the ramble dump

'The most logical way is to think that the death god exists.'

I recently discovered the Death Note franchise, apparently very popular worldwide, via an interesting tie with the title logo on it that somebody was wearing in a photograph. It's one of many Japanese franchises, it seems, that started out as a manga, received an anime adaptation and made its way to live-action films, soon to be needlessly remade again for a Western audience.

I got hold of the live-action film first, or at least the first part of it (they split it into two), expecting a pretty awful adaptation but feeling, for some reason, in the mood for just that. But though it felt like a TV production at times, mostly in special effects, and though I'd managed to get a horrible dubbed version which made it very hard to take seriously (as dubbing always does), it was better than I expected, and about halfway through the second one, The Last Name (after a switch to subtitles), I realised that I was actually really enjoying it.

The reason for that is genuinely clever writing, and a plot that feels like it really earns all of its twists and developments, without pulling its advancements out of thin air or resorting to the abuse of narrative tricks like misdirection.

The premise of the film is that a college-aged boy, Light Yagami, finds a Death Note dropped by a shinigami--a death god--called Ryuk. The Death Note is a notebook that causes the death of anyone whose name is written inside it as long as the user has the face of that person in mind. It contains a list of written rules specifying the terms and conditions regarding how exactly it can be used, with stuff like time limits, detailing the way a person dies, etc; all kinds of arbitrary rules resembling those of a kid making up a game as he goes along, with the primary purpose of imposing some limitations so the concept can be integrated and doesn't become immediately unwieldy and the story over very quickly.

With this context set, the story then develops into a continually inverted cat-and-mouse game between Light Yagami and the equally intelligent mysterious detective known only as L, who is trying to track him down. Obviously the concept behind the Death Note opens the story up for a lot of big questions about murder, justice, morality and so on, but the battle between these two characters, the ongoing attempts by each to outwit the other, is where this story really finds its grip.

And it works so well because it uses the rules of the Death Note (and one or two others given by the shinigami) to frame it, providing all kinds of stuff for the characters to get around or deduce or to use in imaginative ways. Characters are constantly testing the boundaries and making sacrifices, but always operating strictly by this Death Note logic, however arbitrary that logic might be. It's a what-if scenario that almost invites the viewer to take part, because we're free to try and figure out for ourselves how we might act in each situation and what the next move might be.

The result of all this is that the plot develops with some integrity, consistency and thus believability, becoming wholly immersive even though Light does have an obviously computer-generated shinigami hovering over his shoulder all the time. The story sucks you in anyway, and whatever relevance there is to the obvious big themes of morality and justice comes to arise naturally, making the whole thing much more honest and worthwhile.

This kind of sums up for me, in a sense, the strength of the sort of storytelling that isn't a slave to the kind of realism that demands a world exactly like ours, whether this fictional world logic comes to be the focused object of the plot, like the Death Note or Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics or the Loom of Fate in that ridiculous film Wanted, or whether it functions as a wider truth of the world, like magic in a Tolkien-type fantasy or the existence of anthropomorphic aliens in a space opera. These worlds, these what-if scenarios, are a way of framing our experience that allows us to transcend the literal facts of how things really, physically are in order to focus in different ways on those aspects of experience that make us tell stories in the first place. And this is something all stories do to some extent, by virtue of plotting at all.

Death Note does it well.

Labels: i am the ramblemaster, morality, rabbit-hole theory, tolkien

# posted by Chris @ 6:14 PM 0 comments

[This is part of a convoluted series looking at the Matrix trilogy of films from the perspective of immersive storytelling--where they worked, where they didn't, and how this might have affected their success as films. Fair warning: I am making it my mission to be mind-numbingly specific. This is a complete rewrite of an older, now obliterated Part 2. Part 1 can be found here.]

The Matrix in fact consists of two 'rabbit holes', in the sense of worlds operating by a certain set of rules; one, the Matrix, that exists inside the other, the real world. It is the existence of this 'real world' that allows the Matrix to function in the way it does, namely as a virtual world created in, and accessible from, an actual physical space. The big premise that serves as the reasoning for all the weird and novel stuff we see in the Matrix is precisely this virtuality--the fact that it's not real; but this platform for spectacle would have no justification, no grounding, were this virtuality to be everything that there is, because it would lead to a potential breakdown of everything up to and including the characters themselves and the fact that there is a world presented by the Matrix films at all.

The whole twin-rabbit-hole set-up, however, allows for a lot. To begin with, the virtual realm means that there are no necessary limitations in how different the laws of physics can be, though the Wachowskis choose to have the Matrix such that fairly normal physical rules have been put in place and a certain mentality is required to overcome them. Basically, though, anything that is supposedly defined by the Matrix itself is free to be different.

By this token, it follows that the Matrix and the real world can be very different stylistically, as there's no reason why they have to be the same in this respect either, beyond perhaps requiring things like continuity in the personality of characters that exist in both worlds, so that a wildly disparate style of dialogue, say, would make no sense. In another context, such a difference between the style of two spaces in the same fictional universe might have the result of literalising stylistic aspects, or making them seem like nonsensical changes in the behaviour of that universe, because they would no longer serve as part of its stylistic texture (the interrelation of things that make up precise way that we get a feeling for a world on a stylistic level, and an interrelation that can't function effectively if these things don't remain constant). But the nature of virtuality is that to a great extent it allows for a whole different texture of reality in the Matrix, for as long as this change is applied only to things specific to that virtual world.

Nevertheless, a lot of problems arise in that various stylistic conventions falter for trying to function across the three films in what is arguably a shifting aesthetic context within each of these worlds, a shift that does interfere with stylistic elements.

The Matrix films in general are highly stylised films, and something so stylised is naturally going to bring more attention to itself, above all when it goes wrong. Scenes that take place in the actual Matrix potentially face more difficulties than others by virtue of the fact that, as a stylistic decision in itself, the Matrix world is simply more sharply stylised than the naturalistically presented real world, though both have their problems. The very specific neo-noir approach to the Matrix of the first film has already been mentioned: we are shown what is a very limited range of gritty, urban locales, specifically degenerate areas and bleak corporate spaces, with the ever-present sickly green filter enhancing this feeling of decay very effectively.

