Reconsidering My Cousin Rachel

It's funny how some writers go in and out of style. Some storytellers are flaming hot properties in one decade, and out of print in the next.  You never can tell who will outlast their lifetimes.  Taylor Caldwell, Edna Ferber and Thomas Chastain were royalty on the mid-century best-seller list, but I doubt if they're remembered at all today beyond Ferber's writing the source novel for Showboat.  Daphne du Maurier fares a little better because of Rebecca and because a biography suggesting she was a lesbian but beyond that and a couple of short stories that were adapted into films, her name doesn't ring many bells.   That's a shame because she was a prolific writer with more than thirty books to her credit and no one else created "mood" with words as well as she did.  If you think I'm thinking of Rebecca again, I'm not.  Her greatest "atmospheric" novel is, for me, My Cousin, Rachel.

Rachel is a novel about the damage caused by doubt.  In the beginning, Ambrose Ashley and his nephew Philip are completely sure of their spots in the world.  Ambrose is the master of a Cornish estate and the guardian of Philip, his heir.  Their lives are bound by the responsibilities and rewards of landed gentry and the largest difficulty is Ambrose's rheumatism that acts up during the winter. Ambrose leaves to spend the coldest months in Italy and soon Philip starts getting letters from his uncle mentioning a widowed cousin in Florence named Rachel. Rachel is clever, Rachel's good company, Rachel was poorly treated by her late husband...the letters go on and on until Ambrose announces he's married Cousin Rachel.  Instantly, Philip's place in the world is overturned by a woman he hasn't even met. Rachel keeps his only real family far away and her child could disinherit him. Reason enough for Philip to dislike her but then Ambrose joins in his doubts. Soon, Ambrose is writing of his deteriorating health and untrustworthy doctors and finally states, "...Rachel is my torment."  Philip goes to Italy as fast as he can but it's too late. Ambrose is dead by the time he arrives and Cousin Rachel is gone.

Daphne du Maurier

Although everyone else agrees Ambrose's death was caused by a brain tumor, Philip suspects his cousin, Rachel, committed murder. No one is more surprised to learn, when they finally meet, that Rachel is exactly as Ambrose first described her. She is  kind, good-humored and unselfish and Philip begins to question his beliefs. After he and Rachel start sharing their common grief, Philip starts falling in love. Rachel is grateful for Philip's presents but she doesn't return his romantic feelings. He gives her still more extravagant presents, as proof of his devotion, but these don't change her mind. Misunderstandings and mischance start to increase as Philip's obsession with Rachel grows until, like his late uncle, he realizes, "Rachel is my torment." But Philip never determines and neither do we if Rachel is a good or evil person.  Is she an innocent victim of poor judgment and circumstances or she a guileful manipulator? Does she take advantage of Philip or do his actions actually dictate hers? The author leaves us without any easy answers.

The themes of duality and obsession run through Daphne du Maurier's work; perhaps that's what continues to keep them relevant. Our world runs over with love-hate relationships and obsession is honored as much as it's vilified. Maybe the world of today accepts a few more shades of grey. If so, it is due in some part to this obsessive writer who spent much of her life in Cornwall and chose ambiguity as her badge of honor.  Lady Browning, a/k/a Dame du Maurier, we are in your debt.

A Modern World filled with Ancient Gods?

Like I said last week, every civilization develops its own mythology to answer its questions and confront its fears. As the needs of the culture change, so change the heroes we worship. So, what happens to the older gods when these newer icons are developed? Do they resent being forced into retirement or do they  transcend to a Sun City section of Mount Olympus where they can play endless rounds of shuffleboard and bore each other with photos of their descendants?  Did Odin develop a sub-section of Valhalla to house superannuated deities?  Is there an AARP for Gods?  You might think that's a funny idea for a story but it's actually a question Neil Gaiman posed when he wrote American Gods.  It's also an English novelist's perspective of America and a brilliant fantasy novel.

At the center of the story is Shadow Moon, a man with a past who once thought he had a future.  Instead, his wife and secure job die shortly before he can reach them and a man named Wednesday offers him work. Shadow is the perfect hero for this kind of adventure: he's quiet, tough and shrewder than most folks realize.  Shadow is the kind of man Bogart played in the movies but he isn't fighting the standard cops or robbers.  Instead, he and his new boss embark on a road trip filled with fights, kidnap and intrigue and they keep running into the oddest people.  Hey, it's what you've got to expect when you go to work for an Ancient God.

