely reflects not only the tropes and plot ideas of contemporary (to himself) artists, Shakespeare also reflects his own culture. He reflects political and historical matters that interested his audiences and would have been common conversational gambits in the streets and taverns. And he uses the language of his world. His mindset and perspective reflects the beliefs of that time. 

On the other hand, audiences still enjoy Shakespeare today--despite changes (some changes) in customs and language and interests. His plays are remarkably translatable--not only into other languages but between mediums. Idioms and characters from Shakespeare are common fodder in many cultures. One reason could be that people adapt easily to a variety of art forms. Another reason could be that Shakespeare captures eternal aspects of the human condition, experiences that transcend Elizabethan and Jacobean England. 

This past semester, I distributed an article about Dickens and Poe to my Literature students. Was Dickens influenced in the writing of David Copperfield by meeting Poe? Did he use aspects of Poe's life in the creation of the character of David Copperfield? 

I chose this article for three reason:

1. To underscore that true understanding/knowledge of an author can not be AI-derived since AI does little more than perpetuate stereotypes. The author of the article, Harry Lee Poe, points out that many scholars connect Dickens to David Copperfield. However--

Jane Smiley has observed that Dickens loved David Copperfield 'as if it were his autobiography', then added insightfully in contrast or defiance of the prevailing view, 'but in fact the incidents of the novel and the incidents of Dickens' early life were quite different.' Smiley goes on to argue that David Copperfield evokes Dickens' life without relating it. (my emphasis)

2. To underscore that the author of the article is only able to argue that David Copperfield closely resembles Edgar Allan Poe by KNOWING specific information about both Dickens and Poe. Dickens and Poe did meet; in addition, Poe reviewed Dickens' work (positively!); and Dickens and Poe corresponded. Dickens later visited Poe's mother-in-law. The end of the article presents 16 points of biographical information about Poe's life. 

3. To underscore that the biography-argument approach to literature (authors are the product of their times and upbringing) is not a given. As the author states, 

Though David Copperfield has flashes of autobiographical moments, as all of Dickens's novels do, it succeeds as a novel because it is not about Dickens. He has the necessary distance from the character of David Copperfield to create a work of art - of imagination. The imagination collects up a great storehouse of experiences from which the artist creates a work of fiction. Source criticism provides a fascinating insight into the world from which a writer fashions fiction. (my emphasis)

The passage reminds me of a quote I use to begin Chapter 4 in my thesis. In Ngaio Marsh's When in Rome, Alleyn reflects:

The Van der Veghels broke into excited comment. Grant, they warmly informed him, had based the whole complex of imagery in his book upon [the well]. "As the deeper reaches of Simon's personality were explored--" on and on they went, explaining the work to its author. Alleyn, who admired the book, thought they were probably right but laid far too much insistence on an essentially delicate process of thought.

I would substitute "delicate" with "ambiguous" or "multifaceted." LOTS of conscious and unconscious elements go into forming a brain that produces a piece of art or writing, from genetics to culture to upbringing to other artists to personality to choices and, yes, imagination. 

The article about Dickens and Poe:

 Poe, Harry Lee. "Poe, Dickens, and David Copperfield: Biography – but Whose?" The Dickensian 115.509 (2019): 272. ProQuest. 

Books to Movies: Two Towers, Sudden versus Gradual Change

In the book, Theoden is aging, bad-tempered, and querulous. He is under a spell but the spell depends on the behavior and character of a good, flawed man who has listened to bad advice.

In the movie, he is senile and enspelled. Gandalf releases him at which point, in one of the most heartbreaking scenes in the movie, he asks, "Where is my son?"

In the book, Treebeard calls a conference at which Merry and Pippin speak. The Ents then decide to move against Saruman.

In the movie, the Ents determine to ignore Saruman. Merry then convinces Treebeard to directly witness the destruction Saruman has made of Fangorn, and Treebeard gets angry.

I agree with the first choice, not the second.

The first sudden change is dramatic. It avoided turning the sequence into a far longer arc than it needs to be. Theoden's internal arc of coming to terms with his age occurs later in the movie, as it should.

Treebeard suddenly getting angry, however, departs from his fundamental character. I understand the problem: Merry and Pippin are responsible for bringing Saruman's deceit to the forefront of Treebeard's mind. Watching diplomacy in action is far less interesting than watching a tree-man get wrathful.

