Arwen Spicer's Blog: Diary of a Readerly Writer (and Writerly Reader), page 4
March 26, 2014
Reclaiming Derivative Fiction
With the heightened visibility of fan fiction in recent years, conceptions of what constitutes professional-caliber fiction have been in flux, and derviative fiction (based on pre-existing works) has been slowly regaining legitimacy. I want to share my new enthusiasm for the richer, truer world that opens up for all participants in narrative when we accept the artistic legitimacy of retelling stories.
The Copyright Model
Our culture's dominant view of what constitutes quality narrative still draws its lines based on copyright. Under this model, professional writers write “original fiction”; i.e. works dissimilar enough from preexisting copyrighted works that the writer (or publisher) can claim copyright over them. Published writers who extrapolate stories in public domain are sometimes highly respected but sometimes placed on a lower tier than "original" writers. At a lower status, but still professionals, are authorized writers of works within others' copyrighted universes, such as official tie-in novels. Low status and traditionally derided are fan fiction writers, who write unauthorized derivative works.
The dividing line for professionalism in this model is how much the writer gets paid. Original and authorized authors make money through traditional publishing (and, more rarely, self-publishing); unauthorized fan fic writers are legally barred from profiting on copyrighted works.
From an economic perspective, this distinction is important. In order to have a flourishing artistic culture, we need a lot of people to spend a lot of energy creating works of art. This energy is severely restricted if artists must work forty hours per week at a "day job" to pay the bills. Now, many do create excellent art for free and many always will. But our pool of top-notch art will shrink if artists cannot make a living at their art. To protect social structures that allow artists to make money should be a social priority. Copyright was created for this purpose: to generate artificial scarcity so that creators can make money through supply and demand.
We all know this model is crashing in 21st century due to a) the unfeasibility of maintaining artificial scarcity of copies in the digital age and b) information glut, which increases competition and, thus, reduces sales for most works. These are huge problems, which need solutions, but they raise questions about economics more than the quality of art. To reclaim a richer, more inclusive cultural space for art and artists, we need to decouple profitability from quality.
The Myth That Original Art Is Superior
One of the most damaging consequences of the copyright model of art is the assumption that original art is better than derivative art. This perception is attributable to various factors. In a correspondence on LiveJournal, Shimere277 observed that the 20th century was in love the new and original as a sign of rebellion against earlier cultural norms. Thus, original art came to be privileged as higher art, a bias that persists into the 21st century.
On a more mundane level, original works continue to be identified with paid professionals. To be legally paid for a work, one must have copyright permission. Authors (or publishers) generally hold copyright only over their original works. So by and large, they get paid for original works while authors of unauthorized derivative works are unpaid. Since paid professionals are considered, by definition, better than unpaid amateurs, then, at least as a generalization, original works (paid) must be better than derivative works (unpaid).
The problem is that, even as a generalization, this is wantonly untrue. We have thousands of years of literary evidence that original narratives are not superior to derivative narratives. In fact, most famous narratives of more than a few hundred years old are extrapolations of older traditions. Let’s take a few examples from the good, old Western canon (because this is the canon I know): [1]
* The Epic of Gilgamesh
* The Iliad and Odyssey
* The Oedipus plays
* Prometheus Bound
* The Trojan Women
* The Aeneid
* Ovid’s Metamorphoses
* Ovid’s Heroïdes
* Dante’s Divine Comedy
* Everything about King Arthur
* Various tales of Robin Hood
* Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde and much of The Canterbury Tales
* The vast majority of Shakespeare’s plays
* Milton’s Paradise Lost
* Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound
* Byron’s Don Juan
* Grimm’s Fairytales
* Andersen’s Fairytales
* Tennyson’s Ulysses
* Joyce’s Ulysses
Moreover, we have many very well paid, unambiguously professional writers today much of whose work is derivative. A few examples:
Joss Whedon (The Avengers)
Russell T. Davies (Doctor Who)
Steven Moffat (Doctor Who and Sherlock)
Neil Gaiman (much of the source material of The Sandman) [2]
So unless we’re going to argue that Homer, Vergil, Ovid, Shakespeare, and Milton just weren’t that good, we have to face the reality that there is nothing inherently inferior about writing a story based on a pre-existing story.
But Those Stories Aren’t Fan Fiction (Or...?)
Modern "fan fiction" originated (or gained a community) around the 1970s when writers, mostly women, began sharing stories that were take-offs on other stories, often TV shows and quintessentially Star Trek. Then and now, fan fiction had tendencies that came to define the “fan fiction” stereotype:
* It was based on copyrighted works and written without permission.
* It was written by women, most of whom were not published authors.
* It focused on interpersonal relationships (vs. plot).
* It was often romantic and/or sexual.
