I had the chance to go see The Avengers this weekend as it came back into theaters. I haven't, yet, for no real reason other than my annual quota of one summer movie was taken up with Pixar's Brave. I ended up not going to see The Avengers, still, in part because of where it was showing in my home town, and in part because today was really the only convenient day I had to go see it.
And instead I went to the library. Which is not quite as geeky as it sounds, given that I had books that were due, and where the library is versus where the theater is in relation to where I work. Also, the books were the ones I read to my eight-year-old, so this was much less of a contest than it may sound at first.
All of the superhero films coming out this summer got me thinking: is it really necessary to revisit the origin story of a superhero every time the franchise gets rebooted? I realize it's not a novel idea, yet as I am a bit of a comics geek I figure I ought to be able to throw my two cents in.
For starters, I can think of at least two .... okay, one and a half superhero movies that did not feel the need to spend the bulk of two hours telling the story of how the hero came to be. One of those was a decidedly non-superhero film that only tangentially could be put into that genre, so it's probably out. The other featured a brief backstory flashback that lasted about fifteen minutes. And having typed this, I thought of one more that fits that description. So two and a half. Out of a lot over the past few years.
For the most part, these origin stories seem completely unnecessary. Batman Begins is perhaps the exception because it trod over mostly newish ground, in a way that hadn't been done before on film. but Spider-Man? I question not only the more recent version, but the former version from several years ago. Is there anyone out there, anyone at all, who would see this movie and not know Spider-man's basic backstory?
Or Superman's? Or, yes, Batman's? Does anyone out there at all not know the basic origin story?
Let's face it, these origin films are mainly about establishing character for "new" fans. But if you aren't into comics, what's the draw then? Star power? Possibly. But if that's the case, do you still need to retread familiar ground? Women are often cited as the demographic that is brought in by focusing on "character aspects" - i.e. the hero's tortured beginning and what not. I'm not a woman, but I have to say, if I wasn't a Green Lantern fan, then I'm probably going for Ryan Reynolds, and anything beyond that is just extra padding.
Green Lantern was an especially egregious example of an unnecessary origin story. It wasn't all that important, and slowed the film down. That is a cardinal sin, because amid all the tights and capes and powers, superheroes are supposed to be escapist fantasy and above all fun. Fail in that, and no one wants to read/watch them. (Look at all the failed titles from the "Dark Age" of comics in the 1990's.)
There is a long literary tradition of starting things in media res. (That's your Latin for the day.) Superhero movies could learn from this. Just jump in, in the middle of the car chase or some other action bit. Hook the audience, and then how he got the powers or what deep dark angst he's harboring inside won't really matter.
These are already established characters anyway, for the most part, so there really isn't a need to build the backstory. Look at James Bond. James Bond does not get an origin story; James Bond does not need an origin story. (Casino Royale does not count, and if you think it does, answer me this: what do we know about his personal life? Yeah, that's right: zilch. He just is Bond. After shooting that guy behind the desk, of course.)
Neither do established superheroes.
Showing posts with label in character. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in character. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Friday, January 29, 2010
Death of a Character: The Show Must Go On
It's been a while since I touched on this topic. I've covered a bit of ground in this little ongoing theme I have here. I've dealt with replacements, the "really really truly we're not kidding they're completely dead," and resurrection. Yet there's another kind of character resurrection, and that's when an author dies but his most beloved creation lives on. Which is why it seemed appropriate to dust off this last little bit I had to say on it in the wake of an author's passing. Robert Parker died earlier this month, and I for one shall miss him.
Parker's most iconic creation was, of course, Spenser - spelled like the poet and no first name ever given. (Except maybe once, but I think perhaps that was a typo in one of the early books.) Much has been written elsewhere about that, and he penned other characters as well, most of whom I liked and enjoyed. I have read all the books, and read that there were, I think, two more books ready for publication. I will look forward to them, and be sad when I finish the last one knowing it is the last one, but I must also say I hope that's where it stops.
Ironically, Parker himself took on another author's creation post-mortem. He finished Raymond Chandler's Poodle Springs and then wrote one more Marlowe book based on Chandler's notes. However, he didn't keep going after that, and if any author can be said to be a reincarnation of another one, or a reinvention, then Parker was that to Chandler. Spenser wasn't Marlowe, but he was a Marlowe for his times. And he had the good sense to let Marlowe rest in peace once his creator's ideas were done.
Other characters have not been so fortunate.
James Bond is an example, so too now is Jason Bourne. Neither character ever died, but with the death of their creators I think they should have been allowed to. On paper, anyway. I love the Bond and the Bourne movies. Just not as fond of the later books, even though I like Lustbader, who has taken over the Bourne helm. The Bond books are another story altogether. There were (perhaps are) rumors that there was a final "Travis McGee" story, penned by the author in anticipation of his eventual passing. To the best of my knowledge that's just a rumor, and thankfully McGee's been left alone. Sherlock Holmes has also been penned once or twice by other authors.
Never successfully, in my opinion. Not for the caliber of writers that have attempted it, mind you, and not because they weren't good stories. Some of them were very good stories. But they weren't quite Holmes and Watson. Close, perhaps, and an excellent imitation, but never quite the real thing.
Bond, Bourne, and Holmes were all resurrected for one simple motive: money. The series are money-makers, and the new Bourne books didn't appear until Matt Damon built a franchise. I suspect for that reason there won't be any rush to hand Spenser's reigns over to someone else. (The Tom Selleck CBS movies based around one of his other characters are different. Like the Robert Urich Spenser for Hire series, they have established their own universe, more of a "based on" than anything else. There is apparently one more Jesse Stone book, and I shall mourn him after putting down his last tale, too.) There isn't the oodles of money to be made from it that there are with the others.
I do think, however, that characters like that ought to be left alone. There is no way to capture the original voice of their authors, not completely, and so they come off as the imitations they are. When the only reason not to come up with your own character - as Lustbader has done in the past - is money, while I can't begrudge an author for taking a pay check (heck, I'd take it), I wish the powers that be behind it would have the good sense not to offer it in the first place.
As the horror cliche says, sometimes it's better to let things rest in peace.
Parker's most iconic creation was, of course, Spenser - spelled like the poet and no first name ever given. (Except maybe once, but I think perhaps that was a typo in one of the early books.) Much has been written elsewhere about that, and he penned other characters as well, most of whom I liked and enjoyed. I have read all the books, and read that there were, I think, two more books ready for publication. I will look forward to them, and be sad when I finish the last one knowing it is the last one, but I must also say I hope that's where it stops.
Ironically, Parker himself took on another author's creation post-mortem. He finished Raymond Chandler's Poodle Springs and then wrote one more Marlowe book based on Chandler's notes. However, he didn't keep going after that, and if any author can be said to be a reincarnation of another one, or a reinvention, then Parker was that to Chandler. Spenser wasn't Marlowe, but he was a Marlowe for his times. And he had the good sense to let Marlowe rest in peace once his creator's ideas were done.
Other characters have not been so fortunate.
James Bond is an example, so too now is Jason Bourne. Neither character ever died, but with the death of their creators I think they should have been allowed to. On paper, anyway. I love the Bond and the Bourne movies. Just not as fond of the later books, even though I like Lustbader, who has taken over the Bourne helm. The Bond books are another story altogether. There were (perhaps are) rumors that there was a final "Travis McGee" story, penned by the author in anticipation of his eventual passing. To the best of my knowledge that's just a rumor, and thankfully McGee's been left alone. Sherlock Holmes has also been penned once or twice by other authors.
Never successfully, in my opinion. Not for the caliber of writers that have attempted it, mind you, and not because they weren't good stories. Some of them were very good stories. But they weren't quite Holmes and Watson. Close, perhaps, and an excellent imitation, but never quite the real thing.
Bond, Bourne, and Holmes were all resurrected for one simple motive: money. The series are money-makers, and the new Bourne books didn't appear until Matt Damon built a franchise. I suspect for that reason there won't be any rush to hand Spenser's reigns over to someone else. (The Tom Selleck CBS movies based around one of his other characters are different. Like the Robert Urich Spenser for Hire series, they have established their own universe, more of a "based on" than anything else. There is apparently one more Jesse Stone book, and I shall mourn him after putting down his last tale, too.) There isn't the oodles of money to be made from it that there are with the others.
I do think, however, that characters like that ought to be left alone. There is no way to capture the original voice of their authors, not completely, and so they come off as the imitations they are. When the only reason not to come up with your own character - as Lustbader has done in the past - is money, while I can't begrudge an author for taking a pay check (heck, I'd take it), I wish the powers that be behind it would have the good sense not to offer it in the first place.
As the horror cliche says, sometimes it's better to let things rest in peace.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Watered Down and Twice as Marketable
When did Tinkerbell stop being a bitch? I remember watching Peter Pan, the Disney version of course, and noting even as a kid that Tink was a nasty piece of work. As an adult watching the movie again, I could take it further and realize she was a vain, self-centered, conniving, and mean-spirited fairy. This was not the happy go-lucky make a wish kind of fairy. This was the bite you on the finger kind from Labyrinth.
