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Charlie Chaplin and Peter Pan

This evening I watched probably the saddest comedy I’ve ever seen.  It had a happy ending, but only after the protagonist had survived a great deal of physical danger, loneliness, and mockery.  The film, a selection from my PhD candidacy exam “reading” list, was Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush (1925).  It was only an hour and nine minutes long, and it was originally a silent film, though Netflix sent me a 1942 version that had a cheesy narrator and some dubbed-in dialogue in the narrator’s voice–even the female voices.  (If I were a silent film purist, which I’m not, that probably would have ruined the experience for me.  Fortunately, the narrator knew when to keep his mouth shut.)  Despite what might sound like obstacles to good storytelling (short running time and characters who don’t talk–even at the ending; you hear that,The Artist?), this turned out to be a hilarious comedy at times (I LOL-ed when the protagonist trashed the cabin in his joy after the girls promised to come over for New Year’s Eve dinner) and at other times a heart-breaking tale of man’s inhumanity to man.  Actually, it was mostly woman’s inhumanity to man; the men had guns and axes, but the women had cruel laughter, which the resilient “lone prospector” (Chaplin) was able to shake off less easily.  (Spoiler: The girls don’t show up for dinner.)

Other fun things about The Gold Rush: The special effects were pretty darn good for 1925.  (I didn’t even know they had special effects in 1925!)  Also, and perhaps most importantly, this is the movie from which Johnny Depp’s character in Benny and Joon draws his impression of the “dance” of two rolls on the ends of two forks.  Now I realize how stunningly accurate the homage is, right down to the facial expression.  If only for that reason, you should watch this movie.  But see if you can get the original version.

And now for my other, unrelated topic.  You know I love Peter Pan, the character, right?  You know how excited I was to see him at the Melbourne Zoo; you saw the picture I took as proof.  (See the post “Fairies in Melbourne.”)  I want to establish this because I’m going to share a poem I scribbled down Sunday night after watching the Alluvion Stage Company production of the musical Peter Pan.  The poem is rather critical of Peter, the character.  But my love for someone doesn’t mean that I can’t see the point of view of other characters who may not have such a rosy outlook on said person (eg. Harry Potter, Snape).  You can probably guess easily enough which character is speaking in this poem.  I’m probably reading more animosity into the story than is actually there, but I enjoy pulling out subtexts.  This poem isn’t great; I need to work more on the vocabulary and sentence structure because I want the voice to start out sounding like an adult (or someone who wants us to think he’s an adult) and descend gradually into childishness.  But, for now, here it is.

A clever chap, I suppose.

A good swordsman, you’d be a fool to deny it.

Very smart at plotting, and that sort of thing.

But really, what English young person doesn’t know the ending of Cinderella?

But he isn’t English, after all.

He’s some sort of heathen.

Probably doesn’t even know what the British Empire is.

And doesn’t understand how a shadow works?

Ridiculous, really.

Not as clever as Wendy thinks he is.

Not as clever as he thinks he is.

A horrid boy, actually.

Always has to be the father.

Always has to be the chief.

Always has to be the hero.

A horrible selfish boy

Who never,

Never

Lets anyone else be the leader.

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Man is a giddy thing. (William Shakespeare said that.)

Tonight I chose Mumford and Sons’ Sigh No More as my falling-asleep music.  Bad idea.  These are songs for thinking, some for dancing, but not for falling asleep.  So I’m still awake with this review/listening guide in my head, and I want to write it down before I do fall asleep and forget everything I want to say.

In case you have been living under a rock (in which case you probably need to “Roll Away Your Stone”) and have not yet listened to Mumford and Sons, let me try to encapsulate their style for you: exuberant, theatrical bluegrass with an English Renaissance twist.  (In fact, that’s their genre on iTunes.  That entire phrase.  Just kidding.)  I say “bluegrass” because of the prominence of the banjo and mandolin and because Marcus Mumford’s accent sounds, to my American ears, like the British equivalent of hillbilly.  (Example: In several songs, such as “White Blank Page,” which include non-verbal syllables, he says “Arr,” not “Ahh.”)  The English Renaissance part comes in with the Shakespeare references, found in the album title, the title track (whose lyrics are largely lifted from Much Ado about Nothing), and “Roll Away Your Stone,” where the line “Stars, hide your fires” is wrenched rather startlingly from its original Macbeth context and put to effective use.  Other early modern touches include a song that seems to be about the Black Plague (“Winter Winds,” which contains a rare 21st-century use of the sadly neglected word “pestilence”) and some tunes I can only describe as troubadour-ish (hear, for example, the little melody at the beginning of “Roll Away Your Stone”; it sounds like something they might have danced to in the movie Elizabeth).

