the ramble dump
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The Play's the Thing, Sometimes
Last semester I took a module on playwriting. It probably isn't something I'd have picked had I more of a choice (we had to pick a 'drama' module), but I'm glad that I did it. It was interesting.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
As part of our reading for the module, we were given Stuart Spencer's The Playwright's Guidebook, a very useful book that breaks down the challenge of writing a play with a few handy 'tools', under the condition that any or all of these tools can be cast aside if they don't work. If nothing else, it's a book that can help you figure out exactly what it is you're trying to write in the first place. Which is usually a good place to start.
The playwriting module was specifically about theatrical plays; plays that are acted out on a fixed stage rather than radio plays or TV episodes or film scripts. In modern times and culture, the world of the theatre and its audience is pretty small compared to some other media. In the popular mindset, a lot of people assume that the medium has been superseded by film or television in most areas, apart from interactive performances like panto and other such quaint (and usually Shakespearean) experiences. As such, it's not surprising that the first thing Spencer does in his book is try to justify the worthwhileness of the play. He does this by placing it in a spectrum, like so:
The basic idea is that film, or any such screen medium, is based upon our mostly passive experience of images (and sounds) with very little conscious processing required. Prose, on the other hand, necessarily entails a more active process on the part of the recipient and allows more analysis on the part of a narrator within the text itself. By Spencer's own admission, this spectrum is not the whole story. He grants that these are 'propensities' and that both media are able to do other things. And theatre, he seems to say, shares all these propensities.
But I'm not so sure about this spectrum.
First objection: in Spencer's conception of prose, no distinction appears to be made between the author's contemplation and analysis within the text, the reader's less-than-conscious mental intepretation as they are reading, and their contemplation following this interpretation. Spencer dismisses the relevance of the latter to his spectrum in his evaluation of film because it applies to all media, so that can be put aside for prose too. But Spencer is still lumping together two different kinds of 'analysis': the first (A) entailing how the text is engaged in the analysis of some subject, and the second (B) entailing how the reader is engaged in the analysis of the text.
A visceral/analytical gradient makes sense in terms of the latter: at one end, the medium always requires the brain to take an active role in interpretation (because language is used); at the other end, it does not. Spencer himself points out that only a film with no dialogue would be completely visceral; a film with speaking characters would be a little further along the spectrum towards the analytical end because we'd have to interpret what they're saying, but it would still not be like a novel where everything about the fictional world is presented through language.
Does the visceral/analytical gradient make sense when applied to the medium itself, rather than a person's interpretation of it? It would seem to, by Spencer's logic: the camera, the narrative eye of the film, can be pointed at something in a way that is suggestible, but it does not pull apart or evaluate the subject in the way that the narrator of a novel can. Even if a film had a voiceover, this would merely be a voice overlayed; in prose, this analysis exists on the same level--in the language--as everything else that is presented about the fictional world, so it permeates and moulds the fictional world itself. In this case, 'visceral' means, in terms of the role of the narrative eye, to be a direct link with the fictional world without the narrator's interference. Prose has an intrinsic narrating voice, whereas film does not.
It's probably safe to assume that A is always followed by B, as long as there's a recipient around. So what's the point in making the distinction? Well, the kind of analysis involved in B can apply without A, meaning that a medium can require analysis on the part of the recipient courtesy of language, without having that other kind of analysis courtesy of the intrinsic narrator. Like in theatre, for example.
We can call theatre, as a live audiovisual performance, immediate and visceral. The use of characters with speech also gives it an analytical element. But there are differences here: plays (and, for that matter, films with speaking characters) are only 'analytical' in the sense of B, in that the use of language requires an extra layer of active interpretation on the part of the recipient. But this is only the interpretation of the speech of one of the characters--it is not the interpretation of the whole presented world. The physical presence of characters flat-out prevents the world from being constructed entirely of language; their words automatically become either the speech of a character or that of a voiceover--a kind of narrator on top, rather than there being an analysis intrinsic to the narrative. So for all Spencer's discussion of the various ways in which he describes media as either 'analytical' or 'visceral', his 'spectrum' only accounts for this in a more limited sense than he lets on.
It also needs pointing out that Spencer's designation of 'both' does not suggest a gradient. It suggests that prose has some properties, and film has others, and theatre has all of the above. Taking his admission that each medium has its strengths over the others into account, we might say that prose is better for analytical stuff than theatre but that theatre still has some aspects that could be considered analytical, in which case his diagram is not incorrect, albeit only true in a limited sense. But then if theatre is not the best medium for being analytical, and it is not as good as film for the visceral, what exactly is there to commend it?
Spencer is clearly trying to use this 'spectrum' to suggest that theatre gives you the best of both worlds. Evidence, in case you have any reason to doubt this:
The fact remains that theatre is the most vigorous way of telling a story. How could it be otherwise? It is theatre that combines all the best parts of those other media we also enjoy.A strange conclusion for someone who has pointed out himself the kinds of things that prose and film can do that theatre cannot. The fact that film can hit us with an emotionally charged close-up is surely the best thing about it. The fact that in prose the whole world can be constructed from simmering, bubbling metaphor with an inconceivably subtle interplay between the meanings of every single word is surely the best thing about that. Those are the strengths of these media respectively. Theatre can do neither.
So what's theatre good for? Well, there are a few advantages I'd be tempted to mark out in favour of theatre; 'propensities', as Spencer might describe them, if not necessarily always true. For one, as Spencer points out himself, theatre offers a different kind of immediacy: that of having live actors before you, and potentially an interactive element. Issues of narrative form aside, you don't get that kind of experience in either of the other media. It can offer a much more lucid, insistent encounter than mere images flashing before your eyes.
Secondly, the view of the stage does not have to be like that of the camera; i.e. the eye of the camera is necessarily framed, whereas the eye of the audience is not. Even if the stage has a proscenium arch above, it can be ignored entirely and in my experience plays have used to great effect a kind of fluid fragmentation of the stage in an utterly engrossing way, even with irrelevant props from the last scene still visible. Specific directorial decisions aside, I think the David Glass Ensemble's adaptation of Gormenghast had a much better chance at being successful in the theatre than the BBC's version on TV because, though neither could hope to achieve exactly what Mervyn Peake's prose does in the novel, the stage leant itself to a much more effective translation of the castle's sense of dreamlike fragmentation, abstractness and related psychological despair. As the price of its brand of intense focus, the camera is always finding a view with definitive edges, which Gormenghast does not have.
And thirdly, the biggest lesson I learned from trying to write a play: the theatre encourages a certain kind of discipline where it can be very tempting to get distracted in both film and prose. Character-be-damned spectacle has its place in the arts and the world would be a dull place without it, but it won't work on stage. And there's nothing like the theatre for having two people sit down and talk--though, granted, it'd have to be one hell of a well-written play for me to take that for an hour and a half without shifting in my seat.