* It did not stand alone as an independent work: for example, it didn’t describe the story's universe or generate a self-contained plot.
* Much of it wasn’t well written.
These characteristics are still widely used to belittle fan fiction as “wannabe” art. But let’s unpack them:
* Fic lacks copyright permission: I’ve argued above that this is not relevant to quality, besides which a lot of works posted as “fan fic” are based on public domain works, such as the novels of Jane Austen or Les Misérables.
* It's written by unpublished women: this is a (sexist) ad hominem attack irrelevant to a particular work’s quality.
* It focuses on relationships over plot. Aristotle would say this is a bad sign. But since the early 20th century, character-driven narrative has widely been considered legitimate and, indeed, arguably "higher" art than plot-driven narrative. The continued bias against character-driven narrative in fan fic is probably related to the preponderance of genre fiction in fandom. In general, original genre fiction has remained more plot driven than literary fiction; ironically, original genre fiction itself is often disparaged for this. In any case, there are fics with strong plots.
* It is often romantic/sexual. Yes, but so is a lot of good writing, and a great deal of fic does not focus on these areas; indeed, there is an old and established category called “gen” for non-romantic/non-sexual fic.
* It doesn’t stand alone. This is often true, but then, it doesn’t have to: its intended audience already knows the broader story. By the same token, the Iliad and the Odyssey both begin in medias res. Indeed, starting in the middle of a story the audience already knows is a defining characteristic of traditional epic.
* Much of it isn’t well written: This is true; it’s equally true of original fic, but poorly written original fic gets fewer readers and is less visible. Yet much fan fic is every bit as well written as much of traditionally published fiction and better than some.
Though what we commonly think of as “fan fiction” is, indeed, a different sort of writing from, say, the poetry of Shelley or Milton, the difference is in cultural tendency, not essential characteristics. Every factor for which fan fic is commonly derided is not true (or not relevant to the quality) of a good number of fics. We come back to this reality: there is nothing inherently inferior about derivative works, classic or on An Archive of Our Own.
So Maybe All Those Reboots Aren’t a Bad Thing
Derivative works are becoming more prominent, not only in low-budget contexts. Many lament that large percentage of blockbuster genre movies today are remakes, reboots, or extensions of existing franchises. They worry that original voices are drowned out. I have been among those critics and agree that refusal to take a risk on an unknown work can impede artistic creativity.
But overall my thinking has shifted, and right now, I'm not too worried. In fact, in this historical moment, a cultural emphasis on reclaiming and retelling old stories may be salutary. New stories will always be with us. Humans make them up naturally, recounting an anecdote of how we saved a lost kitten behind a dumpster, for example. But the vast majority of stories that endure across the centuries, the ones that form a continuity of myth, legend, and insight about human life, are repeatedly reimagined: they pass through many hands. This is true of biblical accounts, myths, fairytales, etc.
One can argue that these stories are retold because they're good. But they are also good because they're retold. As any fan fic writer knows, when you have a "canon" story to build from, you are free to focus on your strengths as a writer to create the effect you want. When hundreds or thousands of storytellers get their hands on a story, they often butcher it... but they also refine and evolve it: versions emerge that express the best strengths of those diverse minds. One version may establish a strong plot, another delve into character, a third add beauty to the language, a fourth subvert cultural assumptions. Hamlet, for example, has antecedents in multiple medieval texts; the story was refined into a psychologically incisive and eloquent tragedy by Shakespeare, but the First Folio version (1623), with many textual differences from the Second Quarto (1604), appeared after his death. Retelling gives us some of our most powerful, beautiful stories.
It also gives us cultural continuity. Generations in Western Civilization, for example, have shared common stories to make meaning out of life: Paul seeing the light on the road to Damascus, Odysseus returning to his family, King Arthur sending his knights in search of the Grail. These stories allow us to understand each other across the generations, to access the wisdom of earlier people and cultures so that we don't constantly have to reinvent the wheel in discovering how to live.
In the 21st century, however, technological revolutions in the dissemination of information are inundating us with new texts. This is not all bad by any means. These technologies democratize art, empower marginalized voices, allow access to a phenomenal array of stories from around the world, bolster multicultural literacy, and are creating a new commons for collaborative and derivative art. As an original writer, fic writer, and fan, I've benefitted from all this; I wouldn't lose it for the world. But one side effect is a drowning out of common stories that form cultural literacies and a historical continuities with our foremothers and forefathers. I can understand (in translation) Aristotle's commentary on the Iliad from 2300 years ago, but I have no idea what my own friends are talking about when they discuss playing Mass Effect. Now, it's no problem for different people to enjoy different stories, but when we reach a critical fragmentation in which we don't share enough to form a cultural databank of common metaphors and learning, we've lost one of the most important stabilizing factors in human society.