But though this is repeated to a large extent in the sequels, it does not carry over completely. Perhaps in part because of the expanded scale of the sequels, though also simply due to the decisions made to use particular locations, we are taken out of this very specific aesthetic and given something that is, in Reloaded especially, somehow cleaner and shinier and comes in flavours more pronounced in their distinction: the modern-industrial look of the freeway and the nuclear power plant, the gothic dungeons, sewers and jarringly grand chateau, the teahouse, the hallway of backdoors, and so on. Some of these locations have their own problems and I'll talk about these later, but the main thing is that, whatever the reasons might be for why such places were used, it creates what can at least be perceived as something of an aesthetic incongruity between the films.

However, something like this expansion of location types is logically surmountable, and something we can get used to, though it may feel very different and to a certain extent replace an experience to which we had become attached, when we realise that we were only ever shown a very small part of a whole world in the first film. Unfortunately, it's not always the case that we can just teach our brains to accept that what we are shown in the first film simply isn't everything, as there are some stylistic factors that prevent this from quite working out because they would appear to contradict the stylistic rules already put in place.

* * *

The first of these entails one of the more predominant stylistic decisions in the films, the use of colour biases: the blue, slightly more natural bias of the real world and the sickly green of the Matrix that has already been mentioned. These colour biases serve as the primary visual way of defining these worlds as different from each other, marking their separation by contributing to the distinctive style and texture of each. These aren't the only two colour biases employed in the first film: we are also shown a number of non-Matrix constructs that are either stark white (the loading program) or yellow-biased (the dojo), but they serve the same purpose of signifying that these are different 'worlds'.

In the sequels, however, the use of such colour gets a little more ambitious and complex, such that the dividing line between these different worlds, created by the distinctive styles of each, is no longer so clear. In fact, it chops things up in a way that prevents such an interpretation of an ontological shift (that is, the interpretation that each 'style' represents a different space of reality) from being possible. Stark white places like Zion Control, Mobil Ave, the Architect's room or the hallway of backdoors are all acceptable for being virtual realms operating outside of the Matrix and therefore free of that decaying environment, and at a push the same reasoning could be given for the yellow-biased chateau or teahouse, both of which might be said to exist as manipulations of the Merovingian and Seraph respectively and as constructs not wholly integrated into the Matrix proper. But the yellow colour is apparently still too busy fulfilling other literal functions to make this work; namely in code-vision, in which Seraph, for example, appears gold, as do Smith-in-Bane and everything else in the real world after Neo goes blind.

Whatever the reasoning behind this is, it is no longer the case that such colour contributes so effectively to the stylistic texture of a specific 'world' because this function is interfered with by its role as something primarily symbolic.

In the first film it could be said that the Matrix was green-biased because it was a decaying place; the real world was more natural because it was real; the loading constructs were white because they were empty (given some continuity with the Matrix through the use of wintery skies); the dojo was golden-yellow because it was just that kind of environment, and constructs that simulated the Matrix were also green-tinted for that reason. There is, obviously, stylistic exaggeration here--we don't have to think that the Matrix is really that green for the characters, and as something stylistic it does not ask us to--but there is nevertheless a natural logic to this exaggeration. Certain aspects of the Matrix environment which are already there are brought out by the use of the colour on a purely visual level, such that the green makes it seem even more decrepit. It also hints at its status as a computer simulation, but, importantly, without this additional meaning overriding its other effects.

In the sequels, however, the decision to use specific colours for certain things is done less sensically when we try to view it in terms of this logic of natural enhancement, and this seems to be because, as mentioned, a primarily symbolic logic is being used instead.

This symbolism mostly takes place within the code-vision, in which different colours appear to represent different kinds of virtual presences inside the Matrix. In the context of code-vision alone, this might be considered perfectly natural. But even if we try to separate the significance of colour bias and colour in code-vision to make sense of what all these different colours mean (which we would seemingly have to do anyway, as they are not entirely consistent; for example, the teahouse appears in green code and non-code Seraph does not remain yellow-biased when he ventures outside of it), there are still times when colour is used blatantly in non-code vision such that it seems clear that some kind of symbolism is intended, overriding the function of stylistic texture. The yellow bias of the Zion rave and sex scenes certainly seem very deliberate in this way, if not inconceivable non-symbolically, and places like the hallway of backdoors and the chateau feature noticeable chunks of green to deliberately remind us that we're still sort of in the Matrix. (The green overlay in the freeway scene also brings attention to itself at times by not fulfilling its intended effect of stylistic exaggeration, but only because they obviously tried to do it over a very blue summer sky, resulting in a not-so-subtle turquoise.)

It also can't be ignored that these biases, being so particular, feel like they're supposed to correlate with the same colours we are shown in code-vision.

The result is a kind of cluttered, confused visual onslaught where, in shifted purpose, such use of colour bias is not the same effective stylistic aid it had been previously. Instead of contributing to the distinctive 'texture' of a world, such use of colour bias as demonstrated in the sequels does precisely the opposite by breaking up and interfering with this distinction. Even if the Wachowskis had meant this process to be deliberate for whatever reason, it does the rabbit holes no good when overly abstract symbolism or literalisation comes to intrude upon something that had had an immersive function.

[to be continued...]

Labels: cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 11:29 PM 0 comments

I went back to the series I started last year with the intention of finishing it, but discovered that my notes were all over the place and that what I'd done so far needed revising and reordering. The old versions have therefore been taken down and you can find the new introduction here, where the old one lived.

Subsequent parts should appear in the near future.

Labels: rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 11:52 PM 0 comments

Renowned academic, adventurer and alien Amelia Chesley explores rabbit holes, via great literature. Or should that be the other way around?

(We plug each other because no one else will.)

Labels: cyberpunk, neuromancer, rabbit-hole theory, william gibson

# posted by Chris @ 4:08 PM 0 comments

[Revised 30.06.09.]

MORPHEUS
I imagine, right now, you must be feeling a bit like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole?

NEO
You could say that.

MORPHEUS
I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up.

When we watch a good film, or read a good book, we are engaged so that we are drawn into the world in which the story is set and remain engrossed right up until the end. The best ones can even have a lingering effect, keeping our minds floating in the memory of its mood, aesthetic or atmosphere even after the experience has finished. Our minds never accept these as actual reality, or as the world we are conscious of during most of our waking hours--not usually, anyway--but as a reality, one that is possible according to the rules defined by the author. It becomes one with which the audience are willing to engage even if they know that it is ultimately just a work of fiction--probably because they know that it's fiction, allowing the suspension of disbelief to play a more conscious role.