There may be more advantages to theatre. I've seen a dozen or so plays by now that I can remember, and tried my hand at playwriting only for a very short time, so my experience is pretty limited. But though Spencer's experience of theatre will vastly outweigh mine, to me he seems to make the same infuriating mistake that so many people seem to make with their medium of choice: he has to insist that this medium is unconditionally the best--even after conceding a hundred different ways that it...well, isn't.
Labels: films, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, plays, shakespeare
Friday, January 18, 2008
Battle for Literature, Continued (Part 2)
In fending off the accusations of uselessness, in talking about how literature can make you think and make important suggestions, I haven't really said much about the other side of it: the side that is where literature holds most of its power. That is the aspect of literature, and all art, which has that emotional connection. 'What it means to us' doesn't just involve what it means to us in a general, philosophical sense, but what it means to us individually and subjectively.
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
The art that has left the biggest impression on me has this connection. Titus Groan and Gormenghast, for example, are my favourite novels not just because of what they have to say or suggest about the world, but because, for whatever reason, I find that they resonate within this thing called my brain more than any other books. They are personally significant enough to have made their way into my dreams on several occasions, in the obscure way of many other personally significant things. It is likely that not everyone will experience the same connection as I did because they are different people with different lives. Literature can provide something useful in a general, academic way as I already argued, but so what if it doesn't? It can still be meaningful on a very personal level.
One of my physicist friends is still declaring literature useless, despite anything I say. His latest comment was specifically that poetry was pointless; after all, why not just say it instead of wrapping it up in poetic form?
This person, like most people, is very into his music. He likes heavy metal. Ironically, given the position he puts me in during these arguments, he gets very frustrated when people accuse heavy metal of being a load of rubbish. Firstly, they accuse the lyrics of being silly, to which he fiercely objects. Secondly, he claims something that I actually agree with, which is that heavy metal is more about feeling the music, feeling the drive and the energy of it.
To start with, lyrics are a form of poetry anyway, and by defending them as a good quality of the music, he is therefore (hypocritically) defending it as an expressive medium and as something meaningful about the music. How can he claim that poetry or literature is useless or pointless and then defend it as a good quality of something else?
But even if he was to admit that heavy metal lyrics are nothing more than another layer of sound, let's consider music itself. Music is a form of expression. Even if you're just creating music that drives, it's driving at something -- it's driving at a certain feeling. And when you listen to it, you're acknowledging that feeling; it somehow resonates with you. Why bother putting this expression in music form? Why not just say it? The answer to that seems obvious: if someone came up to you and tonelessly said, 'Feel my anger', not only would you suspect that he was not in fact feeling any such anger, but as the recipient of his expression, you would not be able to identify with it. It's much more effective if he starts characterising it through specific intonation and screams, 'FEEL MY ANGER!!'. It's then not hard to imagine how you could progress to music. Music, as a form of expression, is a vehicle for it.
Poetry, as a different form, is just a different vehicle, with different features that affect the recipient in different ways. It might be more effective as an expression of something if it's structured so that it sounds or reads in a certain way. Certain words are used for their phonetic properties, but also for their very specific meanings, which can then allow the poem to develop from a purely emotional expression to something more intellectual. Lyrics can add a self-reflective dimension to music.
Many of the specifically linguistic aspects of literature also involve the employment of these poetic techniques. A novel could be seen as an even more complex form of expression because it has so many layers to it, at the deepest level providing something that could be interpreted as music, while at the top level the author is dealing with various themes or ideas which can be expressed all the more effectively because delivered with all the elaborate techniques in which the prose consists. No matter how complex it might get, it's still fundamentally a form of expression. Everything 'artistic' about it is simply a method or a vehicle for this expression.
Music is an artform. Literature is, above all, an artform -- or even many artforms. Art is expression. Art is an attempt at communication, with yourself as much as with anybody else. And art resonates. I'm not going to be so misty-eyed as to claim that art is the salvation of humanity or anything like that; neither do I claim that it's anything divine or inherently special. But it's a part of us, and if you insist on viewing everything in the world through a 'scientific' lens, you're failing to acknowledge that, for whatever reasons, divine or evolutionary, this need of expression is a part of the mind behind the viewing eye. This expression, this attempt to communicate, is a way for us to try and make sense of the world on a personal level. And if the form aids the function, so much the better.
Edit 22/01/08: Coincidentally, when this ramble ventured into the idea of form, I hadn't looked at the lecture timetable which told me that our 'review' lecture today would be exploring just that. We were given a few quotes, but here's the most relevant:
Had there been a clear understanding of Style as the living body of thought, and not its 'dress', which might be more or less ornamental, the error I am noticing would not have spread so widely. But, naturally, when regarded the grace of style as mere grace of manner, and not as the delicate precision giving form and relief to matter--as mere ornament, stuck on to arrest incurious eyes, and not as effective expression--their sense of the deeper value of matter made them despise such aid. A clearer conception would have rectified this error. The matter is confluent with the manner; and only through the style can thought reach the reader's mind.--George Henry Lewes, Principles of Success in Literature (1865)
Labels: dreams, gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
Saturday, October 13, 2007
The Reader's Journey
As a sort of a continuation of this post, which was about the worth of stories beyond entertainment, and possibly linked to this post, which discusses what might and might not count as 'art', I was thinking about the complexity of some stories, with all the metaphors, inferences and allusions that they can be filled with. My main question, as I was reading all about this kind of thing in the introduction to Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway for the lecture and seminar next week, was: to what end?
Returning to all the talk in that first linked post of stories being able to suggest, the most obvious answer would probably be that all the figurative language and symbolic descriptions and motifs and so on can, obviously, be used beyond their simple function as poetic narrative to illustrate the kinds of things that a book or film or play is considering, using comparisons that may be effective enough to throw a new light or a different perspective on the subject matter.
Of course, there will always be some manipulation occurring here on the part of the author. This is why, for all the importance of receptivity and open-mindedness when it comes to art, the practice of literary criticism and the like can be a useful thing. The author is likely to be playing with the perceptions, preconceptions or ideas of the reader or audience to illicit a certain response -- this is one of the most powerful features of storytelling -- and it's up to the reader to be equally open-minded and rational enough to be able to identify where he or she might be the subject of this manipulation; and then to decide if the way in which the author is provoking this response might, as the author thinks it does, have something to it. As well as identifying manipulation, a critical approach can be used to mine the worth of a story. After consideration, you might feel that a certain comparison yields some truth; that the alternative perspective offered might just be of some value.
I've already mentioned my wariness of allegory. Allegory is the use of an extended metaphor to get a point across. But if I don't object to the potential philosophical value of figurative language in general, how can I object to allegory? What's the difference beyond levels of subtlety? Well, the extension of metaphor in this way, after representing something in a certain way as all metaphors do, then has the clear intention of drawing a conclusion from it for you. As Tolkien said in a passage I've already quoted, allegory is all about the 'purposed domination of the author' -- it sets out to make your mind up for you. The more subtle use of figurative language and symbology, as I've already said, is not without its potential for manipulation, but there's more freedom for the reader, more room for interpretation. The further you try to extend a metaphor, the less suggestive and the more controlling of the interpretation you're being, and it's much more likely that the comparison is then distorted or oversimplified as a result.