Because Mr. Wednesday is a God or at least an American version of one.  Gaiman's underlying idea is that when immigrants flooded what is now the U. S., they brought the old deities with them. This might have worked for a generation or two but a New Country worships different things and the New Gods have taken over. Odin and Ibis have been replaced by Tech Boy (the quintessential computer geek complete with a Matrix coat and bad acne) and Media, a Lucy Ricardo goddess who can be truly terrifying. There are lots of other super-beings, both old and new, and half of the fun of this book is realizing which one of the odd-balls is really a deity in retirement. Thing is, Mr. Wednesday wants the Old Ones to band together and kick the New Gods out of existence. Shadow's job in this mess is to sort out who the real good and bad guys are and stop the carnage before it's too late.

Yes, most of the characters in the tale are used to being worshipped but Shadow is the quintessential American Archetype of a Hero: he's the loner who adheres to no moral code save his own and he's on an unforgiving road to redemption. This hero never asks much for himself; instead others end up requesting his help. When he tries to give it to them, he's often forced to break rules in order to do what's right. This guy's the outsider who takes on the corrupt political machine, the reporter or lawyer who won't give up on a cause. If you like cowboys, Shadow is like Shane. If detective stories are your thing, think Sam Spade.  Shadow is one of these lonely guy/heroes and we're lucky he has a sense of humor as well as sense because we see what happens through his eyes.

A word to parents: although this is by the man that wrote Coraline and The Graveyard Book, American Gods is not for kids.  It's a huge, adult fantasy that snapped up some big time awards and now Starz is bringing the story to film.  It's a big read, and a worthwhile one, but it's a fantasy novel for adults.  Catch my drift?  I hope so.

This country has never been a place that likes to slow down. Americans are always searching for the Next Big Thing.  So maybe it takes an outsider's perspective, a smart person willing to watch, like de Tocqueville or Gaiman, to give us a good analysis of our own culture.  It's not an easy task because we're the result of a billion different influences and, like I said, we tend to keep moving.  But, whatever our faults, we're a dynamic society where there's still room for opportunity.  As long as that's true, we'll remain the Goldene Medina for immigrants.  Even Immigrant Gods.

Why Do We Keep Creating Myths?

Why do people continue to listen to and create new myths?  What purpose do these stories serve?  The ancient civilization made myths to explain the universe none of them could understand. That's not to say they were stupid. These early civilizations laid the roots of our modern day culture and established the primary principals in law, math, science and medicine. We stand on the shoulders of their work. But advances in learning and technology have answered many of the ancient questions originally dealt with by myths.  Thunder isn't controlled some guy named Zeus or Indra or Thor. It's the result of lightening heated air, impacting colder air. With that discovery we relegated tales of the Thunder Gods to English, Archaeology and Anthropology Majors.  Nevertheless, we've continued to spin other stories with newer heroes, god and terrible villains.  Want to debate me on this?  Get set.

First it seems like every emerging culture seems to have its own set of stories, right?  The Greeks, the Romans, the Norse and lots of other cultures developed complex, interesting mythologies with gods that took an interest in the world of humans.  Myths are the creations of a culture and the one I grew up in isn't much more than 300 years old.  This culture was created by immigrants and their descendants that colonized and then covered the United States.  These people kept some elements of other ancestral homelands but added stories of their own; stories with characters that were distinctly "American."

Some of those characters are fictitious creations like Pecos Bill, John Henry and Paul Bunyan. Others, like Johnny Appleseed, Joe Hill and Casey Jones were real people whose exploits served as the basis for a series of stories.  Either way, they became the revered centers of stories that explained some characteristic the storytellers and their audiences valued.   The three fictional men  and Casey Jones are remembered for their superb abilities to execute lonely and dangerous jobs necessary to the economy. Additionally, John Henry fought for the dignity of man in the face of technological advancement and Casey Jones sacrificed his own life in order to save passengers who are hurtling toward a collision. John Chapman (a/k/a Johnny Appleseed) was remembered in story and song for furthering the dreams of settlers by bringing gospel and fruit trees to the wilderness.  These settler stories were reduced to folklore status by the middle of the twentieth century while another Pantheon was being developed.

