Lady Russell's Irritating Presence in Persuadable: Chapter 16

The 1995 Lady Russell is again the best. 2007 Lady R (Alice
Krige) is too Lady MacBeth-ish. 1971 Lady R (Marian
Spencer) is good, quite motherly, but doesn't capture
Lady R's intellectual pursuits: Lady R is a smart
woman who is dumb about people. 1995 Lady R
captures this characterization very well.

In Chapter 16 of Persuadable, I provide information about how and where Will learns of Anne's (official) engagement to Captain Wentworth. I took the opportunity to explore Lady Russell's character.

My attitude towards Lady Russell has shifted over the years. When I was younger, I had far more sympathy with her than I have now.

My shifting attitude has to do with the fundamental message of Persuasion. The fundamental message of Persuasion is that being persuadable is not necessarily a bad thing. A rigid adherence to anything, whether it be a penchant for flightiness (Louisa) or a grudge (Captain Wentworth) or self-pity (Captain Benwick) can cause unhappiness and, even, a hit to the head.

Anne discourses on this theme at the end of the novel:

I was perfectly right in being guided by the friend [Lady Russell] whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent . . . I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience.

In other words, it isn't automatically a bad thing for a sheltered nineteen-year-old girl to listen to the advice of an elder.

Consequently, when I read the novel the first few times, although I thought it sad that Anne hadn't married Captain Wentworth when she was younger, hey, he could have died, and even if he didn't, he wasn't exactly in a position to support a wife, and since when should nineteen-year-olds be making life-altering decisions anyway?

As I've gotten older, however, the narrowness of Lady Russell's advice gets harder and harder to take. It is not just that her initial advice was bad ("I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice," Anne states), but that Lady Russell doesn't learn from the experience. Seven years later, she still has the same perspective. When Captain Wentworth shows up in Bath, Lady Russell acts as if he is a neglible factor. She never reassesses her past advice; she never doubts herself; she goes right on trying to push Anne in a direction she doesn't really want to go.

But then Lady Russell is not a particularly intuitive person.

Both Will Elliot and Penelope Clay, outsiders, easily identify Captain Wentworth's importance to Anne. In the original text, Mr. Elliot begins to take steps to capture Mrs. Clay's attention shortly after Captain Wentworth's appearance in Bath. Both Will and Penelope are also flexible enough to see outside-the-box solutions to Anne's supposed dilemma at nineteen, one of which Captain Wentworth mentions:

"I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?"

"Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

And he probably would have contacted her if Anne had given him any encouragement alongside her initial refusal.

So not everything should be laid at Lady Russell's door: Anne was too absolute in her refusal; Captain Wentworth too resentful at not getting what he wanted. But Lady Russell certainly bears some culpability.

But since she won't ever understand why she might have been wrong, Anne and Captain Wentworth will have to settle for being happy anyway.

Lady Russell wanted Will to know that Captain Wentworth had stayed behind after the party to request Anne’s hand in marriage; Sir Walter had agreed.

“I couldn’t say no to such a gentlemanly countenance,” Sir Walter had told her that morning when he visited Lady Russell’s lodgings on Rivers Street.

Now Lady Russell gave Will a troubled look, her forehead creased; he realized he was supposed to appear astonished and hurt by the news, so he feigned a look of pained surprise.

“I did hope—” Lady Russell sighed. “He is not the man I would have chosen for her.”

Will said, “I had no idea—”

“Nor did I! Perhaps—” Lady Russell looked at him with wary hopefulness. She was too much a lady to say, Perhaps you could break the engagement, and Will presumed she considered him too much a gentleman to accept such a suggestion.

“They must have had a prior acquaintance,” Will said, twisting the knife in Lady Russell’s chagrin.

She flinched. “Perhaps I should have told you: they knew each other many years ago, but I didn’t want to embarrass Anne. I have done everything I could not to mention him around her.”

Because, of course, not acknowledging Captain Wentworth’s very palpable presence in Bath was sure to keep him out of Anne’s mind.

“I hope they may be happy,” Will said stoically.

Lady Russell patted his hand. “What a terrible disappointment for us all.”

As they exited Duffield’s, they encountered Anne and a companion on the pavement. Will saw from Anne’s slight frown that she did not appreciate Lady Russell’s preference for Will’s company over Captain Wentworth’s. He didn’t doubt that Anne would be disclosing Will’s true character to Lady Russell as soon as he strolled off.

He strolled off.

Should Lady Russell become convinced of his bad character, she would pressure Sir Walter and Elizabeth to drop his acquaintance. Their assurance in their own appraisal of Will might stave off the inevitable break, but for not much longer than a few weeks—not unless Will inflicted all parties with the full force of his rueful charm.

What would Penelope do once I was banished? Would she miss me?

He stopped by Camden Place. Everyone was out. He left a card, answered the butler’s bored queries: No, I won’t be returning this evening. I have a prior engagement.

He didn’t have an engagement, but he needed to get away from his extended family.

He should return to London. He was tired of waiting for fate to propel him in one direction or the other. He would get over Penelope. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life like Willoughby second-guessing his past.

Sci-Fi Cameos: Braving the Stigma

If you watch television long enough, you begin to realize that there are different acting tracks. For example, actors on mystery shows continually do mystery shows; actors on sci-fi shows continually do sci-fi shows. This is probably partly due to recommendations between casting directors and partly due to the "resume" that an actor builds up over the years.

Sci-fi and fantasy are far more respectable now than they used to be, but for years, every actor in Hollywood wanted to break into "real" television or movies, i.e. drama. Hence, Shatner and Nimoy's desperate attempt, after Star Trek: The Original Series, to lose the "captain" and the ears. (Nimoy did a far better job gracefully accepting the inevitable; Shatner has sort of come around.)

It would not be until Jonathan Frakes that an actor would frankly admit, "This is exactly the career I want." (DeForest Kelley felt the same way--he just wanted the work--he just never said so very loudly.)