My favorite thing about the album is that it subtly tells a story.  There is a clear introduction, conflict, climax, and resolution.  I’ll try to outline the plot here without getting too long-winded.  (Yeah, good luck with that.)  After “Sigh No More,” which is the prologue, we have a solid line-up of hits: “The Cave,” “Winter Winds,” and “Roll Away Your Stone.”  These are songs that you should roll down your car windows and shout along with.  They are also triumphant, almost defiant, declarations of independence (especially “R.A.Y.S.”–I think it’s time to start abbreviating this title).  The series of songs ends with the line, “You have neither reason nor rhyme / With which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine.”  These numbers are life-affirming, but all of this brazen exuberance so early on the album makes us wonder whether it can last.

Alas, it cannot.  With “White Blank Page” and “I Gave You All,” something bad happens. (I mean in the plot, not to the music.)  This bad thing is all the more frightening because it remains undefined.  These are break-up songs, I suppose, but the singer/narrator seems not only to be breaking up with a girlfriend but with himself and even with God.  (Yes, I think the lyrics justify these weighty interpretations.  This is a weighty album.  It’s good when you find a weighty album that you can dance to.)  In the midst of it all, however, there’s still an ember of hope (a key word on this album).  The last words in “White Blank Page” (besides “Arr”) are “Lead me to the truth, and I / Will follow you with my whole life.”

There’s a little bit of a turning point in the next song, “Little Lion Man.”  For one thing, this is the first “upbeat” song since “R.A.Y.S.”  For another, the singer is able to make a confession: “It was not your fault, but mine.”  After the blame-casting of the two previous songs, this admission is refreshing, though perhaps it goes too far in the self-castigating direction.  The song is cathartic, anyway.  It’s another fun one to yell out the window, not least because you get to yell the f-word several times.

The next song, “Timshel,” is a puzzle, like its title.  It’s one of only two songs on the album (the other is “After the Storm”) that stays quiet the whole way through and doesn’t swell to a climax.  In this bittersweet song, someone seems to be dying.  Or giving birth?  Or being baptized?  I don’t know whether the death is literal or symbolic, but the water imagery seems to indicate it will be followed by some sort of rebirth.  The most profound line on the album, in my opinion, is in this song: “Death is at your doorstep / And it will steal your innocence / But it will not steal your substance.”  Someone should preach a sermon about that.  This song ranks, along with some David Crowder songs (“Come Awake” from A Collision and pretty much the entire Give Us Rest album), as one of my favorite songs about death.

Next comes the climax of the whole album: “Thistle and Weeds.”  Unlike some of the earlier numbers, this one doesn’t necessarily catch your attention from the beginning; you might be tempted to skip it, but don’t.  Soon enough you’ll get to a percussive thunderstorm of piano and drums, over which Marcus hollers a line from an earlier song: “I will hold on hope.”  In “The Cave,” it’s easy to mentally skip over this line; here, we get its full significance.  The protagonist of the story is holding on for dear life.  Someone or something is trying to steal his hope, hence the desperation of the vocal.  The song ends quietly, but without much resolution.  We have to wait until the next song to find out what happened.  (N.B. “Thistle and Weeds” contains easily the creepiest line on the album: “Let the dead bury their dead / And they will come out in droves.”)

The next song is “Awake My Soul,” and it might be my favorite, although it’s nearly impossible to choose.  This song doesn’t have the wild abandon of the set of hits at the beginning of the album, but its happiness is richer and deeper because it’s been tempered by sadness.  Yes (spoiler alert), the protagonist has held onto his hope.  As you can probably guess from the title, with this song comes the resurrection (if not bodily, then at least spiritual) that has been foreshadowed in earlier songs, such as “Winter Winds” (“You’ll be happy and wholesome again”) and “Timshel.”  Here, the expression “meet your maker” is not ominous, like it tends to be in common usage, but joyful.

Part bad-ass gunslinger ballad, part jeremiad against greed and oppression, “Dust Bowl Dance” is the only song that seems out of place on this album.  Don’t get me wrong; it’s a good song.  I just think they should have saved it for their next album.  For one thing, it breaks up the flow of the story; there shouldn’t be anything bleak after “Awake My Soul,” and “Dust Bowl Dance” is pretty bleak.  For another, with its distorted guitar and manic cymbals, it’s more rock than (remember?) exuberant, theatrical bluegrass with an English Renaissance twist.  And finally, speaking of the English Renaissance, the Dust Bowl was a 20th-century American event, so it’s weird to encounter it here.  Still, I love the inflection in Marcus’s voice on the last line: “You haven’t met me; I am the only son.”  It should be in a good tragic action movie.