However, in this day and age of the Disney Princess Marketing Machine, that personality type probably doesn't sell so well. So instead, Tink's been repackaged and redesigned into some plucky little heroine. There are still aspects of the old Tink, and as a writer I'm curious to know how this new Tinkerbell becomes the version we see with Peter Pan... but I have my doubts that Disney will ever tell that story.
Not when they have the Disney Fairy Marketing Machine to consider.
This isn't the first time a character's been rehabilitated to make a buck or appeal to a wider audience. Vampires have been getting this treatment for years, long before they started to sparkle. The George Clooney Batman movie was made primarily to sell toys. Or at least it looked that way, so I hope that was the intent. And there are any number of other examples I could probably think of if I was inclined to do so at the moment.
Which I'm not.
Now I can't really fault the House of Mouse, because they've been doing this for years. They built an empire on it, and really, if you watch Steamboat Willie the Mickey Mouse you see there is a far different character from the Mouse my little one watches on Playhouse Disney. Same for Bugs Bunny and the rest of the Looney Tunes. I could probably blame the societal impulse to make everything "wholesome" but the cynic in me says it's probably more just marketing than anything else.
I don't think you could turn the original Tinkerbell into a very marketable franchise. She doesn't exactly espouse the values we want our little girls to emulate, after all. While this requires me to admit I've seen the first Tinkerbell movie - her origin story, naturally - the bad fairy in the film reminded me far more of the original Tink from Peter Pan than the titular character did. In other words, she was vain, self-centered, and self-serving. Naturally she got her comeuppance, because we can't have the villain get away with it in a kid's movie.
In a way I'm disappointed. While the new Tink has been repackaged to teach a couple of different important "moral" points, I think they could have used the old Tink to teach how not to behave. They would have stayed true to the original character - at least in her original Disney manifestation - and I wouldn't have been scratching my head wondering what happened to her.
Plus they could have done tie-ins with that old Elton John song. ... Though on second thought, that probably wouldn't go over very well with the parents.
However, in this day and age of the Disney Princess Marketing Machine, that personality type probably doesn't sell so well. So instead, Tink's been repackaged and redesigned into some plucky little heroine. There are still aspects of the old Tink, and as a writer I'm curious to know how this new Tinkerbell becomes the version we see with Peter Pan... but I have my doubts that Disney will ever tell that story.
Not when they have the Disney Fairy Marketing Machine to consider.
This isn't the first time a character's been rehabilitated to make a buck or appeal to a wider audience. Vampires have been getting this treatment for years, long before they started to sparkle. The George Clooney Batman movie was made primarily to sell toys. Or at least it looked that way, so I hope that was the intent. And there are any number of other examples I could probably think of if I was inclined to do so at the moment.
Which I'm not.
Now I can't really fault the House of Mouse, because they've been doing this for years. They built an empire on it, and really, if you watch Steamboat Willie the Mickey Mouse you see there is a far different character from the Mouse my little one watches on Playhouse Disney. Same for Bugs Bunny and the rest of the Looney Tunes. I could probably blame the societal impulse to make everything "wholesome" but the cynic in me says it's probably more just marketing than anything else.
I don't think you could turn the original Tinkerbell into a very marketable franchise. She doesn't exactly espouse the values we want our little girls to emulate, after all. While this requires me to admit I've seen the first Tinkerbell movie - her origin story, naturally - the bad fairy in the film reminded me far more of the original Tink from Peter Pan than the titular character did. In other words, she was vain, self-centered, and self-serving. Naturally she got her comeuppance, because we can't have the villain get away with it in a kid's movie.
In a way I'm disappointed. While the new Tink has been repackaged to teach a couple of different important "moral" points, I think they could have used the old Tink to teach how not to behave. They would have stayed true to the original character - at least in her original Disney manifestation - and I wouldn't have been scratching my head wondering what happened to her.
Plus they could have done tie-ins with that old Elton John song. ... Though on second thought, that probably wouldn't go over very well with the parents.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Death of a Character: Resurrection
The dead don't always stay dead. This is a lesson I learned early on in fiction. I read Sherlock Holmes, who may not have been the first hero to die only to be resurrected, but was surely one of the most famous and probably one of the first instances of the "fans" keeping something alive. (There are a few other parallels with Star Trek I could mention, but those will keep for another time.)
For those who don't know, Arthur Conan Doyle got tired of his consulting detective after the initial run of short stories. Feeling the character was at an end, he crafted a suitable ending for Holmes, letting the detective meet his end locked in mortal combat with his nemesis, Moriarty, at Reichenbach Falls. Having penned and published the story, Conan Doyle moved on to other projects. The fans would have none of it, and eventually Conan Doyle caved in, resurrected his hero - who it turned out had only faked his death - and went on to write more stories. Holmes wasn't done yet, and did eventually earn his retirement as a beekeeper in Suffolk (or was it Suffix?), England.
Sometimes, characters just won't stay dead. Comics are notorious for this, Spider-man's parent company Marvel in particular. No one stays dead in the Marvel universe, not for very long anyway. Which, in my opinion, has lead to some rather silly things and has robbed death of much of its impact. Yeah, they killed Captain America. Whatever. You knew they were going to bring him back eventually. Heck, they brought Bucky back. (And if that makes no sense to you, consult the Wiki gods.) So if you do this in your story-telling, you run a very real risk of boring your readers. They know their beloved character isn't really dead, after all, so it's all kind of ho hum.
You can't even keep the shock value of a good death going if everyone knows it's not going to stick. (Even if it should, Marvel comics being an example yet again of having brought back a few people I thought should have stayed gone.)
I think there are times when death and resurrection serve as appropriate motifs. Sometimes a role just isn't the same when another person takes up the mantel, say in the case of the new Batman. (Though I am reserving judgement.) You run a storyline with someone filling in, but eventually that runs it course and the main act needs to return. Achieving that return is tricky, and can be as alienating as the original death if either of them is handled badly.
All that said there are moments when the sacrifice of a character serves a need of the plot, as well as their return. I think in those moments it's important to have the character come back slightly different. You don't get to die and come back unchanged. Gandalf's demise in the first part of the triology still has tremendous impact on me, even though I know every time I read/see it that he's going to return. In part it's because Gandalf the White isn't quite the same as Gandalf the Grey, and so something was lost in that death.
Of course, if you right in the right genres, death never needs to be permanent. There are always clones or zombies.
Though I don't know that anyone has ever done zombie clones, or cloned zombies. Might be something to consider.
For those who don't know, Arthur Conan Doyle got tired of his consulting detective after the initial run of short stories. Feeling the character was at an end, he crafted a suitable ending for Holmes, letting the detective meet his end locked in mortal combat with his nemesis, Moriarty, at Reichenbach Falls. Having penned and published the story, Conan Doyle moved on to other projects. The fans would have none of it, and eventually Conan Doyle caved in, resurrected his hero - who it turned out had only faked his death - and went on to write more stories. Holmes wasn't done yet, and did eventually earn his retirement as a beekeeper in Suffolk (or was it Suffix?), England.
Sometimes, characters just won't stay dead. Comics are notorious for this, Spider-man's parent company Marvel in particular. No one stays dead in the Marvel universe, not for very long anyway. Which, in my opinion, has lead to some rather silly things and has robbed death of much of its impact. Yeah, they killed Captain America. Whatever. You knew they were going to bring him back eventually. Heck, they brought Bucky back. (And if that makes no sense to you, consult the Wiki gods.) So if you do this in your story-telling, you run a very real risk of boring your readers. They know their beloved character isn't really dead, after all, so it's all kind of ho hum.
You can't even keep the shock value of a good death going if everyone knows it's not going to stick. (Even if it should, Marvel comics being an example yet again of having brought back a few people I thought should have stayed gone.)
I think there are times when death and resurrection serve as appropriate motifs. Sometimes a role just isn't the same when another person takes up the mantel, say in the case of the new Batman. (Though I am reserving judgement.) You run a storyline with someone filling in, but eventually that runs it course and the main act needs to return. Achieving that return is tricky, and can be as alienating as the original death if either of them is handled badly.
All that said there are moments when the sacrifice of a character serves a need of the plot, as well as their return. I think in those moments it's important to have the character come back slightly different. You don't get to die and come back unchanged. Gandalf's demise in the first part of the triology still has tremendous impact on me, even though I know every time I read/see it that he's going to return. In part it's because Gandalf the White isn't quite the same as Gandalf the Grey, and so something was lost in that death.
Of course, if you right in the right genres, death never needs to be permanent. There are always clones or zombies.
Though I don't know that anyone has ever done zombie clones, or cloned zombies. Might be something to consider.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Wasting Villains
No, this isn't about shooting the bad guys with an oversized gun designed to compensate for the hero's masculinity issues. This is about when a villain's potential goes to waste. When, despite the hype, they're barley on the screen (looking squarely at you, George Lucas, for Episode I) or in the book. When the author makes a big deal about just how evil, and powerful, the villain is, or has created a really great villain... and then doesn't do anything with them.
