Literature's (Potentially) Second-Biggest Copout Ending

The night before last, I woke up in the dark in a stranger's house. Having run away from home alone with no possessions or money to speak of (not my wisest decision, I'll freely admit) I'd been very lucky to run into a random guy who was willing to let me stay at his house for a few days (reserve all judgments until I'm done telling this story, please).


Anyway, this person whose house I was staying in (I never did catch his name) had gone..... um..... somewhere (another detail I didn't catch), so when I woke up in the middle of the night on the pull-out sofa bed in his living room, I was in the unfamiliar house alone. I thought I smelled sulfur, so I got up and started wandering around.


Within a few seconds, the smell had faded, but the darkness and the strangeness of my surroundings was causing me to feel increasingly panicky and I started worrying I'd been awoken by some sound or other indication of sinister happenings, and sure enough, the next time I turned around the living room doorway was mostly blocked by an undefined, hulking figure.


I was naturally terrified, but by this time I'd figured out what was going on, and so without a second's thought I ran straight at the figure..... and straight through it into pitch blackness. For a few sickening moments, everything was dark and I couldn't move.


And then I woke up (for real this time) in my room.


When the paralyzing terror left over from the dream had faded and I glanced at my clock, I was quite surprised to discover that I'd only been asleep for about fifteen minutes.


(An interesting fact to note is that this, a dream in which I was staying at a strange person's house for no good reason and in which a mysterious, threatening form appeared out of nowhere, was one of the most comprehensible and plausible dreams I've ever had.)


It was this nightmare that finally succeeded in getting me to sit down and write this post that I've been half-heartedly foreshadowing for weeks.


See, back in January, I read a really weird book. It involved, among other strange occurrences, the main character (who lived in England in the 1930s) romping across the downs will a full Roman battalion, shrinking himself and his friends to explore a hollow tree with a friendly mouse, meeting a demented time traveler who had a serious crush on Alexander the Great on a tropical island (which he was able to leave by riding a magic dolphin), and later shrinking himself again and accidentally getting stuck in a case of stolen jewels. The book ended with a joyous chorus singing in a cathedral on Christmas Eve. Just as the chorus begins floating toward the ceiling of the suddenly-collapsing cathedral, the main character's guardian shakes him awake and asks him if he had a nice dream. He says yes.


(Now this is going to feel like a non sequitur, but I promise it isn't.) I first completed NaNoWriMo as an assignment for my high school Composition class. In the final weeks leading up to November, the class spent a lot of time preparing, mapping out our plots, asking the teacher questions, sketching our characters, etc. During this time, one girl asked our teacher her opinion of the "And then, she woke up", ending. The teacher answered that she doesn't like it because it feels too much like an easy way out, unless the twist is predictable.


For example, as I indicated I-don't-know-how-clearly above, the night before last I was able to determine I was dreaming before the mysterious figure ever showed up, hence my decision to run toward the figure rather than away from it. According to my high school Comp teacher, that could make a good story: someone having a crazy dream but gradually becoming aware of it. I rather agree.


But what about when the author just springs it on you? Is that really a copout ending?


In my opinion, the dream twist ending can also (sort of) work in fantastical stories, like the one I read back in January, or Alice in Wonderland, or The Wizard of Oz, none of which contain any indication throughout that the main character is dreaming. There are just two problems.



Problem One: Dreams aren't that realistic.


Allow me to remind you again that in my nightmare, I had for unknown reasons left my home empty-handed and moved in with the first friendly, hospitable fellow I happened to encounter. Allow me to also reiterate that this is one of the least bizarre dreams I've ever had. I had an uninterrupted dream once (I say uninterrupted to specify that this was a "coherent" narrative and everything that transpired in it was supposedly happening in the same day) that featured a lake so polluted that submergence in it invariably resulted in death, a blindingly white apartment complex several hundred stories tall, an evil flying toaster (I think there was also an evil flying microwave and possibly a blender), and a dark purple ice skating rink which unexpectedly transformed into a dark purple swimming pool.


My point is that no one and nothing behaves normally in dreams. Dreams are not coherent. They're full of unanswered questions, non-functional premises, and nonsensical transitions. While books like those I mentioned above have inexplicable events, they are also generally governed by some form of logic, however twisted it may be. The Wizard of Oz (I'm talking about the movie version; I don't think it's all a dream in the book) even has a plot. Actually, the book I read back in January had a plot too, but it was confusing enough to be almost excusable as a dream.


Problem Two: It's still lazy storytelling.


Why do people use this ending, anyway? Not being a particular fan of it, I've never even considered using it in one of my writings, but I would guess that the motivation comes from the desire to send the protagonist on ridiculously implausible adventures without having to manage the later effects of those adventures on their everyday lives. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm not sure it matters if I am, since that's what it feels like. The choice feels lazy, which is why my teacher called it lazy.


