Rank in Persuasion's Persuadable: Chapter 4

In Chapter 4 of Persuadable, Will Elliot discusses issues of marriage, rank, and entailment with his good friend, Colonel Wallis.

I will be discussing entailment in more detail when I reach the final chapter. In the meantime, if you would like to know more, check out the excellent Republic of Pemberley website for a good definition of an entail, including its ramifications.

For this post, I will be concentrating on Will Elliot's desire to marry "up." Austen gives us little information about Will Elliot's motivations in suddenly reconnecting with the Elliot family. Although movie versions often like to make him poor--he wants to preserve his inheritance for its monetary value--this is not accurate and does not make much sense.

Mr. Elliot is well-off. But even if he needed to marry for money (just money), the Elliot sisters are not his best choice. Although the Kellynch property is better than nothing, it is heavily encumbered. And neither Anne nor Elizabeth can bring him a substantial dowry--more than the Bennet sisters, of course, but not enough to attract fortune hunters.

In other words, if Mr. Elliot's motivation was purely monetary, he could do better elsewhere. Austen seems to be completely aware of this; she heavily implies several things: (1) Mr. Elliot is honestly attracted to Anne; (2) Mr. Elliot is interested in the benefits that pure rank can bring him.

Which brings me to the point that in Austen's England, pure rank still meant something. It still does now too, of course, but these days it is closer to the equivalent of Hollywood celebrity-dom than to anything with real teeth. But in Austen's day, although the middle-class was making truly astonishing inroads regarding its own sense of privilege, rank still ensured a terrific degree of sycophancy (if not quite as much as Sir Walter imagines).

The amazing Freeman and Cumberbatch:
Watson & Holmes.

Consider that in Arthur Conan Doyle's Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, written almost 100 years later than Austen, Holmes--Holmes!--is still a little out of his depth when dealing with royalty. Holmes is THE quintessential middle class hero, and Doyle clearly saw him that way. And yet, even Holmes kowtows a bit to a noble name. (The fact that he doesn't kowtow more indicates his egalitarian nature.) It would be another 100 years before a Holmes would casually and unrepentedly enter Buckingham Palace stark naked.

What is so extraordinary about Austen is that she is completely aware of this issue; even while she drives home the non-rank (in terms of nobility) merit of deserving seamen, she recognizes that her world is dictated by thoughts and expressions of rank. At no point does Austen try to sell the reader on everybody-is-just-the-same Pollyannishness. In her lifetime, power, rank, nepotism, and moving-up-the-ladder are practically one's purpose in life (a history of Austen's family reads rather like the history of a bunch of people constantly on the make).

Not for nothing was Austen's own brother adopted into the wealthy Knight family! Consequently, there isn't a lot of "they may be poor, but at least they luv each other!" stuff in Austen's writing. Elizabeth Bennet not marrying Mr. Collins isn't simply romantic; it is adherence to a tough principle that might, in fact, leave Elizabeth wondering if her friend Charlotte made the better choice.

Mr. Elliot is not quite in the same position--he has more options. But the allure of marrying for rank would be as great for him as the allure--for the Bennet sisters--of marrying for comfort and security.

Whether giving into that allure is worth the mental sacrifice is something Austen wants us to consider (even if Austen has already made up her own mind).

Will Elliot was fully resolved to marry for rank this time around.

“Duchesses have just as many bills as shopkeepers,” Jeremy pointed out.

Colonel Jeremy Wallis was Will’s oldest friend, a stable point since grammar school, one of the few people Will entirely trusted.

“Besides, if you have a baronetcy, you can marry however you wish—high, low, or sideways.”

Will sat in the Wallis’ sitting room in Bath. He’d stopped to see Jeremy and his wife, Stella, on his way to London. He slouched in a large overstuffed chair, legs stretched across a square rug.

Stella Wallis said, “You might not get the baronetcy if Mrs. Clay has her way.”

Will raised one brow, then grinned at the sight of Stella perched on her husband’s knee; one of her hands caressed the sloping evidence of her pregnancy. She and Jeremy were a compatible couple: approachable, unpretentious, full of easy gossip and commonsense.

“Who’s Mrs. Clay?”

Jeremy grimaced. “Your Cousin Elizabeth’s companion. Miss Elizabeth and Sir Walter are in Bath, you know.”

Will raised both brows.

“Sir Walter would never marry a mere companion,” he said.

“Oh, she’s clever,” Stella said. “She’s already wriggled her way into Miss Elizabeth’s confidence. Nurse Roark says Miss Elizabeth tells Penelope Clay all her secrets.”

Nurse Roark went everywhere in Bath, nursing babies, infirm gentlemen, and sickly gentlewomen. If a rumor needed confirmation, Nurse Roark could do it.

Stella continued, “Roarky thinks Mrs. Clay should marry Sir Walter; she says all older gentlemen should marry again—”

“Their nurses presumably,” Jeremy said, cuddling her, and they all laughed.

Jeremy said more seriously, “Mrs. Clay was married before—and produced two sons which means she can produce them. And there goes your baronetcy.”

Will had always appreciated Jeremy’s grasp of basic issues, such as money and entailment.

“Of course, Sir Walter could try to break the entail,” Jeremy said now.

“He didn’t try to break it to clear his debts. His ego is bound up in the property. Besides, he can’t break it without contacting me, which he’ll never do. I think we’re—what’s the term?—estranged.”

“And he may believe he can still sire a son, pushing you aside.”

Will shoved out of the chair and strolled towards the sitting room’s window. It showed a long vista of walls and shops that ended with the commons that edged Bath. Colonel Wallis had lodgings in Marlborough Buildings.

Will said, “I suppose I should call on my relatives when I return here from London.”

“You could marry into the family,” Jeremy said. “Sir Walter has such a passion for family ties, he’d respect a son-in-law’s opinions.”

“I won’t marry the snob,” Will said, meaning Elizabeth. “There’s another unmarried sister. She’s reputed to have a sweet character.”  

Jeremy said, “Or you could seduce Mrs. Clay,” which got them all laughing again.

Scarecrow and Mrs. King Fan Fiction: "There Goes The Neighborhood," Part 3

Lee followed Judy Wainwright’s red sedan to the airport freight office. From the way she greeted the security guard, Lee assumed she’d been there many times. The security guard even helped her carry her Connie Beth boxes into the office. Lee snagged two boxes from a near-by truck and followed them inside.

The desk attendant also knew Judy, and Lee reflected how handy it would be for a group of international gunrunners to have a friendly, middle-aged Connie Beth girl charming guards and airport officials left and right (“Oh, that’s Judy. She could never do anything inappropriate.”).

Judy’s packages were going to Central America.

Lee left the freight office and nabbed a Connie Beth box from Judy’s open car.

When he got to his car, he discovered that the very friendly security guard had given Lee a parking ticket.