I have a particular author in mind for this little rant, but I won't name names. (Other than George Lucas... because, really, as much as I like Christopher Lee, Darth Maul deserved more screen time.) Mostly, in the case of the unnamed author, it seemed as though the villain had been relegated to the role of sub-plot, and if you're going to do that, it's all well and good providing that 1: it's the kind of thing you usually write so the audience has no reason to expect otherwise and 2: you don't create a really cool villain that you normally would have done lots with.
This was something I thought Silence of the Lambs did well. Aside from the screen presence of Lecter, he lived up to his potential. He wasn't just the scary guy safely in the glass cage. He gets out. Better still, though he is the subplot, the main villain is also satisfying. (Neither the movie nor the book would have worked half so well otherwise. Sub-plot should never completely overshadow plot.) It was also something the movie sequel screwed up, namely because the director, whom I normally enjoy, went for the shock ending. Only the Lecter we all know and love would never have allowed himself to be in that position.
(Not to mention he doesn't have to amputate his hand. Far less risky to simply take off the thumb, if it comes to that.)
Which illustrates another peril here: you can waste your villain with a single mis-timed scene. Something that doesn't ring true to character. At that point, you leave audiences scratching their heads and wondering what happened to the villain they've been watching all along. Hannibal isn't the only film guilty of this. (The book avoided this pitfall, but fell into another one.)
Mind you, some of those wasted villains have provided me with fodder for my own evil characters. I fully plan to steal the concept for one villain from a certain author who didn't know enough to use what she'd created. Well, "steal" is such a harsh word. I intend to appropriate and use for my own ends.
If you're going to create a strong villain, then you ought to use them appropriately. If not, you might want to start asking yourself if your story needs a villain at all, or if perhaps the motivation for your characters is something else entirely. Villains should be treated like the famous gun Chekov talks about: if they're there, they ought to be used.
I have a particular author in mind for this little rant, but I won't name names. (Other than George Lucas... because, really, as much as I like Christopher Lee, Darth Maul deserved more screen time.) Mostly, in the case of the unnamed author, it seemed as though the villain had been relegated to the role of sub-plot, and if you're going to do that, it's all well and good providing that 1: it's the kind of thing you usually write so the audience has no reason to expect otherwise and 2: you don't create a really cool villain that you normally would have done lots with.
This was something I thought Silence of the Lambs did well. Aside from the screen presence of Lecter, he lived up to his potential. He wasn't just the scary guy safely in the glass cage. He gets out. Better still, though he is the subplot, the main villain is also satisfying. (Neither the movie nor the book would have worked half so well otherwise. Sub-plot should never completely overshadow plot.) It was also something the movie sequel screwed up, namely because the director, whom I normally enjoy, went for the shock ending. Only the Lecter we all know and love would never have allowed himself to be in that position.
(Not to mention he doesn't have to amputate his hand. Far less risky to simply take off the thumb, if it comes to that.)
Which illustrates another peril here: you can waste your villain with a single mis-timed scene. Something that doesn't ring true to character. At that point, you leave audiences scratching their heads and wondering what happened to the villain they've been watching all along. Hannibal isn't the only film guilty of this. (The book avoided this pitfall, but fell into another one.)
Mind you, some of those wasted villains have provided me with fodder for my own evil characters. I fully plan to steal the concept for one villain from a certain author who didn't know enough to use what she'd created. Well, "steal" is such a harsh word. I intend to appropriate and use for my own ends.
If you're going to create a strong villain, then you ought to use them appropriately. If not, you might want to start asking yourself if your story needs a villain at all, or if perhaps the motivation for your characters is something else entirely. Villains should be treated like the famous gun Chekov talks about: if they're there, they ought to be used.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Defending the Litte Guy
Everyone hates the Ewoks. This seems to be the universal consensus among legions of Star Wars fans, and one of the reasons why Return of the Jedi was thought to be the weakest of the three films. Then, of course, Lucas made three more films, thereby elevating ROTJ from the bottom of the pile and dropping the Ewoks from "most hated" status. I expect they're at least a distant third now.
I have to admit, I'm not everyone, and I think some of that is rooted in my academic background. One of the chief complaints I've heard about the Ewoks is how they managed to overcome the obviously technologically superior Imperial Forces. (Speaking of which, why is it "Imperial" with an "I" when it's "Empire" with an "E"? Have to find that out one of these days.) This, more than any other argument I've heard, seems to be the main source of ire. I suspect some of it may also be that it was Ewoks, not Wookies, but given the FX constraints of the day I've heard that was largely budgetary more so than anything else.
There might also be some lingering resentment that, for the longest time, the only post Star Wars offerings were a couple of television movies featuring, of all things, just the Ewoks. No mention of any of the rest of the Star Wars universe. Other than the Ewoks, it could have been set anywhere else. But I think a lot of it is that the Ewoks manage to overcome the Stormtroopers.
If we were talking a long, protracted campaign, then I think the critics would be right. There's no way the Ewok would be able to withstand a coordinated campaign. The Empire isn't the Americans in Vietnam, after all. Assuming the planet was worth the effort, they'd wipe out the Ewoks in a heartbeat. Superior numbers, superior technology. If all else failed, they'd just vaporize the planet. (Which I suspect would have happened the moment the Death Star was finished anyway.)
But that's not what happens in the film. It isn't an entire war. It's one battle. Against an indigenous, obviously prepared guerrilla force. Yes, it's a force of three foot tall natives who look suspiciously like a marketing ploy. (It is George Lucas, after all, a marketing mastermind... to a certain extent... and it is Star Wars, which changed the movie marketing game forever.) Yet they know the terrain, they've put together various defensive/offensive efforts that are clearly aimed at the occupying forces - unless there's some T-rex sized predator roaming around that requires the smashing logs suspended from trees - and they aren't entirely alone. They have the Rebel squad assisting them, too.
As someone who's studied military history, I know this isn't the first time a smaller, less-armed force has managed to defeat a large, more technologically proficient force. Little Big Horn comes to mind, among other instances. Guerrilla warfare works for precisely the reasons the Ewoks manage to put a dent in those shiny white uniforms. Smaller, more mobile force, that knows how to use the local terrain to their advantage. In the long term, against a more ruthless force willing to use all the means at their disposal (which most opposing forces aren't - hence the reason we didn't firebomb North Vietnam into a wasteland) those advantages can be countered and overcome.
So, again, in the long term the Ewoks would be toast. Fuzzy toast, likely with the smell of burnt hair which, if you've ever smelled it, is highly unpleasant. But for one, short, pitched battle, with the element of surprise and advanced planning, there's no reason why it couldn't have gone their way. They might have even won a few battles before the Empire razed the forest and hunted the little pseudo teddy bears into extinction.
Hate the Ewoks if you must, but don't begrudge them their victory.
Although if Lucas ever comes up with a Jedi Ewok, then I, too, may be on the anti-Ewok bandwagon. Or would that metaphor work better with a Sand Crawler?
I have to admit, I'm not everyone, and I think some of that is rooted in my academic background. One of the chief complaints I've heard about the Ewoks is how they managed to overcome the obviously technologically superior Imperial Forces. (Speaking of which, why is it "Imperial" with an "I" when it's "Empire" with an "E"? Have to find that out one of these days.) This, more than any other argument I've heard, seems to be the main source of ire. I suspect some of it may also be that it was Ewoks, not Wookies, but given the FX constraints of the day I've heard that was largely budgetary more so than anything else.
There might also be some lingering resentment that, for the longest time, the only post Star Wars offerings were a couple of television movies featuring, of all things, just the Ewoks. No mention of any of the rest of the Star Wars universe. Other than the Ewoks, it could have been set anywhere else. But I think a lot of it is that the Ewoks manage to overcome the Stormtroopers.
If we were talking a long, protracted campaign, then I think the critics would be right. There's no way the Ewok would be able to withstand a coordinated campaign. The Empire isn't the Americans in Vietnam, after all. Assuming the planet was worth the effort, they'd wipe out the Ewoks in a heartbeat. Superior numbers, superior technology. If all else failed, they'd just vaporize the planet. (Which I suspect would have happened the moment the Death Star was finished anyway.)
But that's not what happens in the film. It isn't an entire war. It's one battle. Against an indigenous, obviously prepared guerrilla force. Yes, it's a force of three foot tall natives who look suspiciously like a marketing ploy. (It is George Lucas, after all, a marketing mastermind... to a certain extent... and it is Star Wars, which changed the movie marketing game forever.) Yet they know the terrain, they've put together various defensive/offensive efforts that are clearly aimed at the occupying forces - unless there's some T-rex sized predator roaming around that requires the smashing logs suspended from trees - and they aren't entirely alone. They have the Rebel squad assisting them, too.