However, despite its rise in respectability, sci-fi and fantasy still have a stigma--as they do in higher education. The days of trying to separate genre sci-fi from "literary" sci-fi are beginning to fade, but the issues are still there. Patrick Stewart was able to (partly) break free of the Star Trek "stigma" because (1) he'd had a fairly strong pre-Star Trek career; (2) his fans were willing to let him go (in fact, Trekkies are rather proud of Stewart's Shakespearean proclivities); (3) he's British, and British television is a smaller world that allows for greater flexibility, not because it is inherently flexible but simply because Dr. Who actors need to be able to do Agatha Christie and costume dramas (even Hugh Laurie could probably go back to doing Austen if he really wanted).

Still, I have always held a special place in my heart for those non-sci-fi track actors in Hollywood who show up on sci-fi shows. Granted, sometimes they just need the work, but sometimes, they really do love sci-fi and voluntarily make appearances.

Kelsey Grammer: Star Trek: Next Generation, "Cause and Effect." He took the part of Captain Bateson while he was doing Cheers, a year before Frasier. To continue the fun, Frasier episodes include a boatload of Star Trek references. In general, the Trekkie on Fraiser (Noel) is the butt of those jokes, but the sheer number of jokes reflects a profound knowledge of the franchise.

Wayne Brady: Stargate SG-1, "It's Good to Be King." I get a kick out of Wayne Brady's willingness to do just about anything from Whose Line Is It Anyway to Robot Chicken to How I Met Your Mother. He really does seem to have fun no matter what. He doesn't even sing on SG-1; he just plays a bad guy!

Whoopi Goldberg: Star Trek: Next Generation. The story of how Whoopi Goldberg told LeVar Burton she wanted to be on Trek but he didn't think she was serious until she kept insisting has been told elsewhere (and better). It is still impressive that she appeared so consistently on the show. Star Trek: Next Gen, despite various faults, has remarkable casting (and is the Star Trek that I've invested in the most).

Speaking of Star Trek, two actors with wonderful voices (and long television careers) who show up throughout the franchise are James Sloyan and Alan Scarfe. But then, they've done everything.

Another wonderful sci-fi guest star is Saul Rubinek. He may be better known, now, for his work on Leverage, but he did appear in one of Next Generation's classic episodes "The Most Toys." He also does a great job in SG-1's "Heroes."

I rather adore Alan Rachins (Dharma's dad on Dharma & Greg). He's another working actor. He's appeared in a wide range of material from L.A. Law to Lois & Clark to SG-1. He wants to work, so he works. He doesn't turn up his nose at doing a voice for the Spectacular Spider-Man!

James Cromwell could have stuck to the drama circuit if he'd like but he did several Star Trek: Next Generation episodes in the early 1990s and from that point on, more and more sci-fi shows appear on his C.V. (and of course, he IS Cochran!).

Ending where I started, another Cheers/Frasier alumnus, Bebe Neuwirth makes a guest appearance on Star Trek: Next Generation in the very funny episode "First Contact." No, she doesn't play the scientist. She plays the utterly obsessive "fan" (who wants to sleep with an alien: Riker). The role is hilarious because Neuwirth plays it straight. And she doesn't act anything like Dr. Sternin!

The Letter in Persuadable: Chaper 15

Chapter 15 of Persuadable addresses The Letter!

The Letter appears in the second ending of Persuasion. In the first ending, Austen has Captain Wentworth confront Anne about her rumored marriage to Will Elliot. When Anne hotly denies the rumor, she and the captain are able to reach an understanding.

Austen's fantastically intelligent revision produced the current ending: the letter which Captain Wentworth writes after he hears Anne declare that women stay true to their first loves. He is stuck in a parlor, surrounded by people, and responds with the means he has at hand. 

It is the perfect pay-off for the novel and for these particular characters (the 1995 movie combines the two endings quite effectively).

Letter-writing was an omnipresent activity in Austen's world. In many ways, it was more like "tweeting" than even modern-day emailing. Consider Pamela in Richardson's novel, feverishly writing her parents every detail of her life. Consider Darcy's letter to Elizabeth or Jane Bennet's continual letters to her absent sister. Consider the romantic poets who were constantly exchanging letters, many of which were written on the backs of poems or in the margins of prior letters (paper was a precious commodity). For that matter, consider Jane Austen's letters to her own sister!

For Austen as for Shakespeare, letters are the ultimate truth-tellers. In Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare uses his characters to argue that what one sees or hears cannot be trusted, only what one writes. When Benedict and Beatrice exchange poems at the end of the play--after another prideful argument--Benedict declares, "Here's our own hands against our hearts!"

In Persuadable, Penelope Clay naturally never reads Captain Wentworth's letter, but she guesses at its content:

The next day [the Elliots and Penelope Clay] were all busy getting ready for the party. At least Elizabeth kept herself busy making minor adjustments to the arrangements made by the servants. She walked about the drawing room twitching tablecloths here and there, straightening plates and utensils (there would be light refreshments).

Anne escaped; Sir Walter went off to show himself in the Pump Room. Penelope was left to pace behind Elizabeth, complimenting every minor adjustment: “You are such an observant hostess, Miss Elliot. You have such a flair for perfection.”

Leaving the drawing room to fetch a different vase for a floral arrangement, Penelope encountered Anne coming in from the outside. Anne looked flushed and distracted, her eyes straying to a letter in her hand; she started at seeing Penelope.

“Oh,” she said.

Penelope paused, clasping the vase. Anne had given her a loss of composure last night; this was Penelope’s chance to win some back.

“I was with the Musgroves,” Anne said and blushed.

Not just the Musgroves, Penelope surmised.

“Captain Wentworth has confirmed his attendance tonight,” Anne stammered.

Ah.

Anne turned away abruptly and shrugged off her cloak. As she lay the cloak across her arm, Penelope noted that she didn’t loosen her grip on the letter.