My least favorite kind of ending ever seems to send the same message of "Hi, I'm the author, but I don't want to have to write in the character development and readjustments resultant from the awesome adventures I'm sending my main character on". The ending in question? The forgetfulness ending. (A prime and much-resented example of this ending can be seen in the "Doctor Who" episode Journey's End.) This is when primary characters have all their memories of all their great adventures and experiences wiped. And it's ANNOYING, because they aren't just lazy, unsatisfying conclusions, they can also be used as pathos-ridden, emotionally manipulative romps (scroll down for applicable rant).


But now I'm rambling. My final verdict(s)? I like Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. I like The Wizard of Oz. I didn't really like the book I read in January (which is, of course, why I've been wanting to post about it). I think that, like most storytelling techniques, the laziness or effectiveness of the "It was all a dream" twist is dependent on the context of the full story and on the author's writing style and abilities.


The fact is, what I like about the Alice books and The Wizard of Oz are the fantastical elements, and I think I would prefer those stories if those elements were real, like they are in, say, The Chronicles of Narnia. I find this ending and the forgetfulness ending disappointing, not just because they feel lazy, but also because I would hate to go on a life-changingly wonderful adventure that made me an explorer or a vanquishing hero only to forget it or discover it wasn't real. These endings aren't only unfair to the readers or the watchers; they're unfair to the characters, too.


Like I said: this ending can work okay if done by a good author. But I like it better when stories are true for the characters within them.


(Although I am quite content to have my freakishly weird dreams remain dreams. Just saying.)


~Pearl Clayton  


 




  

An Impassioned and Sloppy Rant Against Pathos

Warning: Blog post may contain British swear words


See that title? See it? I guess you can say what you will about pathos (and trust me, I intend to) but you can't fault it as being ineffective. Trouble is, I'm supposed to be mad at a character in a book right now. And I am, just not the one I'm supposed to be mad at. But I'm more mad at the author.


At the moment, for school, I'm having to read a certain book. Interestingly, I've read this book before, but it was some years ago and I remembered very little about it. I certainly didn't remember the icky, emotionally manipulative chapter I've just finished reading. I probably blocked it.


This chapter, or more specifically the story arc it concludes, is at its heart about a horse. This horse is the dearest possession of his conviction-lacking, easily controlled, and in all other ways depressing master. The one good thing the master has ever done has been the gentling, training, and befriending of this horse. In an earlier chapter, another character even observes that despite the uselessness and extreme lack of personality of this man, his treatment of his horse shows that he can't be all bad.


CAN YOU SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING YET?????


Here, I'll tell you. Dorky Mr. I-Have-No-Strength-of-Character, who's broke because he gambles too much and can't keep a job, sells his horse to an INFAMOUS horse abuser who insists that he'll just keep the horse until the horse's rightful owner has enough money to buy the horse back. Long story short, the horse is dead within about 15 pages of the transaction.


I think I'm supposed to be mad at the horse abuser. Maybe I'm even supposed to be irritated with the poor, mindless fool who sells the horse in the first place.


But I'm not.


So who (besides the author) do I feel like strangling right now?


Our hero.


Yes, our brave, epic hero, who stands silently by watching the transaction, knowing the inevitable result, and doing nothing. Oh, no, wait, he does do something. He encourages the easily swayed and very trusting owner to sell his horse to the abuser. Hooray for him.


Oh, yes, our hero, who allows the idiotic abuser who knows nothing about horses to have his own way when they're planning how to transport some horses. The result of this? Ultimately, the abuser is left alone with the horse in a creepy wood that makes everybody jumpy, a location which would have been avoided completely had our hero taken charge of the situation from the start.


Our bloody hero, who finally beats the tar out of the abuser only after he's inflicted a good deal of abuse on the horse. And the result of this? When the abuser is later left alone with the horse in the creepy wood and the horse tries to run away and the abuser gets the bright idea of firing a shot in front of the horse, thereby scaring the horse into running back to him, his arm is stiff and bruised. So he misses and hits the horse's leg. So the horse has to die.


And did I mention that when the abuser gets back to his ranch, the horse's rightful owner has arrived with the money he's earned to buy his best friend back? No? Well, he has. And of course, the abuser lies about how the horse died. So the chapter ends on this incredibly happy and uplifting note:


"He rode away in mournful spirits. For he had made so sure of once more riding and talking with Pedro, his friend whom he had taught to shake hands."


Oh.


My.


Word.


You know the really upsetting thing about all this? I'm not even entirely sure that this passage was originally intended to be pathos-ridden.


The book was adapted into one continuous narrative from a collection of short stories the author had written and published previously. This section of the book is actually the first short story in which the book's grand hero originally appeared. It was based on an actual experience that the author had. Reportedly, he witnessed a horse being horribly maltreated and felt wretched because he was powerless to do a thing about it. Thus, he created the story's hero, a brave, strong, just man powerful and willing enough to punish the abuser for his wrongdoing. Now that would actually be a great story and not even remotely pathos-y. Instead of some angst-ridden outcry to..... something, it would have been a story told simply for the author's own benefit, a mental reimagining of events in which a man the author held in contempt and had long desired to punish finally received his just desserts.


