Ma as the true heroine of Room

From the start of this novel, I always could sympathize with Jack, but I never strayed from the sense that, while Jack serves as the narrator, it is Ma’s story he is telling. She is the one who has undergone the full extent of the entire traumatic experience—from being captured and initially trapped before Jack was even born.

When Jack some along, it’s more that he is an extension of Ma than anything else (Mr. Mitchell mentioned a word sandwich of Jackandma…). This is evident in points where he can’t imagine being away from her, or thinks it’s totally weird that she was awake while he was asleep. 

It’s true that as he grows up—especially as he grows accustomed to Outside, that this “jackandma” will crumble. He must, inevitably, achieve independence for this novel to be truly satisfying, I think. But that still doesn’t negate the fact that Jack was brought, by Ma, into her story of capture and isolation. She is the one who really underwent and understood her experience. In many senses, Jack is just along for the ride.

thoughts on Ma and Jacks future

So now that Ma and Jack are out, the difficulty of their situation in a sense becomes more complex. Not only is returning to the Outside an enormous change for Ma—especially considering the fact that it has been seven years since she was “put” and many things may have changed in that time; it is an unimaginable thing for Jack.

It might almost be a tempting dynamic for Ma to automatically lose some of that closeness she felt to Jack when they were both confined alone together in Room. She now has a whole array of other people who love her and want to place demands on her time, and it would be easy enough for Jack to feel incredibly jealous of her attention. 

In a similar strain, Jack is going to need a lot of help, support, and constant supervision to function in this entirely new world. This, I imagine, will demand most if not all of Ma’s energies. I kind of feel for her here, because—although I never doubt that her love for Jack is sincere and extremely strong—she had a life before Room that she must be desperate to return to, and taking care of a frightened dysfunctional five-year-old is certainly not part of that.

I hope that Jack and Ma can retain the closeness of their relationship outside of Room. But I also hope for Ma’s sake that she can find happiness for herself—beyond simply caring for Jack.

Memory of Saccharide Endings

So I know from class discussion that I am by no means the only one who cringed internally reading the end of Memory of Running. Despite this novel generally being of a completely different type and genre than my usual reading material (I can't remember the last time I read a New York Times bestseller), I had been enjoying it until McLarty's slap-in-the-face TV ending.

One of the things that I found to be interesting about this novel was that Smithy is so different from the typical TV (or hollywood, or comic book, or New York Times bestseller) image of a hero. He isn't shiny or obviously charismatic or even very compelling (at least not before he gets going on his ride). In fact, in many ways he is extraordinary in his ordinary-ness.

Other characters as well seem to break out of what a reader might expect. It's nice that the primary love-interest of the novel is between two unconventional oddballs (I mean that in an endearing and unoffensive way) Smithy and Norma. Now, even that obviously growing romantic connection between the two of them was giving me a hint of sickly sweet aftertaste while the novel was in progress. To be honest, I never cared much for Norma, who I always saw as being clingy and needy despite her assertions of physical independence. So I was never all that moved by the possibility of a love connection between her and Smithy. I tolerated it, but was never really sold on the idea.

Needless to say the ending took my teetering ambivalence and pushed it over the side of that cliff. It was too fake, too sweet, too neat and clean. I wanted Smithy to find resolution to his journey himself. To come to terms with the loss of his Bethany and his parents within himself before making the decision himself to return, victorious, to his life and to Norma (if thats what he chose--and I was expecting and prepared for him to choose that.)

That Norma showed up, out of the blue in L.A. (with impeccable dramatic timing no less), de-emphasized Smithy's prominence as a protagonist and chipped away at his accomplishments. At least that's how I see it. Even turning a blind eye to the cheesy-ness, I still think of this ending as McLarty taking the easy way out.

Visualizing As I Lay Dying: Franco's Film

I was surprised when I first watched James Franco's film adaptation of As I Lay Dying at how closely it followed the novel. With a few exceptions, it is essentially follows chapter-by-chapter scene-by-scene.

A couple of people mentioned on Wednesday that the film would be impossible to understand without having first read the book, and I think that is to some extent accurate. Despite the impressive similarities between the two, the mediums of moving picture and prose are sufficiently different that a viewer of the film would likely walk away with a completely different sense of the work than a reader of the novel. I think much of this has to do with the limited ability of a filmmaker to convey a character's internal monologue in a scene. For instance, Darl in the film is familiar to us, and, having read the book, we understand his stares, his nonverbal communication with Dewey Dell, and his clairvoyance. Likewise, we also understand the significance of the split-frame shots as being representative of multiple character's' viewpoints. This information is really only accessible through the book.