As the communication improved and the Western Drive finally ended, focus returned to America's urban areas.  Now, city dwellers and townsfolk have different worries and enemies than homesteaders.  So, in the midst of the Depression a new story caught the public's eye, the story of an illegal immigrant, raised in the United States, who fights for Truth, Justice and The American Way. Specifically, this stranger (with WASPish good looks) lives to  fight "bad guys" (whenever he's not working as a reporter at the Daily Planet).  Superman has been joined by a plethora of other Comic Book Super Heroes who have urban ties and a mission to fight "bad guys". Yes, these started out as entertainment but one generation's entertainment often begins becoming the next's revered mythology. Baby boomers were entertained by SF creations like Star Trek and Star Wars but they inherited the earlier generation's obsession with Comic Book Super Heroes.  The Millenials became the target audience of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel after being taught to revere the SF stories their parents admired.  I suppose the next generation will be forced to listen to their parents' memories about Game of Thrones.  From stories remembering real people and deeds, we've returned to the words of heraldry and magic.

In the end, a mythology says a lot about what its creators see, want and fear.  The homesteaders knew about difficulties of existing in an unforgiving natural world and they made up stories that said it could be done.  Urban dwellers faced the evil of human corruption and created heroes to combat their foes.  Alien beings, the living dead and other soul-draining forces have re-entered our contemporary culture along with the heroes who humanize or stop them.  Maybe that's why we still create and respond to myths. The things we fear alter with knowledge and time; the fact that we fear never changes.  

By the way, I'm not the only one fascinated with American Mythology. Check back soon and you'll see what I mean!!

A Heart-Breakingly Good Story

My husband loves to read the comics.  While I was raised to believe cartoons were simultaneously the lowest form of art and literature, they helped him learn how to read.  Before the Internet, he read the comics page before he read anything else in the paper.  Now he follows them online.  One strip, Mom's Cancer, has made such an impact on him that I got him the complete graphic novel but I wasn't going read it. Like everyone else, I've lost loved ones to this awful disease and the idea of reading about some poor woman's struggle didn't send me.  Add that feeling to what I was taught about comics as a kid and I decided this was a book to avoid.  Well, I was wrong, not just a little bit wrong, but WRONG with whip cream and cherries.   Mom's Cancer is a story that needs to be shared and a strip was the best way to tell it.

In 2004 Brian Fies was just one more baby-boomer in the sandwich generation part of his life (That's when your kids see you as an adult but your parents still react like you're a kid.) His parents and his siblings were living mostly separate lives.  Then his mother had what seemed like a seizure and the medical searchers found not one tumor but two.  A brain tumor (no surprise) caused by metastasized lung cancer.  Stage Four.  The only reason his mother wasn't dismayed at first was because she thought there were ten stages of cancer.  Her children changed the rhythm of their lives to help her fight the disease.

This kind of story only works (I think) when it's told with marrow-deep honesty and Mr. Fries pulls no punches.  He and his sisters became their Mom's support system but there were times they found it difficult to pull together.  Serious illness makes families want to pull together while their anxiety tears them apart.  And since responsibility for Mom was apportioned between three siblings, conflict was inevitable.  In the end, the mutual support of their mother was the over-riding factor and that support evidently continued into the creation of this volume.   Families can be wonderful, that way.

The words and art quickly point out that the health-care industry could use some improvement. Mom's initial diagnosis came seriously late because an osteopath didn't put the evidence together. The family doesn't get the referral support they need to find appropriate specialists. Then the specialists tend to face this seriously ill and depressed woman wearing jack-o-lantern grins and expressionless eyes.  (My husband, a long-time health-care worker himself, thinks these drawings are incredibly accurate and scary.)  In the fight to prolong their patient's life, her quality of life sometimes gets overlooked and cancer victims don't always learn the degree of permanent change they face, even if they recover.  If nothing else, Mom's Cancer lifts that shade of ignorance a bit. It should be required reading for cancer patients, their families and their doctors.

The art of the book is spectacular in explaining some complex parts of the story (like how a one/fifth decrease in a tumor's size is really a fifty percent improvement) and highlights some electrifying moments.  But at heart it's a story of people negotiating some of their most difficult days with humor, anger and the occasional moment of grace.  It's full of life, hope and humanity. That's what makes Mom's Cancer so worthwhile.  