Which is why it makes no sense that the horse ultimately dies because of the hero's vengeful actions against the abuser.


Or does the horse die because of the hero's ridiculous silence(s) earlier in the story?


Seriously, why would you create a hero for the sole purpose of avenging a horse's memory, and then have that hero be almost completely responsible for the death of the fictional horse based on the real one?


Also, why make the horse's original owner such a pathetic creature? The notes in the book I'm reading that explain about the story inspiring this passage have no comment on the owner character, so it's impossible to tell whether some version of him existed in the true event or whether he was born of the author's imagination. If the latter is the case, the whole thing becomes even more disgustingly Nicholas Sparks-y. Let's see, how can I make this scene even more affecting? I know! I'll make this horse the only bright point in the exaggeratedly depressing life of a character whom I describe over and over as being a "lost dog"!


(No, seriously. The first chapter in the two-chapter-long story arc is called "Progress of the Lost Dog".)


Is my confusion striking anybody else here, or is my anger making my writing confusing? I really don't know. I'm too furious to really know anything at the moment.


Here's something else I don't know: What emotion is this moronic writer trying to appeal to? What lesson is he trying to teach? Be kind to animals? Don't let yourself get cowed into selling your most precious possession to a known jerk? Don't beat people up? I honestly have no idea. The only person whose conduct is painted as reprehensible is the abuser's, but as I've already said multiple times, it's the hero's negative reaction to the abuser's behavior that finally causes the horse's death. Although I guess that the hero is never blamed. In the horse's death scene, the writer seems to fault the abuser's impulsiveness in firing the warning shot before endeavoring to figure out what is causing the horse's skittishness.


Okay, now that I think about it, I think (key word being think) that the writer's ultimate message is one against losing one's temper. It is anger which makes the abuser abusive and frustration which makes him fire a shot with a bad arm.


Considering this post, it would be somewhat hilarious if that was in fact the author's intended message.


But see, that's the thing about pathos. It invariably seems to have the opposite effect on me that it's meant to. Things that are supposed to be making me sad annoy me. Things that are supposed to incense me do, but I always end up getting incensed at the author or at a character I'm supposed to be rooting for.


Don't get me wrong; as a writer myself, I have no objection to a little emotional manipulation in storytelling. But it has to be subtle. For example, as of right now only one scene in a book has ever made me shed material tears. In this scene, the gravely injured main character has a dream. In this dream, he is surrounded by all the loved ones he has lost over the years, save one, who happens to be the one he misses most of all. When he discovers that she's a long way off and he tries to get to her, all the others hold him back, protesting that they can't bear to lose him again, and dang nab it, I'm tearing up just writing this (granted, I'm in a bit of an emotionally unstable state at the moment). But do you at least see what I mean? Yes, it's emotionally manipulative, but it's not pushing some agenda or trying to force me to act or think in a certain way. (Note: That previous sentence may be redundant. I'm really not sure, my mental faculties now being greatly compromised by my emotional upheaval.) I don't feel when I'm reading it like the writer wrote the scene with the express intention of eliciting strong emotion from me. I just feel like I'm reading a story, a very good story, about love and loss and longing.


As I indicated it would be in the title, this post is sloppy and impassioned, but I really needed to get my feelings sorted into semi-coherent thoughts somewhere, and my blog felt like a reasonably good place to do it.


Here's the really special part: I still have four more chapters I need to read tonight if I want to finish this stupid book by the deadline.


Ugh.


If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mope and eat cookies for a short while. Maybe after that I'll be in a good enough mood to continue reading.


Maybe.


~Pearl Clayton             

Behold My Schoolwork

I've only just arrived home from a very long brunch with my mother and my favorite teacher (and also my younger sister and my teacher's daughter, but they weren't participating in the conversation). At this meal, we discussed (among other things) an essay I wrote for this teacher recently comparing Stephen King to Stephenie Meyer. She asked me to post this essay on my blog, and I, being an obedient sort of a student, am complying.


So here it is, my essay comparing two writers who have almost no similarities to each other..... to each other. Feedback is as welcome as always.

King and Meyer: Sparkles and Crucifixes

 

            In April of 1974, a book called Carrie, penned by a then-unknown novelist named Stephen King, began appearing on bookshelves. Although no one knew it at the time, this horror story was to mark the beginning of an expansive career, covering multiple subjects: aliens and clowns, demonic animals and dystopias, telekinesis and contagion, time travel and possessed buildings and those serving prison sentences for crimes they did not commit. Ultimately, Stephen King would become the most successful American writer in history, at least in terms of sales.  

            Just a few months before Carrie’s publication, a little girl was born who, thirty years later, would become a highly successful American supernatural novelist as well. A King parallel can even be found in her name: Stephenie Morgan, later Stephenie Meyer, named after her father Stephen.