* * *

Back at the agency, it took Lee less than fifteen minutes to dismantle the hairdryers in Judy’s package and reorganize the components into a very real, very lethal gun.

As he worked, Francine started to tease him about his “married life.”

“You know,” Lee told her as he slid the last component into place. “I’ve gained a real appreciation for the generosity and stamina of the American housewife.”

She grimaced at him, and he laughed while he waved Billy over and demonstrated the connection between hair dryer and gun.

“That’s why LeMarque had Harriet Rosement’s name on him,” Lee said. “She was supplying him: his very own Connie Beth girl.”

“And it floated right by customs because we’re looking for whole weapons, not bits and pieces. And these housewives are the key to the whole thing.”

“With generosity and stamina,” Francine said dryly.

“But how could Connie Beth smuggle out enough to make it pay?”

“Billy, are you kidding?” Francine said. “In every PTA and car-pool in America, there are half a dozen Connie Beth girls. It’s a National network. Like the Masons."

“They only use the women they can really trust,” Lee said. Organizations like Connie Beth would have a huge turnover of temporary saleswomen, but the ones who stuck it out—“Golden Circle Girls who personally ship the orders without knowing it.”

“Thousands of little packages going out every day through thousands of different freight offices.”

“Very tough to trace.”

“We gotta get someone inside Connie Beth, and see exactly who’s involved. Oh, and pull the King woman out of this.”

But Amanda was exactly in the middle of all of it. In fact, as her “husband” knew, she was on her way to a Connie Beth meeting at that moment.

Lee raced from the room. 

* * *

Lee arrived at the Connie Beth meeting just a very disgruntled Harriet Rosement was leaving.

“Your wife’s inside with Bobby Bushard,” she snapped at Lee’s query. “Do you know they made her a Golden Circle girl?”

I’m sure she’d rather be anything else but, Lee would have said but getting to Amanda took priority over snapping at Harriet Rosement.

He was stopped by two goons outside Bushard’s office; he didn’t resist. The quickest way to get to Amanda was to have someone take him to her.

She did not look pleased when the goons thrust him inside Bushard’s office.

“Oh, no, what are you going here?”

“Rescuing you,” he told her, feeling somewhat offended that Amanda wasn’t looking more relieved. He was a professional. Didn’t she trust him?

Bobby Bushard was a square-built man a few inches shorter than Lee—not exactly the sort of person Lee would have associated with cosmetics; he’d imagined someone thin and elegant with a sweeping mustache: a slightly more flamboyant Vincent Price.

But then Lee caught sight of the office’s huge portrait of a reclining Southern belle. So, Bobby Bushard was a Mama’s boy—that is, a Mama’s boy who dealt in guns. That made a kind of sense.

“Okay, kids,” Bobby said to Amanda and Lee in an avuncular manner. “Let’s take it from the top. Tell me about yourself and don’t skip a beat. Once I get nasty, not even Connie Beth’s top of the line can make those faces adorable again.”

Lee glanced about the room, assessing risks and potential exits. One goon had stayed; he stood are one side of the room while Bobby Bushard lounged against the desk on the other: a straight-forward physical confrontation was out of the question.

Lee turned to Amanda.

“Well,” he said in his best put-upon-husband voice, “I hope this makes you happy.”

She looked confused and affronted, which was perfect.

“Okay,” he said, swiveling to Bobby. “You caught us. It’s true. We were spying. And you —” to Amanda “—you were the one who said spying for the competition was so easy.”

“I never said that,” Amanda said, still affronted.

Lee glowered at her.

And she instantly went on the attack. “He’s the one who wanted to do it,” she told Bobby, flapping her hand at Lee. “He’s the one who said that there was money in it.”

Lee wanted to cheer: She’d caught on. If only all agents were this quick on the uptake.

“I’m not a Connie Beth girl,” Amanda continued. “I’m a Lovely Lady lady.”

Lee nearly burst out laughing.

“Oh, the whole thing was your damn idea,” he said instead. “‘We need more money, more this, more that.'”

“My idea!” Amanda was on her feet now. “I was perfectly happy where we were. I was working in lipsticks. I was moving my way up to tweezers. You said I needed diamonds.”

“I should have known better than to trust you,” Lee cried, stepping back to let Amanda move around him. Bobby Bushard was staring at them both in bewilderment. “She masterminded the whole thing,” he told Bobby while Amanda turned to the office’s sideboard and picked up a can of hairspray.

“I don’t even like this stuff,” she cried and sprayed the bottle in Bobby’s face.

Perfect timing. Lee took out the goon with a kick and grabbed Amanda’s hand. They rushed from the room and down the stairs.

“Hairspray—not bad,” Lee said as they ran.

“Mace training,” Amanda gasped.

Unfortunately, they had to head for the roof. Spy Training 101: Never go to the roof! But there wasn’t much choice. More goons had joined the first, and both they and Bobby were on the stairs below.

Under gunfire, Lee and Amanda got to the roof and barred the stairwell door. Racing to the edge of the roof, Lee spotted a crane lifting materials from the ground to the opposite roof. As the empty hook swept over their roof, Lee sprang for it and gestured to Amanda.

She did a Jane to his Tarzan and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Oh my gosh,” she screamed as the hook cleared the roof.

They reached the ground just as every police car in the district pulled in front of Connie Beth’s headquarters. Billy had released the cavalry.

“Boy,” Lee said to Amanda. “I thought these guys would never get here.”

She stared at him and the hook and the ground and shook her head, for once totally speechless.

Lee grinned. “Come on.”

“Are you alright?” he said once they’d reached the next block, out of sight of soon-to-be arrested goons and gun smugglers.

“Yes. Yes. I’m alright. So tell me—what were in those hairdryers anyway?”

“Those terrorist guns we were after. Look, you want to get a drink?” Lee said, feeling expansive; he’d forgotten how satisfying it could be to work with a partner. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Ah, no, I can’t. Maybe some other time, okay?”

After all, Amanda wasn’t really a spy. She had her boys and her mother and her "normal" life.

Lee gave her a crooked smile which widened as she tugged unsuccessfully at her “wedding” ring.

“Here—guess I won’t be needing it anymore.”

“Yeah.” Lee laughed. “I guess the honeymoon is over. You know what the whole problem with our marriage was?”

“What?”

“Just wasn’t very exciting,” Lee said and got Amanda to chuckle.

He thought about that chuckle as he drove to his next assignment that evening. And he thought about the cozy kitchen in the Betsy Ross Estates with its blue curtains. And Amanda putting him to work on daiquiris for the neighbors. He turned Amanda’s wedding ring over in his fingers and slid it into his breast pocket.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he was beginning to feel like his life had something in it worth going home to—it was a nice feeling.

The Awful Elliots in Persuadable: Chapter 3

In Chapter 3 of Persuadable, Mrs. Clay listens while the Elliots discuss renting Kellynch Hall.