Despite the film following the plot of the novel linearly, there are a few thoughts I had on Franco's adaptation of certain characters. Darl is the most obvious variation. I think it is in no way a coincidence that Franco choosing to play Darl's character himself aligned with a decision to make Darl a more prominent, or at least more consistently prominent, character in the film. Although there is no hard-and-fast narrator in either the novel or the film, we talked about how the narrative emphasis shifted from Darl to Cash in the book. I didn't see a hint of such a shift in the movie, as Darl seemed to remain the "main character" throughout. I could be stretching this a little, as his prominence is pretty subtle, but I certainly think it's there.

Dewey Dell was another character in the film who differed from my perception of the character in the novel. She seems much better adjusted and self-aware in the film than in the book. I also think that this is a product of the medium. It would be difficult to translate the jumbled sentences and unique phrasing of Dewey Dell's narration in the book to the screen. I did think it was interesting that Franco chose to deliver part of her retelling of her encounter with Lafe staring directly into the camera as a deliberate act of narration. In the novel, she was always one of the characters we said didn't seem to even be aware that she is a narrator, so her direct communication with the camera is definitely a shift.

Overall, I guess I have to conclude that the inaccessibility of the film that we discussed is in part due to the inaccessibility of the novel itself. Faulkner's literary techniques are no more unconventional, perhaps, than Franco's approach to filmmaking. If I had to speak for the man, I suppose I'd say that Faulkner would approve of the adaptation.

As I Lie Dying

With this flu I have been fortunate enough to catch, I feel a little bit like Addie Burden in her final days. I am certain I am not, however, dying, and I hope to return to school tomorrow and get back to the class' discussion.

In the meantime, some brief thoughts on Faulkner before I write a longer more focused post.

I have always been a little leery of Faulkner. Firstly, my father is something of a Faulkner fan, and as a general rule, nerdy children of academic types tend to make it a point to dislike or simply avoid their parents literary tastes. Or at least I did. I also, in my slight bias as a Northerner, never had any problems passing over Faulkner's stories of the American South in favor of narratives with settings and characters I found more familiar. I now see that I have been missing out. Thank you Mr. Mitchell for putting Faulkner on the reading list and giving me the reason to override my slight aversions and read As I Lay Dying.

I generally reserve these words for time-tested favorite authors. Nabokov. Joyce. But now Faulkner can be added to my personal list of "men who write like gods". His prose is... delicious. His metaphors are creative and alive without ever feeling forced or ridiculous. When you think about it As I Lay Dying told any other way would be the hum-drum story of a dumb or crazy failure of a Mississippi farmer and his overabundance of poorly-raised offspring dealing with the unfortunate death of his ailing wife. It would not be the literary masterpiece Faulkner created.

I find myself especially drawn to Darl--as a character perhaps, but specifically as a narrator, because it is in his words that the novel's prose becomes most interesting. Darl's descriptions are the perfect mixture of unschooled Mississippi farm boy and seemingly-claivoyant prophet. I don't know. I get really excited about reading Darl's chapters, and much of that excitement is just for the language he uses.

Anyway, I hope everyone else is enjoying Faulkner as much as I am. More posts of a more organized nature later.

Man of Constant Sorrow

As I reflect back on O Brother while writing my Response paper, I continue to appreciate the combination of that classic Coen-brother humor and the rather somber backdrop of the Depression days in the dusty American South that lends something of a tragic quality to the film.
That being said, I never did truly click with Everett. He was too incompetent, too narcissistic, too self-prioritizing to deserve real respect. He is however, thoroughly entertaining, and when I think of the initial purpose of the Odyssey as an orally presented song or poem with the purpose of entertaining an audience, I feel friendlier toward Joel and Ethan for distorting the traditional brooding, clever Odysseus prototype to meet that goal in a modern sense.
As an adaptation of the Odyssey, O Brother walk a fine line between retelling and departing from Homer's narrative entirely, and I do think it is a successful tightrope act. There is much room for interpretation when contrasting the poem with the movie, and I think this lack of definitive parallels (in many cases) makes the relationship between the two works all the more interesting.
I won't elaborate too much on this point, as it would spoil the content of my essay, but I will draw one parallel that I find intriguing. Athena, in The Odyssey, plays a major role, but in the film there isn't a character that emerges as a clear Athena figure. So who makes Everett feel more confident, look better? Who is ever-present and godly--an unattainable and immortal figure? Could it be a certain Dapper Dan? We see that lovely shot near the end of the film with the flood swirling hundreds of tins of Dan through the water in something of an epic display. Athena restoring peace to the men of Ithaca? Or just yet one more tongue in cheek joke by the Coen brothers?

An Incomplete and Somewhat Pretentious Treatise on Heroism

As our discussions in this class have progressed, I have established a number of speculations on the nature of heroism. I found our initial analysis of what constituted heroic behavior to be engaging while still being far from comprehensive. As such, it seems only fitting to preface Odyssey-specific observations with some thoughts on heroism at large.