            There are many people in this world who would adamantly insist that the similarities stop there. In fact, there are probably some people around who would be horrified at the mere thought of any comparison being made between these two authors; for while Stephen King is generally hailed as an unapproachable master of his art form, the populace is far more divided on Meyer. Certainly Stephenie has contributed less to the world of fiction than Stephen, having composed only two stories, and those arguably in a rather similar vein; but then again, King is three decades older and three decades more prolific. In short, if one wanted to risk the wrath of Stephen King’s fandom by comparing these two writers, it would probably be best to compare Meyer’s more famous composition, the vampire-and-werewolf populated romance drama that is the Twilight Saga, to King’s second published novel, an eerie tale of vampire terrorization called ‘Salem’s Lot.

            ‘Salem’s Lot paints a strange portrait of dual disturbance: first, a distressing image of extreme darkness and cruelty lurking behind the picturesque quaintness of a small town is created. Second, the vampires are introduced as dark embodiments of a pure and ancient evil that finds itself nearly unchallenged in this ethical black hole. For several nights (vampires sleep through the day, possibly because exposure to sunlight leaves them burning, boiling, writhing, and displaying other such signs of indescribable and unforgettable agony) the vampires walk free, gleefully transforming immorality into immortality through their uncontrollable thirst for blood. Every time a person is sucked to death, the corpse beautifies, reawakening hours later red-eyed, soulless, and desperate for a drink.

            Twilight, despite also taking place in a small town, paints a vastly different picture. Here, vampires are depicted less as hell-bound demons and more as misunderstood almost-humans. While the existence of crazed, murderous, and eternally thirsty vampires is acknowledged and even occasionally turned into a minor plot point, the saga’s main focus is the development of a romance between an intelligent, piano-playing vampire and a listless human girl. The product of a broken home, she seems lost and unsure of herself until she finally finds her forever home and purpose in the arms of her cold and pale other half. Her ultimate transformation into a vampire, and in fact every human-to-vampire transformation described in the series, is accomplished by means of a single venomous bite rather than the draining of her blood. Those few unfortunate humans drunk dry by the unsavory vampires mentioned in the series just stay completely dead. Also, unlike their Kingly counterparts, Meyer’s vamps can and do happily expose themselves to direct sunlight, which does nothing more harmful than reflect off their skin in blinding sparkles. These sun-kissed creatures are described as resembling diamonds or disco balls, made even more beautiful than they were to begin with by the white rays.

            Even the method of killing the beasts differs between interpretations. Like those of his most famous predecessor, Bram Stoker, King’s vampires have to have ash stakes hammered into their hearts and right proper beheadings performed on them before they will officially cease to exist. The youngest vampires, the ones who have not been undead long enough for their bodies to decompose immediately, have to have their mouths stuffed with garlic and their bodies left submerged in running water as extra precautions. Meyer’s creations, on the other hand, are torn limb from limb and incinerated.

            So which version of vampire lore is better?  

            Well, all the dissimilarities would make naming the “better” story a difficult, even impossible task; and even if it could be firmly decided which storyline was “better”, the fact that the two tales are marketed to two very distinct demographics would ensure the constant debate of the verdict. If one wanted to select the more skilled author in this case, it would certainly be more fruitful to consider the writing styles than the actual content.

            Using the most commonly accepted tenants for judging compositions, this distinction would go to Stephen King. King displays an extensive vocabulary, commendable plot-weaving and reasonably well-paced suspense, in addition to a few examples of truly masterful descriptive writing. Meyer’s literature is much more plot-driven, tending to move along at a good clip with little to no descriptive or atmosphere-building detours. This, of course, is a perfectly acceptable writing method, and it can pull readers in and keep them turning pages in a way that Stephen King’s meatier contributions might not. However, the majority of professional literary critics and connoisseurs seem to prefer meatier writing when it is done well, possibly because it is all too easy to compose thought-and-description heavy writing poorly, or because a clear focus on description and atmosphere can lead to a more complete and involved reading experience.

            But beyond story and composition comes another method of judging literature; which story commutes more to its reader? Which tale leaves a reader wiser, more reformed, and more affected? Perhaps it could be argued that this consideration should be left out of a comparison between these two stories, as neither was in any way intended to be any sort of educational or moralistic experience. Still, many scholars would say that no matter the intention of the book, every literary effort should include something of substance to make the time spent reading it worthwhile.

            If anything, ‘Salem’s Lot is a cautionary tale about the wages of sin. Dark, disturbed, and unpleasant characters are left more vulnerable to the advances of the vampires through their sick desires and uncontrollable passions. For example, alcoholism and dwindling faith leave the town’s only Catholic priest, who rightfully should be the staunchest and most triumphant warrior in the fight against the devil’s creatures, incapable of defending himself. The story lacks light. Readers back away from their books with furrowed brows, saying to themselves, “I’ll never act like them, lest something like this happen to me.”

            Twilight is quite the opposite in its portrayal of the human condition. Its message is one of the powers of love, an emotion so strong it can even be felt by those previously believed to be the heartless haunters of dark places. There are dark moments sprinkled throughout the books, like the merciless killing of a newborn vampire conducted by a brutal organization whose purpose is to keep mortals from learning of the existence of the fanged creatures, that remind readers what the story is about, but at its center Twilight is at least attempting to be a tale of absolution and redemption through the healing force of literally undying devotion.