Penelope returned to the drawing room. So—Captain Wentworth had finally vocalized or written his intentions. This time, Penelope guessed, Anne wouldn’t push him over.

But then surely Anne had always known how she felt; she’d only lacked conviction. Penelope had plenty of conviction. She just wished she knew what to do with it.

Sense & Sensibility Makes an Appearance in Persuadable: Chapter 14

A character from Austen's Sense & Sensibility strolls through Thornberry Park in Chapter 14 of Persuadable.

Chapter 14 depicts Will Elliot's epiphany--as Chapter 17 depicts Penelope Clay's. My goal was to explain that epiphany: Will goes to Thornberry Park with Plan A in mind regarding the Elliots and Mrs. Clay; he comes back from Thornberry Park intent on implementing Plan B.

Greg Wise does an excellent job capturing

the tortured romantic, yet ultimately

unthinking selfishness of Willoughby.
Bad boys aren't always "all that."

Will Elliot's yen for precipitous action is a consistent trait between the original text and my tribute. He suddenly marries his first wife, entirely breaking off family ties. He re-initiates contact with the Elliots without warning. And he runs off to London with Mrs. Clay at the end of Persuasion.

Nevertheless, Anne's engagement is not enough to explain why he would suddenly throw over his wooing of the Elliot family; he could charm his way back into favor, even if Anne repeated Mrs. Smith's allegations.

After all, although many of Austen's villains are given to precipitous action, Will Elliot stands alone in his ability to avoid figuratively shooting himself in the foot. Wickham behaves precipitously when he runs off with Lydia--but then he has to marry her. Henry Crawford behaves precipitously when, despite his true affection for Fanny, he "can't keep it in his pants" and elopes with Maria; consequently, he loses Fanny and gains a far less agreeable wife. General Tilney behaves ungentlemanly as well as preciptiously when he learns Catherine is not an heiress and chucks her out of his home; his son marries Catherine anyway.

And Willoughby marries for money, then bemoans that he couldn't marry for love. In one of the most psychologically insightful speeches in Austen's novels, Eleanor Dashwood delineates Willoughby's character:

At present he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it?—Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, [Marianne], he would have been happy?—The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous—always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.

Absolutely! As Eleanor says earlier in this same conversation, Willoughby is entirely selfish. He is also entirely unhappy. He wants what he wants when he wants it, but he hates the consequences.

To someone like Will Elliot--who has an extraordinary, Spike-like ability to land on his feet (Spike from Buffy and Angel was always less interested in saving or destroying the world and always far more interested in a good pizza)--Willoughby's waffling self-pity would be abhorrent. Will Elliot has the kind of causal morality that, absent a true sense of ethics, can lead an intelligent person away from purely self-damaging behavior. He's the kind of so-called greedy capitalist who chooses the environmentally friendly plan that will keep the company thriving, not because he has passionate opinions about future trends or because he thinks animals should have a right to vote but because he can sense, almost instinctively, the plan's short-term and long-term benefits. (This type of morality is often far more reliable than strident cause-related ethics.)

Basically, Will Elliot still wants to be rich tomorrow.

A conversation with someone like Willoughby--who wants to be rich right now, does whatever he needs to  achieve that end, then whines about it--would send Will Elliot pell-mell away from waffling considerations towards a concrete plan.

So, I decided, why not just have him meet (a slightly older) Willoughby?  After all, the two men would circulate amongst the same crowd, as Will indicates:

Leaving the solicitor’s office, Will strolled to the club where he would stay the night. In the entrance hall, a tall, handsome man of forty-odd called his name in a deep voice: “Will Elliot!”

“John Willoughby.”

John Willoughby was fifteen years Will’s senior though he seemed as young. He was one of those men who looked profoundly respectable and dashing with a little gray at the temples. Will had met him now and again around town over the past ten years; they were more than passing acquaintances, less than friends. Willoughby seemed intelligent, having a quick wit and an engaging manner.

“I’m on my way to dine at Gerard’s,” he told Will. “Why don’t you join me?”

Will fell in beside him. He also remembered Willoughby as one of those people who always said the right thing in a droll way. Now, Willoughby condoled with Will over Sally’s death, then made a satirical but not malicious comment about doctors. Learning that Will had just come from Bath, he commented on the number of people leaving London for more relaxing climes.

“My wife complains of London society but hates to leave it,” Willoughby said over the first course and made a face that said his wife’s complaints were nothing new.

Then he sighed and looked pensive. It was the kind of sigh that demanded a quizzical look in return. Feeling vaguely annoyed, Will provided one.

“I could have married quite differently,” Willoughby said. “I met a girl in my youth—beautiful, honest, gentle. She truly cared for me.”

Why, Will wondered, are lost loves always described in such platitudinous, commonplace terms? Willoughby’s girl could be any reasonably well-bred, attractive girl with a kind disposition.

“She wanted only to be with me—in fact, she was so sure of our mutual affection, she followed me to London.”

Will stared at his companion over his soup spoon. A well-bred young woman with a kind disposition would only follow a man to whom she believed herself betrothed. Either this lost love was not an innocent as Willoughby remembered or he’d used her worse than Will had ever contemplated using anyone, even Anne Elliot.

Studying the complacent face of the handsome man opposite him, Will allowed for a third possibility: Willoughby remembered the past selectively, retaining only those memories and explanations that proved the most pleasurable and self-congratulatory.

Will didn’t mind a touch of self-satisfaction, but he did mind an inability to face reality; the reality here was that Willoughby was nothing like the cool-headed comrade Will had supposed.

Willoughby droned on: “Alas, society requires that a gentleman disregard love for the sake of money and position. My aunt threatened to cut me out of her will, so I abandoned the sweetest, kindest companion a man could have. Only now do I understand how wrong I was.”

Will smiled perfunctorily. This man is a fool. There was nothing objectionable about marrying for love—as long as one was willing to live with the probable consequences: possible poverty, the fading of affection, disillusionment. Willoughby was rapidly demonstrating an inability to acknowledge, let alone live with, difficult consequences.

