Cries and Whispers
(Ingmar Bergman, 1973)
I've been losing a little sleep over a certain scene in Cries and Whispers. This film is about two sisters, Maria and Karin, who have come back to their family home to to attend their sister, Agnes, during the last days before her death.
There is never any question as to whether or not Agnes will die. Her impending death is inevitable- and she is not the protagonist of the film. The protagonists are Maria and Karin.
The crucial scene where the character arcs of Maria and Karin are decided, is the scene that keeps me up at night. It could almost be out of a horror film.
The deceased Agnes calls out to her sisters from the bed where her corpse has been laid out. The camera work is fantastic. We don't really see Agnes's face very well. We learn from the dialogue that she is starting to show some decay. There are splotches of rot already blooming on her hands.
Agnes explains that, while to the living it may seem that they are having a dream, for her this moment is very real. Agnes begs her sisters to come to her, to keep her company in the last hours before her spirit flees her body forever. She asks them to hold her hands, to keep her warm, to kiss her.
First Karin, then Maria approach their sister's corpse. Each sister's reaction to Anges's plea gives us a profound insight into their characters, showing us that Karin and Maria, while seeming fundamentally different, in reality are exactly the same.
So, what keeps me up at night isn't really the image of Agnes's corpse tumbling to the ground when one of the sisters spurns her- it's wondering what I would do in Karin or Maria's place. It creates a sort of horrid fascination, both with the nature of death, and the nature of one's self.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Good-bye Stanislaw Lem
A great science fiction writer died yesterday. According to the news feeds, he sold over 27 million books and his works were translated into 41 different languages.
I'll remember him for the great time I had reading The Investigation.
The Polish writer had an IQ of 180, and he wrote extremely intelligent science fiction. Truth be told, he was less interested in writing exciting genre adventures, and more interested in philosophical experiments. Luckily for sf fans, he chose, for a time, to conduct these experiments in the realm of speculative fiction.
Interestingly enough, Lem was banned from the SFWA in 1976 for comments berating the state of the art of science fiction in America. Some suggest that he believed American writers of the time were writing thoughtless action/adventure just to make money. Others suggest he got his hands on poor translations and poor examples of American fiction.
Though Lem was later invited back by the SFWA, he declined. This decision was possibly due in part to a surreal letter written to the FBI by Philip K. Dick denouncing Lem as a Marxist propagandist.
For an author interested in the difficulty of communication between the human race and alien species, one has to wonder whether the Polish writer didn't begin to have these ideas when trying to communicate and interact with people from cultures "alien" to him.
You can read more about Stanislaw Lem and get a complete list of his works on his official site.
A great science fiction writer died yesterday. According to the news feeds, he sold over 27 million books and his works were translated into 41 different languages.
I'll remember him for the great time I had reading The Investigation.
The Polish writer had an IQ of 180, and he wrote extremely intelligent science fiction. Truth be told, he was less interested in writing exciting genre adventures, and more interested in philosophical experiments. Luckily for sf fans, he chose, for a time, to conduct these experiments in the realm of speculative fiction.
Interestingly enough, Lem was banned from the SFWA in 1976 for comments berating the state of the art of science fiction in America. Some suggest that he believed American writers of the time were writing thoughtless action/adventure just to make money. Others suggest he got his hands on poor translations and poor examples of American fiction.
Though Lem was later invited back by the SFWA, he declined. This decision was possibly due in part to a surreal letter written to the FBI by Philip K. Dick denouncing Lem as a Marxist propagandist.
For an author interested in the difficulty of communication between the human race and alien species, one has to wonder whether the Polish writer didn't begin to have these ideas when trying to communicate and interact with people from cultures "alien" to him.
You can read more about Stanislaw Lem and get a complete list of his works on his official site.
Monday, March 27, 2006
On the importance of wallpaper
This weekend I was reading Terri Windling's introduction to The Faery Reel. Windling takes us through the history of fairies, from their early incarnation as human-sized fey, through their evolution as Tinkerbell-sized nature spirits, their relegation to children's fantasy, and back to their adult-sized and adult-aimed presence in our lives through the popularity of Tolkein's elves.
