It's been a while since I wrote about a straightforward historical novel, without fantasy and/or fairy-tale elements. Michael Cox's The Meaning of Night, which I bought years ago and have finally got around to reading, is as straightforward as they come. Written in the style of a Victorian novel, and set in Victorian England (London, mostly) it was - judging by what I've read while trailing Amazon reviews - a labour of love on the author's part, reputedly thirty years in the making. I'm favourably disposed to fellow ardent fans of the Victorian novel, but although the prose style was thankfully not as knotty as pastiches of this type of novel often are, I nearly gave up after finishing the first section of the book. There was mainly one reason for this: the hero's lack of likeability.
Edward Glyver aka Glapthorn, the protagonist, is something of a puzzle. He has an inflated sense of self-worth, is arrogant, and jumps to conclusions on scant evidence. When he is being blackmailed he immediately suspects his neighbour, the somewhat Heep-ish Fordyce Jukes, of being the culprit for no better reason than that he doesn't like him, and attacks Jukes when he thinks he's caught him in the act. Edward also underappreciates his lovely mistress while sighing for a woman we don't meet for hundreds of pages. What's more, the whole novel starts with Edward killing an innocent stranger merely as a rehearsal for a murder he plans to commit later on. This is such a mindbogglingly stupid idea, even coming from an opium addict, that I for one had no doubt of two things: one, that the reader is not supposed to sympathise with Edward, and two, that he would turn out to be an unreliable narrator, mainly because he would be prone to delude himself as well as the reader. I admit that one reason I persevered with the novel was that I looked forward to the part where it dawns on the conceited Glapthorn just how wrong he has been about everything.
Because that's usually the point of unreliable narrators, isn't it? Either we are constantly interpreting scenes related by them in another way than they do themselves, or there is a great rug-pull waiting for us further down the line where it is revealed that the narrator has either deliberately lied or been mistaken about most things. The fallout is that we're left with a completely different story than it first appeared to be. To make the narrator hard to like is a related ploy, so we won't feel too sorry for them when their world view falls apart. Edward Glyver or Glapthorn fits pretty neatly into this kind of narrator category- or so I imagined.
But what can I say? Edward turns out to be not as deluded as all that. Yes, there are some twists - the major one of which I called, more or less - but quite a few that I was sure would happen never materialised. The absence of more twists became a twist itself. When I realised that we are not meant to completely disregard Edward's judgement after all, I felt a little baffled, though more intrigued than cheated. If Edward is in fact essentially correct in many of what appears to be his far-flung fantasies, why make him such a narcissistic jerk to begin with? It's either a sophisticated double bluff, playing on the reader's expectations, or it's just... well, different.
In the end, I quite enjoyed The Meaning of Night, in spite of never warming to Edward (he does get a little more bearable in the course of the story). The novel is long-winded, and starting the narrative with a long section about the murder of the stranger and its consequences, when we have zero investment in the murderer's fate, feels like a mistake. However, I rather liked not being fed a clear-cut message. If you like the sound of a Victorian revenger's tragedy, this could be worth trying out. After all, revengers are usually bastards, aren't they?
torsdag 26 september 2019
lördag 14 september 2019
The final Toy Story (surely)
Yes, I have seen the Downton Abbey film, but I won't be blogging about it just yet - I need to reflect on this important topic, and maybe rewatch the film so as to be able to offer my considered opinion as a Downton fan and one-time Downton obsessive.
Instead I'll be musing on another film I saw recently, which is part of a franchise I'm considerably less enthusiastic about: Toy Story 4. Don't get me wrong, I like the Toy Story films just fine. They're cleverly constructed, and a lot of effort obviously went into both character development and what nerds (and thus I) call world building. It's just I've never liked the premise. Granted, I wouldn't be surprised if most kids haven't at some point or other fantasised about their toys living a secret life once they turn their back on them. This common fantasy, and the notion that your beloved toys somehow love you back, are charming - up to a point. The Toy Story films go way beyond that point, though: instead they illustrate just why it's a good thing that toys aren't alive, as the life of a toy as they describe it is hardly appealing.