As someone who's studied military history, I know this isn't the first time a smaller, less-armed force has managed to defeat a large, more technologically proficient force. Little Big Horn comes to mind, among other instances. Guerrilla warfare works for precisely the reasons the Ewoks manage to put a dent in those shiny white uniforms. Smaller, more mobile force, that knows how to use the local terrain to their advantage. In the long term, against a more ruthless force willing to use all the means at their disposal (which most opposing forces aren't - hence the reason we didn't firebomb North Vietnam into a wasteland) those advantages can be countered and overcome.
So, again, in the long term the Ewoks would be toast. Fuzzy toast, likely with the smell of burnt hair which, if you've ever smelled it, is highly unpleasant. But for one, short, pitched battle, with the element of surprise and advanced planning, there's no reason why it couldn't have gone their way. They might have even won a few battles before the Empire razed the forest and hunted the little pseudo teddy bears into extinction.
Hate the Ewoks if you must, but don't begrudge them their victory.
Although if Lucas ever comes up with a Jedi Ewok, then I, too, may be on the anti-Ewok bandwagon. Or would that metaphor work better with a Sand Crawler?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Death of a Character 2: He's Dead, Jim
That will likely be the last Star Trek reference I make - in this entry, anyway, and only because I can't think of any other way to tie Star Trek into this particular topic. My geekdom knows few bounds. But the death of the redshirts (okay, so that's another reference) doesn't really apply to the topic today, despite the high turnover rate in their ranks.
While this is about people who die and stay dead, it's also about when significant characters die and stay dead. Not the incidentals or the guest stars. There can be any number of reasons why an important character might die, not all of which are good reasons, if you ask me.
The first reason, and the best, is when it's necessary to further the story. Sometimes it's just necessary for someone to die. If you write horror or mystery, this is probably a given. Most murder mysteries circumvent this some because the character usually starts dead, or is given only a brief introduction before being killed. (Unless you're in one of those Agatha Christie type stories where people are slowly but surely killed off.) They become a central character of sorts because they're dead. In contrast, in a horror story characters tend to die to illustrate the idea that no one is safe. Sometimes, though, someone simply has to die. Would Luke have put his faith in the Force during the Death Star run without the death of Obi-wan? Possibly, but likely not, and it would have carried much less gravitas to have Obi-wan telling Luke to "Use the Force" over the intercom.
Sometimes a character dies simply because the writer has run out of uses for them. They create a character who serves a purpose the plot, but then it becomes murky as to what purpose the character continues to serve once they've fulfilled their function. I happen to think that killing off such a character represents poor planning on the part of the author, and that killing them is the easy way out. Rather than having figured out how to integrate the character into the whole story, they only plotted it out so far, and when things got difficult they pushed the character out of the moving vehicle and into traffic. There are times when this gives the story a bit more of a realistic feel, especially if the death of the character taints the "happy ever after" of the ending, but they can irritate me some when they happen.
What really irritates me, though, is when characters are killed for no good reason other than shock value. An instance that comes to mind is Sirius Black in the Harry Potter series. Dumbledore, too, to a certain extent, although I think that falls more into the second scenario detailed above - the final battle needed to be Dumbledore-free so he couldn't somehow save the day, and killing him off is the surest way to accomplish that. Also set up the whole thing with Snape. However, it was somewhat undermined by Sirius's death in the previous book.
After the fourth installment, it felt to me as if J.K. Rowling felt the need to end the next two books with a death. (The final book was a series of deaths in and of itself, and, honestly, most of those took the easy way out. I didn't feel the loss of any of them, really, except Hedwig.) Sirius was probably the logical choice, by which I mean the biggest shock value. May also have been a case of not knowing what to do with him, though I think that could have been solved. I didn't feel it served any purpose to kill all of Harry's family (except the Dursely's... and really, if there were people who needed killing...) other than just the shock value.
It seemed to me that by killing the character the author in fact marginalized the character. Just watch the movies and this becomes apparent. Other than to die in the fifth installment, what else did Gary Oldman really have to do? And there was a great deal of potential in the character, particularly as a darker foil to Harry, someone he looked up to who wasn't the ideal of the other mentor figures in the book. (Course, maybe that was sort of the moral point. In which case I really dislike his death.)
The Harry Potter series aren't the only case of killing a character for shock value with no other discernible purpose, but it was the one that came to mind. So I guess the moral of the story here is, if your character is going to stay dead, it ought to be for a good reason and not because you wrote yourself into a corner, or wanted to shock the audience.
Death with a purpose, in other words.
There's a third part to this series, and I'll put it up as soon as I remember what it was going to be.
While this is about people who die and stay dead, it's also about when significant characters die and stay dead. Not the incidentals or the guest stars. There can be any number of reasons why an important character might die, not all of which are good reasons, if you ask me.
The first reason, and the best, is when it's necessary to further the story. Sometimes it's just necessary for someone to die. If you write horror or mystery, this is probably a given. Most murder mysteries circumvent this some because the character usually starts dead, or is given only a brief introduction before being killed. (Unless you're in one of those Agatha Christie type stories where people are slowly but surely killed off.) They become a central character of sorts because they're dead. In contrast, in a horror story characters tend to die to illustrate the idea that no one is safe. Sometimes, though, someone simply has to die. Would Luke have put his faith in the Force during the Death Star run without the death of Obi-wan? Possibly, but likely not, and it would have carried much less gravitas to have Obi-wan telling Luke to "Use the Force" over the intercom.
Sometimes a character dies simply because the writer has run out of uses for them. They create a character who serves a purpose the plot, but then it becomes murky as to what purpose the character continues to serve once they've fulfilled their function. I happen to think that killing off such a character represents poor planning on the part of the author, and that killing them is the easy way out. Rather than having figured out how to integrate the character into the whole story, they only plotted it out so far, and when things got difficult they pushed the character out of the moving vehicle and into traffic. There are times when this gives the story a bit more of a realistic feel, especially if the death of the character taints the "happy ever after" of the ending, but they can irritate me some when they happen.
What really irritates me, though, is when characters are killed for no good reason other than shock value. An instance that comes to mind is Sirius Black in the Harry Potter series. Dumbledore, too, to a certain extent, although I think that falls more into the second scenario detailed above - the final battle needed to be Dumbledore-free so he couldn't somehow save the day, and killing him off is the surest way to accomplish that. Also set up the whole thing with Snape. However, it was somewhat undermined by Sirius's death in the previous book.
After the fourth installment, it felt to me as if J.K. Rowling felt the need to end the next two books with a death. (The final book was a series of deaths in and of itself, and, honestly, most of those took the easy way out. I didn't feel the loss of any of them, really, except Hedwig.) Sirius was probably the logical choice, by which I mean the biggest shock value. May also have been a case of not knowing what to do with him, though I think that could have been solved. I didn't feel it served any purpose to kill all of Harry's family (except the Dursely's... and really, if there were people who needed killing...) other than just the shock value.
It seemed to me that by killing the character the author in fact marginalized the character. Just watch the movies and this becomes apparent. Other than to die in the fifth installment, what else did Gary Oldman really have to do? And there was a great deal of potential in the character, particularly as a darker foil to Harry, someone he looked up to who wasn't the ideal of the other mentor figures in the book. (Course, maybe that was sort of the moral point. In which case I really dislike his death.)
The Harry Potter series aren't the only case of killing a character for shock value with no other discernible purpose, but it was the one that came to mind. So I guess the moral of the story here is, if your character is going to stay dead, it ought to be for a good reason and not because you wrote yourself into a corner, or wanted to shock the audience.
Death with a purpose, in other words.
There's a third part to this series, and I'll put it up as soon as I remember what it was going to be.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Death of a Character, Part 1: The Replacements
Batman's dead. (Okay, probably should have put a spoiler in front of that, but if you read the comics you know this already. On the other hand, if all you know is the movies, it's unlikely this development will affect Christian Bale's next paycheck.) To the best of my knowledge this event hasn't made the kind of headlines that happened when they - in this case the overlords at DC comics - whacked Superman, probably because by now the death of a superhero is almost commonplace. Of course, this is Batman, and easily DC's #2 (or possibly #1 ) headliner, which makes it a major comics event.
This, in combination with a few other things, got me thinking about what happens when you kill off a character. In the case of Batman (and even, from what I remember, Superman) the fans aren't entirely up in arms because it's unlikely to be a permanent state of affairs. Though that's not a sure thing by any means. This is DC, after all, and while of late past dead heroes have been resurrected with alacrity, the original Flash was dead for quite some time. As was the Green Lantern. So Bruce Wayne might be MIA for a while. Or would that be KIA? Guess that depends on how optimistic you want to be on whether he comes back soon.
In the meantime, Batman continues, much as the Superman comics continued after his "death." In Batman's case they've replaced him with Dick Grayson, formerly known as Robin and then Nightwing. I admit to still reading comics, and so far I like what they've done with the storyline. This, of course, is the first option that comes when you kill off a character: you can replace them. With superheroes this works because they all wear masks anyway, and you don't even need to necessarily kill off the first guy (or gal): they can just retire. DC has an entire pantheon of retired characters, for example.