            In spite of this, many critics have accused Twilight of sending an unsavory message to its teenaged female readers. Twilight, they say, subliminally (or perhaps not-so-subliminally) tells girls that they need to have boyfriends to be happy while simultaneously painting a portrait of a boy too handsome and devoted to have a real-life equivalent, thus raising girls’ expectations unattainably high and then making them feel depressed and inferior when they fail to come in contact with anyone who meets said expectations. Other readers have expressed discomfort at the almost abusive nature of the main relationship; after all, the main character, Bella, does not spend the entire series wholly devoted to her blood-sustained sweetheart, Edward. Occasionally, she begins to feel uncomfortable with the idea of Edward’s more vicious nature, but whenever she ventures to question or challenge him, he dodges her questions and fixes his hypnotic eyes on her, leaving her so charmed that she forgets her disquiet. While fans of the book could argue that Twilight is a heartwarming tale of a monster gaining humanity, those who dislike the story could just as easily argue that it is a disturbing depiction of an impressionable girl having her individualism and free will sucked away (pun intended).

            When viewed with uncompromising criticism, neither one of these stories is truly worthy of being called a classic or even of enduring for more than a few years. Neither one contains composition, storytelling, or social commentary of unparalleled excellence. These are books made for light reading. Twilight and its sequels are the sorts of books brought to warm beaches or isolated window seats and perused in the warmth of a drowsy afternoon or the cool of a rain-soaked one. ‘Salem’s Lot was written to be read late at night, crafted to be fleetingly horrifying in the long hours before sunrise heralds the return of monotonous normalcy. They are the books of a moment.

            And yet they remain.

            Perhaps that is where these books are essentially the same. Perhaps that is where these authors proved themselves deserving of recognition. The Twilight series and the various literary contributions of Stephen King are outwardly ordinary, each one noticeably similar to dozens of other books published prior to and since it. But for whatever reason, King and Meyer caught on, and their manuscripts became cultural phenomena that will very likely be read one day by bored high school students studying the literary trends of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. At the end of the day, it hardly matters which one is better written or more imaginative or less morally sound; these books are the same in that they, in spite of whatever shortcomings they have, struck cords with their intended audiences that will keep reverberating loudly throughout the coming decades and beyond.  

~Pearl Clayton

 

 

Rated R for Realism

In my last post, I mentioned that I was planning on writing a post about a book I finished at the end of January. Well, that poor neglected post's been delayed yet again, because a reasonably formidable section of my thoughts and feelings has been hijacked by..... something else.


Allow me to begin at the beginning.


There are many BBC television shows which I am very fond of (by which I mean I obsess over them and care about the characters and storylines featured in them far more than is probably healthy), including "Doctor Who", "Merlin", and most of all "Sherlock". However, before I started watching the latter two shows and before I really got into "Doctor Who", I was introduced to another feel-wrecking, life-ruiningly good BBC television show through the dedicated efforts of a very dear friend of mine who absolutely loves it. This show is called "Robin Hood".


It ran for three seasons, from 2006 to 2009 (it would probably have lasted much longer if the creators hadn't done something REALLY irritating in the Season 2 finale that cost them the loyalty of a large chunk of their viewership, but that's not really relevant). It chronicled the sweeping adventures and impressive archery skills of the legend known as Robin Hood (no, duh). The titular rich-robbing bow-wielding character was played by an actor named Jonas Armstrong. He was amazing as Robin, but I'd never seen him in anything else.


Until now.


My Internet homepage is IMDb (The Internet Movie Database), a website containing information on basically everybody who's ever done anything anywhere near a camera (that's a terrible description of it, by the way; you should probably just go check it out for yourself). IMDb's homepage features a section on upcoming movies. This section, which changes its lineup almost daily, has posters or stills from in-production movies which can be hovered over to reveal a summary of the movie or clicked on to unveil new trailers, interviews, or clips. I always hover over the pictures/posters I haven't seen before, just to see whether the films look any good at a glance.


A few days ago, when I opened Internet Explorer, one of the posters featured in this section was for a movie entitled Walking With the Enemy. I read the description and had only vague interest. And then I looked up; there, written along the top of the poster, was the name Jonas Armstrong.


I'll admit that I flipped out slightly.


And then I reread the description.


And then I watched the trailer.


And then I flipped out some more, emailing my best friend the news and the trailer. I've been flipping out periodically ever since.


From the trailers (there are two now) that I've watched, this is the summary I've gathered: a young Hungarian Jew (played by Jonas Armstrong, complete with adorably fake-sounding Hungarian accent) living during World War II and Germany's invasion of Hungary comes to possess the uniform of a high-ranking Nazi officer. Donning the uniform, he proceeds to use his stolen influence to belay kill orders and save thousands of lives.