However, I think that a scene more in keeping with the book could still have been dramatic. Merry and Pippin could have presented a kind of show-and-tell summary of their adventures to the Ents. The Ents could then have reached a decision through rational argument. The point of the Ents is that they are deliberately angry, not emotionally angry. They know exactly what they are doing.

Treebeard does get more wrathful as he sees the destruction wrought by Saruman--but, still, he sets out with a purpose. It is possible to take warlike action without being at the mercy of emotional upheaval.

In both cases, I appreciate that the movie provides visual representations of change rather than discussions of change. Gollum's change/non-change, for instance, is skillfully done. Could Gollum change? Does he, at first (before Faramir)? Is Sam right to be continually suspicious? Tolkien doesn't answer these questions or even imply a particular answer. Gollum is as ambiguous to the readers as he is to the characters--and to the viewer. 

The point here is that Tolkien and the trilogy rely on characters that change: change their minds, change their attitudes, change their lives. Those changes need to be shown visually, and Jackson uses multiple techniques to make the changes evident. Some techniques are better than others.

Montgomery's Anne: Fallible and Fun

I remark in another context that "Anne of Green Gables...is the Western answer [to the fallible female heroine]." 

My point in the other context is that manga is somewhat better these days at creating female heroes who can fail yet remain protagonists. 

Recently, I read a complaint that Eilonwy from Lloyd Alexander's Prydain series wasn't treated more seriously even though she was just as courageous as Taran!! But as a kid, I never found Eilonwy all that enchanting; as an adult, I find her behavior in the early books mostly irritating. It truly isn't okay for someone to crash a military expedition, all for the sake of proving "I'm as good as you!"

In fairness, I don't think Alexander thought so either. Eilonwy is an individual, not a role model or virtue-signaling character type. 

However, Eilonwy never has to come to terms with her behavior in the early books. In the case that I mention, she turns out to be right: they should have let her go on the mission from the beginning! (In real life, her gate-crashing would potentially lead to the entire party being massacred.)

As stated above, I think manga generally handles this type of heroine better. She may do rash things, like Kasahara in Library Wars, but she learns from her mistakes and improves, without losing her joie de vivre. 

Anne of Green Gables is an accomplished product of this approach--one reason, I suggest, she is so beloved. Readers truly don't enjoy slogging through the so-called tribulations of perfect specimens (one reason, earlier children's fables in which well-behaved girls and boys are rewarded and badly behaved girls and boys are punished failed; these plots were successfully mocked by writers like E. Nesbit and Mark Twain). 

Much better to have a raw, lively, risk-taking, joyful character who matures than a character who is right and triumphant again and again and again. 

Ngaoi Marsh's Alleyn: The Character Who is Less Obnoxious than How He is Written

Patrick Malahide as Alleyn* 

My first encounter with Ngaoi Marsh's Golden Age mysteries was in college. Whenever I was about to fly home, I would go to the mystery fiction section of the BYU Bookstore and pick out a new Marsh to get me through the plane ride.

My favorite is Killer Dolphin, which introduces one of her best secondary characters, Peregrine Jay. I also quite like Grave Mistake and Singing in the Shrouds, although the murder in the latter is downright daft (and the kind of thing that would ordinarily lead to a detective being called on the carpet).

I have mixed feelings about Marsh herself. She was one of those people back in the day who made snide remarks about poor Sayers falling in love with her hero-detective. What makes this nastiness not only distasteful but bizarre is that Marsh is far more worshipful of Alleyn than Sayers is of Wimsey.

With Lord Peter Wimsey, Sayers may have created her ideal counterpart, but she tackles him with a degree of objectivity missing from Marsh's treatment of Alleyn. Marsh may not be in love with Alleyn, but she treats him like the ultimate cool, overly handsome guy in that really awesome clique that everyone supposedly can't wait to join.

Alleyn is NEVER wrong (even when he IS wrong: in real life, half the passengers from Singing in the Shrouds would have sued Scotland Yard). When he is self-deprecating, other characters rush in to correct his erroneous self-analysis (no, no, you were wonderful!). People who initially sneer at him, end up admiring him. His subordinates adore him. He is constantly impressing people with his knowledge of Shakespeare and his insightful quips. He would be totally irritating if he didn't manage to be a character in his own right. 

A young David Hyde Pierce as Wimsey!