The Trickiest of Heroes

Certain literary academic types like to search for the roots of stories.  Get a bunch of them together and pretty soon you'll start hearing terms like "origin myth" and "archetype" being bandied about. (Well, that's what you hear when you serve them tea and coffee. Serve booze and you may get something entirely different)   That's because these thinkers spend a lot of their lives trying to understand humanity and culture through its literature and art.  Stories and characters are created to answer needs in the human psyche and some needs are so deeply rooted we don't completely understand how or why they exist.  But because they exist, each generation makes up its own stories that revive or reinvent these characters and their adventures.  The stories gain or lose shades of complexity that correspond to aspects of the era it was hatched in but certain characters (or archetypes) reappear from one generation to the next and in stories from very different cultures.  Look anywhere in the pages World Literature and you'll find the Wise Old Mentor or the terrifying Shade.You'll also find my personal favorite there: the Trickster, the wiliest, most entertaining Hero in the pack.

Heroes are usually stalwart guys (well, they're girls too) who beat the bad guys with bravery and nobility of soul.  Don't get me wrong, those guys are all great.  Young and inexperienced like Harry Potter or Luke Skywalker, or mysterious and cynical like Shane or Casablanca's Rick Blaine, they face down terrors and save the world, even if they die in the process.  They're admirable folks but aren't they also the tiniest bit, well....boring?   Courage and Nobility are great when your life's in danger but they're not much fun on a date.   If wit and entertainment are what you want in a companion, you'd be much better off with ......Bugs Bunny.

Think about it, Bugs is the coolest member of the Warner Brothers cast.  Fast-talking, fast thinking and nimble, he runs circles around Elmer Fudd and anyone else who stands in his way.  He continually turns the plot upside down and fools his opponent at every turn, sometimes with rhythmic patter, (Rabbit Season/Duck Season) and sometimes by dressing in drag (Bugs as Brunhilde in What's Opera, Doc introduced most of us to Wagner and cross-dressing) With Bugs, the ending is always the same.  Bugs wins by trickery and never dies.  He exchanges nobility of soul for a brilliant brain and becomes the hero that's cool.  Not bad for a "rascally rabbit".

Actually the list of trickster heroes includes more than one rabbit and several of them are animals. The Trickster Heroes in Native American literature appear as raccoons, coyotes, foxes and other animals.  African tribes also created stories starring animal tricksters who overcame authority with their wits, the essential quality of the trickster.  The trickster is always an outsider who subverts and overcomes authority by outwitting the ruling powers.  Thank heavens some trickster heroes are human (or human shaped) as well.

Who's the fellow who robbed the rich and rescued the poor until the rightful King returned to England?  Robin Hood of course and a trickier, more attractive man there never was.  Who upsets Oberon and Titania and steals the good scenes of a Mid-Summer Night's Dream?  Puck, a/k/a r Robin Goodfellow.  Sometimes the Trickster captures the heroine's (and the reader's) interest and is somewhat domesticated by marriage. (Think of Harold Hill or Hans Solo) but most Tricksters evade capture.  They just go on from tale to tale (like Captain Jack Sparrow, one of the more successful recent trickster heroes) enjoying their lives. living by their wits and subverting authority. 

The one thing we're still a bit short on are trickster heroines although there are a few. Scheherezade tricked the king into keeping her alive with her wealth of stories and Pippi Longstocking qualifies, even if I don't like her.  Ramona the Pest might also make the list.  Either way, we need more girls with the smarts to turn authority upside down and over on itself.  That's what tricksters do.  That's why we like them.   They're the heroes that are "too cool for school".

A Eulogy for Moosie

My cat died yesterday.  In a world where terrorists gleefully bomb capital cities and spree killers ruin communities with a single gun clip, this seems like such a small event, I almost hesitate to mention it.  A cat's death, what's a cat's death, occurring (as it did) on Good Friday?  A large percentage of the earth was already mourning a man who changed much of civilization.  So, from one point of view, Moosie's passing was not really worthy of note.  On the other hand, it is important because Moose was no ordinary cat.

The first everyone noticed about Moosie was his size. While the average domestic cat weighs between 8 and 10 pounds, Moosie more than doubled that weight and his fluffy coat made him look even bigger. He came to our home as a stray,but he fit many of the characteristics of Ragdoll breed with his outsized frame, short legs and sweet temperament. It was clear from the start that he liked being close to people.  "We're going to need a bigger couch" my husband muttered after Moosie jumped up on the cushions. "He takes up half the space."  