I don't think we've reached that point. I don't know if we ever will. I do know we don't want to; we don't want a civilization in which we cannot meaningfully reach each other across time through common stories. And, therefore, we must retell stories, because a single iteration of a story will get worn out and die. Conversely, if a story is alive, we retell it. By definition. That's what happens when a story excites the human mind. Whether it is an ancient tale, like the life of Buddha, or a body of work spanning a couple of generations, like The X-Men, building and sharing stories over time strengthens the stories and, therefore, us.
Hollywood's current tendency to revisit existing franchises is a sign of financial caution (or cowardice, if you will). But the reason such stories are a relatively safe bet is that people are attracted to stories they already know. I see this in myself when I reflect on movies I've seen in the theater in the past year or so:
Les Misérables
Star Trek: Into Darkness
Ender's Game
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
Oblivion
Gravity
The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
This covers a majority of my recent moviegoing, and only two of these films, Oblivion and Gravity, are not based on pre-existing stories I have watched or read. I am excited about and comforted by stories I already have a relationship with. They have a deeper meaning because they are part of my history, my knowledge base. Moreover, in an age in which I have my choice of thousands of new stories, most of which, by Sturgeon's Law, are not very good, these known stories are safer. I can guess they will be at least a moderately good use of my limited time.
A cultural return to retelling known stories (whether by Hollywood or fan fic writers) may be an impulse to counteract information overload. It may be a healthy rebalancing of our cultural scales to place more weight on fewer, better known stories that we can share. This emphasis makes it harder for original writers to break in; as an original novelist, I assure you I feel this. The good news is that it also signals a return to a freer, more participatory reader-writer relationship. Regardless of the impositions of copyright law, when we share a narrative culturally, we own it collectively. The more widely it is known and the more times it is retold (in authorized or unauthorized forms), the more it becomes folklore that we can all take a hand in shaping.
Disclaimer: I was a beta reader for the fic, "The Body," linked above as an example of excellent fic.
Notes:
[1] My examples in this essay are almost exclusively from Western canon. I'm using this canon because it is my native culture and the focus of my academic study and, thus, I have some authority to speak to it. As far as I can tell, my statements generally apply across world cultures, and, of course, diverse cultures have enormously rich narrative traditions, but I am not qualified to speak to them in any depth.
[2] If you're noticing that every single writer I’ve mentioned is a man--and mostly, probably white, yes. Yes, they are. And, yes, that is highly relevant to what’s considered legitimate and professional, but it’s also another essay.
The Copyright Model
Our culture's dominant view of what constitutes quality narrative still draws its lines based on copyright. Under this model, professional writers write “original fiction”; i.e. works dissimilar enough from preexisting copyrighted works that the writer (or publisher) can claim copyright over them. Published writers who extrapolate stories in public domain are sometimes highly respected but sometimes placed on a lower tier than "original" writers. At a lower status, but still professionals, are authorized writers of works within others' copyrighted universes, such as official tie-in novels. Low status and traditionally derided are fan fiction writers, who write unauthorized derivative works.
The dividing line for professionalism in this model is how much the writer gets paid. Original and authorized authors make money through traditional publishing (and, more rarely, self-publishing); unauthorized fan fic writers are legally barred from profiting on copyrighted works.
From an economic perspective, this distinction is important. In order to have a flourishing artistic culture, we need a lot of people to spend a lot of energy creating works of art. This energy is severely restricted if artists must work forty hours per week at a "day job" to pay the bills. Now, many do create excellent art for free and many always will. But our pool of top-notch art will shrink if artists cannot make a living at their art. To protect social structures that allow artists to make money should be a social priority. Copyright was created for this purpose: to generate artificial scarcity so that creators can make money through supply and demand.
We all know this model is crashing in 21st century due to a) the unfeasibility of maintaining artificial scarcity of copies in the digital age and b) information glut, which increases competition and, thus, reduces sales for most works. These are huge problems, which need solutions, but they raise questions about economics more than the quality of art. To reclaim a richer, more inclusive cultural space for art and artists, we need to decouple profitability from quality.
The Myth That Original Art Is Superior
One of the most damaging consequences of the copyright model of art is the assumption that original art is better than derivative art. This perception is attributable to various factors. In a correspondence on LiveJournal, Shimere277 observed that the 20th century was in love the new and original as a sign of rebellion against earlier cultural norms. Thus, original art came to be privileged as higher art, a bias that persists into the 21st century.
On a more mundane level, original works continue to be identified with paid professionals. To be legally paid for a work, one must have copyright permission. Authors (or publishers) generally hold copyright only over their original works. So by and large, they get paid for original works while authors of unauthorized derivative works are unpaid. Since paid professionals are considered, by definition, better than unpaid amateurs, then, at least as a generalization, original works (paid) must be better than derivative works (unpaid).