Contrast this with Sayers' Wimsey, who isn't over-the-top handsome (though he has a nice body) and isn't universally beloved. Some people dislike him; others misunderstand him; the occasional murderer loathes him. He does win some people over, but even people who like him--like Charles Parker--remain objective about him. Sayers never forgets that people simply don't react the same way to the same person all the time.

Marsh seems to think that as long as someone is "popular," no one will ever, ever take issue with that someone. It's a startlingly immature perspective that is reflected in some of her comments re: Sayers. Unintentionally or not, Marsh comes across as a cliquey high schooler laughing about that weird girl over there.

Me, I side with the weird girl.

Still, Marsh is a good writer, and the mysteries are fun. And Alleyn manages to exist as a "real" character in his own right. So much of the applause comes from other characters, rather than Alleyn himself, it is possible to admire his detective work (even if I am far less susceptible to the oohing and aahing). 

*I didn't care for Patrick Malahide as Alleyn at first, but now, I quite like him. He is actually much closer to Marsh's description of Alleyn than he appears at first--though he isn't as tall as Alleyn is supposed to be. He is also quite approachable--the actor has decent comedic timing--and is treated with normal respect (not hero-worshiping respect) by his subordinates. He is, in sum, somewhat more likable than the book version. 

Joseph of Old: So Many Versions!

I keep moving this post around. To what author should Joseph of Old be assigned? 

I decided to assign him to "Mann" for Thomas Mann, who wrote Joseph and His Brothers and Joseph in Egypt. 

Joseph's story from the Old Testament is a fantastic one! It is one of the most intact of the narratives in Genesis and is considered by some scholars to be the Bible's Odyssey or Iliad: a seminal piece of literature that has been told and retold.

There are numerous media retellings out there. When I was growing up I adored a recording one of my brothers owned [borrowed] of Webber's Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. I knew all the lyrics to every song. I saw the musical as teenager and naturally watched the Donny Osmond version.

I later watched a non-musical version with Ben Kingsley and Paul Mercurio. However, my favorite is the New Media Genesis Project version. Films associated with the project came out in the 1980s: Bible stories in which a narrator in English relays the story as the actors speak in Aramaic and other languages. One reason I like their Joseph interpretation is that the final scene isn't a joke. 

I do love the musical but the serious confrontation between Joseph and the Brothers--the building of tensions as Benjamin is accused of theft--turns into a calypso song, which irritates me. I don't care if people want to sing about famine--and I own the hilarious Quentin Blake book of the musical, full of skinny cows.

But the final set of scenes deserves something other than a joke. Joseph has reason to be uncertain of his father's survival, Benjamin's survival, and how his brothers will react to his reappearance. He is battling with lingering anger and uncertainty and the rationality that comes with age and forgiveness. He is a fully fleshed-out human being. Very relatable! 

There's a reason the tale lasted and got collected.  

Despise not caring for that scene, the Donny Osmond version that mixes the classroom with action and presents a delightful narrator is worth watching--one can see why Donny Osmond was such a hit!

 

Rival Characters: The Good, the Bad, the Pointless

Robin McKinley's Beauty in her seminal work Beauty brings up the issue of rivals. In the classic tale, Beauty's sisters are rivals (as are the stepsisters in Cinderella). In McKinley's retelling, the sisters are entirely sweet and pleasant and supportive. Their behavior is a nice change from the over-the-top unpleasant version of the sister (see #2 and #3 below). 

Love Boat has a Cinderella tale where the stepsisters are too gauche and rude and unappealing to be even vaguely believable; the episode is hilarious, however, because the stepmother has no qualms at cozening up to Cinderella once she realizes which way the wind is blowing. The rivals are played for farce. 

Rivals  can be useful characters. Unfortunately, they sometimes feel like the product of vindictive self-indulgence by the writer. 

Rivals fall into several categories:

1. Awful people but not really rivals. 

Miss Bingley falls into this category. Whatever she, her sister, or Charles may have hoped, Darcy has zero interest in her and doesn't even seem to realize that he is supposed to. 

However, Austen plays fair. Miss Bingley isn't entirely unlikable. She isn't evil. Mostly jealous, she ends up sabotaging her own efforts. At the end of the novel, Austen tells us that Miss Bingley will make nice with Elizabeth: better to be a family friend of the Darcys than not!