The aptly-named “After the Storm” is the last song and the other quiet song.  It could be anti-climactic, but only if you’re not paying attention.  The guitar is lovely, and the lyrics are rain-drenched with meaning.  It’s not a happily-ever-after ending because it’s not really an ending.  The song uses a lot of future tense: “There will come a time, you’ll see / With no more tears, and love will not break your heart.”  You’re admonished to “Get over your hill and see / What you find there.”

What will we find there?  A second Mumford and Sons album?  Yes, happily, later this year!  But for now, go back and listen to Sigh No More (or “Come out of your cave” and listen to it for the first time).  I’ve told you what I’ve found in this album; now I’d love to know what you find there.

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Seeking unlikely hero who’s good with plants

I realize this morning’s post was probably a bit of a snooze for people who haven’t read The Rise of Silas Lapham (even though the novel itself is not a snooze–I’ve been flying through the last hundred pages this afternoon and evening), so this evening I decided to write something more fun, or something that at least nerds like me will consider fun.

I was thinking earlier about the two fictional characters I’m most in love with.  One, Sam Gamgee, I’ve loved since I first read The Lord of the Rings at age 13; the other, Neville Longbottom, I’ve loved for a shorter time but no less fervently (I have a larger-than-life-sized representation of him in glossy cardboard).  The similarities between the two are significant: both appear somewhat incompetent on first impression but turn out to be undeniably capable and even heroic, and both have a knack for botany (or Herbology, in Neville’s case).  Also, now that I think of it, both are intimidated by angry wizards.  But who wouldn’t be?

Based on these ideal figures, I’ve compiled a list for the reference of any guy who may, for whatever reason, want to impress me.

1. I would be really impressed if you could slay something, preferably something that urgently demands to be slain, such as a squadron of orcs or a snake that’s actually a Horcrux.

2. You need to be able to locate plants with magical properties in case I need them in an emergency.  For example, if I am stabbed by a Morgul blade, I will need you to find me some athelas, also known as kingsfoil.  Or, if I need to spend a prolonged period of time underwater (I was thinking about visiting the Titanic site with James Cameron), I will require gillyweed.

3. It would also be nice if you had some skill with regular, non-magical plants, particularly edible plants like po-ta-toes and strawberries (do you remember the taste of strawberries, Mr. Frodo?).  Here Sam has a decided advantage over Neville.  I guess it’s possible that Neville is cultivating a little kitchen garden next to his venomous tentacula plants, but we know for a fact that Sam cooks (unintentional 1960s popular music reference!).  But if we’re talking about advantages and disadvantages, let’s be fair: Neville owns a pair of shoes.  Also, Neville is human; technically, Sam is not.  But this isn’t a competition.

4. If you have a domineering older person in your life, such as your old Gaffer or your Gran, you will always have someone whose good opinion you strive to live up to or whose poor opinion you strive to prove wrong.  This will play a large part in your emerging heroism.

5. I don’t mind if you say lots of ridiculous things; in fact, I will probably find it endearing.  But try to come up with at least one awesome line to deliver at a tense moment.  For example, if someone asks you how your parents are, try saying, “Better, now they’re about to be avenged.”  Or, here’s one that works in all kinds of different situations: “I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you!”

Well, that should give you something to work with.  If you think you could live up to my exacting standards, and especially if you’ve ever had your Remembrall stolen or gotten excited about seeing an oliphant, please inquire.

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Dinner Party, 1885

I borrowed the title of this post from a short story I wrote several years ago.  In my story, I attempted to convey the awkwardness, tension, and even suppressed heartbreak of a gathering where the participants are trying very hard to act as expected of them according to their positions in society.  (In the original version of the story, the characters didn’t have names; they were called “the banker,” “the student,” “the epicure,” etc.)  I’m proud of that story–maybe I’ll share it here sometime–but if you really want to get a sense of the pressure of playing to type, you can either go back to high school, or you can read a novel from the 19th century.  I recommend the latter.

Before this past weekend, I would have recommended reading a Victorian novel, specifically.  I probably would have made some generalization about how the English have always been so much more hung up on class than the Americans.  While this may be broadly true, William Dean Howells’s 1885 novel The Rise of Silas Lapham, which I haven’t quite finished yet, provides a poignant and funny (and poignantly funny) illustration of a particular type of social conflict that is uniquely American: the brash yet self-conscious invasion of Boston’s artistic and intellectual aristocracy by a self-made industry hero and his well-meaning but culturally backward family.  The eponymous mineral paint millionaire finds himself in a disorienting position: The popular newspapers valorize him for exemplifying the American spirit of independence and bootstrap-pulling-up (huh?), but the cultural elite smirk at him even as they find themselves obligated to pay homage to his money by socializing wih his family.  It’s a very 19th-century story, but then again, it’s also depressingly familiar to 21st-century readers.  Heads of corporations are still alternately fawned over, sneered at, praised and blamed for events they probably didn’t bring about.  And America certainly still has an intellectual aristocracy–read The New Yorker.