There are other ways in which inference can be abused. When I was thinking about Wilde's opinion of art, I mentioned pretentiousness. That could be applied here in the cases of those who will infer and allude and present empty motifs just for the sake of seeming clever. Poetic pretentiousness can often be found in the use of 'purple prose', by those who attempt to use over-elaborate and extremely flowery language to add prestige or suchlike to their work, and this can then be taken a step further by those who use similar methods to portray themselves as profound. When an author seems to think that the esotericism of a text is an indicator of how philosophically deep it is and rattles off some lengthy, convoluted metaphor supposedly, for example, penetrating the fundamental human condition (or something like that), we would have to question how someone could talk for so long out of their own arse.
Here's another form this pretence might take. For this next one, I'm going to use an example that could be argued either way. I seem to use these films as an example for a lot of things, but anyway: many have claimed that the Matrix films are very 'philosophical' in nature. The story is undoubtedly packed with a thousand inferences, references and allusions to all kinds of philosophers and different schools of philosophical thought in varying degrees of subtlety; but maybe all these things were dropped in merely to give the illusion that the films had philosophical depth (which would have been ironic, considering the subject of the films). Were the Wachowski Brothers trying too hard to make the films seem 'intelligent', or do the Matrix films really give us something to think about?
As fun a game as it might be for us to successfully identify all the various references and incorporated symbology in the films, and as clever as it might make the audience and the filmmakers feel, it may be an ultimately pointless activity. An argument often given in defence of the films is something along the lines of, 'You didn't enjoy the films because you haven't attempted to appreciate all the philosophy behind it', to which the retort is usually, 'You need to get out more.' It's hard to say how much genuine philosophy is involved in the Matrix films and how much is just there to give the impression of it (I'd say it seems a bit of both -- I think it illustrates a lot of philosophical ideas pretty well and gives us a lot to think about, but there are times when it feels like a bit of a symbological overload or philosophy for the look of it).
But in these films, and in many other films and books and so on, why require the audience or reader to have to look for these things? Why bury them so that they have to be dug out? This was already sort of answered by the allegory issue: this way, the 'answer' isn't being thrown at the audience. The fact that the readers of a book or the viewers of a film have to do more of the work invites them in and encourages them to think about it more for themselves. It encourages different interpretations and a more critical evaluation, meaning that, if it's there, the useful and relevant stuff can be properly discovered and appreciated. To use a Matrix analogy (which is, aptly, in itself a reference to something else), tumbling down the rabbit hole and having a thorough look around is surely preferable to having the rabbit come up and give you his potentially biased account.
Returning to all the talk in that first linked post of stories being able to suggest, the most obvious answer would probably be that all the figurative language and symbolic descriptions and motifs and so on can, obviously, be used beyond their simple function as poetic narrative to illustrate the kinds of things that a book or film or play is considering, using comparisons that may be effective enough to throw a new light or a different perspective on the subject matter.
Of course, there will always be some manipulation occurring here on the part of the author. This is why, for all the importance of receptivity and open-mindedness when it comes to art, the practice of literary criticism and the like can be a useful thing. The author is likely to be playing with the perceptions, preconceptions or ideas of the reader or audience to illicit a certain response -- this is one of the most powerful features of storytelling -- and it's up to the reader to be equally open-minded and rational enough to be able to identify where he or she might be the subject of this manipulation; and then to decide if the way in which the author is provoking this response might, as the author thinks it does, have something to it. As well as identifying manipulation, a critical approach can be used to mine the worth of a story. After consideration, you might feel that a certain comparison yields some truth; that the alternative perspective offered might just be of some value.
I've already mentioned my wariness of allegory. Allegory is the use of an extended metaphor to get a point across. But if I don't object to the potential philosophical value of figurative language in general, how can I object to allegory? What's the difference beyond levels of subtlety? Well, the extension of metaphor in this way, after representing something in a certain way as all metaphors do, then has the clear intention of drawing a conclusion from it for you. As Tolkien said in a passage I've already quoted, allegory is all about the 'purposed domination of the author' -- it sets out to make your mind up for you. The more subtle use of figurative language and symbology, as I've already said, is not without its potential for manipulation, but there's more freedom for the reader, more room for interpretation. The further you try to extend a metaphor, the less suggestive and the more controlling of the interpretation you're being, and it's much more likely that the comparison is then distorted or oversimplified as a result.
There are other ways in which inference can be abused. When I was thinking about Wilde's opinion of art, I mentioned pretentiousness. That could be applied here in the cases of those who will infer and allude and present empty motifs just for the sake of seeming clever. Poetic pretentiousness can often be found in the use of 'purple prose', by those who attempt to use over-elaborate and extremely flowery language to add prestige or suchlike to their work, and this can then be taken a step further by those who use similar methods to portray themselves as profound. When an author seems to think that the esotericism of a text is an indicator of how philosophically deep it is and rattles off some lengthy, convoluted metaphor supposedly, for example, penetrating the fundamental human condition (or something like that), we would have to question how someone could talk for so long out of their own arse.
Here's another form this pretence might take. For this next one, I'm going to use an example that could be argued either way. I seem to use these films as an example for a lot of things, but anyway: many have claimed that the Matrix films are very 'philosophical' in nature. The story is undoubtedly packed with a thousand inferences, references and allusions to all kinds of philosophers and different schools of philosophical thought in varying degrees of subtlety; but maybe all these things were dropped in merely to give the illusion that the films had philosophical depth (which would have been ironic, considering the subject of the films). Were the Wachowski Brothers trying too hard to make the films seem 'intelligent', or do the Matrix films really give us something to think about?
As fun a game as it might be for us to successfully identify all the various references and incorporated symbology in the films, and as clever as it might make the audience and the filmmakers feel, it may be an ultimately pointless activity. An argument often given in defence of the films is something along the lines of, 'You didn't enjoy the films because you haven't attempted to appreciate all the philosophy behind it', to which the retort is usually, 'You need to get out more.' It's hard to say how much genuine philosophy is involved in the Matrix films and how much is just there to give the impression of it (I'd say it seems a bit of both -- I think it illustrates a lot of philosophical ideas pretty well and gives us a lot to think about, but there are times when it feels like a bit of a symbological overload or philosophy for the look of it).