Unfortunately for the authors and filmmakers, it's not always an easy thing to get your reader or audience to accept the reality you give them. You have to create a consistent world, in which everything makes sense by its logic and characters don't contradict themselves as characters, and the narrative has to follow through in a logical sort of way. If it doesn't, it can throw off the reader or audience and bring attention to itself in all the wrong ways, and thus the author fails to tell a successful story or to achieve any deeper resonance beyond that, all because they have not been able to establish believability. There are certain things that will trigger this unwanted kind of awareness--something will jar, seem inconsistent, seem fake, and will cause the audience to prematurely 'wake up'.

'Rabbit-hole theory' is the term I'm going to use, taking the analogy from the above quotation, which is from the film The Matrix, to describe the rules that govern the process of immersing the reader or spectator in a believable fiction--making them feel as if they are tumbling down a rabbit hole and into another world, metaphorically speaking--in order to fully engage them with that fictional 'world' as the chosen plane of expression. Like Neo, we will often only accept a fictional world on the basis that it is fiction, knowing that it is a kind of manufactured dream. And yet there are some things that we will simply not accept, that our lucid minds will reject, when such a world is being established. Rabbit-hole theory is about exploring how this works, under the view that there are the smallest of things that can damage a story because they go against certain implicit rules. The more I think about it, the more I've been realising that these rabbit holes can establish themselves, and fail, in an incredible number of different ways.

(Note: this applies to fiction and not meta-fiction, because in meta-fiction the plane of expression lies beyond that 'world', instead requiring that attention is brought to the fact of the fiction itself (the fact that something is fiction) rather than depending on immersion in the world. And indeed, meta-fiction therefore often functions precisely to ruin the rabbit-hole effect.)

Incidentally, I think the Matrix trilogy illustrates rabbit-hole theory perfectly. In my view, the first film works very successfully in drawing in the audience and taking them into a world that is a little topsy-turvy but, for all intents and purposes, utterly engrossing. The sequels, Reloaded and Revolutions, are more complex on just about every level and, in many ways, more interesting than the original, but they are also, I'd argue, not nearly as successful in terms of immersion. I still find much to appreciate about the films because I find a lot to like about what they offer of the Matrix mythos, despite their flaws--but I've been debating with myself over and over again about whether these flaws might prevent the sequels in particular from being good films. I've decided that the sequels are definitely difficult, but I've realised that a lot of these difficulties, and many of my own gripes with the sequels, come just as much from simple rabbit-hole reasons as they do from any other reasons that might be given--including those by fans who attempt to explain away negative reaction with the idea that an intellectual effort is required to understand them (though I'll wager there were a hell of a lot of viewers who just weren't willing to make a necessary effort).

Herein follow some suggestions for what exactly these reasons are.

* * *
Firstly, for all I might talk about creating a believable reality, exhaustive realism is rarely very useful, though a certain level is always required. That level, and the specific aspect of the story to which it must apply, will depend very much on context and genre. The Matrix films are a case in point: in true cyberpunk fashion, many things seem to be the way they are for stylistic reasons. The first film has a distinctly neo-noir feel, with grim, decaying urban locales and a rabbit-hole like closeness to many of the scenes. The redpills all dress in leather and shades and speak with a certain fondness for earthy, four-letter words, and lightning always strikes at very specific moments in the dialogue. All of these stylistic touches may have underlying reasons, ones that might even amount to more than the simple need to conform to genre conventions, look cool or add a bit of drama. The timed lightning, for example, might additionally be a nod to the fact that they're not in the real world (though when it happens, or when characters come out with lines like 'our way or the highway', or when Neo and Agent Smith partake in some Old Western finger-twitching during the subway climax, it's difficult not to suspect that what is being referred to in these tongue-in-cheek homages is simply the Wachowskis' own sense of humour). Whatever these reasons are, however, the Wachowskis have managed to create a satisfying, believable world without requiring it to be completely realistic.

In fact, though the trilogy could be approached on a number of different levels--aesthetically, cinematically, technically, philosophically, allegorically, scientifically, and so on--I would argue that the nature of their world means that there are limits to certain approaches, and approaching it in terms of realism--attempting to go into too much scientific detail, for example--is likely to be a futile endeavour. This is not to say that the science isn't interesting, but complete scientific integrity is not necessary. I once read a comment in which someone said that they never thought much of The Matrix because they couldn't get past the humans-as-batteries idea, having done some mental calculations and concluded that, mathematically, it just couldn't work. But considering this is a film in which the antagonists, the Agents, all dress like conspiracy stereotypes and wear shades even in the dark, I'd be tempted to say that this person may have missed the point--that they didn't 'get it'. It is, of course, their prerogative to have their own criteria for what a decent story requires--but I would argue that it makes no sense to judge a fictional world by such terms of realism alone, especially as this may not have been what the creator set out to achieve in the first place. A film can engage me without causing me to worry over extreme details, because the thing that is engaging me is the specific way that something is being expressed, and this expression does not require complete realism. In fact, too great a degree of realism may even undermine that expression: without the cold uniformity of their outward appearance, the Agents would not present themselves as quite the same recognisably menacing threat.

Consistency is important, however. If the directors have established some level of science, however loosely, they have to stick to it. The audience might allow themselves to accept the rules of a fictional world, but if the creators then stretch, break or abuse these rules, the audience will feel cheated and most likely reject it. The creators can't expect people to accept a world that exists by certain conditions and then keep on expecting them to believe in it after these conditions have been abandoned by the creators themselves. That is why, for example, any purely religious or allegorical explanation for Neo's abilities, such as his transcendence of the rules of the Matrix or, later, his connection to the Source, will be unsatisfying. Some loosely scientific, non-spiritual, non-allegorical explanation has to be provided as well. If a fictional world has already been established based on certain rules, refusal to stick to these rules will cause the whole thing to lose coherence and the world to fall apart.

Even if half the rules of the Matrix world only exist to set the stage for those impressive, insane displays of kung fu, through myriad different methods, and sometimes in spite of realism, the Wachowskis are able to set up for themselves a consistent and incredibly immersive cinematic playground. The Matrix, I think, is a shining example of a story that works brilliantly in this way, existing by its own quirky logic in a manner that is believable enough to be engaging in all the ways that it intends.

Part of it, it has to be said, is the feel of being in a Wonderland. There are a lot of ideas in The Matrix that are, more than anything else, novel, and remain neat ideas even after repeated viewings--for example, walking on walls, having Agents take over bodies in the way that they do, and perceiving the world in bullet time. They're appealing because, aside from their dramatic functions or cinematic qualities, they display imaginative extensions of the concept of a virtual world. It's the small things, too, like Neo literally being 'bugged', or glitches manifesting themselves as déja vu--little riffs on a theme that help to reinforce the nature of the Wonderland.