The problem is that, even as a generalization, this is wantonly untrue. We have thousands of years of literary evidence that original narratives are not superior to derivative narratives. In fact, most famous narratives of more than a few hundred years old are extrapolations of older traditions. Let’s take a few examples from the good, old Western canon (because this is the canon I know): [1]
* The Epic of Gilgamesh
* The Iliad and Odyssey
* The Oedipus plays
* Prometheus Bound
* The Trojan Women
* The Aeneid
* Ovid’s Metamorphoses
* Ovid’s Heroïdes
* Dante’s Divine Comedy
* Everything about King Arthur
* Various tales of Robin Hood
* Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde and much of The Canterbury Tales
* The vast majority of Shakespeare’s plays
* Milton’s Paradise Lost
* Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound
* Byron’s Don Juan
* Grimm’s Fairytales
* Andersen’s Fairytales
* Tennyson’s Ulysses
* Joyce’s Ulysses
Moreover, we have many very well paid, unambiguously professional writers today much of whose work is derivative. A few examples:
Joss Whedon (The Avengers)
Russell T. Davies (Doctor Who)
Steven Moffat (Doctor Who and Sherlock)
Neil Gaiman (much of the source material of The Sandman) [2]
So unless we’re going to argue that Homer, Vergil, Ovid, Shakespeare, and Milton just weren’t that good, we have to face the reality that there is nothing inherently inferior about writing a story based on a pre-existing story.
But Those Stories Aren’t Fan Fiction (Or...?)
Modern "fan fiction" originated (or gained a community) around the 1970s when writers, mostly women, began sharing stories that were take-offs on other stories, often TV shows and quintessentially Star Trek. Then and now, fan fiction had tendencies that came to define the “fan fiction” stereotype:
* It was based on copyrighted works and written without permission.
* It was written by women, most of whom were not published authors.
* It focused on interpersonal relationships (vs. plot).
* It was often romantic and/or sexual.
* It did not stand alone as an independent work: for example, it didn’t describe the story's universe or generate a self-contained plot.
* Much of it wasn’t well written.
These characteristics are still widely used to belittle fan fiction as “wannabe” art. But let’s unpack them:
* Fic lacks copyright permission: I’ve argued above that this is not relevant to quality, besides which a lot of works posted as “fan fic” are based on public domain works, such as the novels of Jane Austen or Les Misérables.
* It's written by unpublished women: this is a (sexist) ad hominem attack irrelevant to a particular work’s quality.
* It focuses on relationships over plot. Aristotle would say this is a bad sign. But since the early 20th century, character-driven narrative has widely been considered legitimate and, indeed, arguably "higher" art than plot-driven narrative. The continued bias against character-driven narrative in fan fic is probably related to the preponderance of genre fiction in fandom. In general, original genre fiction has remained more plot driven than literary fiction; ironically, original genre fiction itself is often disparaged for this. In any case, there are fics with strong plots.
* It is often romantic/sexual. Yes, but so is a lot of good writing, and a great deal of fic does not focus on these areas; indeed, there is an old and established category called “gen” for non-romantic/non-sexual fic.
* It doesn’t stand alone. This is often true, but then, it doesn’t have to: its intended audience already knows the broader story. By the same token, the Iliad and the Odyssey both begin in medias res. Indeed, starting in the middle of a story the audience already knows is a defining characteristic of traditional epic.
* Much of it isn’t well written: This is true; it’s equally true of original fic, but poorly written original fic gets fewer readers and is less visible. Yet much fan fic is every bit as well written as much of traditionally published fiction and better than some.
Though what we commonly think of as “fan fiction” is, indeed, a different sort of writing from, say, the poetry of Shelley or Milton, the difference is in cultural tendency, not essential characteristics. Every factor for which fan fic is commonly derided is not true (or not relevant to the quality) of a good number of fics. We come back to this reality: there is nothing inherently inferior about derivative works, classic or on An Archive of Our Own.
So Maybe All Those Reboots Aren’t a Bad Thing
Derivative works are becoming more prominent, not only in low-budget contexts. Many lament that large percentage of blockbuster genre movies today are remakes, reboots, or extensions of existing franchises. They worry that original voices are drowned out. I have been among those critics and agree that refusal to take a risk on an unknown work can impede artistic creativity.
But overall my thinking has shifted, and right now, I'm not too worried. In fact, in this historical moment, a cultural emphasis on reclaiming and retelling old stories may be salutary. New stories will always be with us. Humans make them up naturally, recounting an anecdote of how we saved a lost kitten behind a dumpster, for example. But the vast majority of stories that endure across the centuries, the ones that form a continuity of myth, legend, and insight about human life, are repeatedly reimagined: they pass through many hands. This is true of biblical accounts, myths, fairytales, etc.