2. Obviously awful & conniving.

Lucy Steele uses her "secret" engagement to  Edward to put Elinor in her place. Her arrival in the story is a little too convenient to the plot.  However, Austen is fair to Lucy or at least to the situation. That is, Lucy is complex enough that her "confidences" are not really something that Elinor can protest. Is Lucy jealous? Honest? Cruel? Self-satisfied and smug? 

The behavior is obviously unkind and the opposite of honorable. But what the character believes about herself is a different matter.

3. The non-friendly serious rival. 

Here is where I get creeped out. The non-friendly serious rival is actually trying to break the couple up, and the sheer arrogance of "I know what is best for you--it is me" sends me searching for something else to read/watch. I gather from the number of films and series out there with this type of rival that some people just love for a male or female protagonist to have endless choices but I find the constant competition tedious at best and nearly sociopathic at worst. 

4. The friendly serious rival. 

However, the friendly serious rival--common in manga--is quite fun. The friendly serious rival competes but gives way graciously, or at least gracefully, and remains friends with the main characters. 

Ryu Jihye in Semantic Error falls into this category. She's a decent person, honestly interested in Sangwoo (not for his potentially great future or family or money). She helps him relate to people and remains his friend after he and Jaeyeong pair up. 

Her rivalry is with Jaeyeong. And Jaeyeong knows it. He cleverly out-maneuvers her on several occasions, as indicated by his wink.

5. The hilarious rival. 

The teenage female high school students in His Favorite fall into this category. They pursue Sato. Then he starts dating Yoshida and tells everyone. Instead of beating up Yoshida (which Yoshida expects), they tell him, "Stop being such a wuss. We're going to keep competing with you, you know." 

Except often their competition backfires--as when they get Sato to study with them and he spends the whole time asking them dating advice, which annoys them to no end. Don't you understand that we are serious competitors here? 

Rivals are going to arise in romance: here's to hoping writers handle them in a non-revolting manner!

Give Characters Jobs: Numb3rs

In a commentary on Numb3rs, Rob Morrow complains about shots that position an actor at one point in the room, just to have the actor  start walking as the camera begins to roll. 

Why are they coming from that direction? What are they doing? Why? 

Either Morrow or another actor comments that directors prefer to have characters do stuff, not simply stand around waiting to deliver their lines. In an early episode of Numb3rs, Alan Eppes (Judd Hirsch) is feeding a bird while he talks to his sons rather than simply standing (conveniently) in the same room. 

I'm a big fan of characters having jobs, and I've always liked the fact that Numb3rs gave its guest experts stuff to do (other than being the Big Bad of the week). Chris Bauer as Professor Galuski, for example, is a useful character. He bridges the two worlds of academe and FBI since he visits locations with agents; discusses speed and velocity and other matters with Charlie; and gives Alan a bosom buddy, someone who takes a less intellectual, more hands-on approach to engineering problems. 

Themes naturally arise from these interactions, such as understanding based on abstract theory versus understanding based on experience. 

Give a character a task--all kinds of positive writing possibilities will follow!

Horse Rescue Day & Shadowfax

The holiday refers to rescuing horses from slaughter. However, this post refers to a rescuing horse. 

My father is a fan of Tolkien but not a huge fan of movies. However, when Jackson's Lord of the Rings: Two Towers came out, he went to the movie with family members. Afterwards, he said,

"That movie was all about the horse!"

He was referring specifically to the scene where Shadowfax comes to Gandalf's call. Shadowfax arrives in slow motion. I don't honestly understand Jackson's choice here--except, okay, he is a beautiful horse.  

I suspect that this is one place where the visual film maker takes over from the storyteller. If a photographer can get an animal to do what the animal is supposed to do...

The photographer doesn't waste that moment. 

Shadowfax was played by Domero and Blanco. 

C.S. Lewis's Great Deity: Aslan

 

Righteous, purely good characters in fiction often come across as...eh. Their goodness becomes a mark of insipidity.  

In general, fantasy does better here--Gandalf is preferable to the numerous gurus that populate contemporary fiction. Even Cadfael--a fantastic character--gets a little too above-it-all in the film version (despite the notable actor). 

