I'm a huge Agatha Christie fan. But I have to admit, I rarely try to figure out her mysteries. I'm too invested in the idea of human uncertainty and randomness. Since a large number of Christie's mysteries rely on split-section timing (during which every single person on the entire planet sticks to a carefully laid out time table), I never see the plan coming.
Take Death on the Nile--nobody saw the murderers running all over the boat? Really? Nobody stepped into the lounge at the wrong moment? Or Evil Under the Sun--nobody else is wandering around on the beach? The "right" person just happens to stay with the body?
Agatha Christie was well-aware that a well-planned murder can be instantly toppled by human vagaries, and she uses this truth to her advantage--often, the second murder victim in one of her books is the unintentional witness: that poor slob who just happened to be wandering around in the wrong place at the wrong time. She also has Miss Marple point out that the best "unprovable" murder is the "accident" (though don't get me started on how easily Christie characters die from eating a few leaves of foxglove or falling down a few steps) rather than the carefully planned murder.
Yet despite their illusory nature, Christie's carefully planned murders work as stories. The murder plan is the structure upon which each narrative is organized. That structure keeps the narrative from running off into digressive pointlessness; it gives the narrative a sense of "reality" even when it isn't much. Narratives without structure are not only boring and difficult to read but oddly enough, often fail to deliver that sense of "this really happened to someone."
How does the need for structure relate to high school?
A good cozy mystery, like a good fantasy or a good romance, has an underlying structure which delivers the product (the narrative). For example, Regency romances use a society containing specific rules and requirements, making it possible to deliver a narrative in which the hero and heroine are kept apart by social pressure, an occurrence that would provoke a "huh?" response if it showed up in a modern setting (it can be done in a modern setting; it is just more difficult).
Likewise, the high school provides a structure that explains, among other things, why certain people keep hanging out together. It also creates specific restrictions and expectations upon which a narrative can lie.
In Buffy, for instance, high school explains why the scooby gang gets together and, also, why they see each other so often. It explains why Buffy wants to be "normal" and also why she needs to be "good." It restricts her movements--she can't be out fighting monsters all day everyday. It poses challenges and growth moments.
The show faltered once the gang graduated. Nobody left town. Nobody got new friends. Nobody, until Xander, took a step into the whole job/bills/apartment stage of life. The suspension of disbelief became harder to maintain.
High school creates an assumption of settlement and order that doesn't have to be explained. This is both its use and its weakness. I imagine one reason Meyer (Twilight) put her vampires in a high school in a small town was to create structure, but the utter silliness of 20-year-olds "hiding" this way pushed my particular suspension-of-disbelief thermometer (which goes fairly high!) into too-hot-to-handle territory. It is much easier to "hide in plain sight" in even a community college than the average high school.
On the other hand, Rowlings' school years inevitably meander on too long, but at least there is a school year--a reason for Harry to stay in one place for so long--that doesn't have to be explained.
I would argue that any fiction book or series that has to sell a long-term idea needs an underlying culture/structure of rules and assumptions. Although any underlying culture/structure will bring along some narrative holes (wouldn't she have been kicked out of school by now?), the benefits outweigh the flaws.
Just look how long Star Trek (U.S.S. Enterprise as Regency culture/murder plan/high school) has lasted!
Of course, the real trick is to create the best culture/structure--one with lots of potential and few long-term problems. And if I could do that, I'd be writing these posts as a wealthy dilettante rather than in my spare time!
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
You Know It is a Character-Driven Romance If . . .
Judge Hardcastle renders his decision in the last installment of Mr. B Speaks! Will Mr. B and Pamela be reunited? The books ends where a good romance always ends: with the characters.
A few years ago, I posted a few thoughts on romances: Why Romances are Good and Where Romances Go Wrong. In the later post, I spend several minutes discussing the difference between "world romances" and "character-driven" romances.
To recap:
But I have NO interest in reading about shopping expeditions or the heroine's problems with her dog, sister, girlfriends, ex-boyfriends, platonic boyfriends, (platonic girlfriends). I don't really care about her need for a new dress, her thoughts on home furnishings, her work worries, her medical worries, her gardening worries. And I SO don't care about shoes.
I want to read about her growing relationship with the hero. If the above things enter into that relationship, fine. If historical background enters in, great. But I want to see the hero and heroine interacting 90% of the time.
However, posting Mr. B Speaks! installments and reflecting on Pamela has led me to the conclusion that Pamela is a character-driven romance while Jane Austen's novels--of which I am a fan--are not.