I think in order to make this approach work, you have to do a number of things. For starters, you have to have a role someone can step into in some fashion. With Green Lantern and the Flash, there was someone else to take over the role. Ditto for Batman. Even over at Marvel, when the original Spider-man bowed out (for a bit) they had someone with his powers who could fill the role. Which is another part to it: you have to have someone to fill the role. A third part, and perhaps one of the most important, is how you get rid of the original character.
Batman died fighting evil. Twice, actually, one in a helicopter crash, and then again later on an alien world. Somehow I like the crash better. But it makes sense, because he's never been the kind of character you see retiring in old age. You don't ever see him getting to old age (with the exception of a cartoon done in the mid to late 90's that I thought handled the issue well). With Spider-man, it turned out to be a clone. Yes, there was outrage that the story had been following an "imposter" and the Peter Parker everyone loved wasn't the real deal and hadn't been since a storyline in the 1970's. I was, at first, one of those outraged fans. Then Marvel Comics did this very nice little mini-series about what happened to the now spandex-free Peter Parker.
That mini-series sold me on the new direction. It gave a nice, satisfactory ending to the character that I had grown up reading, and (I thought) gave Peter the life he deserved. I started reading about the replacement, which brought a new set of storylines and perspectives to the character that, I thought, made a nice change. Marvel didn't stick to their guns, in part because I turned out to be in the minority on that one. They eventually brought Peter back (he wasn't the clone after all) in a storyline that was so convoluted it's become one of the hallmarks of what not to do with a character.
(Which raises another issue in killing off a character, that of what to do when you've changed your mind. More on that later.)
Once you've shuffled your primary character off to retirement, or free from their mortal coil, then you bring in the replacement. It can be a chance to take things in a new direction, explore what-ifs that you couldn't do with the original character, or any number of things that couldn't be done with version 1.0. Or it can be a chance for version 2.0 to be essentially version 1.0 but with a new costume or a girlfriend. (Like the Flash, for example. Or Green Lantern, though that loses points for creating one of the worst cliches regarding the mistreatment of women and being a wasted story opportunity. One of the reasons, I think, the original was resurrected.) In that case, it almost seems kind of pointless. What was the point of killing the character in the first place - other than potential shock value for the "death of" story - if he or she is just going to be replaced by a near carbon copy?
Not every character can be replaced, and often times the whole point of dropping an anvil on a character is because it's simply time to move on. In comics this most often happens with characters whose storylines have run dry. (Until the upswelling of outrage from the fans demands a retcon, of course.) In other media, this may a way to serve the needs of a larger story - often when the dying character is of importance, but not the central main character. Or it may be a way to serve the needs of the author, who has simply grown bored with, or is feeling hemmed in by their own creation.
The ones who stay dead will be the subject of Part 2.
This, in combination with a few other things, got me thinking about what happens when you kill off a character. In the case of Batman (and even, from what I remember, Superman) the fans aren't entirely up in arms because it's unlikely to be a permanent state of affairs. Though that's not a sure thing by any means. This is DC, after all, and while of late past dead heroes have been resurrected with alacrity, the original Flash was dead for quite some time. As was the Green Lantern. So Bruce Wayne might be MIA for a while. Or would that be KIA? Guess that depends on how optimistic you want to be on whether he comes back soon.
In the meantime, Batman continues, much as the Superman comics continued after his "death." In Batman's case they've replaced him with Dick Grayson, formerly known as Robin and then Nightwing. I admit to still reading comics, and so far I like what they've done with the storyline. This, of course, is the first option that comes when you kill off a character: you can replace them. With superheroes this works because they all wear masks anyway, and you don't even need to necessarily kill off the first guy (or gal): they can just retire. DC has an entire pantheon of retired characters, for example.
I think in order to make this approach work, you have to do a number of things. For starters, you have to have a role someone can step into in some fashion. With Green Lantern and the Flash, there was someone else to take over the role. Ditto for Batman. Even over at Marvel, when the original Spider-man bowed out (for a bit) they had someone with his powers who could fill the role. Which is another part to it: you have to have someone to fill the role. A third part, and perhaps one of the most important, is how you get rid of the original character.
Batman died fighting evil. Twice, actually, one in a helicopter crash, and then again later on an alien world. Somehow I like the crash better. But it makes sense, because he's never been the kind of character you see retiring in old age. You don't ever see him getting to old age (with the exception of a cartoon done in the mid to late 90's that I thought handled the issue well). With Spider-man, it turned out to be a clone. Yes, there was outrage that the story had been following an "imposter" and the Peter Parker everyone loved wasn't the real deal and hadn't been since a storyline in the 1970's. I was, at first, one of those outraged fans. Then Marvel Comics did this very nice little mini-series about what happened to the now spandex-free Peter Parker.
That mini-series sold me on the new direction. It gave a nice, satisfactory ending to the character that I had grown up reading, and (I thought) gave Peter the life he deserved. I started reading about the replacement, which brought a new set of storylines and perspectives to the character that, I thought, made a nice change. Marvel didn't stick to their guns, in part because I turned out to be in the minority on that one. They eventually brought Peter back (he wasn't the clone after all) in a storyline that was so convoluted it's become one of the hallmarks of what not to do with a character.
(Which raises another issue in killing off a character, that of what to do when you've changed your mind. More on that later.)
Once you've shuffled your primary character off to retirement, or free from their mortal coil, then you bring in the replacement. It can be a chance to take things in a new direction, explore what-ifs that you couldn't do with the original character, or any number of things that couldn't be done with version 1.0. Or it can be a chance for version 2.0 to be essentially version 1.0 but with a new costume or a girlfriend. (Like the Flash, for example. Or Green Lantern, though that loses points for creating one of the worst cliches regarding the mistreatment of women and being a wasted story opportunity. One of the reasons, I think, the original was resurrected.) In that case, it almost seems kind of pointless. What was the point of killing the character in the first place - other than potential shock value for the "death of" story - if he or she is just going to be replaced by a near carbon copy?
Not every character can be replaced, and often times the whole point of dropping an anvil on a character is because it's simply time to move on. In comics this most often happens with characters whose storylines have run dry. (Until the upswelling of outrage from the fans demands a retcon, of course.) In other media, this may a way to serve the needs of a larger story - often when the dying character is of importance, but not the central main character. Or it may be a way to serve the needs of the author, who has simply grown bored with, or is feeling hemmed in by their own creation.
The ones who stay dead will be the subject of Part 2.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Going After Stereotypes With an Axe
Read a story about Backcountry Mail Service and it got me thinking about stereotypes and other elements of story-telling. At one point in the article someone remarks that just because they're living out where it's remote doesn't mean they don't want to be modern. (One of them gets Netflix, for example, even though it's 30 miles to the nearest town... and probably not all of that is over what would count as "road.") Yet that's one of the automatic assumptions lots of people make about life way out in the woods. That it's all backwards, rustic, oil lamps and firewood and outhouses, and that everyone needs to use an axe for just about anything.
(Actually, the axe is, I have heard, pretty indispensable.)
And while some of these places may not have indoor bathrooms (though in this day and age I doubt that - you can put an enclosed septic system in just about anywhere), that doesn't mean they aren't connected to the world at large. Satellite tv and internet has largely solved that problem - after all you can't get Netflix without a computer I don't think - and so the automatic assumption many make that backcountry equals backwards just doesn't fly.
I think the trick as a writer is to recognize when you're making those assumptions as a shortcut for developing character. I myself have written characters who live off in the back woods someplace, and yes, they are anti-social. This isn't always a stereotype, though, as I had a great uncle Jim who remarked in all earnestness that it was time to move the day he saw three cars go past his house. Not at a time, mind you, just all day. Three cars per day was too much for Uncle Jim. The important part is not to let your setting or other aspects become a too-easy shorthand for establishing your own character. If you don't do that, you've lost a dimension to your character that could have made him or her much more interesting.
Getting back to the news story, it's the little details that can help set things apart from the stereotype and make things more personal, more individual. The fact that the pilot needs a pillow to sit on, or that the other pilots purposefully overbid to make sure the guy who's done the job since the 70's got to keep the contract, are things that make the news article more vivid, more personal, these take the people (who are in this case real people, not characters) from a cookie-cutter image of what people who live out there must be like to a more nuance portrayal of who they really are.
And not one of them was mentioned as having a really big beard.
(Actually, the axe is, I have heard, pretty indispensable.)
And while some of these places may not have indoor bathrooms (though in this day and age I doubt that - you can put an enclosed septic system in just about anywhere), that doesn't mean they aren't connected to the world at large. Satellite tv and internet has largely solved that problem - after all you can't get Netflix without a computer I don't think - and so the automatic assumption many make that backcountry equals backwards just doesn't fly.