Heroism is so tightly linked to morality that any discussion of the former would be woefully incomplete without touching upon the latter. The relationship between these two concepts itself is straightforward: the hero is s/he who upholds the side of moral virtue in the face of wrong/unjust/evil forces. (I shall, for the purposes of this post, be accepting this as a true statement without any further need of unpacking. If you disagree with it, comment and let me know.) Any uncertainty in a heroic analysis comes from distinctions within either a discussion of morality, or a discussion of heroism.

Few people are willing to hitch their wagon to a theory of moral objectivity, but most are still comfortable relying on intuition to make concrete judgments of right and wrong. Was the nameless kidnapper in "Victory Lap" wrong to abduct Allison with the intention of performing unsavory actions upon her? I'd venture that most of us would agree yes--and we're all happy to pass this judgment on him without evaluating not only why it is we don't question this judgment, but how we might extend this rationale to create at least a somewhat more systematic approach to moral conclusions. Murder is wrong. Incest is wrong. The average human will accept these statements as factual. My friends will roll their eyes here as I satisfy my self-imposed obligation to bring to the table a discussion of relative morality. I cannot ignore the relativism that is so prevalent in the postmodern thinking we all, to some extent, take for granted. Were one to adopt nihilism and reject morality entirely, the idea of a hero becomes very different--if it does not become entirely obsolete. Should one opt for a less extreme position as a moral relativist, it would follow that one's notion of heroism is as subjective as one's sense of morality.

Is there a heroic fact of the matter? Does heroism allow room for subjectivity? Campbell seemed to think so--disregarding the ultimate end of an individual's journey or deeds in favor of the hero's motivations and internal monologue. Here, we run a little further into the grey area of heroism. My first response to Campbell's remark was to think of specific situations that contradict his assertion. And so, picture a Nazi prison guard. Generally, we find devotion to a cause to be a commendable quality in an individual, and as far as heroic behaviors go, sacrificing one's personal interests for the betterment of the cause and its ideals is not unheard of. But can we generalize? Can we include vigilantes, Nazis, crusaders, jihadis... in our definition of a hero? In their own minds, they may be. They might even undergo the same mental and emotional trials a "true" hero would. But we shrink away from bestowing upon them this label. Why? Is it because, perhaps in spite of our natural tendency for skepticism, that we really do think there are moral truths? That, because the vigilante or the crusader or the Nazi is violating or has violated these objective moral standards, they are simply not able to be labeled a hero?
Of course, when we see a case of true heroism, we do not hesitate to identify it. A hero elevates morality over social convention, and potentially even the law itself. (And so we cannot, for instance, equate morality with a legal system or code. The people who hid Jews during the holocaust were very much in violation of their country's laws, but we can agree they are heroes.) A hero pursues the good at all costs. Similarly, true evil is easily identifiable. There are villains whose actions are so contrary to our moral sensibilities--that they deserve the label "villain" they leave no room for doubt.

But what of the grey areas? What of vigilantism, what of insanity, what of the relationship between action and intention? In an attempt to better illustrate some of these questions, I have devised here a schematic of four characteristics, which may be combined as follows:

Culpable-Right: This category houses the true heroes. These individuals aware that their actions' are right actions (and so are culpable). Additionally, the actions must, in fact, be objectively right. 

Culpable-Wrong: This category consists of individuals who may have the correct internal monologue. They may be sacrificing their own interests, exhibiting courage, or acting in the name of some greater good, but they are ultimately not heroes because their actions are not actually right. The vigilante, the Nazi, the crusader, the jihadi, the schizophrenic. They may have heroic qualities, but their morality is questionable. While they intend to do right (and perhaps even think that they are), they are, in fact, not. Conclusion: not really heroes.

Non-culpable-Right: I call this category the "accidental hero" category or perhaps, in some instances, the "fake hero" category. (Already this is inaccurate, as no one in this category is, in fact, a hero, and the whole point of this discussion is to prove, or at least to convince you, that there is an objective standard of heroism. Excuse the faulty naming--it is an attempt at uniformity.) These individuals may perform acts that seem heroic, but lack the requisite intention. One oddly specific case-in-point: A man (let's call him Cal) walked to his friend's house with a gun, intending to kill his friend (who we shall refer to as Sal). Cal does not know this, but Sal had his own gun, and had formed a plan to go on a rampage through the neighborhood, killing many people, including his buddy Cal. As Sal closes his front door behind him, he is shot and killed by Cal. Cal has just saved himself and many others from a brutal end, but is he a hero? No. Why? Because he set out only with the intention of murdering his friend. He intended to carry out an action that was wrong--that it ultimately was the right thing to do doesn't change the fact that he is not culpable for the goodness (read as heroism) in his action. Conclusion: also not heroes.

Non-culpable-Wrong: The villains. They both intend to do wrong/evil, and realize that intention.

What do you think?