The Elliots have to rent--or retrench (cut their budget)--because they are in debt. This does not mean that they are poor. But it does mean that they are living in the red.

This state of affairs has come about due to gross overspending by Sir Walter and Elizabeth. Of the family, however, only Anne appreciates what her father and sister have done. Even Lady Russell is more concerned with the Elliots' prestige than with the consequences of their actions. But the consequences of their actions to their community are huge.

Although this image has to do with Jenner's smallpox

vaccination, it is a good representation

of a tenant's household: not poor, not rich.

Basically, Sir Walter and Elizabeth have created a state of affairs where they can no longer put money back into the estate; that is, as landlords, they can no longer repair their tenants' cottages, hire extra workers, or invest in any new technologies, developments, or expansions. 

Based on Austen's original text, there is reason to believe that Mr. Shepherd has at least prevented Sir Walter from raising rents. Even so, the Kellynch tenants--who would have far less control over their livelihoods and employment than people do today--are now stuck working for the equivalent of a bankrupt company. The 1995 Persuasion film does an excellent job capturing the unimpressed faces of those tenants as Sir Walter and Elizabeth regally ride off to Bath.

Consider Pride & Prejudice when Elizabeth visits Pemberley and hears how much Darcy's tenants respect him; this means a good deal more than that Darcy is a nice guy. It means he is a good boss, a wise manager, a smart investor, an up-to-date farmer, etc. Darcy is the kind of estate owner that tenants want to get.

Mr. Shepherd, Sir Walter's estate attorney, and Mrs. Clay, Mr. Shepherd's daughter, are well-aware of Sir Walter and Elizabeth's perfidy. Although Mr. Shepherd and his family are members of the growing middle-class--and fundamentally town or city people--they are in a better position even than Anne to see and hear how the Kellynch estate affects their neighbors. When the main source of income for a community--agriculture--is materially damaged, everybody pays.

Consequently, Mrs. Clay has little pity for Sir Walter and his so-called problems. (The possible ambiguity of Mrs. Clay's remark about sailors' and workers' looks exists in the original text; I will discuss Sir Walter's attitude towards looks more when I reach Persuadable's Chapter 7.)

Penelope [Clay] felt no sympathy for Sir Walter’s desperate financial straits, which had steadily worsened in the last few years (“Sir Walter is not a, ah, moderate man,” Penelope’s father had explained on the carriage ride over.) Why should she feel sympathy when the gold watch Sir Walter handled could pay several weeks of board and room and the ring his daughter Elizabeth wore could pay a month’s worth of butcher’s bills? Only his middle daughter Anne dressed like a person who knew the value of a disappearing pound.

Penelope watched Kellynch Hall’s residents through half-lidded eyes. Sir Walter was an easy man to sway emotionally. Praise made him preen. Mockery of others made him puff out his chest. If she could tackle him absent his family and neighbors, she would have him to the altar in a fortnight.

Unfortunately, the friends and family were never absent. Penelope could handle Elizabeth, but she’d noticed a growing wariness from Anne: long, sideways glances when Penelope complimented Sir Walter; knit brows when Penelope extolled the beauties of Kellynch Hall.

In addition, the family’s great friend Lady Russell continued to treat Penelope like a clod of dirt tracked into a clean parlor.

This will be a long campaign, Penelope counseled herself. I should regard this as a chance to become acquainted with Sir Walter’s moods before marriage.

Currently, Sir Walter was blustering about having to rent Kellynch Hall while he and his daughters removed to Bath.

“The alternative is to retrench,” her father pointed out for the sixth or seventh time. Retrenching would mean staying at Kellynch Hall but seriously cutting expenses—no more four-horse carriages; fewer sponsored balls; no extraneous purchases. The entire neighborhood would witness Sir Walter’s and his daughters’ humiliation.

Sir Walter sighed and looked profoundly troubled. Sir Walter never stopped being astonished by the vagaries of life. It struck Penelope as an exhausting way to approach the world; luckily, being Sir Walter’s wife wouldn’t mean adopting his world-view.

“And there are currently many naval officers returning to England who would greatly appreciate a house like this.”

“A naval officer!” Sir Walter was aghast. Apparently, he was unaware that the navy had won the last war. “He wouldn’t know how to behave in a manor like Kellynch Hall.”

“He would look over the premises and bless his good fortune,” Penelope said.

She caught a faintly resigned look on Anne’s face and smiled to herself. Anne disliked sycophancy.

“But,” Penelope continued, “I quite agree with my father that a sailor would be a desirable tenant. They are so neat and careful in their ways.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But the navy has brought persons of obscure birth into undue distinction. And life on the open seas terribly ravages the features.”

Sir Walter, in his mid-fifties, could justify a comparison based on appearance. He had straight shoulders and a patrician head that was only marred by a more button than beak-like nose. He was handsome even if Penelope found his features rather dull—there was nothing memorable about so much regularity.

Elizabeth was nodding agreement with Sir Walter’s vapid criticisms. Elizabeth’s features were even more regular. The youngest daughter Mary was pretty in a shallow way. Only Anne, the middle daughter, made a person look and look again: puzzled by her seeming plainness, caught by the fineness of her bones.

But of course a woman like Anne was far more difficult to flatter.

“We are not all born to be handsome,” Penelope said to stop Sir Walter’s insipid, cruel comments about sailors’ looks. “All professions make their mark whether the physical labor of a soldier or the mental stresses of a lawyer. Only those of property continue to look personable after the flush of youth.”

Sir Walter beamed. Elizabeth nodded. Penelope’s father shook his head and rustled his papers. Only Anne gave Penelope a long bemused look. There had been as much criticism as praise in those words: what were Sir Walter’s cares and concerns (despite the horror of renting Kellynch Hall) compared to those of real working men?

Scarecrow & Mrs. King Fan Fiction: "There Goes the Neighborhood," Part 2

Amanda showed up on move-in day with a mounted boar’s head.

“Will you be bringing many things from home?” Lee asked, eyeing it skeptically.

“I told my mother I was working at a rummage sale.”

Lee sighed and tried not to laugh. Amanda’s reluctance to lie led her into far more convoluted stories than simple deceit. Why not just tell her mother she was helping a friend move?

The Agency had found Amanda and Lee a nice Cape Cod two doors down from the Bodeens. The sellers had been pleasantly surprised at the quick, extremely generous, no-inspection-required offer. 

“This is all very nice,” Amanda said, waving a hand at the movers. “But is someone telling them where everything should go?” and off she went to direct the movers, leaving Lee with the buffalo head.

As a suburban husband, Lee was already out of his depth.

Amanda did more than direct: she unpacked the boxes, washed the glasses, and papered the new house's shelves.

“Why do I look so messy, and you look so good?” she complained, marching into the sitting room.

Lee laughed. Amanda did look a bit disheveled, dark hair fanning her face, a dish cloth over one shoulder, but it certainly didn’t make her look less appealing.