And it all works because the first film manages to integrate it all; however much philosophy, action, suspense or cyberpunk convention it packs in, it all works in a way that is complementary, with no single aspect wrestling for attention. Each stage of the story slides in seamlessly after the last, building from that initial mystery and suspense and layering on the elements--each scene giving us that little bit more of the Matrix world. It culminates in an extensive, arguably self-indulgent action sequence, but it's a welcome, thrilling climax, bringing with it a resolution to the film's story that is satisfying on many levels.

* * *
Rabbit holes, though, are very intimate things. When they work, the impression that they leave behind is very distinct and specific. The first film gave us a very particular Matrix-feeling, garnered from the very specific way that we related to and engaged with it--so when the Wachowskis came to make the sequels, they were faced with the problem inherent to all sequels: that it wouldn't be the same film again.

For some, then, the Wachowskis may have been damned however they chose to go about the sequels, as even a minor shift in any single aspect that made the first film what it was could prompt disappointment and rejection from many fans. But for others, what may at first feel a little different to the audience is something they can get used to, especially after repeated viewings, if the world is expanded in such a way that any additions, changes in focus or perspective, or even mindbending twists make sense according to the inherent logic of the world as it has been presented so far. The problem with the Matrix sequels was that they proved problematic in this respect in a large number of different ways, and many aspects of their execution served only to bring attention to themselves such that they interfered with this process of engagement.

[Part 2.]

Labels: cyberpunk, dreams, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, science, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 4:33 PM 0 comments

Those currently trying to access The Aberration Chapter 15 will be faced with this message:

This chapter is currently being revised. It will return, massively improved, sometime soonish.

Anyone who visits this site with any kind of frequency will know that I have a tendency to go back and repeatedly edit the stuff I've already uploaded, usually one or two months after the fact. In the past I've offered various specific, long-winded reasons and excuses for each time I've done this, but I won't go into any specifics about Chapter 15 here. Its sparkly new edition will be posted along with the horrendously delayed 16 in the not-too-distant future.

There will, however, be spoilers for Chapter 14, so watch out for those.

Nearly all of the time, when they're not nitpicks over grammar or general attempts to improve the quality of description, these alterations boil down to something not working with the flow of the narrative. This might relate to how the story progresses from one point to the next, how events transpire, how the characters react to these events or to each other, and how those characters develop as a result of all these other things. It's a partly intuitive process: if an event feels overly contrived, or if a character feels inconsistent with how they usually act, or if anything about the story feels too forced, it sits uncomfortably in the final product. It can result in the story losing some of it's believability.

To some extent, even things like the specific characteristics of the characters themselves are not something that can be dictated in an overly deliberate way. Likewise, smooth transitions from Point A to Point B can't always be meticulously planned out--you can't account for everything until you get to the stage of actually writing it. That's why some of the Starcustard chapters ended up so long: because we set out, roughly, to cover a certain amount of ground in terms of outlined story in each chapter, and ended up requiring a lot more ground than we expected. When you're writing, you have to feel your way through the narrative, follow it a natural way so that it comes to be something you can believe in yourself before you expect the reader to do the same. That's probably why it usually doesn't work as an immersive, believable story when the author sets out to dictate the actions of some character in order to conform to a message that they are trying to convey--when the characters are reduced to functions of an idea or plot point at the expense of...well, character. (Thus: boo, allegory.)

This isn't to say that the writing process has to be something completely out of your control, or something that you have to surrender entirely to your subconscious. It obviously doesn't work like that. Control is, of course, one of the most important things in storytelling. It's about managing to strike a balance, but not a compromise, in attempting to achieve some kind of realism (or, at least, in order to make the experience real enough to be appreciated). But there are certain things that a story, a narrative, needs to be held together--the plot to frame it, the characters to drive it and the cohesion to bring everything together. Big ideas and viewpoints are all well and good, but they need to come from somewhere--they need to be grounded in a believable foundation.

These are things that seem to be true of many novels that I've read or films that I've watched, as well as presenting themselves as something repeatedly confounding when I come to write my own stuff. Hence all the revisions. Chapter 15's main problem was exposition: cramming in too much stuff I felt I needed to explain in order to get past it, at the expense of pacing, believability and narrative sense. To get anything worthwhile from a story, the reader has to be able to experience it in a way that doesn't pull them out of it every time the author feels the need to muscle their way in for some more control. There are times, I have found, when you just have to give in to the narrative--otherwise you start making compromises to the integrity of the narrative that can cause everything to fall apart.

Which brings me to Mike. Mike's fate is currently undecided. For the longest time I've been trying to determine a reason for Mike to be there; trying to feel out a purpose for him in the story. This sounds a lot like reducing him to a function, but in this sense, characters become functions of the narrative--as a part of that narrative--rather than being reduced for the sake of functioning as part of a specific plot point or any motive that might lie behind the story. This doesn't mean denying the fact that characters drive the narrative, but rather that there is an interdependency between the two that develops organically and emerges along with other things such as themes and plot.

In the case of The Aberration, the narrative is already being driven, and moulded, by Master Beef and the plot and ideas that have formed around him. Whereas Beef had always been at the core of the story, even if later themes and character developments had not yet emerged, Mike, like several other characters (including Detective Muse, Sim Hyde and the Microwave) had always sort of been attached to the story for the sake of it. Unlike these others, however, Mike's reasons for creation, and attempts to develop him beyond that, have not leant themselves to enabling his character to be continually relevant, and though over the years I've repeatedly reduced his personal story to fit in with everything else, I've never quite been able to assimilate him completely into the coherent whole. In other words, I don't know what to do with him. While I feel he's worked in a perfectly valid way as a character so far, it's reached the point that the only thing that feels natural to do is to write him out of the story, maybe able to offer one or two more hints at the wider plot on his way out.

It does sound as if he's being judged by his worth to the plot, and to some extent this is true. But as already explained, the Mike's character has to relate to all the other aspects of the whole. The characters drive the story or narrative, which is the sequence of events. The plot--what the story is about--is something that, in this case, has emerged as these characters have been driving the story. Narrative, plot and character have all formed in a mutual sort of way. But Mike has ended up the odd one out. I could invent new story just for the sake of keeping him in the picture, but there's no point in having a character perpetuated in this way. His character, failing to resonate in the same way as the others, would require his own plot, if he was given any plot at all, and his story would be irrelevant.