“She was clever, light-hearted, passionate. And now she’s tied to a dour colonel—”

Apparently, he couldn’t accept the less onerous consequences of marriage for money either. Will kept contempt out of his face and voice as he said the sort of thing Willoughby wanted to hear. The man was not the objective observer Will had assumed; he would be puzzled if Will said, Wishing away the past is an exercise in futility.

Fulsome regrets were even more pointless. Will’s marriage for money had cut him off from the baronetcy—he’d accepted that; he’d never thought about it. If Sally was still alive, he would still accept it. But once she died, he recognized that he wanted the title and went after it.

Except—I’ll never marry Elizabeth.

So much for objectivity. And perhaps a peaceful life with a clever woman who could figure out Will, figure out his friends, and figure out his future was worth losing a title.

Whatever Will did, he would stick to his decision. An equivocator like Willoughby wasn’t just depressing; his conversation was downright emasculating.  

A Non-Romantic Proposition in Persuadable: Chapter 13

In Chapter 13 of Persuadable, Mr. Elliot makes his (first) proposition to Mrs. Clay, suggesting that she become his mistress.

In my commentary on Mr. B Speaks!, I discuss why an eighteenth/nineteenth century woman might choose to become a mistress. Penelope Clay is now faced with this choice. On the one hand: shame, rejection from good society (carrying serious long-term consequences), poverty, and stagnation. On the other hand: short-term security, greater prosperity than she would have as a single woman, and the potential (if she is clever) for long-term savings.

As I mentioned in my prior post, many mistresses tended to live like their benefactors and not a few had to scramble desperately for a new protector when rejected by the last. However, Mrs. Clay is clever; she would protect herself far more effectively.

Mr. Elliot's proposal is not romantically delivered despite Colonel Wallis's belief that his friend is a romantic at heart: Mr. Elliot of Persuadable falls into the category of jaded romantic, a type that Austen generally eschewed but would have recognized.

Gothic literature--discussed in Persuadable's Chapter 11 post--commonly used jaded heroes. Lord Byron, often considered the creator of the jaded romantic anti-hero, was extremely popular during Austen's lifetime. Persuasion, which centers around 1814, references Byron although most of his works were published later. Byron also heavily influenced romantic poets from Wordsworth to Coleridge, many of whom seemed to suffer from dark tangled locks and early deaths. I obtained the drawing of Keats (ill, near death) when I was on a study abroad program in London as an undergraduate. At the same time, I viewed (but was less impressed by) the overwrought statue of Shelley by Edward Onslow Ford (1892) .

Austen falls between the Classicist era and the Romantic Movement. Consequently, alongside her romantic impulses she provides a heavy dose of pragmatism. Many modern romances--set in the Regency era--have adopted this same approach. Although Charlotte Bronte, a devotee of a Romantic era (and a favorite author of mine), poured scorn on Austen, modern writers have recognized Austen's pragmatism as a perceptive and forward-looking acknowledgment of how difficult women's choices could be--as Mrs. Clay fully knows:

[Penelope Clay and Will Elliot meet at Bath's Abbey.]

They sat together and contemplated the warm light on the near-white stone.

“You know I don’t want you to marry Sir Walter,” Will said finally.

“For fear I will give him a son.”

Will didn’t reply immediately. She kept her eyes on the pew back before her.

He said, “I would hate to lose the baronetcy at the eleventh hour.”

“You never wanted it before.”

“People change—well, not really. But our desires do. We become more ourselves. Or less. Or something. More of what we’ve been heading towards.”

“You’ve been heading towards a baronetcy?”

“Towards stability—money, land.” He paused. “A helpmate.”

“Helpmate?”

“I need company. I’m too old for frivolity. Too young for dourness.”

She supposed his late wife had been frivolous. She never thought of Anne as dour but likely Will was referring to Elizabeth.

She questioned the unspoken elimination: “What about Anne?”

“She discovered that I married for money.”

“Everyone knows that you married for money.”

“But I kept it. That’s the real sin, you know. Sir Walter can be pompous and proud and his insolvency embarrasses Anne, but at least he isn’t stingy. That would truly mortify her. Me, I kept my wife’s money, invested it—for her sake as well as my own—and held onto it when she died. I didn’t fritter it away on her friends or invest in useless legal actions. It’s positively . . . bourgeois.”

“It’s intelligent,” Penelope said.

“See, I knew you understood me. I think we could get on well together. I would give you a home.”

She started. She’d anticipated seduction, not anything as long-range as the suggestion that she become Will’s mistress.

“And I’d support your sons.”

She nodded. A mistress was not as secure a position as a wife, but a clever mistress bartered for certain benefits. Though Penelope wasn’t much of a mother, she was enough of one to get her sons situated where they could make connections and obtain good employment.

She sighed, aware that Will watched her.

She said, “How long would our affair last?”

“I don’t know. I never think that far ahead. Long enough for me to enjoy you.”

Penelope flushed and stood. “I should get back.”

He also rose, his hand at her elbow.

“You’re supposed to be on the road to Thornberry,” she said with only slight asperity.

“I’ll walk you out to Stall Street.”

As they left the Abbey, Penelope resisted the impulse to lean into the hand that still hovered at her elbow. Will might not be the best solution to her future, but he was a kind of solution, and she wanted to be done with scheming.

She said abruptly, “And if I took your offer?”

He halted, turned her towards him by the shoulders. “You’d come with me. Right now. All the way to London.”

“We would miss the card party tomorrow.”

“We will both become personae non grata with the Elliots . . . should you accept,” Will said. “Personally, I can bear to give up their company. Can you?”

She was beginning to believe nothing would please her more.

Stargate: Season 7 Review

Continuing with my reviews! 

Episode #1--Fallen: Daniel comes back! (Because being human is so much more interesting than being ascended, as Cordelia from Angel could attest.) This episode definitely assumes background information on the part of the viewer, a trend that began in Season 5.