Here's the argument broken down, with the caveat that not everyone agrees on what constitutes a romance or even a character-driven romance. Also, I am not criticizing Austen but trying to establish where exactly her novels fall genre-wise.
YOU KNOW IT IS A CHARACTER-DRIVEN ROMANCE IF . . .
1. You meet the hero and heroine at almost the same time.
This is true of Pamela and of Pride & Prejudice (THE romance of Austen's novels).
2. You hear both the hero and the heroine's thoughts.
This is not true of either novel. Pamela rarely steps into Mr. B's head (hence Mr. B Speaks!) and P & P does only through the omniscient narrator.
In general, modern romance novels (even the historical ones) are far more likely to give you the hero's thoughts.
3. The hero and heroine spend the majority of the book in each other's pockets.
This is radically less true of P & P than it is of Pamela.
Man of Few Words, my tribute to Pride & Prejudice, concentrates on the Darcy-Elizabeth relationship, meaning I focus almost exclusively on the scenes where they are together. For the second edition, I added more analysis and events from Darcy's point of view (as well as smoothed out the transitions), but the book is still considerably less lengthy than the original.
Mr. B Speaks!, on the other hand, while still not as lengthy as the original (all that exposition!) was surprisingly difficult in sections since even when Mr. B is off-stage, he is still doing stuff that directly involves Pamela. (Austen is a better writer than Richardson but Richardson's ability to keep his chronology straight is impressive). All of Pamela's letters discuss/reflect on Mr. B, even when he is not present (the first few weeks she spends in Lincolnshire). While Mr. B stalks Pamela physically, Pamela stalks Mr. B psychologically, emotionally, and intellectually throughout the book.
4. The external problem facing the hero and heroine involves them directly.
In Pamela, the external problem is Mr. B kidnapping Pamela and his plans to seduce her. Later, the external problem includes Mr. B's nutty sister who wants to break up the marriage.
In P & P, the external problems include Mr. Collins, Elizabeth's embarrassing relations, Darcy's embarrassing relations, Darcy's first marriage proposal, plus Wickham & Lydia. The first marriage proposal causes a rift between Elizabeth and Darcy, and Darcy gets involved with the Wickham & Lydia debacle. But the problems are often solved apart and, in some cases, have only an indirect bearing on the hero-heroine relationship (Elizabeth rejecting Mr. Collins establishes her personal integrity and makes her free to be wooed elsewhere; however, it is difficult to imagine Elizabeth accepting Mr. Collins even if Darcy hadn't been around).
5. The internal problems facing the hero and heroine are solved jointly.
In Pamela, the internal problems are Pamela's fear of being ruined and Mr. B's fear of marriage. Both fears are addressed in conversation between the hero and heroine after the engagement and during the first week of their marriage.
In P & P, the internal problems are Elizabeth's pride at being snubbed as well as her prejudice against Darcy while Darcy's internal problem is his extreme reticence (causing him to appear and occasionally act proud) and his prejudice against Elizabeth's family (can you blame him?). Both problems begin to be solved with Darcy's letter but are largely solved by Elizabeth and Darcy facing their demons on their own before they come together (although Rosings--where they come together after having faced those demons--is a huge turning point).
Conclusion
Pride & Prejudice is an amazing book; it is also far better written than Pamela which stumbles between a character-driven story and a polemic on . . . pick a topic! Yet, while Pride & Prejudice is definitely a great romance (and Richardson's ponderous language is difficult to decipher), Pamela is closer in its goals to the modern supermarket romance (which are often character-driven) than to Austen's novels.
I think Austen is more interested in exploring her characters within their milieu than in moving her hero and heroine together through psychological/physical obstacles. Elizabeth's survival in face of the problem of marriage is radically more important to Austen than answering the question, "How will Elizabeth and Darcy overcome this?" The latter question is answered, but this novel, like Austen's other novels, focuses on the initial problem: survival in society.
And it's great stuff! So "world romance" does have its pointers.
Okay, where's my Lisa Kleypas?
A few years ago, I posted a few thoughts on romances: Why Romances are Good and Where Romances Go Wrong. In the later post, I spend several minutes discussing the difference between "world romances" and "character-driven" romances.
To recap:
Romances fall into two categories: character-driven and "world romance."You may notice a bias here: I dislike chick-lit. This isn't an intellectual-snobbery thing. I read paperback historical romances and even some paranormal romances that would--ten years ago--have been looked at as so much rubbish (although the quality of writing in romances has risen impressively in the last ten years).
I use the term "world romance" to correspond to "world fantasy," novels which are more about the world of the characters than about the characters themselves.