She put her hands on her hips. “Have you done anything?”

Lee pointed to the buffalo head which he had nailed up—by himself. Amanda didn’t roll her eyes—barely, then studied the room’s furniture.

“I’m not sure about this chair. Who picked this stuff?”

“It’s government issue suburban setting,” Lee said, crossing to the drinks cabinet. “We do this kind of thing a lot, you know. Stuff's been used before.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Amanda said, peering at the bullet hole on the flip side of a sofa cushion.

To distract her, Lee said, “Our next step is to find a way to get to know these people.”

Amanda gave him a pitying look—this one didn’t make him feel like a naughty boy with paint on his hands: more like a boy standing outside a broken window with a baseball mitt.

“Boy, you don’t know the suburbs, do you?” she said pityingly.

The doorbell rang before Lee could reply that he didn’t really want to.

At the door was the neighborhood welcome wagon: nine people, four couples plus Mr. Bodeen without his wife. Lee was sent off to the kitchen to make daiquiris while Amanda learned everyone’s names. It was just as well: he might have been tempted to start interrogating people, to say, for example, “Why the hell would decent neighbors make moving day more stressful by showing up and expecting a party?” and “Where were all you people when the moving van was here?” and “Which of you is Harriet Rosemont?”

“I hate this assignment,” he told Amanda when she came in for more daiquiris. “I want a divorce.”

“Huh,” Amanda said. “Hey, when you are through with this would you start the barbecue?”

Lee poked savagely at the blender buttons.

“You’re really doing very well,” Amanda said soothingly.

He glared at her departing back. He supposed, if he had to be fair, he’d rather be making daiquiris than participating in endless small-talk. If he’d wanted to do small-talk for a living, he’d have become a lobbyist.

The party’s value increased substantially when a policeman came to tell Frank Bodeen that his wife had been found dead.

Lee contacted Billy as soon as the neighbors—subdued and frightened by Frank's news—drifted out. Betty Bodeen had been found in an alley within sight of the Washington Monument. Her body had been thrown into a dumpster as if she’d been mugged. But like any staged crime, her "mugging" looked staged.

Lee was sorry for the Bodeens and all, but at least something was happening. He was beginning to think he’d be barbequing and mixing drinks for the next six months.

The party had a double dividend—Amanda had unintentionally landed the perfect gig for an investigator: a Connie Beth Cosmetics saleswoman.

“Going to door to door is perfect,” Lee explained. “You’ll get inside every house in this area.”

“And have the blisters to prove it. Look, if we’re going to search the Bodeens' house, we should go now. I can’t call my mother again and tell her the rummage sale is running late.”

“No,” Lee said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to bed. We can’t go over there until three or four o’clock in the morning.”

“Frank’s not in the house. He’s at the Rosemonts.”

“I don’t want anyone up to see us break in,” Lee said, watching Amanda’s eyes widen at the sight of his bare chest. One would never guess this woman had produced two boys. She acted like a high school ingénue.

He said disingenuously, “You coming?”

“No! I can’t sleep here. I would feel like I was lying and sneaking.”

“You are lying and sneaking,” Lee pointed out. “You’re working for the government.”

“No! I would feel guilty like I was having . . . a thing.”

“An affair.” Lee had honestly completely forgotten about Amanda’s boyfriend, the limp Dean—unless Amanda was simply objecting to the idea of housewife as inamorata.

“Well, you’re not,” Lee pointed out. “So, would you like a window open?”

“Lee, I have to consider Dean.”

“How does he feel about open windows?”

“You don’t understand.”

“All I understand is that we are on a job. Now, this is purely business, is that not correct?”

Amanda agreed with unflattering promptness.

“Then one of us gets the bed, one of us the couch. I don’t care which. But the important thing is that we get some sleep. You tend to get killed less often that way.”

His start up the stairs was halted by Amanda’s call: “Who gets the bed?”

He shouldn’t have said one of us—he really shouldn’t have. He should have known Amanda would immediately catch that slip.

He stalled: “The senior agent always gets the bed.”

He heard her eyes roll and grinned to himself.

“Get your mind out the gutter, would you?” he called down the stairs and jogged the rest of the way to the second floor and the master bedroom.

Coming down at two o'clock, he was impressed that Amanda had actually slept. She was half-curled on her side on the couch, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face before he touched her shoulder. She woke instantly. Mother’s instinct, Lee supposed.

He pulled on his shoes while he motioned to Amanda to wear her dark windbreaker. Outside, the neighborhood was as quiet as the aftermath of a tornado. The Betsy Ross Estates were certainly not a magnet for Washington night-life.

“We’re looking for letters, diaries, phone numbers, anything unusual,” Lee told Amanda as they entered the Bodeen household. “I’ll check upstairs.”

“Where should I check?”

“Anywhere. Just check.”

He should have known better than to leave her alone—the first thing Amanda did after investigating the bathroom, where she discovered a shorted-out hair dyer, was to encounter a dying Mr. Bodeen. He'd returned to the house, only to to be attacked by home-breakers: the violent kind.

He heard Amanda scream, “Lee, they’re getting away” and rushed down the stairs and out the front door. A van barreled through the closed garage door, and Lee jumped clear of its path. Rolling over, he looked up into a ski-mask and twisted desperately before his attacker slammed a stake where his chest had been. Lee managed to grab the stake, noting—with the part of his mind not occupied with staying alive—that it ended with a plastic flamingo, the kind that sticks upright in people’s lawns.

His assailant had snagged another one and they went at each other, parrying with stakes and fists and pink birds. Lee felled the man, but the guy managed to get to the van which drove off in a flurry of screeching brakes and red tail lights.

Lee ran inside where Amanda was holding Mr. Bodeen in the kitchen.

“Hair dryer,” he croaked and died.

Amanda was composed when Lee made her lay down Mr. Bodeen and step aside. She sat silently on the living room couch as the (agency-trained) paramedics worked over the body and took it away. Lee had to call Billy to update him, and Amanda was still sitting quietly, face white and strained, when he finished.

“You should go home,” he said gently.

“Yes,” she said. “Why did he—?”

“Really, Amanda. Go home. It’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry for Mr. Bodeen.”

“I wish he hadn’t come back here tonight,” Lee said grimly. He had never considered putting a watch on the man. He should have; he certainly wouldn’t be sending Amanda home unchaperoned.

He put an arm around her tense shoulders and shook her gently.

She said, "You couldn't know. You thought he was staying with the Rosements."

She was protecting Lee--or his conscience--as usual.

She continued, "He said, 'Hair dryer.' The hair dryer in the bathroom has a scorch mark."

"Sounds like it shorted out."

"Did he think that killed Betty?"

"I don't know." Lee didn't tell her that people didn't always make sense when they died. Maybe she already knew because she shivered.

“Go on,” he said, shaking her again. “It’s okay.”