One can argue that these stories are retold because they're good. But they are also good because they're retold. As any fan fic writer knows, when you have a "canon" story to build from, you are free to focus on your strengths as a writer to create the effect you want. When hundreds or thousands of storytellers get their hands on a story, they often butcher it... but they also refine and evolve it: versions emerge that express the best strengths of those diverse minds. One version may establish a strong plot, another delve into character, a third add beauty to the language, a fourth subvert cultural assumptions. Hamlet, for example, has antecedents in multiple medieval texts; the story was refined into a psychologically incisive and eloquent tragedy by Shakespeare, but the First Folio version (1623), with many textual differences from the Second Quarto (1604), appeared after his death. Retelling gives us some of our most powerful, beautiful stories.
It also gives us cultural continuity. Generations in Western Civilization, for example, have shared common stories to make meaning out of life: Paul seeing the light on the road to Damascus, Odysseus returning to his family, King Arthur sending his knights in search of the Grail. These stories allow us to understand each other across the generations, to access the wisdom of earlier people and cultures so that we don't constantly have to reinvent the wheel in discovering how to live.
In the 21st century, however, technological revolutions in the dissemination of information are inundating us with new texts. This is not all bad by any means. These technologies democratize art, empower marginalized voices, allow access to a phenomenal array of stories from around the world, bolster multicultural literacy, and are creating a new commons for collaborative and derivative art. As an original writer, fic writer, and fan, I've benefitted from all this; I wouldn't lose it for the world. But one side effect is a drowning out of common stories that form cultural literacies and a historical continuities with our foremothers and forefathers. I can understand (in translation) Aristotle's commentary on the Iliad from 2300 years ago, but I have no idea what my own friends are talking about when they discuss playing Mass Effect. Now, it's no problem for different people to enjoy different stories, but when we reach a critical fragmentation in which we don't share enough to form a cultural databank of common metaphors and learning, we've lost one of the most important stabilizing factors in human society.
I don't think we've reached that point. I don't know if we ever will. I do know we don't want to; we don't want a civilization in which we cannot meaningfully reach each other across time through common stories. And, therefore, we must retell stories, because a single iteration of a story will get worn out and die. Conversely, if a story is alive, we retell it. By definition. That's what happens when a story excites the human mind. Whether it is an ancient tale, like the life of Buddha, or a body of work spanning a couple of generations, like The X-Men, building and sharing stories over time strengthens the stories and, therefore, us.
Hollywood's current tendency to revisit existing franchises is a sign of financial caution (or cowardice, if you will). But the reason such stories are a relatively safe bet is that people are attracted to stories they already know. I see this in myself when I reflect on movies I've seen in the theater in the past year or so:
Les Misérables
Star Trek: Into Darkness
Ender's Game
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
Oblivion
Gravity
The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug
This covers a majority of my recent moviegoing, and only two of these films, Oblivion and Gravity, are not based on pre-existing stories I have watched or read. I am excited about and comforted by stories I already have a relationship with. They have a deeper meaning because they are part of my history, my knowledge base. Moreover, in an age in which I have my choice of thousands of new stories, most of which, by Sturgeon's Law, are not very good, these known stories are safer. I can guess they will be at least a moderately good use of my limited time.
A cultural return to retelling known stories (whether by Hollywood or fan fic writers) may be an impulse to counteract information overload. It may be a healthy rebalancing of our cultural scales to place more weight on fewer, better known stories that we can share. This emphasis makes it harder for original writers to break in; as an original novelist, I assure you I feel this. The good news is that it also signals a return to a freer, more participatory reader-writer relationship. Regardless of the impositions of copyright law, when we share a narrative culturally, we own it collectively. The more widely it is known and the more times it is retold (in authorized or unauthorized forms), the more it becomes folklore that we can all take a hand in shaping.
Disclaimer: I was a beta reader for the fic, "The Body," linked above as an example of excellent fic.
Notes:
[1] My examples in this essay are almost exclusively from Western canon. I'm using this canon because it is my native culture and the focus of my academic study and, thus, I have some authority to speak to it. As far as I can tell, my statements generally apply across world cultures, and, of course, diverse cultures have enormously rich narrative traditions, but I am not qualified to speak to them in any depth.
[2] If you're noticing that every single writer I’ve mentioned is a man--and mostly, probably white, yes. Yes, they are. And, yes, that is highly relevant to what’s considered legitimate and professional, but it’s also another essay.
February 20, 2014
The Love That Does Not Know How to Speak Its Name?