This episode and "Homecoming" form a pretty good military two-parter:

Episode #2--Homecoming: The relationship between Yu and his second-in-command has substance. In fact, Yu is one of the most interesting Goa'uld.

Jonas is conveniently, and intelligently, moved on.

Episode #3--Fragile Balance: Michael Welch shows up as a teen Jack O'Neill. He is almost pitch perfect (though a little off in intonation--Jack is more wry exasperation than angry irritation).

The episode makes lots of self-references. When Daniel remarks that "stranger things have happened," he backs up his statement with examples from previous seasons ("the time we became cavemen . . .").

Episode #4--Orpheus: This episode addresses Teal'c's adjustment to not being a superman anymore. There are nice growth moments for Daniel and Teal'c. And it's always nice to see an episode where SG-1 doesn't take out 2 million Jaffa all by itself but actually has to plan.

Episode #5--Revisions: An old-fashioned visit-a-planet-have-an-adventure episode! Christopher Heyerdahl shows up; he's a great sci-fi actor with a creepy, intense aura--and he's so tall! (He also plays a Wraith on SG: Atlantis.)

Episode #6--Life Boat: Michael Shanks gets to play multiple personalities. This is an interesting story using the stored consciousness motif, a motif I usually consider rather pointless. But it creates an interesting narrative here.

Episode #7--Enemy Mine: A battle over mineral rights, this episode includes very clear insights on why the European colonials stuck in out in the Americas despite its non-political correctness (from the point of view of future generations).

Episode #8--Space Race: This is a fun "must win the race" episode, complete with sportscasters! Naturally, there is a sweet, sportsmanlike hero racer versus dastardly, conspiring antagonists.

Episode #9--Avenger 2.0: Jay Felger (Patrick McKenna) shows up again for a virus story. It isn't as funny as "The Other Guys" (Season 6), but Patrick McKenna is always delightful.

Episode #10--Birthright: 20th century guys (and Carter) meet Amazons. The episode presents the interesting problem of culture being challenged by advances--should the ladies give up their symbiotes (slavery) in favor of tretonin? Slavery, when embedded within a culture, can be surprisingly difficult to sacrifice. There is also a neat subplot regarding Teal'c's pride, his reluctance to admit he is ashamed of not having a symbiote.

Episodes #11 & #12--Evolution: And Apophis has a new scary warrior!

Apophis is a surprising weakness of this season. It's the problem of the BIG BAD being SOOO big and bad, the viewer stops caring.

Enrico Colantoni does show up up in "Evolution, Part 2"--it's always nice to see him!

Episode #13--Grace: This is a neat dream/ghost episode where characters represent parts of a person's psyche. Star Trek: TNG did many of these episodes. I always enjoy them.

Episode #14--Fallout: This is not a bad drilling-to-the-center-of-the-world episode. Unfortunately, Quinn's crush on a Goa'uld, the most interesting part of the episode, is brushed over.

Episode #15--Chimera: I like David DeLuise, but I confess I find him and Major Carter an odd pairing. He seems like such a goofy guy, and she is so not goofy. On the other hand, Carter may be trying the "not date my usual guy" technique, which isn't a bad idea.

The storyline of Daniel and Sarah is very clever.

Episode #16--Death Knell: Fairly good episode that does a typically excellent job exploring the political quagmires that exist amongst allies.

Episodes #17 & #18--Heroes 1 & 2: Just when I start to think Stargate has used up all its stories . . . This is a really good two-parter, partly because it is such a thoughtful discussion of truth, the necessary use of free press in a democratic society, and the use of film (or documentation) as history (like the child who doesn't really remember her 1st birthday but has seen it so often on videotape, it has become a "real" memory).

Beloved Sci-Fi Star: Robert Picardo

The two-parter is also aided by great guest stars: Saul Rubinek, Adam Baldwin, and Robert Picardo. Saul Rubinek especially delivers a virtuoso performance.

I was truly surprised by the heroic cost at the end.

Episode #19--Resurrection: An X-Filey type episode.

Episode #20--Inauguration: A recap episode.

We finally get to meet the "president"! Of course, he's a new president with Senator Kinsey as his VP. Picardo as Woolsey does a great job as the tough, objective observer who makes good points (yeah, Stargate Command has a tendency to be invaded by alien entities) and is ultimately an honorable man.

Episodes #21 & #22--Lost City: A completely different Dr. Weir!

This is a nice intro to Stargate Atlantis.

On to Season 8: I will now be entering completely new territory, episodes I've never seen before! 

More Thoughts On What Makes Literature Great (or Not)

I like the idea of resonance! I think a sense of familiarity or connection (even when the setting is another planet or time) makes it possible to bridge the gap between an author's context and our own. The human condition changes in particulars but never in substance.

I also think there's a great deal to the idea that good works (novels, movies, etc.) allow readers to enter the author's world. In my thesis, I argue that a flexible work is a work that contains space within it. If we can enter, find a place for ourselves, the work has creative potential.

My only caveat (to myself) is that the ability to relate appears to come as much from the reader as from the author. I can still remember a rather uncomfortable discussion with a fellow student back when I was an undergraduate; he desperately wanted to convince me that our professor's fiction book was a great piece of a literature, especially since he felt a connection to the main character of the book who had suffered a death in the family. As he described this part of the book, tears came to his eyes.

I thought the book was good but rather pedestrian. My embarrassment was not so much that it was our professor's book--I actually don't think my professor would have had a problem with my opinion--but that the fellow student's "review" was based on such heart-rending personal evidence. How does one say, "Yes, I'm quite sad for you, but really, this book is not great writing." (Okay, some people can do that, but I find it very hard.)

But the book just didn't have that something else, that "oomphiness." When I hear Katrina's final speech in Taming of the Shrew or "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones, my reaction is the same: someone human wrote that?! I don't care about the chauvinism. I hardly care about the message. At that moment, I just care about the art, the "more," the bigger than big sensation which lingers afterwards.