But in these films, and in many other films and books and so on, why require the audience or reader to have to look for these things? Why bury them so that they have to be dug out? This was already sort of answered by the allegory issue: this way, the 'answer' isn't being thrown at the audience. The fact that the readers of a book or the viewers of a film have to do more of the work invites them in and encourages them to think about it more for themselves. It encourages different interpretations and a more critical evaluation, meaning that, if it's there, the useful and relevant stuff can be properly discovered and appreciated. To use a Matrix analogy (which is, aptly, in itself a reference to something else), tumbling down the rabbit hole and having a thorough look around is surely preferable to having the rabbit come up and give you his potentially biased account.
Labels: allegory, cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, language, oscar wilde, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien
Friday, September 28, 2007
The Fight Unfinished
I'm not getting Halo 3. Not any time soon, at least. The reason is simple: I don't have an Xbox 360. The problem with following video game franchises is that they are so ridiculously expensive. If you're lucky, you'll get one or two games out of one console. Then the industry will have advanced enough to require the next generation of consoles, and sometimes franchises will switch which series of consoles they play on to make it even more complicated. This latter point is not the case with the Halo series, but it was with another favourite of mine, Oddworld. Either way, however, that's £30-40 dished out for each game these days, on top of the cost of whatever mercilessly progressing technology is required to play it. This may be a reasonable price for what you're getting, but that issue aside, the endeavour remains gorgingly uncheap.
I wish I was getting Halo 3. I want to splatter higher-definition aliens. I want to experience that familiar and solid gameplay at the next level, as well as enjoying all the exciting new stuff. I want to see how the story ends. In many ways, a post about Halo 3 is pointless, because I haven't played it and therefore can't praise or bewail things all that much. But I thought I'd share my reasons for why I liked the first two games, which I hope have made it through to the third.
Originally, I couldn't have cared less about Halo. I would happily have chosen a PS2 to get my hands on the next Tekken game, but my brother persuaded me that we should go for an Xbox because that had the next Oddworld instalment. On Christmas Day, I waited impatiently to play it, and was unimpressed with Halo and the Star Trek aesthetic of the people behind bland control panels in the Pillar of Autumn opening sequence. Captain Keyes placed his blocky fingers thoughtfully at the chin of his barely moving face in utmost seriousness, and I laughed.
But when I gave it a chance, it was a lot of fun to play. Halo succeeds as a solid game because it's not overly complicated - it essentially provides you with lots of aliens to eliminate - but what it does, it does extremely well. It feels well-rounded and the campaign battles feel well-matched and satisfying, with very few encounters that will spike your irritation too much. Depending on the level of difficulty, it's often challenging but almost always enjoyable.
The aesthetic of the game also contributes to this feeling of a happy balance. The universe of Halo is a clunky, colourful one; slightly cartoonish, but perfectly capable of introducing darker themes and creepy places. The best example of this is probably how the walls end up smeared in copious amounts of brightly coloured alien blood. It's a bit like the Harry Potter of the video game world (in more than just popularity and hype, although perhaps for the same reasons): it never ventures too far in any direction and is arguably not all that innovative in terms of its medium1 nor of the story itself, but while critics have accused both franchises of a certain mediocrity in this respect, as I already said about Potter, I think this criticism sort misses the point: in what they're trying to do - creating an entertaining and immersive experience - they succeed. And, in Halo's case, I think it exceeds. Halo hasn't marched forward in innovation, but it has expertly refined its medium, striking a successful balance with all the things it deals with.
Given that many elements of the story are pretty generic, there must something else that gives the story itself some interest. Like a Potter book, the plot is immersive enough. The story in the games themselves is really a bare minimum, but in the franchise as a whole they have a pretty good mythology going. Without knowing the ending, I don't know if it all leads to a satisfying conclusion, but so far it's been intriguing. What I find most appealing about the story, however, is exactly how they go about it.
Amidst all the generic sci-fi stuff, coupled with its unusual aesthetic, the series' story does have a few of its own unique quirks that, if nothing else, serve to give it character. I'd highlight characters like 343 Guilty Spark and the mysterious Forerunners with the novelly cryptic nature of everything about them; and then the thematic use of religious symbology and imagery in everything about the Covenant. If the Halo series attempts to make a point, the most interesting one for me is how the Covenant, in their religious conquest, wrap everything they say and do in terms of poetic, religious language. The series may or may not have anything against the religions of our world per se, but they bring this aspect of religion - and general language use - to stark, transparent ridiculousness. It's not subtle (none of the thematic devices in Halo are) and it's an almost cartoon-like dimension of the Covenant, but it's still an effective view, if perhaps oversimplified (those Elites must be extremely gullible by nature), of how these things can work.
Just to address the portrayal of religion in general: it's not clear to me if any other point against it is being made. With the story drenched in so many references and symbolic allusions, especially with the Covenant, you'd think maybe there might be, but if this is so, really everything is too morally black and white (aliens vs. humans) to be an accurate representation or allegory of any one religion or of religion as a whole. The Covenant is categorically and blatantly evil - even when the Arbiter is introduced in the second game, that's really only to chronicle his escape from the Covenant's illusions and mental clutches rather than to balance their portrayal. Thematically, at least following this particular line of thought, while it offers some simple, effective illustrations, you can't go very deep with Halo before you hit that cartoon factor again.
I think the structure of both the narrative and the gameplay was better in Halo than it was in Halo 2. The first game has garnered many accusations of being repetitive, and a good portion of the levels are done backwards later on in the game. Gameplaywise, this didn't bother me much, because I thought the rearrangement made it fresh enough. Storywise, it gave the narrative a nice symmetrical structure. It begins with the escape from the exploding Pillar of Autumn, and the game ends with a return trip to the ship's creepy ruin, made all the more creepy because we'd seen it before in better conditions (then, of course, followed by an amazing countdown finale). The unexpected appearance of the Flood in the middle of the game really adds to it in this way, transforming both the story and the gameplay despite the level repetition.
Halo 2 was a bit messier. The introduction of the Arbiter's storyline was interesting, but I don't think it quite worked in some ways. For one thing, I always found the Elites more menacing when they weren't speaking English, and while this might be narratively important for showing some sympathy towards Elite-kind, they seemed like more of a threat during gameplay, somehow, in the previous game. I felt there was generally a slight increase in the cartooniness of the proceedings, especially with the appearance of the Prophets and Gravemind. Halo 2 also lacked the narrative structure: the ending wasn't half as interesting and was, of course, notoriously abrupt. The opening attack and the appearance of the Flood had been done before, and though I did like the civil war stuff, and it was generally a solid game, it didn't achieve quite the same balance as its predecessor.
Despite some slight shortcomings, however, the sequel shared many of the original's positive attributes, and both games are excellent. In gameplay, they're good--extremely good--at what they do. Combine this with Halo's quirky (albeit slightly cartoony) character, and it makes for an appealing series of games. Probably some of my fondness for the series comes from the familiarity I gained when I chose to explore it for that certain parody, but weird sentimentality aside, Halo has a lot going for it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy of Halo 3 along with an Xbox 360, feel free.
See also: Master Beef vs. Master Chief 2007.