With regard to killing off characters, a similar thing happened with the character of Mars in the early chapters of Starcustard, though in his case it was more an immediate demand of the world as we'd constructed it, rather than simply having no place for him in the story after that (although we may not have done anyway). In our excitement of plot we'd inadvertently pushed him into a situation that there was simply no way around if we didn't want to contradict everything we had already said.

The character of Mike has suffered rather from a lack of direction, in terms of plot and character. Many of the characters in The Aberration have ended up treading narrative backwater at various points in its history, causing me to re-evaluate and revise repeatedly in order to sustain it (most significantly when it was in its Manifesting Surreal iteration, consisting of mounting absurdity and about to collapse in on itself). As a result, though it's been far from easy, the narrative has begun to form into something that feels at least somewhat coherent. Unfortunately for Mike, for the time being at least, he is no longer a part of it.

As a final note (and a little hint at other things): although on the level of plot Mike's (apparent) death does nothing but remove him as something with no further use, on the level of the narrative--which can incorporate things like, say, meta-commentary--the very necessity of his removal may yet itself function as something more significant in terms of the wider narrative picture. If you follow that, I'll leave you to try and figure it out once you start getting a sense of what that wider picture is. Until then, the important thing, in terms of what this post has been getting at, is that this function operates as a valuable extra feature of the narrative, but does not exist at the expense of narrative integrity as a whole.

Edit 23/07/08: some slight rephrasing due to a confusion between the concepts of 'plot' and 'story/narrative' (I got them the wrong way around).

Labels: i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, starcustard, the aberration

# posted by Chris @ 10:23 PM 0 comments

Reviews of Titus Alone are usually prefaced with a note about Peake's decline in mental health at the time of writing, and the consequent deterioration in the quality of the novel compared to its predecessors. Thus, when I had finished the fantasticalness that was the first two books, I didn't really know what to expect of this third book. On the one hand, I wanted to save Titus Alone for later reading anyway because it would be something to look forward to; but on the other hand, the fact that many fans of Peake had seemed to treat it like some withered limb attached to an otherwise fine body of work, its mention tacked on to the end of their reviews as a hasty afterthought, made me slightly afraid that it had all gone horribly wrong. I know from experience that a bad sequel can taint the memory of a good original. But just as the year was coming to a close, in the face of all reasons to put it off, I succumbed to the urge to read it.

Is it, in my opinion, as satisfying, thrilling, fulfilling, lavishly detailed and imaginatively awe-inspiring as the first two books? In all honesty, no; it isn't.

But is it then, in my opinion, a horrible withered limb that ought to be discarded and forgotten? Not at all. In fact, in a trilogy of appallingly underrated books, I think Titus Alone is maybe the most underrated of them all.

The main problem many readers will have with Titus Alone, despite being published in a volume perhaps misguidingly titled the Gormenghast Trilogy, is its lack of Gormenghast: the scale and detail of the surroundings; the immersive gothic atmosphere, grand yet claustrophobic; and, above all, many of the denizens we've grown to love and hate. Titus Groan has left Gormenghast for a fresh start in a very different world, a jarring transition that might leave the reader feeling just as disorientated as the protagonist. Suddenly there are cars, planes, floating mechanical globes, death-rays, and fish-eye screens that allow long-distance communication. After living in the winding, dream-like rabbit-hole of the archaic Gormenghast, this intrusion of unspecifiably advanced technology is almost offensive to our corridor-dwelling sensibilities. Colour me Barquentine, but the change more than once left me grumbling and yearning for a return to the castle.

The new world that we are shown of cities and technology still has plenty of room for its own strains of the dark and macabre, especially in places like the Under-River, but it never achieves quite the same level of immersion. Above all else, the world in Titus Alone suffers from lack of detail. The level of technology is unclear, as are the intentions and explanations of the Scientist, his factories and his strange, gliding, helmeted men. Whether these were left deliberately mysterious for some reason or other is hard to tell. We are only offered small glimpses of this new cityworld. Peake had spent much time delving deep into the world of Gormenghast, never needing to explain every last technical detail but at least giving us the impression of the castle's expansiveness. The impression of the cityworld, on the other hand, is only vague and patchy.

The other thing about this change is that it is sharp enough to seem like it's trying to sever itself from its prequels and to make room for a new series of characters and stories, but at the same time Titus Alone can't quite stand on its own. It isn't a withered limb, but it is very much a sequel, despite the drastic differences between the books. Much like Titus himself, and through his struggles to establish his own identity, Titus Alone is constantly referring back to the people and events of the previous two books, and Gormenghast plays an increasingly significant, almost overly contrived role in the preoccupations of not just Titus but of the new characters around him. The result is that Titus Alone is more of a 'Gormenghast' book than it first appears, but also that, while this apparent conflict in its intentions does a good job of mirroring Titus' own confusion, the third book in the series ends up as something of an odd creature.

Despite all this, however, the most important aspect of Peake's writing, the depth and complexity of the characters, is still there. While it felt like there were a few too many 'mysterious' characters who could have done with some elaboration, such as the Scientist, the Scientist's wife, the helmeted men and 'Anchor', the main featuring characters are described very fully. If anything, I found Titus to be a more interesting character than he had been previously, mostly because of the dynamic between himself and the other most notable characters: Muzzlehatch, Juno and Cheeta. As Titus enters their lives, we are given detailed insights into their idiosyncratic thoughts and feelings, emotions and drives in the same way that made the previous books so interesting, especially in relation to how these characters affect each other. Titus' complete bluntness with the other characters is fascinating to read, and to say that it gets him into a bit of trouble would be an understatement.

Muzzlehatch has to be one of the most compelling characters of the entire trilogy, and Peake draws his relationships with the others in a way that feels very genuine -- especially with Juno, through whom Peake creates a very dignified, sympathetic and human character. Cheeta, the Scientist's daughter, feels a little less real in her designs than the others, and her transition over the course of the story feels less believable and sometimes a little hurried. She does, however, set the stage well for the finale of the book, which serves as both a narrative and thematic convergence, and sufficiently satisfies the stories of the majority of the characters, giving some sense of closure even if we never find out what happens to Titus next.

As I already mentioned, the way the story revolves around Titus sometimes feels a bit contrived, especially when every character becomes strangely fixated with him, including some of the Under-River dwellers who hardly have anything to do with him. There is, however, a lot to like about Titus Alone, and although it does feel like an incomplete, sketchy work in some respects, Peake remains in top form in others. But for the bizarrely brief chapter breaks which can largely be ignored, there is actually surprisingly little to distract and give the impression that Peake's health was in decline at all. I'd say Titus Alone still definitely worth a read.