She was to the door when she said, “I’ll be here tomorrow. Remember: I’m a Connie Beth girl now.”

He truly didn’t know anyone braver.

*  *  * Amanda’s work as a Connie Beth saleslady produced a quantity of useful information. She spent the next morning with Harriet Rosement. Like Harriet Rosement (and Judy Wainwright), Betty Bodeen had reached the pinnacle of the Connie Beth organization; she'd been a Connie Beth Golden Circle Girl. According to Harriet, Betty had done something entirely against Connie Beth policy.

Worn Avon, perhaps?

According to Amanda, Golden Circle Girls like Betty and Harriet delivered shipments, including appliances, to International clients.

“Appliances?”

“Like hair dyers,” Amanda said.

She and Lee sat in their kitchen. Or rather, Lee sat while Amanda fiddled around, nailing up a picture.

“It’s crooked,” Lee said helpfully. “What is it?”

“It’s Dean.”

Lee was annoyed—this was not Dean and Amanda’s house; this was his and Amanda’s house. Not their real house, of course. It was all pretend. Still.

Granted, the picture could be of any man—it could be of Lee—since it showed a big fish in front of a man’s head. Still, Lee didn’t see why he should have to share his house with another man’s fish.

“You and what’s-his-name do a lot of fishing?”

“Yes, we do. Could we get on with the other conversation?”

Lee turned his back on the picture, pulled out his notebook, and noticed—

“Why’d you hang new curtains?”

“The old ones didn’t go with the rug that I got for the breakfast nook, and I like my kitchen to be cheery.”

“But Amanda, this isn’t your kitchen. This isn’t real.”

Lee knew he was being unfair. He couldn’t object to a picture for not being real and then object to curtains because they were too real. But his annoyance had to go somewhere.

“Yeah, I know, but people will come in here, and our kitchen reflects the kind of people we are. This is how you do a kitchen.”

Lee fought his sudden urge to pounce on that “we” and point out that Dean’s picture certainly didn’t belong in “their” kitchen. What did he care anyway?

“The way you do a kitchen,” he said airily, “is hire a guy with a French name, tell him how much you want to spend, then go skiing till it’s all over.”

“You know, that’s your problem. You’re out of touch with the way normal people do things.”

“I’m normal,” Lee grumbled.

“Oh, sure. You think sunbathing in Borneo is normal. You know most people just want to get through the day with healthy kids, friends they can count on, a regular job, and a roof over their heads.”

All while singing about mom and apple-pie, Lee wanted to sneer, except he knew what she meant and, “Fine. That normal I’m not,” he admitted.

“I don’t know how you expect to get to know the people here,” Amanda continued kindly while she spread butter onto bread. “You never go outside and say, ‘That’s a great-looking lawn’ or ‘Who’s your tile man?’ or ‘Where’d your kid get her braces?’”

Lee knew she was right—he’d never been good at suburban undercover—but her sudden expertise rankled. She knew enough to change the curtains. She knew enough to bring that damn picture that wasn’t of Lee into the house.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you’re so damn normal, you solve the case.”

“Okay, I will. Betty Bodeen’s hair-dryer short-circuited—you told me that—so think about it: she’s standing there with wet hair. She’s desperate. If she doesn’t do something, it’s going to frizz out. But out in the garage, she’s got dozens and dozens of Connie Beth hair dryers. So what does she do? I’ll tell you what she does. She goes out there and opens one of those boxes. That’s what Harriet tells the company, and that’s what gets Betty in trouble, and that’s what gets her killed.”

Very neatly reasoned.

“Did you just think of that?” Lee said.

“Yeah. Dumb?”

“No. Good. Betty Bodeen was one of those people with special clients?”

“Yeah. A Golden Circle Girl.”

“Makes you wonder about those special clients, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does. Judy Wainwright’s making deliveries to special clients today.”

“Then I’ll keep my eye on Judy.” Lee fetched his coat, ready to get focused on an actual lead. “You want me to pick up some groceries?”

“No, that’s alright. I have a Connie Beth sales meeting tonight.”

The utter normalcy of the exchange suddenly struck Lee, and he laughed, his good-humor restored. “Do you know what just happened?” he said to Amanda.

“No, what?”

“We just had our first fight. As man and wife, that is.” He had been a complete grouch when this conversation began.

Amanda blushed. “Right here in our cheery kitchen.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you later.” Lee was also suddenly aware of how most married fights were supposed to end, and he and Amanda were undercover—though not strictly undercover since they were currently alone.

They were alone.

Amanda’s blush deepened and she held out her hand for Lee to shake.

He chuckled and shook it vigorously.

But he owed her more than just a friendly handshake.

“You know something,” he said, gesturing to the curtains. “I like blue a lot better.”

“Good, I’m glad,” Amanda said, and Lee went out to the driveway like any ordinary suburban husband, feeling—for that moment at least—that the suburban life wasn’t so bad.

Why Mr. Elliot? Persuadable: Chapter 2

I don't really picture Simon Baker

as Will Elliot. It's that faint near-smile

smirk that I view as transferable.

My next hurdle with Persuadable was Mr. Elliot. More than Mrs. Clay, Mr. Elliot is the "villain" of the piece. I could approach his narrative in two ways:

1. Justify or explain away his bad behavior (he didn't actually say those awful things about the Elliots; Mrs. Smith is just trying to make him look bad!).

2. Use Saberhagen's approach from The Dracula Tape: yep, he said those things. What of it? After all, the Elliots are fairly irritating people (sans Anne).

I decided to go with 2, partly because I wanted to be true to Austen's characterization/description of Will Elliot's actions and partly, because accepted villainy is so much more fun than justification!

Though the age is off, the ever

sexy Ted Levine more closely

matches my description and Austen's.

(sans mustache).

The problem, of course, was that without excusing or explaining away Mr. Elliot's behavior, I had to create motivations (context) that would allow the reader to judge him as far less despicable than usually imagined.

In favor of my approach were three things: (1) Austen's writing; (2) Austen's time period versus our own; (3) my editor.

Austen, the writer, is far more objective than Anne, the obstensible narrator. It is customary to see Anne as Austen and vice versa, but literary analysts have pointed out that the writer, Austen, is perfectly willing to twit the character, Anne, now and again:

Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way.

She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly.

 Check out that singularly dry tone!

Consequently, it is never clear if Austen is as entirely offended by Mr. Elliot as Anne. Anne is a far more fastidious heroine than Austen's other heroines, even Fanny. Part of this may be that Anne is the product of Austen's maturity (in general, certain things--like poop jokes--just become tiresome with age). But I believe that Anne is as carefully crafted and individual a heroine as any of Austen's other creations. Persuasion is not simply autobiographical. Anne is Anne--not just Jane in disguise.

Also in favor of my approach is the attitude of Austen's society regarding class versus modern Western attitudes. 