He irritated the two resident cats with his size, appetite and lack of feline guile.  While Charlie and Brindle Lee backed up and hissed, the big fluffy boy went over to the communal food dish and started to eat.  And eat, and eat....and eat.  Thinking him starved, I refilled the bowl with five cups of dry food and he polished that off as well as a can of wet food and two slices of bologna.  Then he tried to make friends with the two senior cats who were seriously offended by a friendly stranger that was twice their size.  Unperturbed, the big guy took a nap and five hours later he was hungry again.  "He hasn't got worms" a vet friend later affirmed.  "This boy's just afraid he won't find a next meal." 

Even for a "big-boned" cat, Moosie carried a plus-sized body that he ran on comparatively tiny feet.   It created an issue in naming him.  "Bustopher Jones?" I asked, thinking of the Eliot's "25 pounder" in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.  "Orson Welles?"  I knew better than that.  My husband dislikes fanciful names for pets and won't use any he thinks are too silly.  I, on the other hand, believe that a cat will recognize his/her name once you've guessed it correctly and will respond when you call.  So the big cat remained nameless and sweet until one afternoon when he was getting a fur rub from the wrong direction.  Other cats will hiss and leave if you rub their fur against the grain but this creature loved it, the harder the better, so eventually we were pushing him across the floor with our feet.  "What a big lummox" I said, looking down at the animal, flat on his back, eyes closed and  grinning "doesn't he know cats aren't supposed to like this?"   "Don't think he cares." my husband replied.  And it came to me.  Who else intimidated people with his size, not his IQ, but was actually a gentle soul?  Moose Mason of course, the football player from the pages of Archie comic books.  And so our newest feline became Moose, the cat who acted more like a dog.

Charlie and Brindle-Lee honored the cat code of behavior while Moose liked to ignore it.  The two of them curled up in fur circles to sleep; Moose stretched out full length on the floor.  Aloof and self-sufficient, the older cats express affection when they see fit to dispense it and only when we hold them as they wished.  Moose was always up for having his fur scritchled and it didn't matter how he was held.  At one point, I slung him over my shoulder in a fireman's carry and toted him around the house.  Moose was thrilled.  Hanging right side up or upside down didn't matter, having  humans close to him did.  He liked all humans, even strangers because Moose believed he was making new friends.  When our roof was installed, Moose made friends with the crew, met them at work every morning and followed their cars up the road when they left. Other cats could be wary of people.  Moosed believed treats and kindness were automatic gifts from humanity.  That belief may have cost him his life.

Moose hadn't shown up a couple of days when I went to work yesterday morning but I wasn't overly concerned.  Cats like to roam and there are about five women on the mountain who feed our roving clowder of strays so Moosie could always cadge a free meal.  So my husband's mid-morning phone call surprised me.  "Moose came home" he said "and I've taken him to the vet."

"What's wrong?" I said.  "Did he get in a fight?  Has he been bitten?"  

"No, but I think he may have been hit by a car." My husband paused. "He came in and went right to the food dish but he's carrying a back leg all wrong.  I took him to the vet and they'll x-ray him as soon as he can be sedated.  They have to wait because he's too full of food.  They'll call you with the report.  It will probably be about four hours."

That was a long four hours.  When the vet called she was kind but concerned.

"Mrs. Golden, your cat has been shot.  I'm seeing multiple fractures on both of his back legs and the wounds have become infected...."

"Oh God." I whimpered.  "That's why he didn't home when I called...."

"I'm afraid so" she said "And I don't think he can recover, even if we do everything possible.  And that would be very expensive."

"I don't care about expense."  My throat locked shut for a moment.  "Is my Moosie in pain?"

"He isn't right now, he's under anesthetic.  But he has been for awhile now and with his injuries..."

I gripped the phone. "Then please put him to sleep, Doctor. If you don't think he can recover, please don't let him hurt any more."

She offered to keep him alive until we could get to her office and tell the sweet boy good-bye but what good would that do?  Moosie's last days had been terrible and a return to consciousness now would only reawaken his agony, even if we were there.  I wouldn't do that to our sweet boy.   He had made the monumental journey back home and enjoyed one last massive meal in my husband's company.  I know my husband, the vet and her staff cared for him as gently as they could so his last hours at least held some sweetness.  Maybe Moosie felt that kindness before he slipped away instead of the terror and pain that came from humans with guns.  I hope so.  He really was a warm, loving cat.