I have three recurring thoughts about this film:
1. Oh my goodness this movie sounds AMAZING.
2. I might just be viewing this through crazy-obsessive-fangirl glasses, but EEK! This character sounds like Robin Hood!
3. Dang singing dancing flam, this is a Holocaust movie. NOW WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!


Yeah.


Technically, the movie hasn't been rated yet, but if this movie isn't rated R, I'm going to be shocked. (And then I'm going to start squealing delightedly and then I might have some sort of full-on mental and emotional breakdown, but don't worry. It's going to be rated R.)


Honestly, I don't know why I'm so excited for this movie. I've actually decided that I might see it even if it is rated R. I think I must've finally gone insane. I mean, after I happened to see about 40 minutes of Schindler's List against my will, I felt sick and empty and ready to brain Steven Spielberg with a brick. Then I composed more than one lengthy rant about the pointlessness of Holocaust movies and how much I hate the very fact of their existence. (And that's not even addressing the fact that if it's rated R my best friend won't watch it with me and I'll have no one to cry with.) So what's different here?


Okay, so maybe it's Jonas Armstrong, but I prefer to believe my shallowness hasn't progressed to such a level that I'm willing to risk the stability of my sanity and my emotional competence (not to mention break the whole 17-and-over rule) just to see him in a movie. And like I said, I think that the story looks amazing. He's risking everything and consorting with his enemies because he's willing to do anything to save lives. Just..... yeesh, I want to see this movie.


But on the other hand, I know Jonas Armstrong's going to die (how? The second trailer blatantly spoiled the ending), and I know it's probably going to be in some horribly gruesome way. Most likely it will resemble Schindler's List in that it will contain copious amounts of sickening brutality (random aside: why do filmmakers seem to think that the more ridiculous the amount of violence in a World War II movie is, the more we're going to be moved? If anything, I get rapidly desensitized, and then apathetic, and then bored). I could easily leave the theater as the credits finish playing feeling ill and angry and resentful and regretful. And yet for some reason I don't begin to understand I still feel only excitement and anticipation whenever I think about it.


I might need psychiatric help.


Now let's randomly change the subject.


I've just come from watching the Oscars, at which another movie that I really want to see just won Best Picture. It's called 12 Years a Slave. I've heard it's amazing. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences deemed it better than any other movie that came out last year. But it's rated R and I don't want to see it because it's depicting slavery as realistically as it blang well can, so there's rape and whipping and probably death and I don't want to see any of that. Except that I do. Except that I really really don't.


And so now we come to the point of this rambly, scatterbrained mess of a post: Guys, let up.


I want to see PG-13-rated versions of 12 Years a Slave and Walking With the Enemy. Why is that so much to ask? Why can't you show a freeman escaping slavery and a Hungarian Robin Hood saving thousands of people's lives without throwing in so much darkness that a sheltered, overly sensitive 15-year-old can't watch without feeling mentally scarred and emotionally drained? Look, I get that the age of slavery and World War II were horrible times, as brutal as they are depicted in these films and worse. I'm not asking for sugarcoating. All I want is a movie chronicling these times that fills me with more hope than hate.


Like I said, I might still watch Walking With the Enemy. Heck, I might even still eventually get around to watching 12 Years a Slave. But the fact remains that I don't go to movies to witness the ultimate depths of human suffering. If I wanted to see pure, disheartening realism I would watch a documentary. I watch movies because I want to smile. I want to feel hopeful. I want to feel fulfilled. I want to feel like I have the power to make something out of my life; and when filmmakers stuff the movies that seem most capable of causing these feelings to the brim with so much horror that I end up feeling nothing, no emotion good or bad, it's disappointing, at least in my opinion.


But hey, I guess if it wins you an Oscar.....


~Pearl Clayton


PS. Walking With the Enemy also has Ben Kingsley in it. I like Ben Kingsley. A lot. Just not as much as Jonas Armstrong.          


 

My Top Five (Maybe) TV OTPs: A Valentine's Day Post

Hello.

So, yeah. So far I'm not really excelling at the whole "blogging" thing.

Valentine's Day was four days ago, and I'm just now today getting to my commemorative post. Also, I have a great idea for a post inspired by a book I finished reading at the end of January. (Shifts awkwardly in chair.) Yeah, that should be showing up sometime in the next few days.

I hope.

Anyway, Valentine's Day. The day of love. The day for getting roses and chocolates, teddy bears and fancy cards.

Or, if you're awesome like me, the day of going over to your best friend's house and marathon-watching all six episodes of the 1995 BBC Pride & Prejudice (a hangout complete with dress-up clothes, tea, and a basement elaborately outfitted in Austenian finery).

We win.

For a while, I wondered what I should blog about to honor this surprisingly significant holiday. For a while, I thought I could write about the aforementioned hangout, but really there isn't much else to say about it that would relate to Valentine's. I thought perhaps I could analyze Valentine's Day's origins, or question why Valentine's Day was always the most important day of the year at the high school I briefly attended, but neither of those options seemed to have much to do with fiction. Then I thought I could compose an elaborate treatise outlining my feelings on recent portrayals of romance in fictional stories, but such a post struck me as daunting and I therefore allowed days to pass without venturing to begin writing.

Finally, I realized I'd have to get on it if I really wanted to have a romantically-inspired post posted anywhere near February 14th. So I decided, "What the heck, I'll just tell them my top 5 television OTPs".

Now, for those not "in the know", OTP stands for One True Pairing, or the one fictional couple whom, above all others, you want to see live happily ever after. Technically, you're only supposed to have one, but I think there are few fangirls with the emotional and psychological maturity required to accurately to pick favorites. I, like many proud fiction obsessives, have many OTPs (so I suppose I should just refer to them as TPs, but that sounds a bit odd, so I'm just leaving the O on).

The reason that this list is my top five TV OTPs is that if I was selecting OTPs from all fictional mediums I would never succeed in narrowing the list down to five. The reason for the "maybe" in the title is that I selected very quickly and went with early instincts because I want to get this posted as soon as possible, and thus this list might be completely recast and/or reordered by tomorrow morning. But now I'm rambling.

And so, without further ado, my top five (as of this moment) TV OTPs.

5. Sherlock and Molly

 

These two were ranked much higher in my mind before Series 3 aired, as Series 3 contained a few developments in Molly's character that annoyed me to no end. But in the first two series, Molly was a sweetheart, starstruck by Sherlock's brilliance and glorious black curls (not that she ever actually says that, I'm just making assumptions), who was painfully awakened to our poor inept protagonist's none-too-gentle qualities. But even after that, Molly continued as Sherlock's readiest helper, and the end of Series 2 seemed to indicate that Sherlock thought more highly of Molly than we few Sherlolly enthusiasts had ever dared to hope. Even in Series 3 I found things I could approve of, and I continue to hold a dreadfully forlorn but ruthlessly stubborn hope that we'll get some movements in a romantic direction in future episodes.

4. George Crabtree and Emily Grace

 

This pairing is possibly the most random one on this list (possibly; you haven't gotten to number three yet). They're from a criminally under-watched Canadian crime show called "Murdoch Mysteries". Crabtree is (in my opinion) one of the best characters on the show, goofy, awkward, and thoroughly adorable. Dr. Grace is a brilliant assistant medical examiner introduced at the beginning of Season 5. By the end of that season, it seemed like George was finally making some real headway with his strong-willed crush. I have yet to see Season 6, but I'm hoping to see a lot more scenes with these two. :)

3. The Ninth and/or Tenth Doctor and Mrs. Who

 

Firstly: Mrs. Who is a character from the book A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle. Secondly: Yes this idea only came to me because her name is Mrs. Who. Thirdly: Despite the fact that there is no foundation whatsoever for this idea except that her name is Mrs. Who (which doesn't really even count for much) a very interesting fanfiction could conceivably be written for them. After all, Mrs. Who is an inter-dimensional being capable of traveling through time and space and across universes. She also, in the movie at least (deep dark confession: I haven't read the book in a long time) speaks mostly in quotes from famous authors, a method of communication not entirely foreign to The Doctor. It is reasonable to assume that, were their paths to cross somewhere out in space, The Doctor would be fascinated by this remarkable creature, and Mrs. Who would be awed and impressed by this not-quite-human madman with his box. Plus, Mrs. Who, like The Doctor, has an incredibly long lifespan. Mrs. Who could travel with The Doctor indefinitely, experiencing the joy and pain and sheer dark enormousness of the universes with him, always sharing her own unique perspectives on the sights they saw.

So it's farfetched. Just remember that it is a generally accepted unwritten rule of the fandom community that one does not question another's OTP.

2. Merlin and Freya

 

Freya appears in just two episodes of the show "Merlin". Hers is a tragic story. She's cursed, lonely, outcast, and drowning in self-hatred. But, unexpectedly, into her life shines a bright glimmer of hope and acceptance in the form of Merlin, a young and innocent boy hiding a secret almost as dreadful and just as deadly as Freya's. In a way, he saves her life, and she irrevocably changes his. It's sad, it's powerful, it's way too short, and it's my favorite love story on "Merlin". There's not really much else to say about it.

Now, before we get to number one, let me just say that honorable mentions include (but are not limited to) Gisbourne and Meg from "Robin Hood", The Eleventh Doctor and Clara Oswin Oswald, Amy and Rory Pond, Amy Pond and Vincent Van Gogh, and Kensi and Deeks from "NCIS: Los Angeles".

But on to number one.

1. The Ninth and/or Tenth and/or Eleventh and/or War Doctor and Rose

Hi. I'm predictable.

Really, what is there to say about these two? They're great. They go perfectly together.

The Doctor first meets Rose shortly after his regeneration into his ninth form. He rarely shows it, but he's emotionally damaged, not to mention guilt-stricken, by the recent Time War. He's not the same brightly attired, generally cheerful alien made famous in Classic Who.