Labels: gormenghast, i am the ramblemaster, literature, rabbit-hole theory

# posted by Chris @ 4:07 PM 0 comments

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:

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

# posted by Chris @ 2:01 PM 0 comments

Headplugs!

So my biggest issue with the rather vague explanations provided in The Matrix trilogy for all the stopping-the-Sentinels business at the end of the second film was that they didn't seem to stand (or, at least, stood shakily) on the logic of the world(s) presented. It was the whole Matrix/real world link: even supposing the Machines could reconfigure a human 'consciousness' -- so that Smith could take over Bane, or so that Neo could establish a connection with the Source -- how, in the case of the latter, could a human brain transmit (wirelessly or otherwise) to be able to shut the Sentinels down?

I completely forgot about the headplugs.

It's not a certain answer, and still an improbable feat for a human brain (and sort of stretches the functionality of the headplug), but it works a lot better than the idea of straightforward telepathy. I got it from here. Headplugs might also help to explain the reason for the strange yellow blindcode.

All scientifics provided, I still maintain that all the things the Wachowski Brothers were trying to allude to at times got a bit too heavy at the expense of the narrative and characters -- and in some of the events of the third film especially, there's still the feeling that some characters have been reduced to fulfilling some symbolic function. But I'm going to have to retract, at least in part, the comments I levelled at the films in this post. Potentially, at least (because the films, in all their vaguery, still don't explicitly answer it, and it's not like the Brothers have any good reason for being so vague on a technical aspect), the issue can be addressed.

Wachowskis 1, Chris 0.

Labels: cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 10:19 PM 0 comments

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.

Labels: allegory, cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, language, oscar wilde, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien

# posted by Chris @ 6:33 PM 0 comments

I've been reading The Power of Movies: How Screen and Mind Interact, by philosopher Colin McGinn. I discovered the book after reading one of his essays on the Matrix films, in which he mentioned he was working on something like it. In the book, McGinn discusses the reasons behind the immense appeal of films, first establishing their physical and metaphysical properties in relation (and as opposed) to different media such as novels, theatrical plays and small-screen TV, and discussing exactly what it is we are looking at, how we interpret it, how we are engaged by it and how this affects us. He goes into detail about the structure of the image presented: the psychological effects of close-ups of the face, of black-and-white, of dancing and movement and so on. It's all very interesting.

A significant portion of the book is based around the 'dream theory'. His main argument seems to be that our fascination with films is derived (at least partly) from our experiences of dreaming (he is not just merely suggesting that the appeal of films and the experience of dreams have the same psychological roots: he seems to be saying that the appeal of films is to a certain extent dependent on our dreaming experience). There is a lot of speculation and conjecture in McGinn's examination of the dream theory, but he acknowledges that this is so and attempts to ground it in analogy between dreams and films in a way that seems mostly successful.

McGinn's analogy draws on things like their audio-visual nature and how we interpret it; the role of movement; how we place personality and meaning in objects; the fact that both dreams and films have fragmented sequences or 'spatio-temporal discontinuity', meaning that we can suddenly jump from one time and place to the next without questioning it (usually led by a narrative drive in films, as opposed to a psychological drive in dreams); how both might be considered 'dreamlike' from an external point of view, but not while they are being experienced; the appeal to the 'base self', etc. Obviously all these things need elaboration, but for that you'll just have to buy the book.

Most of it proves to be enlightening, and for the most part I could at least see the reasoning behind his suggestions even if some of the more specific assertions felt like a bit more of a stretch than others (such as his reasons for dreaming of movie stars). There was only one statement I didn't really agree with, and that was one regarding films 'transcending their roots' that I may have misinterpreted. After half a dozen wistful (albeit probably tongue-in-cheek) exclamations about how he wishes films could be inserted into our brains to replace the 'usual crappy dreams we have', he comes to the conclusion that 'a film is really a dream as it aspires to be', which is a pretty big assertion. While it makes sense to acknowledge areas where films can exceed our regular dreams - for example, in story and spectacle - McGinn seems to be forgetting that dreams need neither story nor spectacle to be affecting because they are, as he had already said himself, by nature charged with emotion, irrespective of these things. I would argue that our own dreams can affect us more personally and emotionally than a film ever could, even if that film was inserted directly into our brain; and that it might be fair to say that a film aspires to excel in some areas where a dream cannot, but to claim that a film is essentially superior to the dream (which is what his statement seems to imply) is dubious. To be fair, he does arrive at this assertion in a section on films being art and dreams not being art, and I would agree that films do surpass dreams in that sense, but he does also seem to be speaking more generally. In the book's final section, looking to the future, he says of direct-to-brain films that they would 'precisely resemble the dream.' Technically, yes. But that's still neglecting the very personal nature and effects of the dreams our own brains make for us.

One of the most interesting points McGinn touches on is the shared ability of the dream and the film to absorb our minds and cause us to be completely caught up in the moment. This is less the case with films than with dreams because for their duration dreams erase everything else from our minds (otherwise they can't exist), and as McGinn points out, you can see a film and still let your mind wander. But what this leads on to is how this absorption can open you up to 'suggestibility'.

The movie watcher seems abnormally suggestible, open to persuasion and propaganda--which is why movies have often been used to this end. It is comparatively easy to arouse the viewer's emotions and convinctions. Again, if we ask why this is so, the dream theory has an answer: in simulating the dream state, the movie watcher enters a kind of heightened suggestibility. This state is not as extreme as the dream state, but it approximates that state; thus beliefs are easily encouraged, opinions shaped. [...] Perhaps there should be a new category added to the ratings system: B, for "liable to lead to beliefs in unsuspecting viewers." Once you have someone in a dream state, just as a hypnotic state, you have him where you want him, belief-wise.

Even before McGinn begins his discussion of the dream theory, he suggests something not entirely unrelated in his earlier talk of roused emotions during the film-watching experience. McGinn (quoting film theorist Dudley Andrew) draws an analogy between the experience of sitting in a movie theatre and watching the screen while music and sound blasts through the speakers, and sitting in a church or a cathedral with large, stained glass windows and organ music:

Those windows are super-bright patterns of light, typically telling stories of some sort, and receiving the upturned gaze of the devotee. They tell of a world beyond and give off an aura of the supernatural. They afford visual pleasure, treats for the eye. They transform the human body into a creature of light and radiance [...] You gaze enchanted at the glorious mosaic of the glass as the plangent organ music accompanies your vision [...] Psychologically, there is an emotional stirring, a sense of great themes, a moral focusing, and sometimes a state bordering on trance.

I'm not sure how effective that is as a direct analogy to film - I haven't personally ever been so affected by stained glass windows. But it's still a good point, and touches upon something I think about a lot. When the deep blare of the organ is shaking the ground beneath your feet, sometimes you can't help but feel some kind of awe of the at the power or majesty of it. And what about those congregations that get so caught up in that collective chanting, clapping and swaying, all the while praising God? Another example McGinn offers is of a polytheistic or paganistic tribe beating drums and dancing violently around a fire. In each of these cases, and when watching films, emotions are being stirred by a sensorial experience which the people experiencing it are getting caught up in. McGinn also makes some interesting points about the concept of transformation in both religion and cinema, but I won't go into that here - the main point of interest for me was how we can be susceptible to this kind of manipulation. It's something that might be useful, as a kind of emotional purging or catharsis or feel-good thing; but at the same time, it's something to be wary of too. To put it simply, as McGinn does of the film-viewing experience, it is 'a type of mind fucking.'

Anyway, before I go off on too much of a tangent, I'll end this post by telling you to go and read McGinn's book. It's a good, thorough and concise take on the subject of cinema. Lots of speculating, but it's all interesting.

Labels: dreams, films, i am the ramblemaster, philosophy, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix

# posted by Chris @ 9:32 PM 0 comments

'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 2}Both 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

# posted by Chris @ 5:30 PM 0 comments

And so, like many other things this year, the Harry Potter series has come to an end. I finished Book 7 last night. In many ways, it is my favourite.

As you may have noticed, a lot of hype surrounds the Harry Potter franchise. I got into the series when I was nine or ten or thereabouts, when two, possibly three, of the books were out. It's hard to place where exactly Harry Potter became a phenomenon. It just sort of...happened. The hype has worked in an odd sort of way for me, putting me off slightly as the franchise began to reach public saturation point, but at the same time I wonder if, after all this time, I would have followed the series to the end of it wasn't so culturally prominent.

Elsewhere, hype's had the effect it always has. Something good has been blown out of all reasonable proportion by fans, publishers, journalists and critics alike, reaching fever pitch as Warner Bros get their sticky fingers into it. Insensible amounts of both merchandise and fanfic have been produced. The backlash follows, the slightly peevish detractors hastening to point out that Potter isn't really deserving of quite so much hysteria, but that's the way hype works. Critical scrutiny intensifies, a few start to pull apart and denounce the the books; the screaming mass of young fans reacts, accusing all who dare to utter a word against J.K. Holy as bitter or jealous or both. And so on and so forth.

They are, say I, good books. They're no works of art, and their main virtue is being so very readable, but while some critics have diminished it to being simply 'useful' or 'saleable' prose, I think that unduly discredits the fact that J.K. Rowling can spin a very good story. She strikes a happy medium between descriptive and natural prose with the result of a style that is charming enough to keep us hooked, just like the world she writes about. It might not have the same quaint, stilted and respectfully 'literary' charm as an author like Enid Blyton, but as a coming-of-age story, the more natural approach is probably more meaningful to the modern, non-gingerbeer drinking reader.

Rowling's appeal comes not from her magical world as such, which is only as original as any other magical world, but the fact that she makes it into such a parallel of our own, with the principles behind even the most fantastical elements or the darkest magic grounded firmly in this world (love, greed, power, death etc: problems, experiences and temptations we all have to deal with). Then there's the chocolate frogs with collectible cards, Quidditch, Apparition tests, and a dozen other direct parallels, which, while not especially imaginative, are interesting enough takes on the norm and make the wizards more like real people, and the students like real students. There are times when the similarity to our own world becomes almost bleak and depressing, as with the bureaucratic Ministry of Magic; and it's the older, dustier Hogwartian magic that really holds the interest of the reader and the characters, because that's where the adventures, dangers, twists and turns occur. And all the while, Harry suffers real, teenaged problems too. Which are, truthfully, the less interesting bits for me, but their inclusion is understandable and Rowling usually manages to strike a good balance (although it very nearly tips in Book 5).

One of the best things about the books is Rowling's ability to create warm and fuzzy moments when portraying friends and family, especially with little things like Mrs Weasley and her Christmas jumpers. In a way, these boardingschoolish portrayals do sometimes feel like they're harking back to some cosy, bygone time, but it doesn't make them feel any less genuine. One thing my sister pointed out was how the writing style has changed over the course of the series: in the earlier books, Rowling hadn't quite managed to shake off the tone of traditional children's literature, and some of the dialogue was very Blytonesque, but this helped to add to the charm, novelty and wonder experienced by the characters at that age. As the kids got older, this would probably have started to feel a bit inappropriate, and the writing has accordingly become increasingly natural, increasingly dark and, at times, increasingly soapy.

Sometimes the dark, danger or peril does seem a bit forced, as with the lake of dead people at the end of Book 6 (which distractedly reminded me of a similar scene in The Two Towers anyway), or the death count of significant characters in the final battle for Hogwarts in Book 7, but for the most part Rowling deals with these things with a little more narrative subtlety (despite the extremely irritating 'Someone dies in this book!' promotion that's been used). Rowling also writes some fantastically animated action scenes, one of my favourites being the chaotic Quidditch World Cup match in Book 4, and Book 7 provided a series of brilliantly action-packed excursions to various places. Again, though, that final Hogwarts battle may have benefited from a little more restraint, but having what seemed like every single surviving character returning into the fray was just as awesome as it was ridiculous.

Another strong point in the series has been the complex plotting and character development through revelations and backstory, which returned spectacularly in Book 7 after a rather linear Book 6. Just like having everyone returning for that last battle, it was a nice touch having obscurely mentioned characters like Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot and the Grey Lady suddenly playing significant roles, but again there was the feeling that it was very nearly approaching the line between being neat and being overly convenient. Tie too many things directly into each other and the world starts shrinking.

I think the epilogue is best not mentioned, but other than that, Deathly Hallows was an excellent end to a series that I've now been following for years. And whatever I might feel about the films and the rest of the franchise, Harry Potter is definitely a lot more deserving of its attention than certain other recent literary phenomena.

Labels: harry potter, i am the ramblemaster, literature, rabbit-hole theory, tolkien

# posted by Chris @ 2:39 PM 0 comments

Last night I saw At World's End. I liked it. Now that I've seen all three films, I thought I'd post a big, fat review of the trilogy as a whole.

To start with, the reason I like all the Pirates films is because they're complete escapism. This is seen by some as exactly what's wrong with them: they're empty of anything but silliness and special effects. But other than the above being well executed, there's something else that made the films so enjoyable for me, and that is that underlying all three films is the aspect of pure storytelling.

Curses, krakens and sea goddesses are all fantastical ideas; they're not especially original coming from the pens of the filmmakers, but are all based on myths and legends that have in the past been the kind of thing that the minds of men have conjured up and convinced themselves of while on such boaty voyages, whether founded on superstition, or to add some mystery or romance to their lives, or just because they liked a good story as much as we do. It might all be imaginative nonsense (why can Davy Jones, for example, only set foot on land every ten years? No reason other than to create a plot device for the story and tragic circumstances for the character). But we can still find ourselves immersed. The film embraces all this kind of thing, while at the same time, through characters like Mr Gibbs, lightly poking fun at the tendency for superstition and melodrama and never taking itself too seriously. There might be no real moral or any direct relevance or usefulness, but irrespective of this, the Pirates films demonstrate with vigour the power and the charm of a good story.

That's not to say that the films were all perfect, but I thought they were all pretty damn good. Here's a breakdown of each:

The Curse of the Black Pearl, by virtue of being the first, is probably the most well-rounded and well-balanced of the three films. It's got equal measures of action, adventure, comedy and romance, and it doesn't suffer from the filmmakers deciding to shovel in overthetop amounts of everything we liked best. It manages to be epic and sprawling without being convoluted, and as a whole is probably the best one.

Dead Man's Chest lives up to the first in most respects. The action is satisfying when it comes around. There's a feeling of a lack of direction when the main story pauses for the characters to engage in hilarious hijinks with cannibals or big rolling wheels; the slapstick is almost overbearing at times and some of the humour seems a bit forced, but it's never unbearable and remains mostly entertaining, if a bit overindulgent. As the series of multiple endings shows, a lot of it is just setting up the next film, but it has enough story to be satisfying in its own right.

At World's End was, to me, an excellent final instalment. It provides at least some sort of conclusion for every story so far presented in the trilogy while still having enough that's fresh. This definitely made it complicated at times, but it never felt overly convoluted like some of the Dead Man segments. I just about managed to follow the constant switching of allegiances, which wasn't so much confusing in itself as made harder to follow by the fact that it happens in such rapid succession.

The film gets off to an uncertain start with the whole getting Jack back stuff, and while having multiple Jacks was mildly entertaining (and I liked it when they made a reappearance later on), the problem with trying to be weird and surreal is that it can easily become tedious and unfunny. A bit like being stuck in a room with someone going, 'Lol, I'm so random!' One Jack chickening his way across the deck has to be the worst and most obvious example of this. After that, however, it quickly improves, and the epic battle scenes at the end more than make up for previous shortcomings. I mean like, woah. I thought that how the stage was set with Calypso's maelstrom of uncertainty was cleverly done. Overall, the tone was surprisingly dark at times, with some pretty graphic violence in Singapore, and later Mercer's horrific yet utterly satisfying end with his facial orifices being invaded by tentacles. The films have always had a darker edge to them (or, as Jack says to Tia Dalma, 'an agreeable sense of the macabre'), but At World's End seemed to take it one step further.

For the most part, I think the sequels do add to the franchise, and all in all, I thought At World's End was a satisfying ending to a very satisfying trilogy.

Labels: films, i am the ramblemaster, pirates, rabbit-hole theory

# posted by Chris @ 12:08 PM 0 comments

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.

Labels: gormenghast, language, literature, rabbit-hole theory

# posted by Chris @ 5:47 PM 0 comments

When I studied Orwell's Animal Farm in school at the age of about eleven or twelve, it was never a book I was particularly fond of, perhaps just because I found the subject matter so bleak. But it still held its status as a book of value and an important piece of satirical literature.

However, while being an obvious allegory may have been the whole point of it, when I found out that all the events and characters were supposed to represent different aspects of the Soviet Union and its history, with the pigs based on certain individuals and the horses representing the classes and the building of the windmill an analogy of the Soviet's Five-Year Plans and so on and so forth - I remember feeling a bit disappointed that it was so blatant. Sure, it's supposed to be like that; it's supposed to be a frank and direct criticism of the Soviet Union. But nevertheless, I felt there was something ungenuine about it, which took the shine off the book's prestige for me. Not that all this was consciously articulated in my twelve-year-old mind - back then it was just the slight feeling that I was being lectured and that I didn't much like it.

Many people have suggested that Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings was an allegory for the World Wars. Tolkien responded to this in a foreword to the second edition:

It is neither allegorical nor topical...I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence. I much prefer history, true or feigned, with its varied applicability to the thought and experience of readers. I think that many confuse 'applicability' with 'allegory'; but the one resides in the freedom of the reader, and the other in the purposed domination of the author.

Another real danger of allegories as well as this is that characters are too often reduced to abstractions. They're there to have some kind of meaning but can end up, as characters, a bit meaningless. A notorious example of this would be one from the world of recent cinema: the Matrix trilogy. The trilogy as a whole illustrates some fine and worthy philosophical issues (albeit not especially original ones), with regards to metaphysics at least. However, one of the criticisms of the sequels in particular was that they were convoluted, bloated on all the philosophy the Wachowski brothers were trying to cram into it.

A good deal of this was religious allegory. The allusions to Neo as Christ had been strong since the first film. The same was true of the allusions to Nietzsche's ubermensch. But the first film at least worked as a story independent of allegory going by the logic of the world presented. In the sequels, however, when they continued down this path, the story began to break down. After Neo lifts up his hand and fries the Sentinel at the end of Reloaded, we're never really given an explanation for it in the third film. Exchanges between characters which should have provided us with some explanation of what was happening were vague because they couldn't be any other way. Neo's powers have supposedly transcended the Matrix. He's supposedly connected to the Source. But really, how does that work when he's in the Real World? You can believe it at a stretch going by the logic of the world as it's been presented to you so far, but it's a long stretch and a sloppy explanation. Eventually it seems to break down to, 'Because it's an allegory of...' And all these characters who were vaguely interesting in the first film have been reduced to passive, dimensionless parts of it.

Of course, if I've missed something in my attempts to understand the trilogy, I'd be happy to hear it. But despite all these allusions and allegories that were piled on top of me, it ends up feeling a bit empty.

[Edit: amendment.]

Labels: allegory, films, i am the ramblemaster, literature, morality, orwell, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix, tolkien

# posted by Chris @ 3:19 PM 4 comments