The narrative voice of Howells’ novel reminds me of George Eliot’s, but without a lot of the philosophical interruptions that can make it hard to slog through parts of Middlemarch.  The main similarity is that both narrators demand our sympathy for all of the characters, no matter how distasteful they’re acting.  At first I was undecided as to whether I was supposed to sympathize with the Laphams, who sometimes come across as vulgar but have an endearing family relationship, or the Coreys, who are often snobbish but take a refreshingly clear and witty view of what’s going on.  Then I came to the conclusion (which I realize could be altered by the ending) that I’m supposed to sympathize with everyone.  This is all the more striking considering the fact that Howells, from what I gather from the editorial notes, hung out with people like the Coreys.  He could have written a completely satirical portrayal of Silas Lapham, even a farce, but instead he wrote a novel of great sensitivity.

Lapham’s oldest daughter is named Penelope, so of course I have a special bond with her.  She’s a particularly interesting character because she is, in a sense, caught between the two worlds.  She reads more than anyone else in her family, and she has a sharp wit that almost, but not quite, would enable her to hold her own in the Coreys’ drawing rooms.  Also, I think Tom Corey is in love with her, even though he’s supposed to be in love with the pretty younger sister, Irene.  I fear no good can come of this, but I can’t wait to find out.

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podcast plug

A great podcast you should be listening to if you aren’t already: Does Anyone Really Need to Hear This? The Official Mark Stockslager Podcast. Despite the unpromising title, Mark really does say a lot that’s worth listening to. There’s really no main topic, but a number of themes have emerged over the course of about ten episodes; comedy, movies, The Walking Dead, the Pittsburgh Steelers, and Bruce Springsteen are a few of the dominant ones. Even if you’re not into all of that, you’ll enjoy Mark’s self-deprecating humor, random vocal impressions, and refreshingly unorthodox point of view on a few of those topics.

You can subscribe or listen to individual episodes for free at the iTunes store. I recommend that you subscribe, but if you don’t have time to listen to them all right now, listen to tonight’s episode. Yes, this is shameless self-promotion–I guest-starred on tonight’s show. Mark and I reveal our top ten movie scores and top five main movie themes (musical themes, that is), plus a lot of honorable mentions.

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Another Penelope

After grading a student’s paper about Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses,” I thought it would be nice to give a shout-out to another great Penelope, she of the never-ending tapestry in Homer’s Odyssey.

I’ve never done any research on critical responses to the Odyssey, but I’m guessing that Penelope is not a favorite character among feminist theorists, since she’s gone down in history for nothing more than being faithful to her husband, who’s out there having adventures with the boys and spending time with gorgeous sea witches.  But Penelope isn’t a brainwashed, bovinely loyal house-slave.  She’s smart, for one thing–note the brilliant weaving idea.  And her faithfulness to Odysseus is perfectly rational.  After all, the men she’s trying to fend off are coarse-talking, booze-swilling idiots who can’t even string a bow, let alone shoot an arrow straight.  I suppose she could give up men entirely and go off on adventures of her own, but she has a good reason for staying home: the man she’s waiting for is worthy of a brave, intelligent woman.  Odysseus is clever (he came up with the Trojan horse plot), resourceful (having survived Circe, Calypso, Charibdys, the Cyclops, and other obstacles, not all of which begin with C), and pretty obviously in love with his wife.  He’s clearly worth waiting for.  So in Penelope’s case, faithfulness and personal fulfillment go hand in hand.  They aren’t always mutually exclusive, something feminist theorists (at least of the knee-jerk variety) seem unwilling to understand.

Penelope is such a great character that Tennyson’s easily overlooked reference to her in “Ulysses” is insulting.  Telemachus, the son, gets a couple of lines, but Penelope only gets three words: “an aged wife.”  Come on, man!  Not even her name?  In general, I love Tennyson’s stirring and wistful interpretation of Odysseus’s last great speech, but the treatment of Penelope is disappointing.  Better for her not to be mentioned at all than for her significance to be tossed aside in such a demeaning way.

Well, if Tennyson won’t give Penelope the respect she deserves, I will.  Penelope Clearwater salutes you, Penelope of Ithaca.

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“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our [f]ears.”