Although more relaxed than the Victorians, the Regency era's class structure was somewhat more rigid. A gentlewoman of Anne's time period--no matter how democratic in other regards--would take for granted a certain deference for her family's position/rank, a deference that we don't take for granted in our (arguably ruder yet) more egalitarian society. Although Anne is personally offended by Mr. Elliot's disparaging comments about her family--and honestly disgusted by his hypocrisy--both she and Mrs. Smith are almost as disgusted by Mr. Elliot's lack of respect (even though Mr. Elliot himself is consistently treated as a kind of tame poodle by Elizabeth and Sir Walter).

A modern reader is far more willing than Anne to allow Will to just dislike the Elliots, no matter what their station in life. (I grant that even a modern reader might be offended by his deliberate sycophancy.)

The best support for my approach came from my editor, Eugene. In response to my first draft, he wrote the following:

Will [Elliot] strikes me as the kind of man who, hitting middle age, knows he's supposed to be climbing social ladders and becoming a leader of men and rousing the slumbering alpha male into action. But once aroused, he realizes why he didn't bother climbing those ladders before and says, "Aw, screw it," and happily goes back to the way he was.

This perfectly summarizes Will Elliot's psychology and frankly more closely fits Austen's version of Mr. Elliot than more modern film renditions. Modern film versions of Persuasion often try to explain Will Elliot's actions by making him poor--he's after Anne and Elizabeth and, finally, Mrs. Clay to protect his inheritance because he needs the money. But Austen's Mr. Elliot is rich; his motives are far more complex, being entangled (amongst other things) with pride and a tendency to live in the "now"--I relied on Eugene's description and Austen's willing ambiguity to write Will's chapters.

For example, one of the main contentions against Will is that he wasn't a good husband to his first wife. Here is Will's version: the evidence that his first wife had a less than able intellect and that her coterie included less than sterling characters is all in the original text!

William Elliot despised his Kellynch relations. Fortunately, they didn’t feel compelled to contact him with blathering platitudes when his wife died.

Will’s wife, Sally, died from fever. She’d gone out on the Thames for New Year’s and caught a chill. Will told her to rest, to ease off the party circuit, and for a few months, she drooped about the house. Then in late spring, she spent a week parading from Vauxhall to the worst gambling hells near St. James (she didn’t play; she liked to cheer on others). By the time Will fetched her home, she was coughing and listless.

He did try to save her. They were wealthy. He’d married Sally for her money and invested it shrewdly despite their importuning friends: they owned a London townhouse, a carriage, five servants plus baubles and fine dresses for Sally. They could afford a physician, and Will called in several.

He did not have much hope—the headaches gave way to nausea which gave way to a rash—but he didn’t wish to send his wife into oblivion without some fanfare.

She was such a pathetic creature, having the brains and disposition of a kitten. Even as she faded, she would giggle pleasurably when Will brought her presents or trite messages from her many acquaintances. The moment they heard of Sally’s illness, those acquaintances had gathered in the lower drawing room of Sally and Will’s townhouse.

“How is she?” they clamored whenever Will passed the drawing room door.

They were honestly sorry she was dying; they missed her frenetic energy and chirpy chatter. Their sorrow didn’t prevent their revelries. Between Will’s reports, they drank all the claret—which usually lasted several months—then broke a lamp and window playing pall-mall indoors. When they started planning a cock-fight, Will threw them out.

“Wish Sally well,” they shouted from the pavement. Two of her closest friends loitered to tell Will to tell Sally that they still wanted to borrow money but would wait till she was better.

 “How noble of you,” Will said, sighing when they solemnly agreed that sorrow compelled one to forgo worldly concerns.

Will was tired of his and his wife’s crowd. Most of them were profligates without the resources to be profligates. They were loud, careless, and bad with money. And they all expected Will to pay their bills.

Will wanted better neighbors, neighbors who were quiet, astute, and solvent. His second wife would need to fit his new life.

Scarecrow & Mrs. King Fan Fiction: “There Goes the Neighborhood," Part 1

I am a huge fan of Scarecrow & Mrs. King. For a long time, I've wanted to write a piece of fan fiction based on the show and here it is!

This particular piece is based around the second episode from Season 1—after Lee and Amanda have already met. Much of the dialog is taken directly from the episode. However, it is told entirely from Lee’s point of view and only includes those scenes Lee directly witnesses.

*   *   *

The day started with gunrunners, specifically a blown-up gunrunner called LeMarq who had been selling U.S. guns to rebels in South America until his unexpected demise. Billy wanted Lee to find out about the man, and Lee was all set to start grilling his sources when Amanda showed up in the agency lobby.

Amanda didn’t belong anywhere near gunrunners—or anything agency related in Lee’s opinion. Amanda belonged at home looking after her sons and her mother. Amanda could easily get herself killed.

Yes, he gotten her involved in agency business to begin with—but that had been an accident, a once-in-a-million-chance, a fluke. Which he’d told her.

She still wanted to work for him—or the agency, at least.

Lee couldn’t think of a worse idea; the image of Amanda working for him—for the agency—always involved blood, Amanda’s blood, and a great deal of screaming, possibly his screaming since Amanda was more the squeeze-my-eyes-tight-and-the-problem-will-vanish type.

“No,” he told her. “We don’t have any work.”

“Then I guess I’m free to consider other offers, attractive offers.”

“Sure.”

“So, I should call Warren Davenport.”

“Warren Davenport?” Who the hell was Warren Davenport? Lee had checked out the men in Amanda’s life: other than Phillip and Jamie, her sons; Dean, her limp boyfriend; and Joe, her ex-husband, he wasn’t aware of anyone else.

“Warren Davenport at Honeycutt Typing. He wants to interview me for a position.”

That didn’t seem dangerous. Lee beamed.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll tell Billy to write you a letter of recommendation.”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. My skills speak for themselves: 90 words per minute.”

“I’m sure you’ll be happier in an air-conditioned office that casing some dive with me,” Lee said, sidling towards the elevator that would take him back to the dangerous work that Amanda should absolutely not be involved in. If he stayed much longer, he might be tempted to offer her a typing job himself.

“No doubt,” Amanda said, and then smiled in that way that made Lee feel suddenly very young and foolish, like a naughty boy caught with paint on his hands.

“Espionage,” Amanda said gently, “is highly overrated.”

As the elevator doors closed, he heard her mutter, “They don’t even pay over-time here.”

*   *   *

We’re a lot more interesting, Lee would have said, but that would have undermined his goal to keep Amanda at arm’s length—from him, from the agency. She was a dangerous enough women without the help of the CIA.

“Where’s Mrs. King?” Billy said when he reached the basement.

“At a job interview.”

“We need her.”

“For her typing?” 90 words per minutes was respectable, but Betty Marsh in billing could type over 100 wpm; besides—

“We need a suburban house wife. Or rather, you need one. Betty Bodeen has disappeared.”