I think the trick as a writer is to recognize when you're making those assumptions as a shortcut for developing character. I myself have written characters who live off in the back woods someplace, and yes, they are anti-social. This isn't always a stereotype, though, as I had a great uncle Jim who remarked in all earnestness that it was time to move the day he saw three cars go past his house. Not at a time, mind you, just all day. Three cars per day was too much for Uncle Jim. The important part is not to let your setting or other aspects become a too-easy shorthand for establishing your own character. If you don't do that, you've lost a dimension to your character that could have made him or her much more interesting.
Getting back to the news story, it's the little details that can help set things apart from the stereotype and make things more personal, more individual. The fact that the pilot needs a pillow to sit on, or that the other pilots purposefully overbid to make sure the guy who's done the job since the 70's got to keep the contract, are things that make the news article more vivid, more personal, these take the people (who are in this case real people, not characters) from a cookie-cutter image of what people who live out there must be like to a more nuance portrayal of who they really are.
And not one of them was mentioned as having a really big beard.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Consistency of Dress
I don't write children's stories. Don't ever plan to (well, there is that one "Alien Bill" idea I've had kicking around in my head, but so far that's where it has stayed). Certainly have no intentions to illustrate them, ever, though there have been books brought home from the library where I have thought "I could do that. Heck, I could do better than that." But I don't foresee it as a career option, ever.
Yet, that aside, there are things that puzzle me in children's stories, that cause me to at the very least question the quality control process. Issues that, had they occurred in a movie or adult book, would be torn apart in the name of continuity.
Like the anthropomorphizing of animals, specifically the use of clothes or mode of transport. Now, let me say, straight up, there are two ends of the spectrum here as near as I can tell. There is the Beatrix Potter end, where animals consistently wear clothes, and in general behave in somewhat human fashion without giving up their animal natures. I have no issues of consistency with Ms. Potter; all her creations seem to wear clothes as a matter of choice, rather than necessity, and revert to their furry, four-footed (or webbed, or... whatever frogs have...) selves as needed.
Then there are the bears of Martin Waddell, or rather his illustrator, Barbara Firth. Big Bear and Little Bear, for those who have not read of them are bears without clothes. They have a cave, it is furnished, and they walk about on their hind legs, but by and large they are still bears. (And if you haven't read them, even if you don't have kids, you should do so anyway just to see what a quality children's tale should look like and then find a child to read it to. ... After you get their parents' permission, of course. Going up to strange children and arbitrarily reading to them will, in this day and age, get you odd looks at the very least.) Like the world of Ms Potter, however, the Bears' world is one of consistency. Their level of humanness stays within certain limits.
In between are things like "Angeline Ballerina" and "The Wind in the Willows." Now, before the hate mail starts - I think both are admirable works. Different levels, but admirable works. But both have the same problem. Angelina seems to alter back and forth between having to wear clothes, and running about furclad (as opposed to skyclad... which one might argue no furred or feathered animal can ever quite manage), with no real explanation ever given. It's arbitrary within any give book - one panel she'll have a dress, the next she's showing up for school with just her bag on. And there seems to be no logical recourse to it.
Likewise, Toad in "Willows" drives a car, rides a horse, and gets arrested by people, all of which would seem to suggest a rather gargantuan Toad. (One who, in other hands, might make much of the fact that a toad of such size could easily dine on pets and small children.) Other times, it is made quite clear that the animals are of their natural size and stature, especially in regards to one another. Again, there is no explanation, no logic given - it just happens.
And while the argument can be made that I am reading too much into the story, and that children don't see these things, I point out that my daughter caught one of them in another book. In that one, the cat had a small bag tied to its tail - a bag it seems to lose in the illustrations, but with no explanation given in the text. It just disappears from the illustrations.
Sloppy storytelling, if you ask me.
Yet, that aside, there are things that puzzle me in children's stories, that cause me to at the very least question the quality control process. Issues that, had they occurred in a movie or adult book, would be torn apart in the name of continuity.
Like the anthropomorphizing of animals, specifically the use of clothes or mode of transport. Now, let me say, straight up, there are two ends of the spectrum here as near as I can tell. There is the Beatrix Potter end, where animals consistently wear clothes, and in general behave in somewhat human fashion without giving up their animal natures. I have no issues of consistency with Ms. Potter; all her creations seem to wear clothes as a matter of choice, rather than necessity, and revert to their furry, four-footed (or webbed, or... whatever frogs have...) selves as needed.
Then there are the bears of Martin Waddell, or rather his illustrator, Barbara Firth. Big Bear and Little Bear, for those who have not read of them are bears without clothes. They have a cave, it is furnished, and they walk about on their hind legs, but by and large they are still bears. (And if you haven't read them, even if you don't have kids, you should do so anyway just to see what a quality children's tale should look like and then find a child to read it to. ... After you get their parents' permission, of course. Going up to strange children and arbitrarily reading to them will, in this day and age, get you odd looks at the very least.) Like the world of Ms Potter, however, the Bears' world is one of consistency. Their level of humanness stays within certain limits.
In between are things like "Angeline Ballerina" and "The Wind in the Willows." Now, before the hate mail starts - I think both are admirable works. Different levels, but admirable works. But both have the same problem. Angelina seems to alter back and forth between having to wear clothes, and running about furclad (as opposed to skyclad... which one might argue no furred or feathered animal can ever quite manage), with no real explanation ever given. It's arbitrary within any give book - one panel she'll have a dress, the next she's showing up for school with just her bag on. And there seems to be no logical recourse to it.
Likewise, Toad in "Willows" drives a car, rides a horse, and gets arrested by people, all of which would seem to suggest a rather gargantuan Toad. (One who, in other hands, might make much of the fact that a toad of such size could easily dine on pets and small children.) Other times, it is made quite clear that the animals are of their natural size and stature, especially in regards to one another. Again, there is no explanation, no logic given - it just happens.
And while the argument can be made that I am reading too much into the story, and that children don't see these things, I point out that my daughter caught one of them in another book. In that one, the cat had a small bag tied to its tail - a bag it seems to lose in the illustrations, but with no explanation given in the text. It just disappears from the illustrations.
Sloppy storytelling, if you ask me.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Vampires of Lake Wobegon
No, Garrison Keiller is not venturing into the urban fantasy genre. While I think it would be hysterical if he did, I understand his particular brand of often laconic humor might not carry over well into the realm of vampires and werewolves and fairies. ... Or then again it might. What prompted this post and title though, was a skit on "A Prairie Home Companion" last weekend where in one of the skits he played the author of a series of vampire novels. His books were apparently the kind with much soul-searching and lots of emotion (and tree vampires dragging off young unsuspecting writers), the kind that had entranced the local librarian who often seems to suffer from delusions of grand romance.
It's a recurring skit, the librarian. (For those who don't listen.)
What got me thinking though was how we seem to have de-fanged many of our monsters. I know this has been remarked on elsewhere by others with far more letters and publications after their names than I have, but around about the time psychology started making a major comeback in the public perception, we began to seek reasons and explanations for our monsters. They all have back-stories now, some childhood trauma or longing for understanding that makes them tragic figures. They are almost never *just* monsters.
In some ways, of course, this makes them far more interesting. Having a back story gives the creator/audience something to explore, creates characters with nuance and subtlety, and in some ways allows us to relate to them. Which is not always a bad thing, if by relating we start to understand that there but for the grace of god (or fate, or circumstances, or whatever moves your particular heaven) go we. That a shove here, a push there in a different direction and many of us have the capacity to be monsters ourselves. As writers we're told to do this, that even if we don't put it down on the page, we ought to know our character's history so we can better understand their actions, and therefore write them more convincingly.
Understanding, though, is not the same as sympathy, or worse yet the idea that all monsters are sympathetic on some level. Because they aren't, and this is one of the pitfalls I have found in our romanticizing of our monsters. It tends to make us overlook the presence of true evil, of that monster without a backstory, the monster that just *is.*
I am a fan of modern psychology, and acknowledge that in many instances a large percentage of the criminal element is, in fact, "made" - that is, a product of environment and circumstances as much as any inborn tendency. But not all. Sometimes, the monsters just come into being as they are, no shaping, no environment, just something in them that makes them monsters.
Our figurative monsters - the vampires, the werewolves - have always been extensions of ourselves, the creative manifestation of our fears of our darker impulses. It concerns me that in attempting to relate to the manifestations, we are losing their other purpose: to remind us that evil is real, is lurking out there in the shadows.
And that if we aren't careful, it will get us.
It's a recurring skit, the librarian. (For those who don't listen.)
What got me thinking though was how we seem to have de-fanged many of our monsters. I know this has been remarked on elsewhere by others with far more letters and publications after their names than I have, but around about the time psychology started making a major comeback in the public perception, we began to seek reasons and explanations for our monsters. They all have back-stories now, some childhood trauma or longing for understanding that makes them tragic figures. They are almost never *just* monsters.