When I was writing my thesis, a single idea kept cropping up again and again amongst those analysts that I actually found useful; C.S. Lewis, Camille Paglia, Arnold Weinstein, Wayne Booth, Umberto Eco all refer to the same idea:

Transcendence.

For example . . .

Paglia: Yet poetry is not just about itself: it does point to something out there, however dimly we can know it.

C.S. Lewis: Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sink back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself . . . Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

Resonance is clearly a key component here. In A Scream Goes Through the House, Weinstein also identifies the reader's desire to reach beyond the self, arguing that pain, loss, and love within art connect us as human beings.

C.S. Lewis's quote comes from An Experiment in Criticism in which he postulates an interesting approach--we should judge literature not by what it contains but by how it is read. He fingers transcendence as one of the signs (not the only one); with great literature, the reader is carried out of him or herself. (I discuss Lewis's approach more in the thesis's first chapter.)

Which brings me to the idea of self-forgetfulness. The seeming contradiction here is that a piece that can carry us outside of ourselves can also encourage us to relate but only by not reminding us (or itself) that that is what it is doing.

To put it another way, the work is caught up in being simply what it is. As, I would argue, is the artist.

There's a relevant scene in Amadeus (not based on real life) when Mozart's wife visits Salieri, bringing with her some of Mozart's pieces. When Salieri wants to borrow them, she shakes her head--These are the only copies. Stunned, Salieri stares at them. In that moment, seeing the unrevised compositions, he realizes that he is a craftsman while Mozart is a true artist.

My point is not that great artists never revise--shoot, most of them from Monet to Shakespeare to Austen revised and revised heavily. What I always remember about Amadeus, however, is the idea of Mozart's self-forgetfulness, his ability to get caught up in creation rather than in what the art means.

Tolkien was the same--Middle-Earth mattered, not what Middle-Earth meant. It was its own excuse. C.S. Lewis started the Narnia series with an image of a lion. Austen spoke of Elizabeth as a living person. The very thing that academics (at least in my program) criticized--the unreflective nature of the consumer--seems to be the very thing that great writers have.

(Except for George Bernard Shaw, and I'm not counting him today.)

These writers, not just the readers, seem entirely non-analytical about their creations. Even Christie, who carefully and concisely mapped out her books, seemed to think that another dead body was its own excuse (after all, it produced another 1,000 words!). Asimov--who claimed to never revise--typed his books without stopping while Stephen King--speaking of the symbolism in Carrie--states that he didn't notice it until the second draft.

In his book On Writing, Stephen King compares discovering a story to uncovering a dinosaur skeleton--the story is already there, whole, waiting to be found: sui generis. Likewise, Salieri perceives Mozart's compositions as translations of work already fully shaped in Mozart's brain.

I'm frankly in the Salieri (the imaginary character)'s homeroom than in Mozart's. But when the writing really works, when it flows, when I feel for two seconds that I'm almost in that other room . . . those are the moments when I stop thinking about the writing and just write. What comes next comes naturally, inevitably. (And then I'm back to trying to fit pieces together twenty different ways, but since I actually get a kick of that part of the process, I'm plenty happy to stick to craftswomanship.)

I hate to propose the idea of the "muse speaking through the artist," simply because many people (i.e., students) use that idea as an excuse not to draft--like speakers who want to "wing it." Well, sure, there are great speakers who can "wing it," but most of us need notecards--and waiting until the last minute for the muse to pay a visit is a really lousy idea!

And yet, I think the idea of the muse--even the working muse--has merit. The book or painting or song is made because the artist's creative need demands that it be made--yet the artist seems hardly aware of the need, only that the thing's existence is warranted. Once created, it becomes rather like a pet that sinks its claws into people's hearts--so much so that even the artist may go, "I own that?! Wow!"  (Okay, I'm also excluding Picasso who would have said, "Of course that's mine! I'm amazing!!")

To bring the two ideas together: I think great art, including novels, is art that captures the human condition while carrying the reader/viewer into a story or image that seems like it always existed. For lack of a better word, a great work of art has a whole-ness about it.

Which naturally doesn't prevent people from carving that work up for any number of reasons! 

And, having said all that, there are plenty of non-great books that I'll always keep and never give up just because I love them--whether they meet the above criteria or not.

Important Documents: What Qualifies as a Cultural Phenomenon and Why?

In my previous Persuadable post, I commented:

In any case, I have always considered literary analysis that insists that all literature have an IMPORTANT MESSAGE to be trite to the nth degree. Well-fashioned prose has done more to keep the world turning than any so-called IMPORTANT bumper sticker.

Of course, then I immediately thought of all the great documents with important messages that have influenced the world and reportedly changed people. This is the problem with making big claims! I did qualify my claim by sticking to fiction and narrowing my criticism to bumper stickers. But any message-oriented piece of writing raises the same issues: How much impact do words have? What influences people in the long-term? Can the written word change the course of history?

On the one hand, historical documents--like the Declaration of Independence--are just that: documents. That is, they document great events. The document may then become great in its own right.

Then there are documents like Marx's Communist Manifesto and Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, purely philosophical texts that enter a community of debate on a particular subject.

Yet, many historical documents and philosophical treatises have died natural deaths (until resurrected in a graduate paper). Why a particular document or treatise doesn't disappear into the scrap heap of history is something people keep trying to figure out from Malcolm Gladwell to Hollywood studios. Of course, if we could all figure out what separates King and Rowlings and Meyers from every other hoping-to-be-published-writer, we'd all be rich.

So what makes texts stick? What makes a particular text matter more than the others?

One possibility is historical success. How memorable would the Declaration of Independence be if the American experiment had been replaced in a few years with a British reincarnation? (Who knows?!)

Another possibility is the author's bio. In one of the better scenes from Lady in the Water, Vick Ran confronts the Lady (while his sister is out of the room):

VICK: Change doesn't happen, the way you say it's going to happen, without dramatic events to accelerate thinking. I wrote this thing. It might take decades or longer to create a reaction, before it anchors in the consciousness.