With Galadriel and the other near-Saints of Middle Earth, Tolkien manages to emphasize that their leadership roles do not make them perfect. A reader of The Lord of the Rings meets Gandalf and Galadriel after long lives in which they made plenty of mistakes. Galadriel rejects the ring but might not have always rejected it. Gandalf recoils from Frodo's offer of the ring--he knows what terrible (justified) things he would do with it. In addition, he reiterates multiple times that he isn't sure what path to take with Frodo. Most importantly, he doesn't see Saruman's betrayal coming. Meanwhile, Aragorn, the high king, is torn between his duty to Frodo and his duty to Gondor throughout the first book. 

However, all these good characters pale in comparison to Aslan. 

I think one reason Aslan is so wonderful is that he is a lion. Lewis uses his lion nature to emphasize certain traits:

1. Aslan is not a "tamed" lion. He can be fierce and demanding.

2. Aslan likes a romp. His playful chase with Susan and Lucy after his restoration/resurrection in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is one of the most delightful in literature.

3. Aslan has a sense of whimsy. He teases Trumpkin. He turns the posturing Rabadash into an ass.

4. Aslan is kind. He shows respect to Reepicheep and takes his sense of honor seriously. He is gentle with Puzzle. 

5. Aslan can be sad. 

I'm currently reading a great deal about early Christian theology, specifically the controversies over whether Christ was created by God or co-eternal with God and frankly, it's kind of wearisome, mostly because it seems to rest on an insistence that Christ couldn't possibly really suffer, not if he was God--except if he wasn't God, he couldn't save. Round and round and round. (And from my view, entirely unnecessary: God can suffer and save; it's not that complicated a conclusion.)

I appreciate that Lewis allows Aslan to mourn the choice he has made to save Edmund--mourn, not regret. He allows Susan and Lucy to walk with him because they bring him comfort. 

Lewis is creating myth, not theology. He doesn't have to explain Aslan. He just has to let Aslan be.

And Aslan is a great GOOD character, in large part because he is approachable. His sternness doesn't negate his fundamentally warm nature. His warm nature doesn't negate his strength and authority. 

As with Edmund, Lewis pulls off this feat by not calling attention to his writing choices. Lots and lots of show. 

C.S. Lewis's Great Flawed Character: Edmund

In her essay about Edmund, "King Edmund the Cute: Anatomy of a Girlhood Crush," Diane Peterfreund explains why Edmund is her favorite of the Narnian heroes. He's mine too, and I agree with Peterfreund's analysis. She points out that Edmund qualifies as a bad boy, but what makes him appealing is that he is a reformed bad boy: a bad boy who uses his bad boy past to gain insight into himself and others. 

Peterfreund points out, "Edmund...seemed [to me] to have pulled it together. He may have been somewhat graver than Peter, but he was still a cheerful guy, overall." In other words, he isn't a brooder.

Totally!

In terms of writing, Lewis's success with Edmund is three-fold:

1. Edmund's "fall" is very human. 

He isn't a sociopath. He is a normal human with normal resentment. He does betray his family--and that reality is not glossed over or excused by Lewis--but not for Big Bad, larger-than-life reasons. He isn't plotting to overthrow the universe. More Spike than Angel, his "fall" is human, rooted in day-to-day behavior (Lewis makes the point that Edmund has been away at a horrible school and has picked up horrible snide habits, again without excusing Edmund). Edmund's salvation is also very human. For instance--

2. Edmund retains his personality.

Edmund repents and recovers. And he gains a reputation of being wise with level-headed judgment. 

He doesn't lose what makes him Edmund, however. In Voyage of the Dawn Treader, when talking to Eustace, he says, "You were only an ass, but I was a traitor." The tone is perfect. Edmund isn't apologetic. He isn't sappy. He isn't whining. He is matter-of-fact and even slightly sardonic. 

And it is notable that Eustace tells his story to Edmund first. Edmund has a practical nature that tackles problems in a practical fashion. The cousins have one characteristic in common.

3. Edmund's repentance or restoration is something he takes seriously. 

He doesn't dwell on his mistakes but he does use them. In Prince Caspian, when the siblings are lost, Edmund takes Lucy's side on where they should go next, precisely because he once let her down.

In sum, Edmund isn't just a bad-boy-reformed. He is a consistent and believable character. Lewis accomplishes this feat through entirely non-dramatic characterization. 

Dean Stockwell's Kim and the New Childhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though very different in their politics, neither Forster nor

Kipling had a high opinion of this version of India.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the infantilization begins.

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

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

The last really is much more likely.

Books to Movies: Two Towers and Where to Edit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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