Two days ago, Betty Bodeen, a housewife from the Betsy Ross Estates, had placed an urgent call to Congressman Holcomb’s office. By itself, that incident meant nothing. People were always putting in urgent calls to their legislators as if a member of congress could control a neighbor’s failure to eradicate crabgrass.

However, amongst LeMarq’s blown-up possessions, investigators had discovered a single note: Harriet Rosement, 12374 Independence Lane, and Independence Lane was also in the Betsy Ross Estates.

Billy said, “You’re going undercover, but you’ll need a wife. Single men don’t go over so well in neighborhoods like that.”

“Why can't Francine act as my wife?”

Francine—one of the agency’s few women spies—disliked playing housewives whom she claimed were all frumpy (since Amanda looked anything but frumpy, Lee wasn’t sure who Francine’s model was—perhaps, Francine was referring to the idea of housewives). In general, Francine’s preferred undercover role was a  high society parvenu.

“Francine’s already visited the estate as a member of the agency. No one else is available except Mrs. King.” Billy patted Lee’s arm. “She’ll be great.”

*   *   *

“Your wife is not available,” the receptionist at Honeycutt Typewriters told Lee sternly. “She’s interviewing with Mr. Davenport.”

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind,” Lee said and edged past her towards Mr. Davenport's office. She tried to bar his way, but Lee had taken out Soviet assassins. A 5’3” skinny receptionist involved far less exertion—one just kept moving forward.

“There you are,” he cried as he burst through the office door.

Amanda sat looking up at a man whose leer froze on his face when Lee barged through the door. She twisted to look at Lee, and her mouth feel open. He headed towards her.

“I thought we agreed no job until the triplets are in nursery school,” he said pulling Amanda upright. She would start objecting the moment he paused, so he rattled on, turning to Mr. Davenport. “You know the little woman is so eager to earn pin money. But I told her the first four years of a child’s life are more important than a new roof.”

Mr. Davenport still looked frozen, but the leer he’d been wearing when Lee entered the room hadn’t faded. Lee fought the urge to drop his overprotective husband routine and simply hammer the man with his fists. Did Amanda have no sense? The man was obviously a leech, looking to hire a vulnerable divorcee for his personal pleasure.

It was a good thing Lee had shown up to save her from this job.

“Come on, cookie face. It’s two o’clock. Feeding time.”

Amanda tried to apologize to Mr. Davenport, but Lee maneuvered her out of the office: “Timmy, Tammy, and Tommy are very hungry.”

*   *   *

Amanda let herself be manhandled down to the street, but Lee knew her compliance was temporary. Once they reached the sidewalk, she strode off like a drill-sergeant. 

She let loose when Lee caught up: “What the Sam Hill did you think you were doing? First you cannot get rid of me fast enough. Then you barge in and drag me out of an interview. You say you are my husband, which I do not find funny.”

Lee thought it was hilarious, but he knew better than to comment. Amanda’s divorce had not been overly pleasant, and she shied at mentions of marriage. Lee tried to be as matter-of-fact as possible:

“I’ve got an assignment for the next three days. You’re going to pose as my wife.”

“Find someone else.”

Lee did laugh now. “Believe me, this is not my idea. Apparently, someone thinks we work well together.”

“Someone. Not you.”

His dismissal that morning had apparently rankled.

“Billy ordered—suggested—that we enlist your services for this case, especially since it is right up your alley.”

She wasn’t buying his mea culpa, and Lee realized that he was going to have to explain the dangerous part of the mission—the part that involved people getting covered with blood.

“Drugs are being smuggled from the United States to guerillas in Central America. A lot of people are getting killed. We want to know where those guns are coming from.”

“Oh, that sounds right up my alley,” Amanda said, so pleasantly it took Lee a few seconds to realize she was being sarcastic. He buried a grin.

“There may be a link to some people in the Betsy Ross Estates. Billy wants us to pose as a run-of-the-mill suburban couple to see if anything is going on. He thought it would be kind of nice if at least one of us was authentic.”

“I don’t have to ask which one of us that might be.”

Lee narrowed his eyes at the faint lash in the words.

“I’ve spent years operating in places like Morocco, Istanbul. I’ve mastered French, Dutch, a little Urdu. What the heck do I know about everyday life?”

He didn’t mean the last sentence to sound so forlorn. Everyday life was a concept from his childhood and even that had been far more ordinary. Becoming a spy had been a natural choice—he didn’t want to go into the military like his guardian, Uncle-Colonel-Clayton-Sir; Lee had never been a natural order taker. And non-government work wasn’t really an option in his family.

But the life did rather cut one off from civilized, ordinary exchanges.

Whether Amanda heard his plea or not, she relented. She would go undercover—as long as it was only for three days and she could see her boys.

“When this is all over, you never have to see me again,” Lee told her and tried to ignore the constriction in his heart.

END OF PART 1

Why Mrs. Clay? Persuadable: Chapter 1

I highly recommend this

particular annotation

After the fun of A Man of Few Words, I decided to try my hand at another Jane Austen. Mansfield Park is far too overwhelming and Northanger Abbey is difficult to infiltrate (Northanger Abbey is supremely funny; it is also more satire than story).

Sense & Sensibility, although an interesting exploration of personality--and a great movie, does not hold my interest as a novel. And Emma has been so successfully and lovingly satirized by Clueless, not much more needs to be said.

That left me with Persuasion.

As with Pride & Prejudice, there are tributes to Persuasion told from Captain Wentworth's point of view. My problem here was that no matter how often I've read and reread the novel, Captain Wentworth remains a blank to me. He is extroverted, charismatic, and popular: I find myself unable to empathize with him to the degree necessary for a tribute.

The handsomest--and most Darcy-like--

of the film Wentworths: Rupert Penry-Jones.

To a degree, I can enter into Anne's feelings, Austen does such a magnificent job showing us all the varying emotions, confused ponderings, and insecurities of a woman in love. And all the petty, obnoxious, ordinary people in the novel are well within my grasp. But Wentworth, even now, is something of a cipher (I'll discuss him more later when he enters the narrative).

Consequently, I decided to try my hand at one of the least popular characters: Mrs. Clay.

As with A Man of Few Words, I decided not to stray too far from the text. Luckily for me, Austen gives Mrs. Clay a kind of pass. Towards the end of the novel, Anne reflects that--

Mrs. Clay's selfishness was not so complicate[d] nor so revolting as [Mr. Elliot's].

(I'll come to Mr. Elliot's defense in a later post.)

As Jane Austen knew, nineteenth century life was not easy on women of brains and no money. Nowadays, Mrs. Clay could become an attorney or a saleswoman or a real estate agent (not a politician: her manipulations are too personal; she has no interest in saving the universe). In Austen's time, her opportunities were limited to (1) marrying; (2) marrying well.