He continues, pointing out that the only way for words to change a culture so abruptly is for an event to occur that locks the words into the culture. In a heart-breaking undertone, he asks:

VICK: Am I gonna die, because I wrote this?

STORY: Yes.

Still, there are martyrs whose philosophical views haven't been remembered, and martyrdom doesn't address what turns Stephen King, overnight, into a popular culture icon and leaves another writer struggling in obscurity.

The writers would likely say, "It's the writing!" People in my graduate seminar claimed it was the evil corporate publishing companies forcing their views on everyone, but although evil corporate publishing companies can make money this way, they rarely make legends. Disney claiming that the third Pirates movie was a "cultural phenomenon" before it even came out didn't make it true.

What fellow students in my graduate seminar often missed was the possibility that culture moves in more than one direction. By its nature, academic language tends to utilize either/or dichotomies. At one point, I pondered aloud why there has to be a dominant culture and a counter-culture. Everyone chuckled at my absurdity. I could only shake my head: no one is more bound by academic terminology than a bunch of academics.

To me, terms like "dominant," "counter-culture," and "liminal" simply describe events that we witness. But the terms are not true in the absolute sense.

Consider mental diagnosis. If you read the DMV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), you realize that a person does not have a mental disorder in the way that a person has cancer cells. Although I will allow that there may be a neurological component to some disorders, as far as the DMV (and numerous insurance companies) are concerned, the diagnosis is based on the witnessing of various behaviors in various settings.

I'm not, at the moment, challenging the validity of the DMV, only pointing out that language in this case is a short-cut for stating that a set of behaviors has been witnessed and reported in various settings. I realize that all language operates in this way, but with a mental diagnosis the short-cut often implies the opposite of what it really means. A child does not have ODD in the way a child has a virus. A child portrays behaviors that have been categorized as ODD. ODD is not the cause; ODD is a label for the effects.

In a similar way, academic language often describes effects of culture. That doesn't mean that the culture is actually composed of neatly delineated hierarchies or compactly circumscribed sets of outsiders and insiders. 

Likewise, literary analysts of the type I've described often put the cart before the horse. Because they are wedded to the idea of sociological trends that can be streamlined and managed through the application of language (x preceded y), they imagine that (elite) texts are the instigators of change. They ignore the possibility that words may reflect culture and events rather than create them. The change may already be occurring (the idea that elite texts precede change is so engrained in our culture, I occasionally encounter people who behave as though an event that precedes its written account is somehow automatically false. If it wasn't written down first, it couldn't possibly have happened!)

I personally feel the whole thing is cyclical: events create documents which reinforce events. After all, Marx and Smith were responding to something.

Likewise, an interest in vampires preceded Meyers (as many people have pointed out). That interest also preceded Buffy. Then the entire zeitgeist became reinforced until it saturated the culture.

My ultimate point is that trying to BE the change or phenomenon is unlikely to guarantee success (I'm going to make people think!!!). That's why bumper sticker philosophy seems so pointless to me: If I put enough stickers on my car, I will change YOU (although I think the real thought process here is, If I put enough bumper stickers on my car, I will make YOU understand ME). It is far wiser to simply write the thing one cares about and hope it meets the culture's needs.

Philosophy without context is rarely effective. And philosophy at the expense of context doesn't get very far. I can make profound commentary about anything if I'm pushed to it--car manuals, telephone books (yup, that's the power of an English degree!). But absent a community of thought (non-fiction) and an actual plot (fiction), that commentary will never be more than a party trick. (I made you think!!! Next, I'll make you disappear.)

It's Okay to Write About Marriage and Domestic Problems--Persuadable's Take on Mrs. Smith: Chapter 12

1995 Mrs. Smith--she does an excellent job

conveying Mrs. Smith's pleasure in life.

In Chapter 12 of Persuadable, Will Elliot visits Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith is one of Austen's most interesting minor characters. She is a resilient widow whose once well-off late husband lost all his money to extravagance. Although her husband owned property in the West Indies, which could give Mrs. Smith a respectable income, that property is "encumbered" (used to pay off debts), and Mrs. Smith can't touch the "rents."

Based on this slim information, some literary analysts have criticized the Mrs. Smith character for her willingness to live off the slave trade (the West Indies property would likely use slaves); Jane Austen herself was not a supporter of slavery, and I was tempted to give Mr. Elliot noble reasons for not helping Mrs. Smith recover the property.

West Indies Map

That approach, however, would have been something of a cheat. One, Mr. Elliot is not the type of guy to invest himself in abstract causes overseas (anymore than he is the type of guy to lay out cash for what he considers an iffy proposition at best); two, Austen's text makes clear that Mrs. Smith's purpose is to convey information to Anne, not stand as a symbol of colonialism.

Of course, this brings up the issue of Austen's supposed ignorance of political and social issues. Frankly, this is such a stupid criticism of the writer that I have difficulty taking it even momentarily seriously; plus, at the risk of sounding like a ticked-off feminist, it is not an argument one often hears about male writers who focus on domestic plots. In any case, excellent biographies of Jane Austen, including Paula Bryne's The Real Jane Austen, have effectively disputed this characterization. Jane Austen was not only well-aware of currently political and social issues, she had immediate familial investments in many of them.

Setting aside the obvious refutation that fiction is deliberate creation and writers will focus how and where they choose, why do such analysts suppose wars and revolutions are carried out? Despite the unnerving and tunnel-vision attitudes of many activists, they are generally NOT carried out for the sake of more wars and revolutions. Rightly or wrongly, they are usually carried out to create a better life somewhere for someone. In other words, they are carried out so people can get married and not have to worry about soldiers cluttering up their living rooms.

In any case, I have always considered literary analysis that insists that all literature have an IMPORTANT MESSAGE to be trite to the nth degree. Well-fashioned prose has done more to keep the world turning than any so-called IMPORTANT bumper sticker.