Reading over summaries of anime on Soul-Anime, I came across a fascinating summary of Gungrave, one of my favorites. I don’t know if this was written by one person or edited after the fact, but it feels like a quintessential example of what I think of as the “non-narratable,” that is, a story that is so outside our cultural conceptions of what’s possible that we lack the concepts to speak about it or really understand it. (I gleaned this term from narratology, but some quick reading up suggests my use has diverged from the more standard use.)
Here’s the summary:
Brandon Heat, a silent and passive man, is living a laid back life with his friends. He's got his eyes on Maria, but her uncle forbids their relationship. After the brutal murder of his friends and Maria's father, Brandon is on the run together with the only friend he has left—Harry McDowell. When he finds out custody over Maria has been taken by Millennion, the largest mafia syndicate in town, he and Harry decide to join the syndicate. He goes through many hardships after joining the syndicate but he is willing to risk everything as long as he can be close to Maria. The plot is more about the relationship between Brandon and Harry not as much about Brandon and Maria as the current plot is describing.
--From Soul-Anime
There are some factual errors here: Brandon and Harry do not decide to join Millennion directly because Maria is with Millennion. Harry decides to join because he is ambitious and sees it as a path to power. Brandon does join, in part, because Maria is there but also because Harry is joining. The story, as the last line notes, is more about Brandon and Harry than Brandon and Maria. Indeed, it is cardinally the story of the fall and reconciliation in Brandon and Harry’s friendship.
This writer knew that; they say in black and white that it’s more about Harry and Brandon. And yet the summary describes the story as about Brandon and Maria. It says Brandon risks everything for Maria, which is not true. He makes sacrifices for her, yes, but he orients his life around Harry. It says he joins Millennion for Maria: also not true. He joins, in a larger part, to be with Harry (and is with Harry much more often than with Maria).
It’s as if this writer wrote what they knew to be a factually incorrect summary because they could not find the words to write it correctly. It’s as if there is no way to say that a man risks everything for a man, for a friend, not even a lover. It’s as if the girl a boy is in love with must be the most important person in his life: there are no other words. I may be completely off base about the writer’s thought process, but this is the impression I get: expression being stifled by a cultural discourse that cannot conceive of someone’s “just” friend being his greatest love.
I want to change this. This kind of discursive limitation does damage to our understanding, our imagination, and our relationships. Say it with me now: “Brandon loves Harry. Brandon risks everything for Harry.” Just say it. It feels good.
Here’s the summary:
Brandon Heat, a silent and passive man, is living a laid back life with his friends. He's got his eyes on Maria, but her uncle forbids their relationship. After the brutal murder of his friends and Maria's father, Brandon is on the run together with the only friend he has left—Harry McDowell. When he finds out custody over Maria has been taken by Millennion, the largest mafia syndicate in town, he and Harry decide to join the syndicate. He goes through many hardships after joining the syndicate but he is willing to risk everything as long as he can be close to Maria. The plot is more about the relationship between Brandon and Harry not as much about Brandon and Maria as the current plot is describing.
--From Soul-Anime
There are some factual errors here: Brandon and Harry do not decide to join Millennion directly because Maria is with Millennion. Harry decides to join because he is ambitious and sees it as a path to power. Brandon does join, in part, because Maria is there but also because Harry is joining. The story, as the last line notes, is more about Brandon and Harry than Brandon and Maria. Indeed, it is cardinally the story of the fall and reconciliation in Brandon and Harry’s friendship.
This writer knew that; they say in black and white that it’s more about Harry and Brandon. And yet the summary describes the story as about Brandon and Maria. It says Brandon risks everything for Maria, which is not true. He makes sacrifices for her, yes, but he orients his life around Harry. It says he joins Millennion for Maria: also not true. He joins, in a larger part, to be with Harry (and is with Harry much more often than with Maria).
It’s as if this writer wrote what they knew to be a factually incorrect summary because they could not find the words to write it correctly. It’s as if there is no way to say that a man risks everything for a man, for a friend, not even a lover. It’s as if the girl a boy is in love with must be the most important person in his life: there are no other words. I may be completely off base about the writer’s thought process, but this is the impression I get: expression being stifled by a cultural discourse that cannot conceive of someone’s “just” friend being his greatest love.
I want to change this. This kind of discursive limitation does damage to our understanding, our imagination, and our relationships. Say it with me now: “Brandon loves Harry. Brandon risks everything for Harry.” Just say it. It feels good.
February 9, 2014
Steven Moffat, Meet That Sexist Pig: A Cautionary Tale
Yet Another Post on Sexism in Moffat's Shows
I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that Steven Moffat is the Ben Steed of his generation. For those not up on their BBC TV writers of thirty-plus years ago, Ben Steed was a writer for Blake’s 7 (among other things), now widely remembered in Blake’s 7 fandom as that sexist pig. This is a shame for the late Steed: in many respects he was a good writer, but he allowed his bigotry to distort the virtues of his stories, leaving a sour taste in the mouth of many fans across the decades. Steven Moffat seems committed to an updated version of the same trajectory, and it’s a shame for him too because he, too, is a good writer, but that fact is increasingly being obscured by the sexism* of his shows.