The following passage from Persuadable refers to Mrs. Penelope Clay's return to the Kellynch area after her first husband's death:

Although Billie Piper's image here is from

Mansfield Park, I consider her the closest

image to mine and Austen's description

of Mrs. Clay: coy, supposedly "common"

yet dangerously beguiling.

Not that Mr. Clay made much money. He left little to his widow and sons when he died. Penelope, eight-year-old Robert, and five-year-old Charlie had to relocate to her parents’ home after the funeral; Penelope did not, however, plan to settle into widowed obscurity, smiling gently on her active boys from a chimney corner.

Luckily, she’d had sons, not daughters. Her mother preferred males in the household and was perfectly willing to endure a boy’s cleverness (that in a girl, she would label “insolence”) and animal spirits (rather than “fuss”) for the pleasure of bragging about her grandsons to the neighbors.

Penelope knew: No one will brag about me. I’ll have to claim my future without assistance.

This time she would marry for money, ensuring a university education for her sons. Penelope didn’t have much maternal feeling—except to be pleasantly surprised that her sons weren’t dunces. But she owed them a future.

For herself, she wanted independence from her parents and long-term security. She had seen too many women, widows of tutors and surveyors, forced to move into tiny rooms from which they wrote desperate, begging letters to friends and family. Penelope woke sometimes from nightmares filled with tatty furniture and dirty window panes, overcome by a sensation of drowning. She would never suffer such a life. She had been a passable wife. She could be one again. She already knew she could tolerate a boring man.

And Sir Walter was boring.

Anyone Can Be A Bully: Thoughts on Convergence, Rent, and Misunderstandings about "Conformity"

I recently assigned my students an observation exercise on convergence—convergence occurs when people change their speech patterns or dress or body language to match that of a group. For example, if I move to Maine and start using phrases like “Wicked good” and “Right out straight,” I am practicing convergence.

Convergence is normal. It occurs amongst teens and cliques; it also occurs in workplaces, religious and non-religious organizations, states, and nations. Convergence is the beginning of culture.

My assignment: “Observe a group and write about how the group practices convergence, especially verbally.”

A few students wrote about teens, the workplace (one student wrote a very funny piece about working at Disney World), and language. However, a startling number of students interpreted “convergence” as conformity in the negative sense—conformity to conventions, i.e. not rocking the boat. They wrote things like, “I don’t talk in a large group if I don’t know people, so I’m practicing convergence. I don’t always express my opinions right away—I keep my mouth shut. Even though everyone else is expressing their opinions, I conform.”

Before I handed back the assignment, I addressed this confusion: “If a group is loud and boisterous,” I said, “being loud and boisterous would be an example of convergence. If the group is shy and retiring, *then* being shy and retiring would become convergence.”

“Anarchists,” I said, “can practice convergence.”

This brings me to Rent, which I recently watched for the current list on the Mike-Kate Video Club: Musicals.

Rent is the ultimate story of convergence. The core members of the group share a similar ideology. They practice similar dress (Angel doesn’t look that atypical when s/he is with the group). They have similar attitudes about drugs, AIDS, and NYC. They hang out in similar places. They talk the same. They have similar careers/artistic lifestyles. They show similar contempt towards the same things.  

There is nothing intrinsically wrong with this. Convergence, as I stated above, is natural.

Could you tell which one is Angel, i.e. supposedly more

unique than the others?  If you'd never seen the musical?

Where it gets supremely annoying is when a group decides, in face of all rational observation, that they are NOT practicing any kind of convergence. *They* are not conforming to a specific culture; they are all rugged individualists. Only *conventional* people conform: you know, people in suits. *Those* people conform. But free-wheeling Bohemians like "us" never conform.

Why does the group in Rent believe they aren't conforming to a group dynamic? Their actual behavior exemplifiies rigorous adherence to a "code," so how do they maintain the illusion that they are promoting individuality?

They maintain the illusion that they are being unique and different and pushing others to be unique and different by saying so over and over and over again.

Mark films things and talks; Roger (who at least has the merit of trying to differentiate himself) sulks and talks; Mimi actually has a paying job as does Joanne but when they are with the group, they just talk; Maureen blathers on and on and on.

In fact, the great irony of the musical is that the one person who actually does something, Benny, is treated with utter antipathy by the others; not only does Benny pay for Mimi to go into rehab, his business plan would raise the standard of living in the area and bring in money to build homeless shelters and free clinics. Where does the group think money for homeless shelters and free clinics comes from? It certainly doesn't come from a bunch of Bohemians who can't even pay their rent.

The musical, while lightly acknowledging that the group isn't exactly changing things (it's not their fault; it's America's fault!), falls back on the belief that talking loudly and aggressively (e.g. sticking bumper stickers all over one's car) is the solution to society's ills.

Granted, this particular silliness is symptomatic of this particular culture. What makes Rent truly unlikable is how the gang bullies and punishes strayers from the foreordained path of its convergent culture. All overtly divergent decisions are promptly squashed by the group. Move to Santa Fe? Only if you do it to "find yourself" and come right back. Get a job making actual money, a job--moreover--that could morph into something downright interesting? Not if it means you can't make your home-made movies. Quit drugs? Well, yes, drugs are very, very bad, but not so bad that Roger should actually walk away from a mutually destructive relationship; he should stay and love Mimi until she stops (because people on drugs always stop because other people love them so much). 

The most startlingly cliquey part of the movie occurs when Roger and Mimi decide to date only after they learn that the other person has AIDS. Yup, that's right: AIDS, the ultimate ticket of belonging. Go get yourself some today!

The musical really hits a low point in the gang's treatment of Benny, the only character who demonstrates any real individuality.

Diggs in Equilibrium

(And kudos to Diggs for wearing his divergent dress without shame--because, let's face it, Diggs looks good in a suit). Benny is treated like a pariah because he is “conventional” and doesn’t want to live in the slums.

It is hard to take a 2-hour musical based on this mindset seriously. It is one thing to accept the trials and tribulations and poverty of a calling (be it art, social justice, or taking the veil); it's quite another to shove those trials and tribulations and poverty in people's faces as if said trials and tribulations were automatically ennobling. 

Not that I regret watching Rent (after it was over anyway). It would be hard to understand the history of musicals without seeing it—and my somewhat less negative review of the actual musical can be found on the Mike-Kate Video Club alongside a review of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Oddly enough, I found the latter, though far more visually disturbing than Rent, far less irritating. It's the difference between a show (TRHPS) that says, "Here's an alternative culture. WOW!" and a show (Rent) that says, "Here's an alternative culture. You must admire us! Love us! Appreciate us! If you don't, we hate you."


The Ever Astonishing Meatloaf.

Tim Curry struts in the background.

Rent is the not-very-popular-clique deciding it ought to be popular, nah, nah, nah. Rocky Horror doesn't care what you think. I'm an adult, so I prefer Rocky Horror's approach.

Tell me who you are. Don't tell me how to feel.