But we all deserve kindness, even those not so easy to love.  I'll try to remember that instead of looking for a black-and-white face that will never return.  And I'll try to remember each day is an adventure to be enjoyed and explored instead wished away because it's not something else. I'll remember that love is a gift, no matter how it's offered and every stranger may be a new friend.  It's worth taking a chance to find out.  Those are the Precepts of Moosie. Consider them Life Lessons  from A Generous Cat. 

Where Spring (and Murder) are in Session

According the calendar, it's Springtime at last, although my thermometer begs to differ.  Well, I don't depend on the weather to foretell the seasons.  I have television for that, or at least I used to.  Once upon a time I reckoned summer by the return of Mad Men  and knew fall was coming when Sleepy Hollow reappeared.  I could count on spending the coldest weeks of winter with the Crawley family at Downton Abbey but they and Don Draper have shut up shop.  At least Grantchester returns with the Easter weekend.  Since this begins the second season, (and, as a rule, the books are better than adaptations) it's seems only right to have a look at the source material.

The Television Adaptation

Grantchester is based on a series of mysteries by James Runcie, all of whom center around a delightfully unpredictable vicar of the 1950's named Sidney Chambers.  On the one hand, Sidney is exactly what Central Casting taught Americans to expect of a British clergyman.  He's kind, well-mannered, thoughtful (if a bit obtuse when it comes to attractive females) genuinely concerned about God and anxious to help his burdened parishioners with the difficulties in their lives.  On the other hand, he's far more modern than 1950's England seems to expect.  Here is a Canon who chooses Scotch over Sherry (one reason I liked him immediately), is fairly athletic and he adores American Jazz.  If that's not enough, Sidney doesn't socialize with the Bishop or even the members of the faith. His best pal is the local police detective, Geordie Keating, although even they don't seem to have much in common.  Keating is the traditional family man and Englishman, who attends church only for family functions.  Sidney is single, modern and spiritual. These polar opposites make a great team in solving crime.

The Original

Each volume of stories has a Character/Phrase title (similar to the Harry Potter series) and contains several mini-mysteries between the covers. The first in the series, (Sidney Chambers and The Shadow of Death) set the scene and period as well as create a wonderful set of supporting figures: Sidney's redoubtable housekeeper, Mrs. Maguire, his Dostoyevsky loving curate, Leonard and the two women able to turn Sidney's head: Hildegard and Amanda. In Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night, Sidney and his returning cast get the chance to solve a half dozen murders in and around Cambridge while they look at the changing face of England.  Memories of The Cambridge Five (a group of college graduates that were recruited as Soviet Agents) haunt the backdrop of the first and last tales, a conflicted romance between an Indian emigre and a British Miss reflect the wave of immigration England faced at the time and even the USA/USSR Space Race becomes part of the tale, "The Uncertainty Principle". Through these and the closing of the Berlin Wall, Sidney Chambers follows the measured pace of a man who hopes for the best from people but accepts the inevitability of our failures. Sidney sees everyone is a work in progress, and himself as the chap who needs the most help.

If you miss the world of Inspector Morse or want a place like Miss Marple's St. Mary Mead, or if you just want to imagine England in Spring, give these stories of James Runcie the eye.  They're just the thing for the Season.

The Mechanism That Makes Art look Easy

Some people love to watch swans on the water.  I can't blame them, it's a gorgeous sight.   There, on the flat surface of a pond or lake, beautiful birds glide by, graceful and long-necked, pristine and white.  They lift their wings more than flap. They don't splash.  There's something perfect about the above-surface swan.

Okay, but I like what makes it glide.  Underneath that smooth surface, wide, waddling feet are peddling like mad to achieve what looks like effortless motion. The submerged part of the bird looks ungainly but it's what makes the surface appearance work. That's what I like about creative structure.  Instead of the eye-capturing, realized vision, it's the mechanism that made the imagined vision real.