The tone was set at the start of the first Toy Story, where the toys of Andy, owner of the films' protagonists for the first three films, anxiously spy on his birthday party, fearing that he will get new exciting toys which will replace them in his heart. The neediness of cowboy toy Woody and co. becomes increasingly unsettling as the films progress and we see toys emotionally scarred by being neglected, discarded, replaced or never played with in the first place. In this universe, children unwittingly come across as cruel little despots. It's not only Andy's neighbour Sid, who physically disassembles his toys and then reassembles them in creative if scary ways, who is unflatteringly portrayed, although he's the only kid who is downright punished. (And for what? In the real world, nothing Sid does - except when he's a jerk to his sister - is reprehensible. How was he to know the toys were alive?) In Toy Story 2, the cowgirl Jessie sings an affecting ballad about Emily, the girl who once owned her, and their special relationship - that is, until Jessie was first forgotten for years, then given away to charity. The viewer is left feeling upset with poor Emily, who did nothing worse than - quite naturally - outgrow a toy. This is one of the instances where the Toy Story franchise's message is not only confusing, but downright harmful. As I've mentioned before, scenes like this encourage our irrational feelings of guilt towards toys we've abandoned, for no use that I can see. If you want to put the best spin possible on the message of the Toy Story films, it would be something like: "The bond between a child and its toy is strong and true, but it doesn't last, and that's OK". The films don't really do much with the last "and that's OK" part of the equation, though, except for the admittedly affecting end scene in Toy Story 3 when Andy, now old enough to start college, hands his toys over to another child.
This is a long preamble to get to Toy Story 4, but part of why I like this film more than I expected is that it to an extent breaks with the usual Toy Story formula. Usually, the perfect life for a toy is depicted as the one when they're played with and loved by one specific child. In Toy Story 2, Woody fears rejection from Andy, to whom he remains obsessively devoted throughout the films, and momentarily considers becoming a prized exhibit in a toy museum, admired by hundreds of kids. But the other toys find him and persuade him to come back, and it turns out Andy still cares for him, so we never question if Woody made the right call. In Toy Story 3, Andy's other toys are tempted by life at a day-care centre, until they find out their lot is to be manhandled by rough toddlers while toys higher up in the pecking order get the cuddles from the older kids. In the end, they are passed on to Bonnie, a charming little girl they can form a special bond to.
When I saw the trailers, then, where Woody and Bonnie's new, self-made toy Forky - who not unreasonably thinks of himself as trash and for a long time only longs to be thrown away - are lost during a camping trip and trying to get back to Bonnie, I thought I knew exactly how the plot would play out. When Woody runs into his old flame Bo Peep and she tries to sell him the wonders of a life as a lost toy, where you can travel with a fairground and see the world, I was sure that he would reject the idea in the end, after some agonising. After all, following the logic of the previous films, his life belongs to Bonnie now, doesn't it? This would make the temptress Bo a strong candidate for the Surprise Villain of the piece, as the toy that tries to persuade the heroes to Abandon Their Child so often turns out to be.
I'm happy to say I was wrong, and the story goes in another direction. An important part of the different dynamic of the plot is that Woody is not as important to Bonnie as he was to Andy - at the start of the film, we see him get left behind in the wardrobe as Bonnie takes out other toys to play with and pins his sheriff badge on Jessie. He's not entirely forgotten yet, but he's not a favourite. Bonnie's still a sweet kid, and Woody does what he can to make her happy behind the scenes, but it doesn't seem entirely reasonable that he should sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of playing a periferal part in his new owner's life. Woody once put his owner's needs before his relationship with Bo, back in the Andy days. When he's faced with the same choice again, circumstances are decidedly different. Bonnie needs Forky, that much is clear, but she may not need Woody.
The moving away from the whole child-obsession theme and towards a plot where toys have adventures of their own was something of a relief to me. Here, not being the greatest fan of the other films made me more appreciative of the final film than I would otherwise have been. I've seen ardent Toy Story fans be disappointed by the lack of strong, emotional scenes relating to the toy-child relationship in this film, but for the reasons given above, I was more than happy with the change of direction.
Objectively speaking, this is probably not the best Toy Story film, but it's a fun caper and a good ending point for the series. I was also grateful that there was no Surprise Villain - at this stage, I will actually prefer no villain at all (the obvious antagonist Gabby Gabby, though morally questionable, turns out to be redeemable) to the tired Surprise Villain cliché. Well worth a watch if you like animated films - Inside Out it ain't, but it's certainly a step up from The Good Dinosaur.
Instead I'll be musing on another film I saw recently, which is part of a franchise I'm considerably less enthusiastic about: Toy Story 4. Don't get me wrong, I like the Toy Story films just fine. They're cleverly constructed, and a lot of effort obviously went into both character development and what nerds (and thus I) call world building. It's just I've never liked the premise. Granted, I wouldn't be surprised if most kids haven't at some point or other fantasised about their toys living a secret life once they turn their back on them. This common fantasy, and the notion that your beloved toys somehow love you back, are charming - up to a point. The Toy Story films go way beyond that point, though: instead they illustrate just why it's a good thing that toys aren't alive, as the life of a toy as they describe it is hardly appealing.