1 Halo is a pretty straightforward shoot-'em-up; Rowling's writing is technically nothing amazing in any artistic or linguistic sense, but as an entertaining and absorbing read, it's very successful.
I wish I was getting Halo 3. I want to splatter higher-definition aliens. I want to experience that familiar and solid gameplay at the next level, as well as enjoying all the exciting new stuff. I want to see how the story ends. In many ways, a post about Halo 3 is pointless, because I haven't played it and therefore can't praise or bewail things all that much. But I thought I'd share my reasons for why I liked the first two games, which I hope have made it through to the third.
Originally, I couldn't have cared less about Halo. I would happily have chosen a PS2 to get my hands on the next Tekken game, but my brother persuaded me that we should go for an Xbox because that had the next Oddworld instalment. On Christmas Day, I waited impatiently to play it, and was unimpressed with Halo and the Star Trek aesthetic of the people behind bland control panels in the Pillar of Autumn opening sequence. Captain Keyes placed his blocky fingers thoughtfully at the chin of his barely moving face in utmost seriousness, and I laughed.
But when I gave it a chance, it was a lot of fun to play. Halo succeeds as a solid game because it's not overly complicated - it essentially provides you with lots of aliens to eliminate - but what it does, it does extremely well. It feels well-rounded and the campaign battles feel well-matched and satisfying, with very few encounters that will spike your irritation too much. Depending on the level of difficulty, it's often challenging but almost always enjoyable.
The aesthetic of the game also contributes to this feeling of a happy balance. The universe of Halo is a clunky, colourful one; slightly cartoonish, but perfectly capable of introducing darker themes and creepy places. The best example of this is probably how the walls end up smeared in copious amounts of brightly coloured alien blood. It's a bit like the Harry Potter of the video game world (in more than just popularity and hype, although perhaps for the same reasons): it never ventures too far in any direction and is arguably not all that innovative in terms of its medium1 nor of the story itself, but while critics have accused both franchises of a certain mediocrity in this respect, as I already said about Potter, I think this criticism sort misses the point: in what they're trying to do - creating an entertaining and immersive experience - they succeed. And, in Halo's case, I think it exceeds. Halo hasn't marched forward in innovation, but it has expertly refined its medium, striking a successful balance with all the things it deals with.
Given that many elements of the story are pretty generic, there must something else that gives the story itself some interest. Like a Potter book, the plot is immersive enough. The story in the games themselves is really a bare minimum, but in the franchise as a whole they have a pretty good mythology going. Without knowing the ending, I don't know if it all leads to a satisfying conclusion, but so far it's been intriguing. What I find most appealing about the story, however, is exactly how they go about it.
Amidst all the generic sci-fi stuff, coupled with its unusual aesthetic, the series' story does have a few of its own unique quirks that, if nothing else, serve to give it character. I'd highlight characters like 343 Guilty Spark and the mysterious Forerunners with the novelly cryptic nature of everything about them; and then the thematic use of religious symbology and imagery in everything about the Covenant. If the Halo series attempts to make a point, the most interesting one for me is how the Covenant, in their religious conquest, wrap everything they say and do in terms of poetic, religious language. The series may or may not have anything against the religions of our world per se, but they bring this aspect of religion - and general language use - to stark, transparent ridiculousness. It's not subtle (none of the thematic devices in Halo are) and it's an almost cartoon-like dimension of the Covenant, but it's still an effective view, if perhaps oversimplified (those Elites must be extremely gullible by nature), of how these things can work.
Just to address the portrayal of religion in general: it's not clear to me if any other point against it is being made. With the story drenched in so many references and symbolic allusions, especially with the Covenant, you'd think maybe there might be, but if this is so, really everything is too morally black and white (aliens vs. humans) to be an accurate representation or allegory of any one religion or of religion as a whole. The Covenant is categorically and blatantly evil - even when the Arbiter is introduced in the second game, that's really only to chronicle his escape from the Covenant's illusions and mental clutches rather than to balance their portrayal. Thematically, at least following this particular line of thought, while it offers some simple, effective illustrations, you can't go very deep with Halo before you hit that cartoon factor again.
I think the structure of both the narrative and the gameplay was better in Halo than it was in Halo 2. The first game has garnered many accusations of being repetitive, and a good portion of the levels are done backwards later on in the game. Gameplaywise, this didn't bother me much, because I thought the rearrangement made it fresh enough. Storywise, it gave the narrative a nice symmetrical structure. It begins with the escape from the exploding Pillar of Autumn, and the game ends with a return trip to the ship's creepy ruin, made all the more creepy because we'd seen it before in better conditions (then, of course, followed by an amazing countdown finale). The unexpected appearance of the Flood in the middle of the game really adds to it in this way, transforming both the story and the gameplay despite the level repetition.
Halo 2 was a bit messier. The introduction of the Arbiter's storyline was interesting, but I don't think it quite worked in some ways. For one thing, I always found the Elites more menacing when they weren't speaking English, and while this might be narratively important for showing some sympathy towards Elite-kind, they seemed like more of a threat during gameplay, somehow, in the previous game. I felt there was generally a slight increase in the cartooniness of the proceedings, especially with the appearance of the Prophets and Gravemind. Halo 2 also lacked the narrative structure: the ending wasn't half as interesting and was, of course, notoriously abrupt. The opening attack and the appearance of the Flood had been done before, and though I did like the civil war stuff, and it was generally a solid game, it didn't achieve quite the same balance as its predecessor.
Despite some slight shortcomings, however, the sequel shared many of the original's positive attributes, and both games are excellent. In gameplay, they're good--extremely good--at what they do. Combine this with Halo's quirky (albeit slightly cartoony) character, and it makes for an appealing series of games. Probably some of my fondness for the series comes from the familiarity I gained when I chose to explore it for that certain parody, but weird sentimentality aside, Halo has a lot going for it. If anyone wants to buy me a copy of Halo 3 along with an Xbox 360, feel free.
See also: Master Beef vs. Master Chief 2007.
1 Halo is a pretty straightforward shoot-'em-up; Rowling's writing is technically nothing amazing in any artistic or linguistic sense, but as an entertaining and absorbing read, it's very successful.
Labels: halo, harry potter, i am the ramblemaster, language, morality, oddworld, tekken, the aberration, videogames
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Don Quixote, Part I
'Now I must tear my garments, scatter my armour and dash my head against these rocks, and perform other similar actions that will amaze you.'
Don Quixote, or, in full, The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, is a novel of approximately 1,000 pages published by Miguel de Cervantes in two parts, the first in 1605 and the second in 1615. It charts the escapades and misadventures of, as the title says, the Spanish Hidalgo Don Quixote, who suffers from a strange sort of madness brought about by reading too many chivalry books. The deluded Don Quixote firmly believes that he is a knight errant and that the universe must work according to the laws of chivalry as he has read them, to the point that he imagines such things as a local farmgirl as a lady, princess and the subject of his affections despite never having seen her; an inn as a castle; and, most famously, the windmills of La Mancha as ferocious giants.