The title of this post is a modification of a Dickens quotation.  In the original, the final word is “tears,” but when I look at the quote every morning on the cover of A Charles Dickens Devotional (previously reviewed), the t looks like an f, so I’ve gotten it into my head the wrong way.  Anyway, I think both sentiments make sense.

I chose the title because last night I was thinking about my top three greatest fears, particularly my probably irrational fear of getting seriously ill or injured and consequently losing some brain function, leading me to become or appear less intelligent.  Sometime I may write a full post about my biggest fears (I’m sure they look pretty silly when written down), but for now I simply want to give you a list of disconnected, but related, quotations and thoughts that have come to me while I’ve been worrying about the fear that I mentioned and pondering the subjects of humility, not holding too tightly to what I value, and not caring so much about what people think of me.

(This list is dedicated to all the Ravenclaws out there and to Hermione Granger, who should have been a Ravenclaw.)

  • Wit beyond measure may be man’s greatest treasure, but God’s wisdom makes our wit look like foolishness.
  • “Because the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men . . . God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty.” (I Corinthians 1:25, 27)
  • “Take my intellect and use / Every power as you choose.” (Frances Ridley Havergal)
  • “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.” (I Corinthians 13:1-2) N.B., Ravenclaws: Luna Lovegood gets this.

Oh, P.S. Perce Shelley, Queen Mab, and I are doing fine now.  I no longer want to shoot myself in the eye.  Hope you enjoyed the Wordsworth anyway. 🙂

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The Hunger Games and exploitation

Everybody already knows that The Hunger Games is, in part, a social commentary on a lot of things: surveillance, reality television, extreme body modification, poverty, governmental power, etc.  The morning after I saw the movie (which is quite good), I tried to think of something new to say about it on my blog.  This came to me while I was blow-drying my hair, an activity which seems to generate many good ideas for me:

The Hunger Games is a commentary on the entertainment industry and how you “break into” it.  The Careers from Districts 1 and 2 are analogous to professional actors: They are, in most cases, born to privilege.  They have trained to be performers their whole lives.  They volunteer because they enjoy doing the kinds of things the Games require them to do.

I haven’t found a good analogy for the people in the middle districts–maybe they’re people who play bit parts in movies and television and don’t really get recognized–but those in the outer districts, 11 and 12, are parallel to those who get dragged into the entertainment industry by exploitative measures.  These tend to be people who either need the little bit of money that temporary notoriety might bring them, or have a personal non-conformity that our society’s Gamemakers judge to be potentially good entertainment.  (In the old days, this latter group would have been in circus freak shows.)  I’m talking about the people who appear in shows as widely ranging in subject matter and in quality as The People’s Court, Hoarders, Extreme Makeover Home Edition, The Biggest Loser, and even the audition weeks of American Idol.  To some extent, also, the casts of recent “redneck” reality shows such as Swamp People and Duck Dynasty are in this category, although they seem to be more self-aware and wry than those on the other shows I mentioned.  I’m not saying that all of these shows are purely exploitative, but I am saying that the reasons many people watch these shows are the same reasons the Capital’s citizens watch The Hunger Games.  The reasons are a complex web including identification, sympathy, curiosity, and the attraction of repulsion.  Cruelty may be part of the web for some people, especially in the Capital, but certainly not everyone.

An example of curiosity about other lifestyles, a curiosity that can become exploitative, is the tradition of dressing the tributes in costumes that stereotypically represent their district’s industry.  The Capital’s citizens can say, “Oh, isn’t that cute (or weird); they’re coal miners!” without really attempting to understand District’s 12’s culture or challenges.  That’s why it’s so important that Cinna gives Peeta and especially Katniss a measure of dignity by designing costumes for them that are truly attractive and represent their district in a subtler way.

I may return to this rather undeveloped post later.  Feel free to chime in.

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Meanwhile

While I’m trying to think of a way to revive my readers’ (and my own) interest in my blog, here’s some good writing by someone else: William Wordsworth.  I pulled my Romanticism anthology off the shelf in order to start working on the extensive revisions necessary for my essay “Shelley’s Queen Mab: The Medium versus the Message,” which currently makes me want to shoot myself in the eye.  Instead of shooting myself in the eye, I’ve decided to share with you my favorite Wordsworth poem.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.  Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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Penelope Clearwater Revival…

…would be a good name for a Southern-inflected wizard rock band. Feel free to use it if you are thinking of starting one (as I’m sure many of you are).

A Penelope Clearwater Revival is also what this blog needs. I feel like I need a theme, or something give people a reason to actually want to read my blog. I’ll get back to you on that. Maybe more pictures of fairies?