The tone was set at the start of the first Toy Story, where the toys of Andy, owner of the films' protagonists for the first three films, anxiously spy on his birthday party, fearing that he will get new exciting toys which will replace them in his heart. The neediness of cowboy toy Woody and co. becomes increasingly unsettling as the films progress and we see toys emotionally scarred by being neglected, discarded, replaced or never played with in the first place. In this universe, children unwittingly come across as cruel little despots. It's not only Andy's neighbour Sid, who physically disassembles his toys and then reassembles them in creative if scary ways, who is unflatteringly portrayed, although he's the only kid who is downright punished. (And for what? In the real world, nothing Sid does - except when he's a jerk to his sister - is reprehensible. How was he to know the toys were alive?) In Toy Story 2, the cowgirl Jessie sings an affecting ballad about Emily, the girl who once owned her, and their special relationship - that is, until Jessie was first forgotten for years, then given away to charity. The viewer is left feeling upset with poor Emily, who did nothing worse than - quite naturally - outgrow a toy. This is one of the instances where the Toy Story franchise's message is not only confusing, but downright harmful. As I've mentioned before, scenes like this encourage our irrational feelings of guilt towards toys we've abandoned, for no use that I can see. If you want to put the best spin possible on the message of the Toy Story films, it would be something like: "The bond between a child and its toy is strong and true, but it doesn't last, and that's OK". The films don't really do much with the last "and that's OK" part of the equation, though, except for the admittedly affecting end scene in Toy Story 3 when Andy, now old enough to start college, hands his toys over to another child.
This is a long preamble to get to Toy Story 4, but part of why I like this film more than I expected is that it to an extent breaks with the usual Toy Story formula. Usually, the perfect life for a toy is depicted as the one when they're played with and loved by one specific child. In Toy Story 2, Woody fears rejection from Andy, to whom he remains obsessively devoted throughout the films, and momentarily considers becoming a prized exhibit in a toy museum, admired by hundreds of kids. But the other toys find him and persuade him to come back, and it turns out Andy still cares for him, so we never question if Woody made the right call. In Toy Story 3, Andy's other toys are tempted by life at a day-care centre, until they find out their lot is to be manhandled by rough toddlers while toys higher up in the pecking order get the cuddles from the older kids. In the end, they are passed on to Bonnie, a charming little girl they can form a special bond to.
When I saw the trailers, then, where Woody and Bonnie's new, self-made toy Forky - who not unreasonably thinks of himself as trash and for a long time only longs to be thrown away - are lost during a camping trip and trying to get back to Bonnie, I thought I knew exactly how the plot would play out. When Woody runs into his old flame Bo Peep and she tries to sell him the wonders of a life as a lost toy, where you can travel with a fairground and see the world, I was sure that he would reject the idea in the end, after some agonising. After all, following the logic of the previous films, his life belongs to Bonnie now, doesn't it? This would make the temptress Bo a strong candidate for the Surprise Villain of the piece, as the toy that tries to persuade the heroes to Abandon Their Child so often turns out to be.
I'm happy to say I was wrong, and the story goes in another direction. An important part of the different dynamic of the plot is that Woody is not as important to Bonnie as he was to Andy - at the start of the film, we see him get left behind in the wardrobe as Bonnie takes out other toys to play with and pins his sheriff badge on Jessie. He's not entirely forgotten yet, but he's not a favourite. Bonnie's still a sweet kid, and Woody does what he can to make her happy behind the scenes, but it doesn't seem entirely reasonable that he should sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of playing a periferal part in his new owner's life. Woody once put his owner's needs before his relationship with Bo, back in the Andy days. When he's faced with the same choice again, circumstances are decidedly different. Bonnie needs Forky, that much is clear, but she may not need Woody.
The moving away from the whole child-obsession theme and towards a plot where toys have adventures of their own was something of a relief to me. Here, not being the greatest fan of the other films made me more appreciative of the final film than I would otherwise have been. I've seen ardent Toy Story fans be disappointed by the lack of strong, emotional scenes relating to the toy-child relationship in this film, but for the reasons given above, I was more than happy with the change of direction.
Objectively speaking, this is probably not the best Toy Story film, but it's a fun caper and a good ending point for the series. I was also grateful that there was no Surprise Villain - at this stage, I will actually prefer no villain at all (the obvious antagonist Gabby Gabby, though morally questionable, turns out to be redeemable) to the tired Surprise Villain cliché. Well worth a watch if you like animated films - Inside Out it ain't, but it's certainly a step up from The Good Dinosaur.
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