One of the things that struck me most about this history, was the fact that fairies were originally so important to adults, not children. Windling writes that in the nineteenth century
"faeries could be found in middle-class [English] homes in every form of decorative arts:
wallpaper, draperies, ceramics, stained glass, metalwork, and so on."
Why were fairies so important to the English middle class of this time period? They were reminders of nature to the new breed of city-dwellers flocking to urban life at the dawn of the industrial revolution. Fairy stories were haunting reminders of the countryside, the dales, the glens, the peasant life and stories that city dwellers left behind.
Windling cites a painting called "The Piper of Dreams" by Estella Canziani. The earth-toned painting shows a boy in peasant garb propped up against an autumn tree. His pipe playing has attracted the company of a sparrow, a little chipmunk, and a ring of translucent, winged fairies that circle his head. According to Windling, "The Piper of Dreams" was
"an image as ubiquitous in England then as Monet's water lillies are now."
I couldn't help but laugh when I read this, since my first dorm room decoration was a Monet poster, and it's stayed on my wall as I've moved from apartment to apartment. Are Monet's water lillies a different kind of reminder of nature- one more naturalistic than fantastic?
Walking around my own home, I see grape leaf patterns on a drawer handle, pink lillies on the shower tiles, autumn leaves on the quilt on my bed. One of my early childhood memories is of the autumn leaf pattern on the kitchen wallpaper, and my husband's first word, "bird," was inspired by the eagles on the wallpaper in the family den.
It seems that the need to bring icons of nature into our civilized homes has not changed. The manner of representing nature has. I wonder how people generations from now will bring a sense of vitality and a link to nature into their living environments? It's an interesting question for an sf writer, brought on by a study of fairies.
This weekend I was reading Terri Windling's introduction to The Faery Reel. Windling takes us through the history of fairies, from their early incarnation as human-sized fey, through their evolution as Tinkerbell-sized nature spirits, their relegation to children's fantasy, and back to their adult-sized and adult-aimed presence in our lives through the popularity of Tolkein's elves.
One of the things that struck me most about this history, was the fact that fairies were originally so important to adults, not children. Windling writes that in the nineteenth century
"faeries could be found in middle-class [English] homes in every form of decorative arts:
wallpaper, draperies, ceramics, stained glass, metalwork, and so on."
Why were fairies so important to the English middle class of this time period? They were reminders of nature to the new breed of city-dwellers flocking to urban life at the dawn of the industrial revolution. Fairy stories were haunting reminders of the countryside, the dales, the glens, the peasant life and stories that city dwellers left behind.
Windling cites a painting called "The Piper of Dreams" by Estella Canziani. The earth-toned painting shows a boy in peasant garb propped up against an autumn tree. His pipe playing has attracted the company of a sparrow, a little chipmunk, and a ring of translucent, winged fairies that circle his head. According to Windling, "The Piper of Dreams" was
"an image as ubiquitous in England then as Monet's water lillies are now."
I couldn't help but laugh when I read this, since my first dorm room decoration was a Monet poster, and it's stayed on my wall as I've moved from apartment to apartment. Are Monet's water lillies a different kind of reminder of nature- one more naturalistic than fantastic?
Walking around my own home, I see grape leaf patterns on a drawer handle, pink lillies on the shower tiles, autumn leaves on the quilt on my bed. One of my early childhood memories is of the autumn leaf pattern on the kitchen wallpaper, and my husband's first word, "bird," was inspired by the eagles on the wallpaper in the family den.
It seems that the need to bring icons of nature into our civilized homes has not changed. The manner of representing nature has. I wonder how people generations from now will bring a sense of vitality and a link to nature into their living environments? It's an interesting question for an sf writer, brought on by a study of fairies.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Remember remember the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot
-from a popular English rhyme
I've been meaning to read V for Vendetta since the mid '90's, when the Watchman won my deep resepct for graphic novels. With the March 17th release of the film (which I've not yet seen), it became quite easy to get my hands on a nice copy of V for Vendetta, complete with a "behind the scenes" by Alan Moore and even the graphic novel equivalent of "deleted scenes"- two short episodes published in Warrior Magazine, but eliminated as unessential to the story in the release of the graphic novel.
Reading Moore's description of how he and David Lloyd created V's character, it was clear that Guy Fawkes was a major influence on V- and not just on his wicked cool hat. Imagine my shame when all my brain could dredge up about Guy Fawkes was that he was some British criminal to whom the English dedicated a sort of macabre holiday.
As it turns out, I had the basic facts about Guy Fawkes more or less right. He was a famous Roman Catholic conspirator, who rented out a portion of the basement under the House of Lords and filled it up with several tons of gunpowder. He was hoping to kill the Protestant King James I. The conspiracy is known as the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.
If you've read even the opening pages of V for Vendetta, the idea of blowing up the British Parliament must sound awfully familiar.
Fawkes was betrayed by a co-conspirator before the Parliament could be reduced to rubble. He was captured, then tortured into signing a confession. His cooperation with the British government won him a free trip to the gallows to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
The day of Fawkes's capture (the fifth of November) is still celebrated today in the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and even in some parts of Canada. There are fireworks commemorating the big boom under Parliament that never was, and dummies of Fawkes are burned.
V for Vendetta is far from the only fictional work to tip its tall, boxy hat to Guy Fawkes. According to Wikipedia, Guy Montag from Farenheit 451 takes his name from the historical Fawkes (Moore specifically mentions Farenheit 451 as one of his influences). Wikipedia also suggests that in the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore's pheonix, Fawkes, is a tribute to the would-be gunpowder bomber. Wikipedia even suggests a parallel between Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix and the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot.
-from a popular English rhyme
I've been meaning to read V for Vendetta since the mid '90's, when the Watchman won my deep resepct for graphic novels. With the March 17th release of the film (which I've not yet seen), it became quite easy to get my hands on a nice copy of V for Vendetta, complete with a "behind the scenes" by Alan Moore and even the graphic novel equivalent of "deleted scenes"- two short episodes published in Warrior Magazine, but eliminated as unessential to the story in the release of the graphic novel.
Reading Moore's description of how he and David Lloyd created V's character, it was clear that Guy Fawkes was a major influence on V- and not just on his wicked cool hat. Imagine my shame when all my brain could dredge up about Guy Fawkes was that he was some British criminal to whom the English dedicated a sort of macabre holiday.
As it turns out, I had the basic facts about Guy Fawkes more or less right. He was a famous Roman Catholic conspirator, who rented out a portion of the basement under the House of Lords and filled it up with several tons of gunpowder. He was hoping to kill the Protestant King James I. The conspiracy is known as the Gunpowder Plot of 1605.
If you've read even the opening pages of V for Vendetta, the idea of blowing up the British Parliament must sound awfully familiar.
Fawkes was betrayed by a co-conspirator before the Parliament could be reduced to rubble. He was captured, then tortured into signing a confession. His cooperation with the British government won him a free trip to the gallows to be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
The day of Fawkes's capture (the fifth of November) is still celebrated today in the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and even in some parts of Canada. There are fireworks commemorating the big boom under Parliament that never was, and dummies of Fawkes are burned.
V for Vendetta is far from the only fictional work to tip its tall, boxy hat to Guy Fawkes. According to Wikipedia, Guy Montag from Farenheit 451 takes his name from the historical Fawkes (Moore specifically mentions Farenheit 451 as one of his influences). Wikipedia also suggests that in the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore's pheonix, Fawkes, is a tribute to the would-be gunpowder bomber. Wikipedia even suggests a parallel between Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix and the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Coraline All Grown Up
This weekend I treated myself to a cinematic adventure: MirrorMask (Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean). The madcap art at the center of this film immediately brought to mind the fonts and drawings of Neil Gaiman's book, Coraline.
The film and the book have more than just typeface in common. Both Coraline and the heroine of MirrorMask, Helena, make that cruel and common childish wish that they could somehow get rid their family. In Helena's case, she wishes that her mother were dead, and within minutes Mum is on a gurney headed to the hospital where she'll be diagnosed with a grave illness that could well result in her death.
Like Coraline, Helena discovers a fantasy world parallel to her own. Helena's "Oz" is a world of her own creation, a place made up entirely of her own drawings. Like Coraline, Helena finds a flipside version of her mother and father in this fantastic realm.
And here, all similarities to Coraline, The Wizard of Oz, and Alice in Wonderland end. With the advent of Helena, Gaiman and McKean are ready to help Coraline-Dorothy-Alice grow up.
You see, in the land of Oz, down the rabbit hole, and through the mysterious door in Coraline's flat, there is only ever one Dorothy, one Alice, one Coraline. In MirorMask there are two Helenas.
In Coraline's fantasy world, Coraline is the protagonist, and the evil alternate reality version of her mother is the antagonist. In Helena's alternate reality there are two versions of her mother: one good, and one evil. The mothers are neither antagonist nor protagonist. The protagonist in MirrorMask is Real Helena, and the antagonist is Evil Helena.
Evil Helena is from the imaginary world of Real Helena's drawings. Evil Helena runs away from her mother, the evil queen. In order to escape, she must steal a charm, the MirrorMask, from the good queen, causing the good queen to fall into a deep and death-like sleep. When Evil Helena escapes "Oz" she takes over Real Helena's place in the real world. Evil Helena wants to destroy the fantasy world (by burning all her drawings) so that she can never be forced to go back. She also wants to snog boys, smoke, and be rude to her elderly aunt.
In short, Evil Helena wants to grow up.
In order to save the good queen, Real Helena must overcome her own childishness. She must send her evil self back to the childish world of fantasy and, as a consequence, she emerges in the real world no longer a child, but an adult.
There was only one Dorothy, one Alice, one Coraline. With the advent of the second Helena, we take a tale meant to help children find their place in the big world, and turn it into a tale meant to show teenagers how to leave the world of childhood and become adults.
This weekend I treated myself to a cinematic adventure: MirrorMask (Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean). The madcap art at the center of this film immediately brought to mind the fonts and drawings of Neil Gaiman's book, Coraline.
The film and the book have more than just typeface in common. Both Coraline and the heroine of MirrorMask, Helena, make that cruel and common childish wish that they could somehow get rid their family. In Helena's case, she wishes that her mother were dead, and within minutes Mum is on a gurney headed to the hospital where she'll be diagnosed with a grave illness that could well result in her death.
Like Coraline, Helena discovers a fantasy world parallel to her own. Helena's "Oz" is a world of her own creation, a place made up entirely of her own drawings. Like Coraline, Helena finds a flipside version of her mother and father in this fantastic realm.
And here, all similarities to Coraline, The Wizard of Oz, and Alice in Wonderland end. With the advent of Helena, Gaiman and McKean are ready to help Coraline-Dorothy-Alice grow up.
You see, in the land of Oz, down the rabbit hole, and through the mysterious door in Coraline's flat, there is only ever one Dorothy, one Alice, one Coraline. In MirorMask there are two Helenas.
In Coraline's fantasy world, Coraline is the protagonist, and the evil alternate reality version of her mother is the antagonist. In Helena's alternate reality there are two versions of her mother: one good, and one evil. The mothers are neither antagonist nor protagonist. The protagonist in MirrorMask is Real Helena, and the antagonist is Evil Helena.