In some ways, of course, this makes them far more interesting. Having a back story gives the creator/audience something to explore, creates characters with nuance and subtlety, and in some ways allows us to relate to them. Which is not always a bad thing, if by relating we start to understand that there but for the grace of god (or fate, or circumstances, or whatever moves your particular heaven) go we. That a shove here, a push there in a different direction and many of us have the capacity to be monsters ourselves. As writers we're told to do this, that even if we don't put it down on the page, we ought to know our character's history so we can better understand their actions, and therefore write them more convincingly.
Understanding, though, is not the same as sympathy, or worse yet the idea that all monsters are sympathetic on some level. Because they aren't, and this is one of the pitfalls I have found in our romanticizing of our monsters. It tends to make us overlook the presence of true evil, of that monster without a backstory, the monster that just *is.*
I am a fan of modern psychology, and acknowledge that in many instances a large percentage of the criminal element is, in fact, "made" - that is, a product of environment and circumstances as much as any inborn tendency. But not all. Sometimes, the monsters just come into being as they are, no shaping, no environment, just something in them that makes them monsters.
Our figurative monsters - the vampires, the werewolves - have always been extensions of ourselves, the creative manifestation of our fears of our darker impulses. It concerns me that in attempting to relate to the manifestations, we are losing their other purpose: to remind us that evil is real, is lurking out there in the shadows.
And that if we aren't careful, it will get us.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Characters that Count
This is not going to be a post about math geniuses in fiction, though I admit I enjoy the program "Numbers." No, one of the other blogs I peruse posted what I was hoping was going to be an interesting discussion on who is your favorite character? Only instead of a decent blog entry they copped out, wrote essentially just the question, and then turned it over to comments. Which was a complete disappointment.
So I'm going to do it here.
Now I had to think about this some, and inject a few parameters. Because there are great characters out there. Characters I can do read about again and again and again, and no matter how many times I read their story, I find something new, and enjoy reading them. Books that are on my shelves to stay, no matter what else ends up in boxes. Some of those are the predictable ones, like the Hobbits Frodo and Sam and Bilbo, or Scrooge. And some are the old standbys of Holmes, Long John Silver, and the rest.
Most of the time we only get one or two stories to get to know these characters in. Even in the case of Holmes and Watson, the truth of the matter is they aren't much different story to story. Read "Hound of the Baskervilles" and you know Holmes, mostly. Though the story he "writes" himself was interesting.
There are modern characters, too, like Lestat (when he isn't being too whiny) or Bourne... though I've stopped reading Ludlum as I've gotten older. Even the young Mister Potter has a place on my shelf that will be revisited.
But, if I had to pick just one, I think I'd have to go with Long John Silver. His was the story that I always had the sense there was more too. Yes, Harry Potter will grow up and doubtless have future adventures, and Holmes' coldly calculating manner probably came from somewhere... but those aren't really relevant to their stories. Silver's background is, as it where he goes afterwards. Why he took so fondly to Jim Hawkins, for example.
S0meone penned such a book, and while it was a good read it took liberties with the original source that made it something different. It wasn't *quite* Silver, in other words. But it gave the character more dimensions that it had, and left me wondering about where the original came from, in ways I almost never think about any of the others I've mentioned here.
Though, while I wouldn't mind sharing a dram with him, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to sail with him.
So I'm going to do it here.
Now I had to think about this some, and inject a few parameters. Because there are great characters out there. Characters I can do read about again and again and again, and no matter how many times I read their story, I find something new, and enjoy reading them. Books that are on my shelves to stay, no matter what else ends up in boxes. Some of those are the predictable ones, like the Hobbits Frodo and Sam and Bilbo, or Scrooge. And some are the old standbys of Holmes, Long John Silver, and the rest.
Most of the time we only get one or two stories to get to know these characters in. Even in the case of Holmes and Watson, the truth of the matter is they aren't much different story to story. Read "Hound of the Baskervilles" and you know Holmes, mostly. Though the story he "writes" himself was interesting.
There are modern characters, too, like Lestat (when he isn't being too whiny) or Bourne... though I've stopped reading Ludlum as I've gotten older. Even the young Mister Potter has a place on my shelf that will be revisited.
But, if I had to pick just one, I think I'd have to go with Long John Silver. His was the story that I always had the sense there was more too. Yes, Harry Potter will grow up and doubtless have future adventures, and Holmes' coldly calculating manner probably came from somewhere... but those aren't really relevant to their stories. Silver's background is, as it where he goes afterwards. Why he took so fondly to Jim Hawkins, for example.
S0meone penned such a book, and while it was a good read it took liberties with the original source that made it something different. It wasn't *quite* Silver, in other words. But it gave the character more dimensions that it had, and left me wondering about where the original came from, in ways I almost never think about any of the others I've mentioned here.
Though, while I wouldn't mind sharing a dram with him, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to sail with him.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Classical Strings (Part 2)
One of the other use for those odd details, the seemingly insignificant ones, is when they turn out to either play a much more pivotal role, or when they take an ordinary object and present it in such a way that it challenges our expectations. For the former I think of those little clinic sub-plots on "House." For a while you could guarantee that House's "ah-ha" moment would come from the patients he was seeing in the hospital clinic. There would be something about them that would trigger the right thought, and voila, the principle patient for the week was saved.
(They stopped using this device so consistently as the seasons progressed, which I felt was good because they were starting to overuse it. You have to know when to let something go even when it's working. Preferably while it's still working and before it becomes stale a trite.)
The latter prompts me to think of Stephen King. Now King is of course the master of turning the ordinary into something else. (St. Bernard's, for example, or a rose. Not clowns. Clowns were already evil so forget that notion.) But the one that comes particularly to mind wasn't the central character or bad guy but rather an almost secondary device in the book that could have easily been filled by something else - the sparrows of the Dark Half. Now aside from being the book that taught me the word "psychopomp" - a word that to this day remains one of my favorites - it has also prompted me to never quite look at sparrows the same way again.
King didn't, to the best of my knowledge, make up the role of sparrows. He just took one of the lesser known of the classic psychopomps and elevated it to center stage for a bit. But it's one of those things where you look at something - in this case a sparrow - and have a certain set of expectations (sparrows aren't particularly threatening outside an Alfred Hitchcock film I don't think). Which then get stood on their head.
These sort of things can also be used to flesh out the details of your character. If your character has a guitar, for example, odds are the reader probably expects that character to play rock and roll or country (especially if the readers are Americans). You could go half the book with the guitar unplayed and the assumptions unchallenged, only at a pivotal point to reveal that in reality, the character carries the guitar because they play classical guitar. It's not the sort of thing that just springs to mine, unlike if the character carried a violin or had a cello on the deck of their cabin.
(They stopped using this device so consistently as the seasons progressed, which I felt was good because they were starting to overuse it. You have to know when to let something go even when it's working. Preferably while it's still working and before it becomes stale a trite.)
The latter prompts me to think of Stephen King. Now King is of course the master of turning the ordinary into something else. (St. Bernard's, for example, or a rose. Not clowns. Clowns were already evil so forget that notion.) But the one that comes particularly to mind wasn't the central character or bad guy but rather an almost secondary device in the book that could have easily been filled by something else - the sparrows of the Dark Half. Now aside from being the book that taught me the word "psychopomp" - a word that to this day remains one of my favorites - it has also prompted me to never quite look at sparrows the same way again.
King didn't, to the best of my knowledge, make up the role of sparrows. He just took one of the lesser known of the classic psychopomps and elevated it to center stage for a bit. But it's one of those things where you look at something - in this case a sparrow - and have a certain set of expectations (sparrows aren't particularly threatening outside an Alfred Hitchcock film I don't think). Which then get stood on their head.
These sort of things can also be used to flesh out the details of your character. If your character has a guitar, for example, odds are the reader probably expects that character to play rock and roll or country (especially if the readers are Americans). You could go half the book with the guitar unplayed and the assumptions unchallenged, only at a pivotal point to reveal that in reality, the character carries the guitar because they play classical guitar. It's not the sort of thing that just springs to mine, unlike if the character carried a violin or had a cello on the deck of their cabin.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Classical Strings (part 1)
I was trying to round out a character I have in mind for a future project, and making the usual decisions about what sort of details to include. I'm not talking about height or hair color or those sort of physical descriptors, but the little scene/character builders that often only get a line or two mention in a story.
I'm not out to do this in in great detail, mind you. I've seen (and have, somewhere on my computer) those lists where you're supposed to come up with everything about your character. What kind of music they like, what books they read, the name of their first kiss, pet, and/or houseplant, that sort of stuff. I don't buy into those too much because I think some of it is just a distraction, and worse, if you write a serial character, you take away some of the process of discovery. If I have a character who's going to be around for several books, I expect to learn about him or her along the way. Otherwise what's the point?
Two examples come to mind. The first is a classic, and it's Sherlock Holmes and his violin. Everyone who's ever read a Sherlock Holmes story or two knows about the violin. (And probably the cocaine addiction, but that's another story.) To the best of my knowledge, and while I have read them all it has been some time so I may well be wrong, but as near as I remember, not once did that particular skill ever help Holmes solve a mystery. Yet so iconic is it that it even made it into that "Young Sherlock Holmes" movie, albeit as a brief, almost throw-away moment in the story.