That mechanism is what Jack Viertel talks about in  The Secret Life of the American Musical: How Broadway Shows Are Built.  Like any other devotee of musical theatre, Mr. Viertel adores being swept away by a show and he's been one of those lucky audience members for more than sixty years.  He's also been a theatrical critic, an artistic director, a producer, a dramaturg (Mr. Viertel explains a dramaturg is the "noodge" who asks questions about a developing theatrical piece that either improve the production or get him killed) a writer and teacher of the American Musical Form.  And, as much as he loves the perfect production of a musical spectacle, he also loves taking a show apart to see what makes it work.  Or, with some shows, why it doesn't.

It turns out that a large part of any musical's success depends on understanding what the audience needs at any point in the show.  After the overture, an audience needs to know the who, where and when of the story.  You could tell them but nothing is more boring than bald exposition so musicals have opening songs to set the tone and the scene of their stories.  Next, an audience needs to meet the central characters and learn what makes them tick so the leads sing  "I need" songs to tell the crowd their greatest desires.  After that, the plot needs to ease back a notch so it's time for a few loud, crowd-pleasing numbers.  What seems like an effortless story is actually a well-structured form.

But art pushes form and as times and tastes change, Broadway musicals have changed as well.  The plot-shy, song heavy vehicles my grandmother knew changed into the integrated story/song/dance vehicles my mother adored.  The standard boy/girl plot was dropped as a requirement in my day (Thank God!) and the current Broadway hit has contemporary music styles integrated into a history-based plot to show just how revolutionary the American Revolution really was.  Viertel tracks how each decade of musicals reinvented and redefined the form while honoring the internal guidelines from the overture through the eleven o'clock number that brings down the house.  His enlightening  narrative is shot full of show-business anecdotes and examples that affirm musical theatre isn't just a consciousness-elevating art-form; it's very big business as well.  It's the quintessential blend of high and low art; thought provoking but entertaining and, at best, accessible to everyone.  Mr. Viertel helps us understand why that is.

Sure, there are folks who insist they don't like musicals just as there are people who simply loathe swans. The world is big enough to contain all types.  Nevertheless, the greatest anatidaephomes must admit those long-necked birds look great on the water.  And when a production flows with grace and joy, seated musical haters have been known to stand up and cheer.  Thanks to Mr. Viertel, we can cheer along with them and never let the haters know the show that got past their prejudices was constructed to be easy to love.

Understanding the Villain

Who sees her as the bad guy?

They're two of the first terms you learn in the study of literature: protagonist and antagonist.  The protagonist is the hero, the schnook at the center of the story, the innocent in the middle of a hurricane.  It's easy to sympathize with heroes.  Everything seems to happen to them and they're created to be someone you like.  So it should be easy to guess who the antagonist is.  That's the "udder guy", the heavy, the louse who antagonizes the hero. Actually, an antagonist is simply whatever force that opposes the hero but some opponents go out of their way to make the good guy's life miserable.  At any rate, it's easy to see the tale from the hero's point of view but when I was struggling with a story years ago I got some good advice from my husband.   "Never forget" he said, looking over the rims of his glasses, "No one sees themselves as the villain."

Bertha Mason before she went to England..
Doesn't look crazy, does she?

"No one sees themselves as the villain."  That observation holds incredible insight and it's the mechanism that unlocked a horde of parallel novels based on already-famous stories.  Either Dorothy Gale is the tornado-blown innocent, wearing the slippers Glinda placed on her feet OR she's the person who killed the last member of the Western Witch's family and then ran away in the shoes of her victim.  The Wicked Witch has an arguable grievance against the girl that Gregory Maguire turned into a series of stories.  Jean Rhys did the same thing in Wide Sargasso Sea, a story constructed from the novel Jane Eyre.  Jean couldn't turn Jane into a villain but she could give a rational explanation for the actions of Bertha Mason, the lunatic wife of Rochester who laughs too much and sets the house on fire.  Instead of a pyromaniac, we see a Caribbean heiress whose displacement and unhappy marriage undermine her reason.  The ending is the same but the malevolent spectre is replaced with a character we can understand and pity.  She becomes "human".

Snidely Whiplash: a cartoon baddie

Snape: Antagonist or
Tragic Anti-Hero?