It's taken me about a month to read the first part. The book has followed me across Europe on my own adventures to London, Venice and Lake Garda. I finished it yesterday, and decided, because I had so much to say about it already, that today I'd write about what I've read so far.
Don Quixote begins as a simple, farcical parody of the chivalric romance genre that had been popular not long before the book was first published. It is episodic in format (like the books it parodies), chronicling various humorous encounters that Don Quixote and his squire, Sancho Panza, have as they venture out and in his deluded way Quixote mistakes things for things that they are not. Characters and events more true to reality are forever conflicting with the archetypes of his books, triggering predictable but entertaining conflicts which usually end in the knight and his squire getting beaten to within an inch of their lives.
Cervantes writes a bit like Shakespeare in the way that the language flourishes, befitting of Don Quixote's lengthy declarations of the convoluted specifics of knight-errantry, but also just as impressive when Cervantes is being less tongue-in-cheek. No doubt credit is due also to John Rutherford, whose translation I read. The sentences are always lengthy, especially in dialogue, but even when Don Quixote is talking complete rubbish it can be absurdly captivating, flowing like a strange but fascinating dream, and sometimes I found myself just as caught up in it as the often staggeringly simple and naïve Sancho, who goes along, though often reluctantly, with everything that his master does and says.
As much as I was enjoying it, I did begin to wonder if its episodic format could really last for 1,000 or even 500 pages. But Cervantes, probably realising the same thing, soon introduces fresh ways to poke fun. The first is through having multiple narrators, supposedly historians who are recounting Don Quixote's life. One sequence stops suddenly half-way through as the narrator claims to have reached the end of the written records available, only for it to be continued by another in the next part, who introduces it with his account of how he is someone who enjoyed reading about the adventures so far and was disappointed that they didn't continue, only to then come across further writings by chance while out shopping, which themselves are supposedly written by some Moorish historian, which he then got translated. The story then continues just as it had done, but with Cervantes now able to play with the potential unreliability and conflict that different narrators might result in.
In this way and others, Cervantes plays with the literary conventions themselves as much as playing with the characters. This occurs on many levels, from satirical sonnets in his direct parody of chivalric romance, to detailed reviews by characters of invidivual chivalric books (and later other things); to constant switching between different sidestories, arrived at through the accounts of the people they meet (sometimes hopping between different people for different perspectives) or manuscripts they find - all continually distracting from Don Quixote's adventures and giving the novel a meta sort of dimension. These sidestories are often surprisingly sober compared to Don Quixote's misadventures, and most of the time seem to follow very conventional chivalric or romantic themes, with probably all of them involving some incredibly beautiful and virtuous woman and the conflicts of the men who have fallen in love with her, to the point that the beautiful women start to feel very generic and the stories a bit ridiculous, which is possibly what Cervantes intended. While all these sidestories appear to be delivered in a straight-faced way, it all gets very farcical when, through amazing coincidence, about half a dozen of the stories and their characters converge at an inn and are brought to their happy conclusions, following which the attention of all the characters is then brought back to the madness of Don Quixote.
This occasional sobriety also emerges in speeches made by the characters themselves. Towards the end of Part I, the priest and the canon discuss Don Quixote's madness, which leads them on to their shared loathing of chivalry books, which itself then leads on to deep discussion of theatrical plays (the new popular thing during Cervantes' time), in which the priest describes why he dislikes such popular things because they are made for the ignorant masses at the expense of real, intelligent, thought-provoking art. The fact that the novel so suddenly veers off into this expansive, philosophical conjecturing is something tongue-in-cheek in itself because Cervantes must know he's being so blatant in using his characters to put forward these opinions (in the same way that he cheekily reviewed other chivalric books at the start). They're still thought-provoking moments, though, and in the discussion of theatre it seems as though Cervantes is trying to make a serious point, although it's not always as clear if it's Cervantes' own opinion or if he's just playing devil's advocate.
Probably the most surprisingly lucid comments of all came from Don Quixote himself. In Chapter XXXVIII, as part of another lengthy speech on chivalry, he had this to say:
'A blessing on those happy ages that did not know the dreadful fury of these devilish instruments of artillery, whose inventor is, I feel sure, being rewarded in hell for his diabolical creation, by which he made it possible for an infamous and cowardly hand to take away the life of a brave knight as, in the heat of the courage and resolution that fires and animates the gallant breast, a stray bullet appears, nobody knows how or from where - fired perhaps by some fellow who took fright at the flash of the fiendish contraption, and fled - and in an instant puts an end to the life and loves of one who deserved to live for many a long age. And when I think about this I am tempted to say that it grieves me to the depths of my soul that I ever took up this profession of knight-errantry in such a detestable age as this one in which we are living, because even though there is no danger that can strike fear into me I am concerned when I think that gunpowder and lead might deprive me of the opportunity to make myself famous all over the face of the earth and by the might of my arm and the blade of my sword. But let heaven do what it pleases, for I shall be more highly esteemed, if I accomplish my aim, for having exposed myself to dangers greater than were ever faced by knights errant of centuries past.'
Don Quixote is clearly still under some illusion about the worth of his chivalric acts, and likely misguided with his quest to make himself 'famous all over the face of the earth', but the slightly frightening thing is that after reading that, I suddenly sort of understood his madness. Most of us like to feel that things have some sort of meaning; that we as people have meaning and that we can stand for something, which is increasingly difficult the more impersonal the world feels. The chivalric, noble values and the kind of honour that Don Quixote believes in may well be ridiculous and empty, but so is a world where you and your actions mean nothing and where personal responsibility, dignity or character seem to count for far less, and as Don Quixote (or Cervantes) himself points out, there's a feeling of some injustice in the kind of world that Don Quixote regretted to live in. There's always the danger that we can place too much importance on, and become deluded by, the overly romantic notions or ideals of traditions or past ways of life; but at the same time that Don Quixote's ambitions sound ridiculous, I felt, in this instance, that there was something, if not noble1, honourable2, admirable or praiseworthy, then at least in some way understandable - or even, dare I say it, reasonable - about the fact that he is trying anyway.
Finally, despite starting out as a simple episodic parody written for popular consumption3, through the development of its characters and exploration of its themes, Don Quixote exists as a good example that what can start out as the subject of a few laughs can soon go much deeper than first imagined, and although it is not the most tightly written of novels and of considerable length, it has remained interesting and enjoyable throughout. I'll be reading Part II before long.
1 2Both nobility and honour are themselves vague ideas and prone to romantic illusions of grandeur.
3 Interestingly enough, according to Oscar Wilde, this would prevent Don Quixote from counting as 'art', yet later on, the priest's discussion of popular theatre highlights some views of art that match very closely and specifically with Wilde's own.