The second is far more contemporary. I won't name the show, but it was on in the 1980's and the main character had a cabin up somewhere in Canada or the Rockies or something. That bit has of course almost become a cliche for the lone hero motif, but what wasn't was the occasional shot of him on his front deck, playing the cello. I have no idea who thought of that, or whether the actor could even play, but it was a neat moment and it spoke volumes about the character.
In both cases the choice of instrument was probably dictated as much by the needs of the story and the medium as it was of the times. Other than the violin, there were few other instruments you could conceive of the Great Detective playing, and few others that would fit in the apartment at 22B Baker Street (the grand piano was definitely out, though I could see Holmes as a pianist). As for the cellist, I suspect someone decided it made for some good cinematography, and was something the lead could play while looking good. The harmonica can make you look kind of silly, for example, even when you're really good at it.
I thought of something similar to do with my character, and my reasons for choosing the instrument I did had as much to do with the character as they did with the particular scene I have in my head, and how that's going to play out.
I'm not out to do this in in great detail, mind you. I've seen (and have, somewhere on my computer) those lists where you're supposed to come up with everything about your character. What kind of music they like, what books they read, the name of their first kiss, pet, and/or houseplant, that sort of stuff. I don't buy into those too much because I think some of it is just a distraction, and worse, if you write a serial character, you take away some of the process of discovery. If I have a character who's going to be around for several books, I expect to learn about him or her along the way. Otherwise what's the point?
Two examples come to mind. The first is a classic, and it's Sherlock Holmes and his violin. Everyone who's ever read a Sherlock Holmes story or two knows about the violin. (And probably the cocaine addiction, but that's another story.) To the best of my knowledge, and while I have read them all it has been some time so I may well be wrong, but as near as I remember, not once did that particular skill ever help Holmes solve a mystery. Yet so iconic is it that it even made it into that "Young Sherlock Holmes" movie, albeit as a brief, almost throw-away moment in the story.
The second is far more contemporary. I won't name the show, but it was on in the 1980's and the main character had a cabin up somewhere in Canada or the Rockies or something. That bit has of course almost become a cliche for the lone hero motif, but what wasn't was the occasional shot of him on his front deck, playing the cello. I have no idea who thought of that, or whether the actor could even play, but it was a neat moment and it spoke volumes about the character.
In both cases the choice of instrument was probably dictated as much by the needs of the story and the medium as it was of the times. Other than the violin, there were few other instruments you could conceive of the Great Detective playing, and few others that would fit in the apartment at 22B Baker Street (the grand piano was definitely out, though I could see Holmes as a pianist). As for the cellist, I suspect someone decided it made for some good cinematography, and was something the lead could play while looking good. The harmonica can make you look kind of silly, for example, even when you're really good at it.
I thought of something similar to do with my character, and my reasons for choosing the instrument I did had as much to do with the character as they did with the particular scene I have in my head, and how that's going to play out.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Characters You Can't Write
I was out to lunch the other day and was joined by an Anonymous Person (hereinafter referred to as AP - and yes, that was a blatant abuse of legalese). Now, to be fair it had been some time since I'd seen then AP, and yes, it was the AP's birthday so the AP had been invited. At first when the AP showed up the rest of us were glad to see her. Unfortunately, that sense of gladness didn't last long. In fact, it was gone pretty much by the time we ordered food.
AP was sullen, moody, arrogant, obnoxious, and grating. Somewhere along the way AP became a self-appointed expert on everything, especially all things medical because she works in a hospital. Not as a nurse or a doctor, mind you, but an aide. Yet still she complained because the ICU nurses wouldn't listen to her. Nor the doctors. She's also become a bit of a hypochondriac, and while clearly she has some issues many if not most of her real problems likely center around her weight. Which she refuses to acknowledge.
So what had promised to be a pleasant brunch amongst five people became an awkward affair amongst six as AP held forth on everything that was wrong at work - that wasn't her fault, everything that was wrong with her - that wasn't her fault, and everything that was wrong with everything else. Which wasn't her fault. And no matter what the topic, she had an opinion, and it was the right one. Because it was hers.
Now they say "write what you know" and speaking for myself at least I have a tendency to populate the locales of my fiction with the people I meet in real life. Not to such a recognizable extent that I have to worry about being sued - I hope - but enough to give shape and form to the characters I write. But some people, despite being real people, are just too something to ever put to page, either because they would be unbelievable or because they would be too unlikeable.
Unless I ever write a disaster story, for example, the AP is simply too obnoxious as is to write into a story. She wasn't even so obnoxious that you kind of start to like them. Let's face it, Scrooge is a miserable person yet we still follow his story. If it had been the AP in "A Christmas Carol" Marley'd probably hang himself with his own chains, despite being dead already. And even if I wrote a disaster story, I'm not sure what sort of grisly demise would be sufficient to make it up to my readers for foisting her upon them for however many pages it takes to kill her off.
Just one of those things where even though it's real, no one would ever believe it.
AP was sullen, moody, arrogant, obnoxious, and grating. Somewhere along the way AP became a self-appointed expert on everything, especially all things medical because she works in a hospital. Not as a nurse or a doctor, mind you, but an aide. Yet still she complained because the ICU nurses wouldn't listen to her. Nor the doctors. She's also become a bit of a hypochondriac, and while clearly she has some issues many if not most of her real problems likely center around her weight. Which she refuses to acknowledge.
So what had promised to be a pleasant brunch amongst five people became an awkward affair amongst six as AP held forth on everything that was wrong at work - that wasn't her fault, everything that was wrong with her - that wasn't her fault, and everything that was wrong with everything else. Which wasn't her fault. And no matter what the topic, she had an opinion, and it was the right one. Because it was hers.
Now they say "write what you know" and speaking for myself at least I have a tendency to populate the locales of my fiction with the people I meet in real life. Not to such a recognizable extent that I have to worry about being sued - I hope - but enough to give shape and form to the characters I write. But some people, despite being real people, are just too something to ever put to page, either because they would be unbelievable or because they would be too unlikeable.
Unless I ever write a disaster story, for example, the AP is simply too obnoxious as is to write into a story. She wasn't even so obnoxious that you kind of start to like them. Let's face it, Scrooge is a miserable person yet we still follow his story. If it had been the AP in "A Christmas Carol" Marley'd probably hang himself with his own chains, despite being dead already. And even if I wrote a disaster story, I'm not sure what sort of grisly demise would be sufficient to make it up to my readers for foisting her upon them for however many pages it takes to kill her off.
Just one of those things where even though it's real, no one would ever believe it.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Big Five Dimensions of Personality
Neuroticism
This is the individual's vulnerability to psychological distress. It includes maladaptive coping responses and self-defeating behaviors. Poor frustration tolerance, compulsive behavior, and unrealistic ideas are typically seen in individuals who are high on this dimension. Individuals low on this dimension show resilience and psychological health. They are free from psychiatric symptoms, have good reality contact, and self-management skills. The main facets for this dimension include anxiety, angry hostility, depression, self-consciousness, impulsivity, and vulnerability.
Extraversion (extroversion?)
This factor refers to the intensity of the need for social stimulation. It includes the capacity for joy and general activity level. Individuals high in this dimension are sociable, fun-loving, talkative, optimistic, and affectionate. Individuals with low dimension are somber, reserved, independent, and quiet. Such introverts are not depressed or pessimistic, but they don't display the high energy enthusiasm characteristic of extroverts. Facets of this dimension include warmth, gregariousness, assertiveness, activity, excitement seeking, positive emotions.
Openness to Experience
This dimension refers to the active seeking out and valuing of experience for its own sake. Curiosity, imagination, flexibility, and tolerance for entertaining unconventional thinking are characteristic of the person high in this dimension. Closed individuals tend to be conservative, rigid and dogmatic. Facets of this dimension include fantasy, aesthetics, feelings, actions, ideas, and values.
Agreeableness
This dimension is the degree to which a person has the capacity for positive feelings and relationships. The polar opposite of agreeableness is antagonism. People high in agreeableness are compassionate, good natured, softhearted, trusting, helpful, forgiving, and altruistic. Antagonistic individuals tend to be cynical, rude, abrasive, suspicious, uncooperative, irritable, ruthless, vengeful, and manipulative. The main facets of this dimension are trust, straightforwardness, altruism, compliance, modesty, and tendermindedness.
Conscientiousness
This dimension refers to the tendency to be organized, persistent, and motivated in goal direct activity-- like jobs, relationships, etc. Individuals high in this dimension are described as hard-working, self-directed, goal-orientated, punctual, scrupulous, ambitious, persevering, organized, and reliable. Individuals low in this dimension tend to be careless, unreliable, lazy, negligent, hedonistic, and lax. Competence, order, dutifulness, achievement striving, self-discipline, and deliberation are the primary facets.
(From Absolutewrite.com )
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