In "world romance," the story centers on the hero and heroine overcoming obstacles in their personal lives before they can meet. In chick-lit, the story centers on the heroine's friends, how often she goes shopping, what she does in her church/work/volunteer group, etc. etc. etc. It's Sleepless in Seattle (don't meet until the end) versus You've Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping, and Lakehouse (ongoing relationship, no matter how strange).
I prefer the character-driven romance (You've Got Mail) to "world romance" (Sleepless in Seattle). I have very little interest in world fiction generally (Tolkien being the huge exception), and so can't comment much on it. Hence, all my comments are directed at the character-driven romance.
But I have NO interest in reading about shopping expeditions or the heroine's problems with her dog, sister, girlfriends, ex-boyfriends, platonic boyfriends, (platonic girlfriends). I don't really care about her need for a new dress, her thoughts on home furnishings, her work worries, her medical worries, her gardening worries. And I SO don't care about shoes.
I want to read about her growing relationship with the hero. If the above things enter into that relationship, fine. If historical background enters in, great. But I want to see the hero and heroine interacting 90% of the time.
However, posting Mr. B Speaks! installments and reflecting on Pamela has led me to the conclusion that Pamela is a character-driven romance while Jane Austen's novels--of which I am a fan--are not.
Here's the argument broken down, with the caveat that not everyone agrees on what constitutes a romance or even a character-driven romance. Also, I am not criticizing Austen but trying to establish where exactly her novels fall genre-wise.
YOU KNOW IT IS A CHARACTER-DRIVEN ROMANCE IF . . .
1. You meet the hero and heroine at almost the same time.
This is true of Pamela and of Pride & Prejudice (THE romance of Austen's novels).
2. You hear both the hero and the heroine's thoughts.
This is not true of either novel. Pamela rarely steps into Mr. B's head (hence Mr. B Speaks!) and P & P does only through the omniscient narrator.
In general, modern romance novels (even the historical ones) are far more likely to give you the hero's thoughts.
3. The hero and heroine spend the majority of the book in each other's pockets.
This is radically less true of P & P than it is of Pamela.
Man of Few Words, my tribute to Pride & Prejudice, concentrates on the Darcy-Elizabeth relationship, meaning I focus almost exclusively on the scenes where they are together. For the second edition, I added more analysis and events from Darcy's point of view (as well as smoothed out the transitions), but the book is still considerably less lengthy than the original.
Mr. B Speaks!, on the other hand, while still not as lengthy as the original (all that exposition!) was surprisingly difficult in sections since even when Mr. B is off-stage, he is still doing stuff that directly involves Pamela. (Austen is a better writer than Richardson but Richardson's ability to keep his chronology straight is impressive). All of Pamela's letters discuss/reflect on Mr. B, even when he is not present (the first few weeks she spends in Lincolnshire). While Mr. B stalks Pamela physically, Pamela stalks Mr. B psychologically, emotionally, and intellectually throughout the book.
4. The external problem facing the hero and heroine involves them directly.
In Pamela, the external problem is Mr. B kidnapping Pamela and his plans to seduce her. Later, the external problem includes Mr. B's nutty sister who wants to break up the marriage.
In P & P, the external problems include Mr. Collins, Elizabeth's embarrassing relations, Darcy's embarrassing relations, Darcy's first marriage proposal, plus Wickham & Lydia. The first marriage proposal causes a rift between Elizabeth and Darcy, and Darcy gets involved with the Wickham & Lydia debacle. But the problems are often solved apart and, in some cases, have only an indirect bearing on the hero-heroine relationship (Elizabeth rejecting Mr. Collins establishes her personal integrity and makes her free to be wooed elsewhere; however, it is difficult to imagine Elizabeth accepting Mr. Collins even if Darcy hadn't been around).
5. The internal problems facing the hero and heroine are solved jointly.
In Pamela, the internal problems are Pamela's fear of being ruined and Mr. B's fear of marriage. Both fears are addressed in conversation between the hero and heroine after the engagement and during the first week of their marriage.
In P & P, the internal problems are Elizabeth's pride at being snubbed as well as her prejudice against Darcy while Darcy's internal problem is his extreme reticence (causing him to appear and occasionally act proud) and his prejudice against Elizabeth's family (can you blame him?). Both problems begin to be solved with Darcy's letter but are largely solved by Elizabeth and Darcy facing their demons on their own before they come together (although Rosings--where they come together after having faced those demons--is a huge turning point).
Conclusion
Pride & Prejudice is an amazing book; it is also far better written than Pamela which stumbles between a character-driven story and a polemic on . . . pick a topic! Yet, while Pride & Prejudice is definitely a great romance (and Richardson's ponderous language is difficult to decipher), Pamela is closer in its goals to the modern supermarket romance (which are often character-driven) than to Austen's novels.