Labels: don quixote, i am the ramblemaster, language, literature, oscar wilde, rabbit-hole theory, shakespeare
Friday, July 06, 2007
People We've Never Met
The idea of getting to know people on the internet has, in recent years, received a lot of bad press. Once in a while a horror story hits the news about some dangerous person who has pretended to be someone he's not. Both children and adults are, with reason, warned about meeting people they've spoken to online because, after all, with just white space and text, anyone can easily pretend to be someone else. But for those people who are more or less genuine, how well can you get to know them?
Another unrelated area of attack for modern communication in general, whether it be emailing, instant messaging or texting, is the arguable degeneration of language. 'Prescriptivist!' one of my English teachers would cry accusingly. 'You prescriptivist! Language changes, it doesn't degenerate!' So I suppose I have to defend my use of that word. In a wider, more general sense, I don't think text or internet speak has much of a negative effect on the language. All the words that might be mutated and compacted for efficiency (or laziness) in text speak still continue to exist in their complete, grandiose forms elsewhere in other contexts, for the most part. Text speak is more of an offshoot appropriated for the technology that can exist alongside conventional language.
So how is it degenerative? I have a prejudice that dictates that whenever someone uses text or chatspeak to me, their words are mentally framed as those of a five year old child with stunted speech. Even if I already know the person. Maybe it's because I read it phonetically, or maybe it's the degeneration of grammar that goes with it, but something about it makes it read like someone with a very low IQ. And it bugs me.
(I do use 'lol', though. Even though I read it phonetically, it still signifies at least vague amusement and by itself doesn't really contribute to the weird stunted speech thing unless you, say, tack it on to the end of a sentence. Like this lol.)
But all this could be just me being a snob. That doesn't make it degenerative. What makes it degenerative in my experience is that the language you use has other functions during online communication. Clarity, for one. Another reason links back to this thing about getting to know people online. While you're sat typing away to someone on the other side of the world, all they're getting from you is your text. That's you. You might have some kind of avatar, or send the other person photos, and they might contribute to your overall mental picture of that person, but just like it would if you were to meet with someone face to face, personality glares through. When you're instant messaging or posting on a message board, all of this is contained in your text (ignoring people who choose to present their personality through lists of their favourite bands, colours, etc).
You can glean a lot about a person from their text. Even if they form their instant messages pristinely - capitals, punctuation and all - that says something about them. From the words they use and how they use them, and with all the subtleties of both written and spoken language (as well as, of course, what they're talking about), you can build up a pretty comprehensive mental conception. You can pick up a general tone, assign an accent (which may not even be their true accent but contributes to your mental image of them anyway), identify all kinds of subtle and less-than-subtle features of their language. And the more you talk to them, just as would be the case offline, the better you get to know them. Which is why text or chat speak is degenerative. When you're talking online, the person you're talking to consists, for you, of those words appearing on your screen. Which makes words more important than ever, allowing you, for as long as they're being genuine, to really get to know a person. Possibly more so than any other situation.
Another unrelated area of attack for modern communication in general, whether it be emailing, instant messaging or texting, is the arguable degeneration of language. 'Prescriptivist!' one of my English teachers would cry accusingly. 'You prescriptivist! Language changes, it doesn't degenerate!' So I suppose I have to defend my use of that word. In a wider, more general sense, I don't think text or internet speak has much of a negative effect on the language. All the words that might be mutated and compacted for efficiency (or laziness) in text speak still continue to exist in their complete, grandiose forms elsewhere in other contexts, for the most part. Text speak is more of an offshoot appropriated for the technology that can exist alongside conventional language.
So how is it degenerative? I have a prejudice that dictates that whenever someone uses text or chatspeak to me, their words are mentally framed as those of a five year old child with stunted speech. Even if I already know the person. Maybe it's because I read it phonetically, or maybe it's the degeneration of grammar that goes with it, but something about it makes it read like someone with a very low IQ. And it bugs me.
(I do use 'lol', though. Even though I read it phonetically, it still signifies at least vague amusement and by itself doesn't really contribute to the weird stunted speech thing unless you, say, tack it on to the end of a sentence. Like this lol.)
But all this could be just me being a snob. That doesn't make it degenerative. What makes it degenerative in my experience is that the language you use has other functions during online communication. Clarity, for one. Another reason links back to this thing about getting to know people online. While you're sat typing away to someone on the other side of the world, all they're getting from you is your text. That's you. You might have some kind of avatar, or send the other person photos, and they might contribute to your overall mental picture of that person, but just like it would if you were to meet with someone face to face, personality glares through. When you're instant messaging or posting on a message board, all of this is contained in your text (ignoring people who choose to present their personality through lists of their favourite bands, colours, etc).
You can glean a lot about a person from their text. Even if they form their instant messages pristinely - capitals, punctuation and all - that says something about them. From the words they use and how they use them, and with all the subtleties of both written and spoken language (as well as, of course, what they're talking about), you can build up a pretty comprehensive mental conception. You can pick up a general tone, assign an accent (which may not even be their true accent but contributes to your mental image of them anyway), identify all kinds of subtle and less-than-subtle features of their language. And the more you talk to them, just as would be the case offline, the better you get to know them. Which is why text or chat speak is degenerative. When you're talking online, the person you're talking to consists, for you, of those words appearing on your screen. Which makes words more important than ever, allowing you, for as long as they're being genuine, to really get to know a person. Possibly more so than any other situation.
Labels: i am the ramblemaster, language
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The English Language
Probably, sadly, the most interesting thing we've done all year in English Language class has been the history of the English language, something that we don't even need for the big and important exams that are coming up in the next few weeks.
I always find it interesting to see how things have come to be the way they are; how the world has reacted to the biggest and smallest events, the rippling and fizzling of the almost uncontrollable chaos of cause and effect. That's history. A duke is shot in Sarajevo, the proverbial camel's back breaks and suddenly we find ourselves engaged in a world war. The USSR launches the Sputnik space programme, spurring the USA to regain a technological lead by founding an agency which seeks to further the research of a nationwide network of radar systems; and now, nearly fifty years later, I'm on this thing called the internet inventing stories about skateboarding slugs and spacecustard with some weirdo on the other side of the Atlantic.
Wrapped around all these events in history great and small is language. Every modern language carries with it the weight of all the history it's been through, and yet it's the most immediate reflection of the world we currently live in: we're constantly introducing new words or changing the meanings of old ones to fit our purposes. Language changes or it stops being useful and, unless you deliberately preserve it, it dies out. Some words fall out of use, become obscure and fade away, but language is forever changing and expanding to stay alive and leaves us with some impressive banks of vocabulary to draw from whenever we decide we want to say or write something (assuming the recipient has a dictionary on hand).