The Lessons of History
Ben Steed wrote three Blake’s 7 episodes: “The Harvest of Kairos,” “Moloch,” and “Power.” Together they comprise the most sexist moments of a show generally well ahead of its time in its gender discourse.
In “The Harvest of Kairos,” a Marty-Stu named Jarvik comes very close to defeating our motley band of anti-heroes in heroic combat against the space battle skills of handsome young man character, Tarrant. Along the way Servalan, one of the most self-assured villainesses in the history of TV, falls madly in love with him after he forcibly kisses her, picks her up, flings her over his shoulder, throws her on a couch, grabs her neck, and tells her to be quiet. Jarvik then goes on to defeat powerful hand-to-hand fighter Dayna after mocking her mere girlishness (though she does get some good blows in), while the only other female character, the usually fairly proactive Cally, stands around and does nothing.
Steed’s second episode, “Moloch,” is his least offensive. The core characters are written reasonably, and while some poor native women are sexually molested, this is presented as Bad. Servalan gets threatened with rape, but at least she doesn’t fall in love with her would-be rapists and retains her typical Servalan composure. The creepy thing about “Moloch” is the “lovable rapist” character, a charming cockney Federation soldier who befriends amiable comic relief character, Vila. This ex-con, conscripted into army, tells Vila his problem was always women.
“You like them?” Vila guesses.
“No,” he replies.
The implication seems to be he’s gone to prison for murdering (and possibly raping) women. Later, he mentions explicitly that when he gets angry, he kills people, and he encourages Vila to rape Servalan, yet he’s written as Vila’s jovial new best friend. It’s just very creepy.
And then there’s “Power,” which features a social breakdown in which men and women have become two separate societies battling against each other. The men win. Where to begin with “Power”? -- more forcible kissing (this time by protagonist, Avon); a smart, mature woman who found true happiness being dragged away from her scientific work and all the people she ever knew to be the bride of a barbarian; the line about how a man’s power will always be greater than a woman’s; the way it’s ultimately a selfish, unbalanced woman who kills the last nice girl…
Anyway, the rough thing about all this for Steed is that his vitriol against women eclipses his strength as a writer. All three of Steed’s episodes show a true science fiction writer’s concern with social extrapolation. “The Harvest of Kairos” questions the extent to which computing can replace the human element in war and politics and has an interesting sci-fi device with a rock-like alien that reflects telepathically the identity of whoever sees it.
“Moloch” not only furthers the theme of technological caution by depicting a society controlled by its own evolutionary extrapolations (in the form of a super-evolved autocrat of its own creation); it also produces a nicely nuanced depiction of the Federation sphere of influence in a state of contraction following the Andromedan War that opens Season 3. This adds depth to the arc of the series by exploring what might happen on the frontier worlds when the Federation’s grip slackens and Federation soldiers, separated from a rigid command structure, are left roving the provinces. (The answer, in a nutshell is, “Give her to your men,” which is a pretty reasonable depiction of a bored imperial army, stripped of authority, playing with the natives.)
Even “Power” fits well within the series’ larger arc, moving the characters into their Season 4 configuration on a new planetary base. Both the male and female cultures depicted have complexity and a sense of history behind them. Moreover, Steed creates differentiated personalities, life histories, and multiple relationships for at least five guest characters within a single episode, while also handling major roles for Avon and Vila as regulars.
Yet these virtues don’t get discussed because we’re too busy discussing how much we hate Jarvik and how “a man’s [power] will always be greater.” And, make no mistake, we are discussing the right things: Steed’s sexism is egregious, and we cannot let it pass. But it’s too bad that he let this become his legacy.
Meanwhile in the 21st Century
Moffat and his creative team do not write this egregiously. Of course, they don’t. Thirty years have passed, and our standards of pop cultural gender discourse have progressed (albeit too slowly). Today, one simply could not get away with saying flat out, “Men will always be more powerful than women.” But to say that Moffat’s writing is not as sexist as Ben Steed’s is damning with faint praise. His writing (and/or the writing he endorses) puts women down again and again. And again. And eventually, even in stories where we accept that the main characters are men and the focus will be on them, it becomes impossible not to get distracted by the persistent putdowns.