I think Austen is more interested in exploring her characters within their milieu than in moving her hero and heroine together through psychological/physical obstacles. Elizabeth's survival in face of the problem of marriage is radically more important to Austen than answering the question, "How will Elizabeth and Darcy overcome this?" The latter question is answered, but this novel, like Austen's other novels, focuses on the initial problem: survival in society.
And it's great stuff! So "world romance" does have its pointers.
Okay, where's my Lisa Kleypas?
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Great Explosions
Out of commiseration for Mike's feelings of deprivation, I have compiled a small list of great explosions, some from television shows and some from movies:
Television:
If it is going to go off, it should go off with a "bang"!
Television:
- CSI: When the lab blows up ("Play With Fire") and when the garage blows up on CSI ("Down the Drain") because of the editing and unexpected nature of both events.
- The high school blowing up in Buffy because it is so gosh-darn thematically perfect.
- The rocket launcher sequence in Buffy ("Innocence") because it is so gosh-darn dramatic. (You go, girl!)
- The opening sequence in Numb3rs' "Burn Rate" for the editing and music ("Hard to Concentrate" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers). This episode also has a good non-explosion scene when the Bomb Squad uses a remote control robot to retrieve and "blow up" a bomb.
- The season finale of Season 1 Leverage (Part 1) right after Alec says, "Sterling, you're in my house. Get out of my house."
- The exploding gas station (I had to have one!) in X-Files' "Dreamland" and "Dreamland II." A Season 6 episode combo, "Dreamland" combines good story with a strong Mulder-Scully relationship without losing X-Files' classic dreamy feel (plus Michael McKean is fantastic). The exploding/non-exploding gas station is an important clue.
- All the explosions in Die Hard because, well, it's Die Hard (and for the line, "We're gonna need some more FBI guys").
- The exploding submarine in Hunt for Red October since it is such a strong pay-off/resolution to a fairly complex set of variables (plus the pay-off lasts right to the end: "You've lost another submarine?").
- Two tense non-explosions: the mailed package in Criminal Minds' "Won't Get Fooled Again" which the little girl holds until the Bomb Squad shows up plus the mailed package.
- Nero Wolfe's "Murder is Corny" which Nero Wolfe anticipates and prevents exploding by calling the Bomb Squad (what can I say: I really like to watch professionals follow procedure).
- I hate to say it since I love Star Trek but watching ships explode in space almost bores me senseless. Wrath of Khan is an exception since the entire end sequence--including explosion--is so well-done, but I am including Spock's death and the creation of a new planet in that sequence.
- Stargate SG-1 explosions--even in space--are generally quite fun. ("More! More!")
- The FIRST (1977) destruction of the Death Star, an example of how old non-digital technology trumps new digital technology through sheer good story-telling.
If it is going to go off, it should go off with a "bang"!
Monday, June 11, 2012
Girls in School in the Eighteenth Century
In the 19th installment of Mr. B Speaks! Mr. B discusses visiting his natural daughter at her school.
At this point, Mr. B's daughter is about six years old which seems, from a modern viewpoint, rather young to be a full-time student. Remember, Three Men and a Little Lady, where Tom Selleck rescues his soon-to-be-stepdaughter from being packed off to boarding school? The idea of sending a child under twelve away from home for weeks at a time is an uncomfortable one to modern sensibilities. (Though after age twelve, parents often start hunting up ways and means to send the child into someone else's care for a time!)
Pamela actually never does this with her children; in fact, not all middle-class parents did (middle-class families and members of the gentry would be more likely to use an outside school system than aristocratic families who would have governesses/tutors). While often a matter for debate, sending small children off to school--like teen marriage--bore no stigma. Jane Austen was sent to school at age 8 and later at age 10 to the Reading Ladies' Boarding School (see below). In her book Jane Austen: A Life, Claire Tomlin makes a strong Freudian argument that these events, combined with Jane being nursed outside the home for the first eighteen months of her life, weakened the bond between mother and child.
While Jane and her mother didn't have the closest of relationships, Mrs. Austen would not have been criticized for sending her daughter away from home, and Jane herself seems to have accepted her treatment as within the norm (the number of writers whose great works might never have been if they'd ever received solid therapy is truly staggering).
Likewise, Mr. B and Lady Davers (who is the child's legal guardian at this point in the narrative) would never be criticized for sending a 6-year-old to boarding school, especially since Mr. B has gone out of his way to ensure that the school is a good one. Just like schools and day-cares today, girls' (and boys') schools ran the gamut from Jane Eyre's dreary life at Lowood to, well, Sally Godwin's stay with a pleasant woman who takes her girls on outings to the local farmhouse for a good breakfast and a fun romp around the grounds.
At this point, Mr. B's daughter is about six years old which seems, from a modern viewpoint, rather young to be a full-time student. Remember, Three Men and a Little Lady, where Tom Selleck rescues his soon-to-be-stepdaughter from being packed off to boarding school? The idea of sending a child under twelve away from home for weeks at a time is an uncomfortable one to modern sensibilities. (Though after age twelve, parents often start hunting up ways and means to send the child into someone else's care for a time!)
Pamela actually never does this with her children; in fact, not all middle-class parents did (middle-class families and members of the gentry would be more likely to use an outside school system than aristocratic families who would have governesses/tutors). While often a matter for debate, sending small children off to school--like teen marriage--bore no stigma. Jane Austen was sent to school at age 8 and later at age 10 to the Reading Ladies' Boarding School (see below). In her book Jane Austen: A Life, Claire Tomlin makes a strong Freudian argument that these events, combined with Jane being nursed outside the home for the first eighteen months of her life, weakened the bond between mother and child.
While Jane and her mother didn't have the closest of relationships, Mrs. Austen would not have been criticized for sending her daughter away from home, and Jane herself seems to have accepted her treatment as within the norm (the number of writers whose great works might never have been if they'd ever received solid therapy is truly staggering).
 |
| The Reading Ladies Boarding School was situated IN the gateway |
| The current Abbey School for girls refers to this landmark. |
| Check out this wonderful site about places in Jane Austen's life: |
| A Jane Austen Gazetteer. |
Likewise, Mr. B and Lady Davers (who is the child's legal guardian at this point in the narrative) would never be criticized for sending a 6-year-old to boarding school, especially since Mr. B has gone out of his way to ensure that the school is a good one. Just like schools and day-cares today, girls' (and boys') schools ran the gamut from Jane Eyre's dreary life at Lowood to, well, Sally Godwin's stay with a pleasant woman who takes her girls on outings to the local farmhouse for a good breakfast and a fun romp around the grounds.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
A Tribute to Chica, Including a Reflection on the Role of the Narrative as Prompted by a Contemplation of Pet Psychology
Although I seldom post directly about my Examiner.com articles (the link can be found under "Related Links" to the right), I'm posting about this one because of its ties to family history. Examiner.com likes its Examiners to post slideshows, so about a month ago, I decided to create a slideshow of the Woodbury family cat, Chica. To my consternation, I discovered that I had very few pictures of the cat I grew up with (exactly 2) and sent out an SOS to my family. I ended up with 8 more pictures (1 duplicate), and 1 pastel.
My sister Ann, the original owner of the cat, also sent me notes of her experience with Chica (originally "Chichen"). As I began to piece together her notes with my memories, I found myself remembering more and more, such as where Chica ate and Chica's tendency to bring home dead rodents for the family's appraisal.
Unfortunately, I have always had a vivid recollection of Chica's last, long day.
The slideshow also became a trek down nostalgia lane. All the house-related pictures were taken at the house I grew up in: Tecumseh Way in Scotia-Glenville, New York. Chica lived from 1966-1983. I was born in 1971, so until the age of 12, I'd never known a different cat. And I was convinced (up until I put together this slideshow) that Chica lived to be 21.
He lived to be 17. However, my belief that he lived far longer is directly related to the process by which family histories develop. What I had "remembered," however inaccurately, was that Chica oversaw a great many events, including holidays, birthdays, graduations, marriages, and the births of grandchildren. While we humans experience these events, our pets--semi-outsiders--observe them, becoming flesh and blood record-keepers. Through their eyes, the events become singular rather than continuous: timeless points rather than passing minutes and hours whose linear nature makes the past entirely unrecoverable.While I generally avoid assigning anthropomorphic roles to animals, I will defend this one. We humans create narratives from our pasts. Animals have no narratives since they live entirely in the "now" (now, I am hungry; now, I am tired; now, I am fed up with sticky fingers). Memory for animals is all about "the one time I went there and there was food" or "the one time I went there and got covered in syrup."
Family pets are staccato notes on the piano of life. And how else can memories be formed? Singularity is what makes our sense-generating narratives possible.
Thanks to Ann Woodbury Moore for her photos and notes. Thanks to Joe Woodbury for the professional quality photographs that grace this post (a third photograph by Joe can be found in the slideshow). Thanks to Joyce Woodbury for finding and delivering her pastel of Dad and Chica.