When it comes to the size of vocabulary, the English language, in its various forms, is currently the richest, most diverse language there is. Why? Because we've absorbed so many others. Here are some of the 'landmarks' according to the timeline I've been given: in 436AD, the Romans withdraw from Britain leaving behind Latin. A few years later, the Anglo-Saxons arrive and bring with them the Germanic language, forming Old English. In 597 Latin then returns to Britain in the form of St Augustine and the Roman Catholic Church, and two hundred years later the Vikings pay a visit and give us some Norse. In 1066, the Normans invade and social changes are reflected through a rift in the language: those of higher class use grand and sophisticated French words like faeces, while German--and shit--becomes common and a bit vulgar. In 1204, King John loses his English territory in France and the French influence retreats.
Then when Britain decides it has quite finished being invaded, it sticks its colonial fingers abroad and taps the lexis of all its gains: in 1600, the East India Company establishes a trading post in India; seven years later, the first British Colony is established in Jamestown, Virginia (had it been different, the USA may today have been speaking French). In 1610, battles with Ireland reduce the influence of Gaelic; in 1745, the Battle of Culloden results in the Anglicisation of Scotland. The first convict transport ships arive in Australia in 1788. Britain abolishes slavery in 1837, blacks become lawfully equal citizens and the language is broadened. In 1845, the Great Potato Famine drives thousands of Irish immigrants to British and American shores. And so it continues, each event influencing and further expanding the language. Now there's the internet, with millions of people worldwide communicating with each other.
I'm probably being weird, but I find the thought of this pretty awe-inspiring. Most English-speaking people only ever use the smallest fraction of the language in their lives, enough as is practical. But here we are with all this wealth of language, and when people do explore it and utilise it and realise it as a powerful means of expression, the richness of the English language--with all the subtleties and nuances that have developed during its long history--is really something to appreciate.
I always find it interesting to see how things have come to be the way they are; how the world has reacted to the biggest and smallest events, the rippling and fizzling of the almost uncontrollable chaos of cause and effect. That's history. A duke is shot in Sarajevo, the proverbial camel's back breaks and suddenly we find ourselves engaged in a world war. The USSR launches the Sputnik space programme, spurring the USA to regain a technological lead by founding an agency which seeks to further the research of a nationwide network of radar systems; and now, nearly fifty years later, I'm on this thing called the internet inventing stories about skateboarding slugs and spacecustard with some weirdo on the other side of the Atlantic.
Wrapped around all these events in history great and small is language. Every modern language carries with it the weight of all the history it's been through, and yet it's the most immediate reflection of the world we currently live in: we're constantly introducing new words or changing the meanings of old ones to fit our purposes. Language changes or it stops being useful and, unless you deliberately preserve it, it dies out. Some words fall out of use, become obscure and fade away, but language is forever changing and expanding to stay alive and leaves us with some impressive banks of vocabulary to draw from whenever we decide we want to say or write something (assuming the recipient has a dictionary on hand).
When it comes to the size of vocabulary, the English language, in its various forms, is currently the richest, most diverse language there is. Why? Because we've absorbed so many others. Here are some of the 'landmarks' according to the timeline I've been given: in 436AD, the Romans withdraw from Britain leaving behind Latin. A few years later, the Anglo-Saxons arrive and bring with them the Germanic language, forming Old English. In 597 Latin then returns to Britain in the form of St Augustine and the Roman Catholic Church, and two hundred years later the Vikings pay a visit and give us some Norse. In 1066, the Normans invade and social changes are reflected through a rift in the language: those of higher class use grand and sophisticated French words like faeces, while German--and shit--becomes common and a bit vulgar. In 1204, King John loses his English territory in France and the French influence retreats.
Then when Britain decides it has quite finished being invaded, it sticks its colonial fingers abroad and taps the lexis of all its gains: in 1600, the East India Company establishes a trading post in India; seven years later, the first British Colony is established in Jamestown, Virginia (had it been different, the USA may today have been speaking French). In 1610, battles with Ireland reduce the influence of Gaelic; in 1745, the Battle of Culloden results in the Anglicisation of Scotland. The first convict transport ships arive in Australia in 1788. Britain abolishes slavery in 1837, blacks become lawfully equal citizens and the language is broadened. In 1845, the Great Potato Famine drives thousands of Irish immigrants to British and American shores. And so it continues, each event influencing and further expanding the language. Now there's the internet, with millions of people worldwide communicating with each other.
I'm probably being weird, but I find the thought of this pretty awe-inspiring. Most English-speaking people only ever use the smallest fraction of the language in their lives, enough as is practical. But here we are with all this wealth of language, and when people do explore it and utilise it and realise it as a powerful means of expression, the richness of the English language--with all the subtleties and nuances that have developed during its long history--is really something to appreciate.
Labels: i am the ramblemaster, language, starcustard
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Gormenghast
Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake, is a masterpiece. It is literary masterpiece and a work of art. I don't think I've ever read anything else in which the characters and the setting have been painted so vividly. And as most other reviews will tell you, the massive, sprawling stone castle in which it all takes place (in the two books that I've read) is a character in itself.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Each character, trapped in a strange world of meaningless ritual, is meticulously drawn in absurd and grotesque proportions, which only serves to make them more real. There's the ever-melancholy 76th Earl of Gormenghast, Sepulchrave; his huge and passive wife who seemingly cares for nothing but birds and cats until trouble afoot stirs in her a quick and powerful mind; their moody and passionate daughter Fuchsia who finds herself having to grow out of her beloved world of stories and make-believe; and their troubled son, Titus Groan, who quickly grows to hate the suffocating ritual he is forced to obey. The eccentric and witty physician Dr Prunesquallor and his sister; Sepulchrave's servant Mr Flay; Swelter the cook, the twins Cora and Clarice and the irritable, stump-legged Master of Ritual Barquentine make up some of the other denizens of the castle.
Peake spends a lot of time fleshing out each character and as a result the events that unfold take their time to occur, which means a slow pace that will not appeal to readers who want an immediate sense of direction to the plot. But while it takes its time, it's fascinating to see how each of the characters react and respond to each other, each with their own traits, grudges, interests and aspirations; and how Steerpike, the cold and cunning kitchen boy and perhaps the most interesting character of all, manipulates each in turn with the aim of his own ascension to power and the consequent destruction of those in his path. There is a persistent darkness to the story that festers and ferments until it reaches an extremely dramatic climax.
In many ways, the Gormenghast books could be seen as almost self-indulgent. But Peake is a master of the language to a mindboggling degree and seems to relish in the richness of it. He'll take an image or an aspect of a character or setting and spend as long as he needs to convey the exact mood, tension, atmosphere or emotion in a way that, while some may find it self-indulgent, left me with a deep appreciation of it.
Once you get into it, Gormenghast is an incredibly absorbing world and the books are an extremely satisfying read for those who are willing to lose themselves in its strangeness. I haven't yet read the third, Titus Alone, which departs from the castle and explores elsewhere in Peake's world, but when I do, I'll be sure to post my longwinded thoughts.
Labels: gormenghast, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory
