I've now come to the conclusion that the main characters in Karleen Koen's "Dark Angels" have to be fictional. What convinced me was the too-good-to-be-trueness of its hero. Spotless soldiering record; charming if dilapidated family seat in the country; a talent for leading men and gaining their respect; decency and loyalty in abundance; manly, viking-like good looks which form a contrast with the decadent male beauty on display at the devious French court and in an English Molly house; the kind of social conscience Gladstone would have approved of; a doomed, gallant love for the ninny Louise Renée de Keroualle (who is historical enough: I could have told him from the outset that mooning over her was a bad idea) - yep, this is a hero all right, and if I'm not mistaken an entirely fictional one. That would mean that Alice, her closest circle and, more importantly, the attractive poisoner Henri Ange are made-up as well. I'm relieved as this makes me feel slightly less guilty about finding him seriously hot.
Poor Henri, though - I made the mistake of taking a peek further on in the book in order to determine when he would be making his next appearance, and it seems he is hurtling towards a very grisly fate indeed. Now, I realise he deserves a grisly fate. This is a man who commits heinous crimes in cold blood and without repentance. Still, I had hoped for a clean kill, not prolonged suffering with no end in sight (it could still happen of course: one shouldn't put too much faith in sneak peeks).
Which leads me to a question which has always flummoxed me. Is it true that there really are people out there, maybe even a majority, who experience satisfaction and Schadenfreude when fictional villains are punished? Frankly, it's beyond me. If you are morally elevated enough to root for the hero and heroine, shouldn't you be above sniggering at the discomfiture of their enemies? I never did understand the penchant for fairy-tale-like punishments of wickedness that some authors have. "The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means", the prim governess in Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Ernest" explains (which goes to show that he had some problem with this concept too). I understand the allure of happy endings as much as anyone: I don't mind the good ending happily at all. But must the bad end unhappily? Isn't it enough that the author makes sure, in one way or another, that they never bother the good again?
Oddly, in a fictional universe, I feel capital punishment to be one of the more lenient forms of dealing with your villain. I seldom mind a villain death: it is sad, yes, but much better than some of the alternatives, as it is at least quick. It wasn't Carker's violent death in "Dombey and Son" that depressed me when I read it, it was the humiliation and mental collapse preceding it. I didn't mind Ralph Nickleby committing suicide: but the plot twist leading him to do so was too, too horrible. Yes, we're back to Dickens, who offers some good examples of excessive villain-punishing. Often he is at least canny enough to describe the villain's downfall not with lip-smacking relish but soberly and darkly like the tragedy it is. On the other hand, sometimes he's not. There is a certain pettiness in the punishments inflicted on especially minor villains. Are we really meant to crow over the offal-eating lives of total destitution which the Brasses are condemned to; over the broken legs of Sim Tappertit (who prided himself on them); over the double disappointments of Charity Pecksniff and over Mrs Sparsit ending up "in a mean, airless lodging, a mere closet for one, a mere crib for two" together with the "grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting" Lady Scadgers? How can one do that and still retain the moral high ground?
There are roughly speaking three villain fates I prefer: 1) death 2) redemption and 3) getting off scot-free. I realise that alternative 3) must be used with caution (though it's the best if you ever think of writing a sequel: redemption ends a villain's career as neatly as death). Justice ought to be done in some way, and the happy ending of the goodies should not seem to be under constant threat. Still, surely alternative 2) could be used a bit more often (though maybe not in the case of conscience-free Henri Ange)?
I try to console myself with the thought that classy villains normally do not indulge in self-pity, whatever fate has in store for them: they realise that he who dishes out meanness must also be able to take it. In the words of Flintheart Glomgold's memorable lament to the Heavens in one of Don Rosa's Scrooge McDuck adventures (translated into Swedish and back, so probably not word perfect): "What have I done to deserve this? On second thoughts, don't answer that."
söndag 18 december 2011
torsdag 8 december 2011
Plot vs Character
One of the most damning things you can say about a novel is "I didn't care about the characters". It must be on the top ten list of phrases an author never wants to hear. And yet, it is possible to enjoy a novel without caring two straws about the main characters. I know, because it's happened to me twice recently. I'm currently reading - in tandem with Les Mis which I keep for my lunch hour - a historical novel set in Restoration England (and a bit in Louis XIV's France) called "Dark Angels". The author, Karleen Koen, certainly knows how to spin a yarn. Intrigues, drama and court gossip abound. I'm engrossed - but do I care about the book's heroine? Not really.
I do know a little about Restoration times, most of it learnt by reading Jude Morgan's "The King's Touch" (still the Restoration novel to beat). But I don't know enough to identify which of the book's protagonists, except from the royal families, assorted mistresses and the odd duke, are real and which are fictional. If the heroine Alice Verney, maid of honour to Queen Catherine and Princess Henriette and daughter of a wily courtier, actually existed she may very well have been an admirable person. The picture Koen paints of her is not very flattering, though: she has her good points, like loyalty to her long-suffering employers, and she doesn't like Castlemaine which is always a plus. But her ruling ambition is to marry an elderly duke just to cheat his nephew, her ex-fiancé, out of his inheritance, and she interferes in her best friend's romance because she thinks her friend could do better (although she is penniless). Spite works well for a villain but less well for a heroine, and as for scheming, it should ideally be done with a bit of panache. Unlike Becky Sharp, the queen of minxes, Alice isn't really enjoying herself. She's only hanging on, trying grimly to survive the (sometimes literally) poisonous court atmosphere.
Funnily enough, though, it doesn't matter that the main protagonist is hard to warm to. She isn't positively dislikeable either, and the plot makes up for her shortcomings. However, I have to admit that the plot isn't the only thing that intrigues me - the book is also livened up by the odd appearance of an ace villain in the pleasant shape of a smooth, friendly poisoner. I know I probably should draw the line at poisoners, but it's been ages since there was any fresh meat on the villain market, and I'm not about to be picky, especially not for moral reasons.
My other example of plot-driven rather than character-driven reading fun is "My Last Duchess" by Daisy Goodwin, the largest part of which I read on the plane to New York without feeling fidgety once. I think I saw an article by Goodwin once, back when the anti-romance debate was in full height, where she defended the romance genre. She needen't have felt nettled by the anti-Mills&Booners for her own sake, though. "My Last Duchess" is set in the High Society of England and America in the 1890s, the sets are sumptuous, and the plot is mainly about love and relationships. But on one level, it is not the least bit escapist. One of the main delights of the novel is that you truly don't know what will happen: whether the heroine Cora Cash's marriage to an English duke will work out fine or prove to be a disaster. No-one can accuse Goodwin of skating over the difficulties Cora faces in the shape of a kittenish but tough mother-in-law, a resentful ex-mistress and her husband's reticence. The very last thing I felt like doing after having finished this novel was to marry into the English nobility.
Yet, again, I didn't really care about Cora much. She is depicted as shallow and spoilt and never really overcomes the brash American heiress stereotype. I didn't like her maid Bertha either, though we are probably supposed to. Her loyalty towards her mistress is mixed with a good dose of resentment and seems to have more to do with habit than any kind of affection. No, the strongest points of "My Last Duchess" are plot-related, not character-related: you simply want to know what happens next. This in spite of the fact that there is no cute villain in sight.
I do know a little about Restoration times, most of it learnt by reading Jude Morgan's "The King's Touch" (still the Restoration novel to beat). But I don't know enough to identify which of the book's protagonists, except from the royal families, assorted mistresses and the odd duke, are real and which are fictional. If the heroine Alice Verney, maid of honour to Queen Catherine and Princess Henriette and daughter of a wily courtier, actually existed she may very well have been an admirable person. The picture Koen paints of her is not very flattering, though: she has her good points, like loyalty to her long-suffering employers, and she doesn't like Castlemaine which is always a plus. But her ruling ambition is to marry an elderly duke just to cheat his nephew, her ex-fiancé, out of his inheritance, and she interferes in her best friend's romance because she thinks her friend could do better (although she is penniless). Spite works well for a villain but less well for a heroine, and as for scheming, it should ideally be done with a bit of panache. Unlike Becky Sharp, the queen of minxes, Alice isn't really enjoying herself. She's only hanging on, trying grimly to survive the (sometimes literally) poisonous court atmosphere.
Funnily enough, though, it doesn't matter that the main protagonist is hard to warm to. She isn't positively dislikeable either, and the plot makes up for her shortcomings. However, I have to admit that the plot isn't the only thing that intrigues me - the book is also livened up by the odd appearance of an ace villain in the pleasant shape of a smooth, friendly poisoner. I know I probably should draw the line at poisoners, but it's been ages since there was any fresh meat on the villain market, and I'm not about to be picky, especially not for moral reasons.
My other example of plot-driven rather than character-driven reading fun is "My Last Duchess" by Daisy Goodwin, the largest part of which I read on the plane to New York without feeling fidgety once. I think I saw an article by Goodwin once, back when the anti-romance debate was in full height, where she defended the romance genre. She needen't have felt nettled by the anti-Mills&Booners for her own sake, though. "My Last Duchess" is set in the High Society of England and America in the 1890s, the sets are sumptuous, and the plot is mainly about love and relationships. But on one level, it is not the least bit escapist. One of the main delights of the novel is that you truly don't know what will happen: whether the heroine Cora Cash's marriage to an English duke will work out fine or prove to be a disaster. No-one can accuse Goodwin of skating over the difficulties Cora faces in the shape of a kittenish but tough mother-in-law, a resentful ex-mistress and her husband's reticence. The very last thing I felt like doing after having finished this novel was to marry into the English nobility.
Yet, again, I didn't really care about Cora much. She is depicted as shallow and spoilt and never really overcomes the brash American heiress stereotype. I didn't like her maid Bertha either, though we are probably supposed to. Her loyalty towards her mistress is mixed with a good dose of resentment and seems to have more to do with habit than any kind of affection. No, the strongest points of "My Last Duchess" are plot-related, not character-related: you simply want to know what happens next. This in spite of the fact that there is no cute villain in sight.
torsdag 1 december 2011
Long live the tenacity of the Unwelcome Suitor
Just to dwell on "Downton" a bit longer (bear with me - it's been a tiring week), I have now caught up on the second series and watched all of it on DVD (three episodes in one evening). Thank heaven there will be a third series when they simply must tie up all the loose ends. One welcome development is that there's a new villain on the block. Mary's fiancé Sir Richard Carlisle has become increasingly nasty until he is now a full-blown example of that old and extremely useful group of baddies: the Unwelcome Suitor.
Granted, Sir Richard is an unsubtle specimen, but it has to be said for the Unwelcome Suitor - and I've seen dafter ones than Sir Richard - that they add a certain spice to the intrigue. They are so very hard to shake off. It is easy to grow tired of two lovers who constantly misunderstand each other and therefore do not hitch up until the very end. But add an external threat to their happiness, and it all gets more interesting. Few characters can have more of a vested interest in trampling True Love underfoot than the man who intends to pick up the pieces in the shape of a pretty heroine (a girl who wants the hero has an interest too, but often - as in "Downton Abbey" - she makes trouble more or less unwittingly by being too nice to ditch, rather than too nasty).
It is small wonder that the Unwelcome Suitor is such a stock character. The question you need to answer convincingly, though, if you want to include him in your drama is: why on earth does he bother? After all, you mostly find him in stories which take place in olden times when it was much more imperative for a girl to marry, and when the marriage market was very much a buyer's market. As you have to be tolerably rich and/or powerful to pose a threat in the first place, most Unwelcome Suitors are, from a material point of view, eligible bachelors. This means they can have their pick of girls. Why should they go for the surly one who doesn't even pretend to care for them?
The answer mostly given is that the blackguard, villainous that he is, finds the heroine's reluctance a turn-on in itself. There's the thrill of the chase. Thus the old well-worn baddie line: "I like a woman with a temper" (a line I have never, ever heard a man utter in real life). Fair enough, but as the Dowager in "Downton" says in quite another context, "marriage is a long business". How much fun can it be to spend the rest of your life tied to a woman in a grump? The villain who simply wants the heroine's virtue is more easily understandable than the breed who insists on marriage.
It's certainly worth the time of an author or script-writer to try to find plausible answers to the questions raised by the presence of an Unwelcome Suitor, though, as the best of them are such corkers. Just think of Uriah Heep, whose motive besides desiring Agnes - that he has made it his life project to lord it over his erstwhile employers - is perfectly convincing. Of course, he would be utterly tired of Wickfield-tormenting after ten years or so, but being a bitter Dickensian villain he doesn't realise it. Yep, I buy it. Roll on the fun.
As for Sir Richard, he has a long, long way to go before he can even be mentioned on the same day as the best in the Unwelcome Suitor field. At some point in the future, I believe we are owed a full explanation of why he doesn't just forget about Mary. She may not have given him the whole Dickensian heroine brush-off, but she can plainly hardly bear to touch him. Just what kind of team does he expect them to make?
Granted, Sir Richard is an unsubtle specimen, but it has to be said for the Unwelcome Suitor - and I've seen dafter ones than Sir Richard - that they add a certain spice to the intrigue. They are so very hard to shake off. It is easy to grow tired of two lovers who constantly misunderstand each other and therefore do not hitch up until the very end. But add an external threat to their happiness, and it all gets more interesting. Few characters can have more of a vested interest in trampling True Love underfoot than the man who intends to pick up the pieces in the shape of a pretty heroine (a girl who wants the hero has an interest too, but often - as in "Downton Abbey" - she makes trouble more or less unwittingly by being too nice to ditch, rather than too nasty).
It is small wonder that the Unwelcome Suitor is such a stock character. The question you need to answer convincingly, though, if you want to include him in your drama is: why on earth does he bother? After all, you mostly find him in stories which take place in olden times when it was much more imperative for a girl to marry, and when the marriage market was very much a buyer's market. As you have to be tolerably rich and/or powerful to pose a threat in the first place, most Unwelcome Suitors are, from a material point of view, eligible bachelors. This means they can have their pick of girls. Why should they go for the surly one who doesn't even pretend to care for them?
The answer mostly given is that the blackguard, villainous that he is, finds the heroine's reluctance a turn-on in itself. There's the thrill of the chase. Thus the old well-worn baddie line: "I like a woman with a temper" (a line I have never, ever heard a man utter in real life). Fair enough, but as the Dowager in "Downton" says in quite another context, "marriage is a long business". How much fun can it be to spend the rest of your life tied to a woman in a grump? The villain who simply wants the heroine's virtue is more easily understandable than the breed who insists on marriage.
It's certainly worth the time of an author or script-writer to try to find plausible answers to the questions raised by the presence of an Unwelcome Suitor, though, as the best of them are such corkers. Just think of Uriah Heep, whose motive besides desiring Agnes - that he has made it his life project to lord it over his erstwhile employers - is perfectly convincing. Of course, he would be utterly tired of Wickfield-tormenting after ten years or so, but being a bitter Dickensian villain he doesn't realise it. Yep, I buy it. Roll on the fun.
As for Sir Richard, he has a long, long way to go before he can even be mentioned on the same day as the best in the Unwelcome Suitor field. At some point in the future, I believe we are owed a full explanation of why he doesn't just forget about Mary. She may not have given him the whole Dickensian heroine brush-off, but she can plainly hardly bear to touch him. Just what kind of team does he expect them to make?
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