Rose changes all that. Rose gives him a reason to travel again (a reason besides saving worlds, that is). She turns him back into an explorer. She shows him that he still has a purpose and that there are still beautiful things scattered across the galaxies. By the time he's wearing his tenth face, he's also thrown away his all-black, leathery attire and replaced it with a jaunty suit and bright red shoes. On his part, The Doctor shows Rose the expanse of existence, the life beyond the shop she's dreamed of. At his side, Rose Tyler becomes a heroine of her own epic story, the saver of worlds, the host of the time vortex, the witness of history. Meeting each other ultimately leads to horrible pain for both of them; but without each other, neither one would ever have succeeded in becoming all that they could be.

So there you have it. Five wonderful pairings.

I belatedly wish you all a very happy Valentine's Day.

~Pearl Clayton 

   

Him of All Men - The Beginning of Many Months of Thought

Last Sunday, I saw the Sherlock series 3 finale (I would've written about it before now, but I've been unwell). Titled His Last Vow and penned by Steven Moffat, a man famous for inflicting various kinds of pain on his longsuffering devotees, this episode was most anxiously entered in upon. But it did not disappoint, and, at least in my opinion, it caused more joy than pain.


I've been struggling to decide what to blog about in the heady aftermath of last week's episode. Let's see, I said to myself. Should my post be just focused on His Last Vow, or should I debrief the whole season? Should I talk about the excellent writing? The directing? The heroic leanings that Sherlock possesses to which only he is blind? Mind palaces? An exploration of the causes, justifications, and effects of dishonesty?


This is an incredibly psychologically, artistically, and emotionally complex show that deserves to be lauded for its many superiorities and discussed for the complicated issues that it often introduces. The task of choosing the topic which can be used to most thoroughly explore the high points of this series and episode proved to be far from easy.


So, in the end, I went with a title naming an idea which I think reaches all the way back to the first episode - Him of All Men.


In A Study in Pink, Sherlock's premiere episode, John Watson, a war veteran known to be suffering from trust issues, is asked, "Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?" And indeed, as the show's drama unfolds, it becomes clear that John Watson has chosen for his best, closest, and most trusted friend the socially inept, supposedly sociopathic, insensitive, and unpredictable Sherlock Holmes.

Him of all men.


Likewise, surrounded by people he feels incapable of understanding, respecting, or caring for even remotely, Sherlock chooses to be Watson's protector. Throughout the course of the nine episodes, Sherlock places John's interests further and further before his own, vowing to do whatever it takes to guard Watson and his family from all that would seek to harm them, and delivering on his promise. Concern for his friend, for John Watson, is enough to shatter Sherlock's composure and lead him to acknowledge his shortcomings. It's probably even enough to drag Sherlock back from death's door.


Him of all men.


Of all men, Sherlock is chosen by Jim Moriarty as an ideal sparring partner, the perfect foil to Jim's schemes.


Of all men, Sherlock becomes the obsession of the emotionally detached Irene Adler.


After years of facing all manner of psychopaths and all forms of soulless despicability, Sherlock is most disgusted by Charles Magnusson, a comparatively harmless newsman who keeps situations going the way he wants them to through skilled blackmailing.


Him of all men.


It is in instances like these that the masterfulness of the show shines through especially clearly. Each one of these choices, the isolation of one above all else, creates conflict, character development, and questions to be pondered. Why does John choose to trust Sherlock? Why does Sherlock so greatly abhor Magnusson? What is the difference between Magnusson and the other criminal masterminds who seem more to fascinate the great detective than incite him?

The stories are intricately woven, with obvious cooperation between the three writers leading to great foreshadowing and continuity. To watch these writers (Steven Moffat in particular) talk about their scripts and storylines is immensely enjoyable. They obviously glean so much excitement, satisfaction, and fulfillment from this show that their enthusiasm becomes unavoidably infectious. The devotion to original Doyle plots and dialogues and painstakingly exact transference of the classics into a modern setting provide more evidence of the creators' love of Doyle's work even than their own fanboy testimonies. They chose Sherlock as their hero, as the character they would recreate and revitalize in the most skilled and respectful way possible, and even if it does take them a ridiculously long amount of time they have and will continue to faithfully and awesomely depict him in his newest setting.


Him of all men.






These are just a few of many things our poor fandom will have to think about over the coming long months and possibly even years of the third hiatus. While the show heads have mentioned an ideal release date of this Christmas for series 4 (which would be BEYOND amazing, by the way) they all seem doubtful that such a "short" hiatus will actually be accomplishable. Moffat has apparently said more recently that it's more likely we won't be getting new episodes or a resolution to our shiny new cliffhanger until 2016.


I've said it before, I'll say it again: This ain't an easy fandom to be in. But we Sherlockians will stick with it to whatever end. Why?


Because this character, this flawed, often irritating, more often awkward and insensitive character, is one we have chosen to devote ourselves to. We'll wait it out, we'll wait out every hiatus, because we know that at the end of the wait he'll be back to make us laugh, make us ache, make us cheer, make us cringe, and come out a better, more developed character that we can root for.

I know I sound like a broken record. Say it with me anyway:


Him of all men.
~Pearl Clayton