Because they are human, these dimensional villains are far more interesting than the cardboard cutouts of melodrama.  Yes, there's a certain grandeur to Snidely Whiplash twirling his whip-thin mustache but he's more of a mechanism than a man.  Compare Snidely to Severus Snape, the anti-hero and secondary antagonist for much of the Harry Potter series.  Raised to be a racist, Snape loses the love of his life while he's still very young and lives the rest of his life with the results of his mistakes.  He's a difficult, demanding teacher but a talented one as well and most of the advice he gives the hero comes from the lessons he didn't learn in time.  The remarks are delivered with sneers and insults but the basic suggestions are good.  "Don't become a show-off." "Rules are there to keep you safe." "Learn to defend yourself." Snape's real error here is that he gives the advice he should have heeded, not what the hero needs.  Isolation and insecurity make him a deeply flawed man but ultimately a person the reader can recognize and pity, something Harry starts to do when he first sees Snape's worst memory in The Order of the Phoenix.  Snape is humiliated and bullied by the men Harry viewed as role models and the rest of Snape's life begins to take on the inevitability of a tragedy.  The best characters become not "all good" or "all bad" but believably real and headed for
disaster.

So remember no one sees themselves as a villain when you are watching an actor at work or a conflict play out in real life.  However ridiculous or contrived someone's behavior may seem, to them it's a reasonable response to an overwhelming situation.  We're all trying to get from one place to another over an unpaved road.  If we can see where the other guy's coming from, perhaps we can avoid a collision. 

When Writers were Nice People too...

When I was a kid, I used to think Great Writers were also Great People.

I mean, how could anyone with such a complete and tender understanding of the human race be anything other than nice?

Then I read about Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald and O'Neill and revised my opinions downward. Great writers but flawed human beings.  REALLY flawed.  Worst Parent Ever level of flaws.  And Lillian Hellman proved lady writers could be just as bad.

I fell in love with Hunter S. Thompson's style, nerve and humor.  When I realized his gonzo behavior was a lifestyle instead of an act, I vowed to never go near him unless I was armed with a cattle prod.

By the time I started this blog, I had done a 180 degree pivot from my childhood ideas and now assumed any writer worth admiring was really a rabid wolverine in human clothing.

It took an unusual book to change my mind again.  Meanwhile there are Letters... gives me reason to hope novelists will be allowed to rejoin the human race.

It's the story of two 20th century storytellers who seemed to be polar opposites.  Eudora Welty was one the Southern Spinsters whose talent was recognized early on.  She may have looked like somebody's plain, unmarried aunt but her face concealed a sharp-as-a-tack brain and an ear for how people speak.  Her short story, "Why I Live at the P. O."is a masterpiece of humor, first-person narration, and positive proof that family can make you crazy.  Kenneth Millar, had a Ph.D. in literature but a poorer literary reputation, partly because of the kind of books he wrote: detective stories.  As Ross MacDonald, Mr. Millar created the Lew Archer mystery series and imbued Hammett's hard-boiled detectives with a subtlety and sensitivity they had been missing.  Unfortunately, most "serious" literary critics dismissed the genre as popular "trash", unworthy of the serious-minded reader.  That trend was bucked when Millar's novel, The Underground Man  got a rave review from someone Mr. Millar had never laid eyes on: Eudora Welty.

Welty loved good detective stories and she wasn't deterred by other peoples' prejudices.  Mr. Millar wrote to thank her and admire her work.  She wrote back again in a week.  On and on the letters flew, discussing their latest projects, the news (Welty hated shaking President Nixon's hand, given her fascination with Watergate) but rarely any personal demons.  Millar was staying in an unhappy marriage and coping with the death of his daughter but talking about his own unhappiness would have seemed like self-pity and that was against his code of conduct.  Married men like Millar didn't run away from bad marriages, they accepted what they had.  And ladies like Miss Welty did not run off with a married man, even if he was a Soul Mate.  Instead, they remained platonic friends and wrote to each other, adding Kenneth's wife, Margaret, to the conversation whenever they could.  The conversation lasted more than a decade, until Alzheimer's stole Millar's brain and personality.  And if Eudora continued without her friend for another twenty years, at least she had the memories and letters of an affection that was real if not totally realized.

Reading Meanwhile There are Letters can sometimes make you feel like you're eavesdropping on very private correspondence but it's the correspondence of people you can't help but like.  She's self-reliant and thoughtful, he's kind and gracious.  They're the kind of people I first assumed writers would be, Intelligent, supportive, generous people who faced the best and worst of life with aplomb.

Welty and Millar were both gifted writers but that's the least important thing they had in common.

They were professionals...

They were devoted friends..

And they were first-class human beings.