Evil Helena is from the imaginary world of Real Helena's drawings. Evil Helena runs away from her mother, the evil queen. In order to escape, she must steal a charm, the MirrorMask, from the good queen, causing the good queen to fall into a deep and death-like sleep. When Evil Helena escapes "Oz" she takes over Real Helena's place in the real world. Evil Helena wants to destroy the fantasy world (by burning all her drawings) so that she can never be forced to go back. She also wants to snog boys, smoke, and be rude to her elderly aunt.
In short, Evil Helena wants to grow up.
In order to save the good queen, Real Helena must overcome her own childishness. She must send her evil self back to the childish world of fantasy and, as a consequence, she emerges in the real world no longer a child, but an adult.
There was only one Dorothy, one Alice, one Coraline. With the advent of the second Helena, we take a tale meant to help children find their place in the big world, and turn it into a tale meant to show teenagers how to leave the world of childhood and become adults.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Adding to the Whuffie
I have to admit I felt like I belonged in the House of Innoventions as I sat on the sofa reading Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom in Mobipocket eBook format on my handheld.
At first I had to scroll through what seemed like reams of text about the eBook's license agreement. Believe it or not, the Creative Commons license Doctorow used to publish his eBook (for free) at the same time as Tor published it (for sale) in print version, is one of the things that made the book famous.
So, once I got past the innovative distribution model, and the fact that the text of my book was slowly scrolling past while I reclined on the sofa, how was the book?
The very first words that scrolled down the page had me hooked, because I was immediately reminded of one of my favorite books of all time- Steel Beach by John Varley. Like Varley, Doctorow built a world in which death is no longer a concern- but figuring out how to live forever is. I would have been more than happy to read about the adventures of long-lifers who live in Disneylands, moonlight as composers from time to time, and are trying to understand how to keep living on and on and on.
But as the progress bar on Mobipocket lengthened, I found that Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is in no way a rehash of Steel Beach. Why? The antagonist in Varley's novel is techology gone mad (an AI computer). The antagonist in Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is a human being gone mad.
What has caused antagonist Debra to go mad?
Whuffie.
Doctorow based the most interesting technology of his novel- Whuffie- on today's online communities (not surprising given his reputation as co-editor of the Boing Boing blog). Currency has been replaced by "Whuffie," a measure of a person's reputation. Whuffie means everything that money means in our society- power, privilege, an apartment without cockroaches, friends, lovers- and it can only be gotten by making contributions to the community.
Debra plans to revolutionize Disney's Haunted Mansion ride by "flash-baking" visitor's brains with the experience of the Haunted Mansion instead of letting them interact with the ride's animitronics and cast members. The result of her innovative contribution: heaps and heaps of Whuffie.
Jules goes head to head with Debra's attempt to Whuffie hoard (suffering the consequences of temporary death and disconnection from the online community in the process) "to take a stand against the dehumanization of the park" (wikipedia.org).
The result is a book about keeping human beings from destroying the world as we like it. It's a shift from the fear John Varley described- namely that human beings are unable to control the technology they create. Doctorow isn't worried about what technology can do to man, he's just worried about what man can do with technology.
That, to me, is the scarier question.
I have to admit I felt like I belonged in the House of Innoventions as I sat on the sofa reading Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom in Mobipocket eBook format on my handheld.
At first I had to scroll through what seemed like reams of text about the eBook's license agreement. Believe it or not, the Creative Commons license Doctorow used to publish his eBook (for free) at the same time as Tor published it (for sale) in print version, is one of the things that made the book famous.
So, once I got past the innovative distribution model, and the fact that the text of my book was slowly scrolling past while I reclined on the sofa, how was the book?
The very first words that scrolled down the page had me hooked, because I was immediately reminded of one of my favorite books of all time- Steel Beach by John Varley. Like Varley, Doctorow built a world in which death is no longer a concern- but figuring out how to live forever is. I would have been more than happy to read about the adventures of long-lifers who live in Disneylands, moonlight as composers from time to time, and are trying to understand how to keep living on and on and on.
But as the progress bar on Mobipocket lengthened, I found that Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is in no way a rehash of Steel Beach. Why? The antagonist in Varley's novel is techology gone mad (an AI computer). The antagonist in Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom is a human being gone mad.