A passage from Mr. B Speaks! addresses this issue from another perspective. An excerpt from Persuadable, Chapter 12 can be found on the Persuadable homepage. 

Gary (the literary analyst) rolled his eyes. “And, of course, romance novels always have perfect weddings.”

“Of course.”

“This whole novel [Pamela] is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot.”

The judge glanced towards the characters’ table. Mr. B was still smiling faintly. He hadn’t flinched at being called “inconsequential.” Presumably, people of the eighteenth century were less obsessed with getting their “day in court” than people of the twenty-first.

The judge reminded himself not to chuckle at his own pun.

“People hid their heads in the sand,” Gary was still declaiming. “Just like they do today.”

The romance writer reviewer, Deborah, said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

She was probably right—the man certainly loved to carp about stuff—but the judge didn’t want audience members giving the Committee for Literary Fairness any (more) reason to complain.

He said pacifically, “Different novels cover different topics.”

Leslie Quinn, the writer of popular non-fiction, agreed, “People in the eighteenth century still had to work, love, have children, get along. Those topics never go away.”

Dr. Matchel (another literary analyst) said, “But romance novels don’t deal with real domestic problems. They end with the wedding, giving readers the false impression that married life will be eternally happy. Escapist literature!”

"This novel doesn't end with the wedding," Mr. B's attorney pointed out, muttering, “What’s wrong with escapism?”

Deborah added, “Dark and depressing isn’t automatically profound.”

British version versus American version: It has to be said . . .

It isn't unusual for television and movie buffs to hear the following remarks:

The book version is better.

Regular programming is so trite.

The British version is better . . .

I'll refute the first two at a later time, but I want to deal with the last right now. It isn't atypical for us Americans to feel rather ashamed of our supposedly crass culture, to assume that other countries only produce worthwhile and artistically sensitive programming.

This is completely silly--there's as much good and bad programming in Japan and France and Great Britain as anywhere else. In fact, in general, American programming produces more decent shows simply due to volume (we produce more crappy shows too; we just produce more shows in general).

I'm a fan of a many BBC shows from The Vicar of Dibley to Doctor Who to Poirot. And I wish that many BBC quiz shows were more easily obtainable.

However, I recently tracked down the BBC Whose Line Is It Anyway? which preceded the American version (of the same title) by about a decade. And I have to say: although I'd been told that the BBC version was wittier, etc. (everything British is better!), I consider the American seasons I've seen of far higher quality than the initial BBC seasons. (Yes, there are caveats: keep reading.)

1. The stand-up comics in the BBC version don't always follow the rules. 

Astounding Ryan Stiles and adorable Colin Mochrie

One of the elements that makes the Drew Carey-hosted version so funny is how vigorously the comics try to stick to the "game"--guests at a party, actors in a Western, people on a dating show, salesmen for a music compilation. In the BBC version, the comics will often just start doing whatever they want, even if it doesn't fit the "rules."

Granted, the rules in both shows don't mean much. But many of the jokes arise from trying to meet those rules. In the first season of the American version, Ryan Stiles and Colin Mochrie (who both also starred in the British version) have to do a routine about vampires. At one point, Colin, who is being manipulated by an audience member, mutters to Ryan's chest, "I forgot my stake, so I'm going to have to chew through your chest." 

The equivalent British version of this, on the other hand, would morph into something totally different and far less funny.

The best example of the difference here is the British "game" in which the comics had to mimic authors' styles while telling parts of a story. One of the British comics would always, always, always do the same thing: pick a pretentious writer and mimic him (or her). It was funny once but after awhile . . . And he would never try to get his spoof to match up to the assigned topic. He'd just go off on a tangent.

This was so common that at one point, the host--Clive Anderson--remarked rather testily that no one was getting any points because no one actually kept on-target.

2. The American version is more versatile.

Now at this point, I will acknowledge that the American version built off the British version. The American version also started with the amazing Ryan Stiles and Colin Mochrie (Ryan joined the British version in its second season; Colin two seasons later). Consequently, the American version was able to begin with many of the edges smoothed off plus a leg up on physical comedy.

Now, I'm not a huge fan of slapstick. However, this type of show really needs pure physical comedy. Ryan Stiles, when he acts like a hunted deer, and Colin Mochrie, when he acts like a bad trapeze artist, or both of them ("It's a disaster! What should we do? Run from side to side!") are hilarious.

They are also the kind of comics who think alike and are therefore able to produce very funny routines where one guy picks up where the other guy left off.

The first seasons of the British version don't have any of this (I will allow that it may have changed later on). It is terribly talky--and I'm the kind of person who usually loves witty dialog! But still, for a show of this type, you need physical comedians.

3. The American version has Wayne Brady as a regular. 

Wayne Brady

It is difficult to praise Wayne Brady enough. A show like Whose Line Is It Anyway? relies on irony and spoofs. That is, to make the joke, the comic has to fully comprehend what is being satirized. Wayne Brady is unbelievably talented in this area from mimicking Ray Charles to Tim Curry (yup, Brady spoofed the Rocky Horror Picture Show) to . . . shoot, you name it. He's the kind of guy who would clean up all the pink pie pieces in Trivial Pursuit.

The kindly Clive Anderson

4. The actors are far more relaxed in the American version. 

Again, this may be because the American version got the show after it had already been tested. But Greg Proops, who is a seriously funny comic worthy of Phil Hartman (rest in peace), seems far more ill-at-ease--and somewhat under-appreciated--in the British version than in the American version.

I don't think this is the host. Clive Anderson has a friendly Drew Carey quality (what is about game show hosts?). Rather, it seems to be the other comics. In the British version, they all seem to be trying so hard to be funny in their own right. While in the American version, they will often play off each other.

So, while I will grant that the American show likely benefited greatly from the British show going first and working out the kinks, I just want to go on record: the British version of something is NOT automatically the best version. That equation does work both ways.