What has caused antagonist Debra to go mad?
Whuffie.
Doctorow based the most interesting technology of his novel- Whuffie- on today's online communities (not surprising given his reputation as co-editor of the Boing Boing blog). Currency has been replaced by "Whuffie," a measure of a person's reputation. Whuffie means everything that money means in our society- power, privilege, an apartment without cockroaches, friends, lovers- and it can only be gotten by making contributions to the community.
Debra plans to revolutionize Disney's Haunted Mansion ride by "flash-baking" visitor's brains with the experience of the Haunted Mansion instead of letting them interact with the ride's animitronics and cast members. The result of her innovative contribution: heaps and heaps of Whuffie.
Jules goes head to head with Debra's attempt to Whuffie hoard (suffering the consequences of temporary death and disconnection from the online community in the process) "to take a stand against the dehumanization of the park" (wikipedia.org).
The result is a book about keeping human beings from destroying the world as we like it. It's a shift from the fear John Varley described- namely that human beings are unable to control the technology they create. Doctorow isn't worried about what technology can do to man, he's just worried about what man can do with technology.
That, to me, is the scarier question.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
| Anansi Boys and the English/American Divide |
I had the pleasure of reading Anansi Boys by Niel Gaiman this week. Just as I was turning the last few pages of the novel, the March issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction came sliding through my mail slot- and what did I find? A review of Anansi Boys by Charles de Lint.
De Lint's review addressed a very unique aspect of Niel Gaiman's writing- his voice. A writer's voice might be described as the way the reader perceives the storyteller who is telling the tale. In most modern speculative fiction, readers want as little intrusion as possible of the author's voice in their reading experience. Readers want to lose themselves in the story, they want to empathize with the protagonist, not the storyteller. And, if possible, the reader wants to forget that what they are reading isn't "real."
Intrusion of the author's voice "usually annoys me," [in other authors], writes de Lint- and a lot of readers would agree with him. So why do so many folks enjoy reading Niel Gaiman?
De Lint suggests that the "half-smile in that narrator's voice of his [Gaiman's]" is excusable because it is infused with a real love for his characters. This may be one reason, but I'd like to propose another.
Readers who like the whimsical voice found in Gaiman's Anansi Boys probably like it because they liked the whimsical voice in The Hobbit. Or maybe they enjoyed Douglas Adams's heavily ironic voice in the Hitchiker's series. Then again, maybe readers are also fond of Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, in which Pratchett's authorial voice continually has its tongue in its cheek.
It's obvious what Gaiman, Tolkien, Adams, and Pratchett all have in common. Yeah, yeah, they're speculative fiction writers. Now, a little less obvious- that's right, they're English, born and raised.
So, are the folks on the other side of the Atlantic just naturally more funny when they write speculative fiction?
I'd like to suggest that English authors, unlike American authors, can admit that storytelling is a kind of playtime. English authors aren't afraid to be caught by the reader peering past the third wall. To an American storyteller, getting caught by the reader behind the third wall is something like getting caught with your pants down, or lifting the curtain to see that the great Oz is just a little old man.
For a very visual example of the difference between English and American storytelling, take a look at a few sitcoms from the BBC and compare them to Friends or another typical American sitcom. Does an episode of Red Dwarf care if you can see the wires on the alien puppet? Eh, not really. But you won't be disappointed by the episode- in fact you might get a stomach cramp from laughing. Would a slick, American sitcom allow such sloppiness? No! Was it obvious that Monica's apartment was just a set when you watched an episode of Friends? Not really! When you watch American television, you can almost forget the story isn't real.
So, our English-bred authors aren't necessarily more funny than their American counterparts, they are just better able to see the humor in peeking behind the third wall, or in the "half-smile" of the authorial voice.
Please let me know if you have other examples of authors who make the occasional intrusion into their story. I'd be especially interested in reading an American speculative fiction author who butts in from time to time.
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