I see the problems with Moffat's handling of female characters in Doctor Who and Sherlock as falling into two main categories:
1) Viewing women through a lens of putdowns, stereotypes, and disrespect: Molly being a figure of fun for her unrequited love, Sherlock semi-permanently tuning out what Mrs. Hudson says because it doesn't matter, the (quite pretty) fangirl in Doctor Who who has low self-esteem because she envies her prettier sister, forced kisses, the Doctor praising Clara by saying she's a "man," the unquestioned assumption that John should notice his wife is pregnant before she does, various damsels in need of rescuing, and so on. These attitudes are generally shown through the words and actions of the male characters or coding (through dress, emphasized plotlines, etc.) of female characters.
2) Writing female characters as if they were not human agents. This is far more pernicious as it does not just belittle women; it denies our personhood: erasing the entire prior life of Mary Watson so that she is literally nothing but Mrs. Watson, not holding her morally accountable for her actions as an assassin, not holding Irene morally accountable for her own rather psychopathic behavior, not investigating at all the type of life experience Clara had being splintered into different lifetimes at different points of the Doctor's timeline so that we have no idea what her basic perception of reality is like, reducing Queen Elizabeth to a girl obsessively in love with the Doctor. These attitudes are usually shown through a combination of the female characters' own words and actions (often childish, unhealthy, immoral, or just implausible) and others' responses to them (typically that this is okay/normal).
These two types of writing reinforce each other. When it is acceptable to mock and belittle a class of people, it becomes easier to view them as intrinsically inferior human beings, and of course, if one's views a class of people as inferior, it readily becomes acceptable to mock and belittle them. In this narrative context, female characters are routinely…
* robbed of agency (the ability to be drivers in their own lives, plots: Mary blackmailed, Amy imprisoned, Clara locked out of the TARDIS)
* robbed of moral responsibility for their actions (i.e. not written as adult people): see Mary and Irene
* sexualized, i.e. they must be sexually attractive or attracted to someone (most often the lead) as an important part of their identity/reason for being in the story: Amy initially, River, Clara (in a last-minute way, as if she couldn't be allowed out of the series without "fancying" the Doctor), Queen Elizabeth, Irene, Molly, various minor characters who ogle/flirt with the Doctor/Sherlock)
* primarily present to be rescued by, listen to, or offer loving support to the male lead: the substantial exceptions may be River and Irene, who have considerable agency but both take turns at needing to be rescued by the hero (Irene in a strange, tacked-on way after the plot of her episode is over).
* made fun of for being unattractive, silly, and/or old: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, parodies of fans
* in plots that make marriage/achieving long-term romance the chief marker of "a happy ending": Amy, arguably River, Molly, Mary, Queen Elizabeth
* not taken seriously in their own careers/vocations: Amy and Clara flitting between careers with no show of preparation/training, Molly more prominent for unrequited love than forensics, Queen Elizabeth full stop
There have been many essays on gender in Doctor Who and Sherlock, so I won't rehash all the details. Here are some links:
”Sherlock” Wrote a Female Character out of a Classic Story
Mary and Sherlock: I have No Idea Whatsoever What Just Happened There
Knows Nothing of Practical Gardening (Mary)
Mary and Irene
Doctor Who Christmas Special Was Everything Fans Dislike about the Moffat Era" (Not only about gender)
How Moffat Ruined Doctor Who for My Little Sister
Despite these problems with female characters (and various other arguably deserved criticisms), Moffat is, in many ways, a good show runner. His tenure has lots of moments of excellent wit (ex. much of the Sherlock-John-Mary discourse), creative plot devices (ex. the Angels in Doctor Who), interesting new twists (ex. the Doctor traveling with a married couple), strong characterizations, and even many nice moments for female characters: Amy, Clara, River, Irene, Mary all get wit, skill, and some proactivity. But more and more, this is not what we're talking about; the sexism has become so systemic that it pushes itself to the fore.
And just in case it were true, as Moffat has sometimes intimated, that all viewers really care about is the male leads anyway, this type of writing hurts the male leads, as misogyny always hurts men too. See, for example, How Moffat Ruined Doctor Who for My Little Sister, which eloquently describes the sense of betrayal a long-time fan feels at seeing a role model of hers, the Doctor, speak in a way that belittles and silences her as a woman. He has ceased to be a positive role model for her.
For me, it is difficult to like Sherlock when he deceives a woman into agreeing to marry him just to get into a building: in a season where he is consistently shown to be more emotionally aware than he had been, this comes off as indefensibly cruel (though the show treats it as no more hurtful than standing someone up on a date).
Moreover, I should not have difficulty distinguishing the Eleventh Doctor from Sherlock Holmes. They are very different men. Yet in the recent runs of both series, both characters got put through scenes of swanning about, loudly showing off to admiring women in very similar tones. The repetition of the trope places it outside the realm of individualized character development and into the realm of social message, whether intentional or not.
This disregard for women – and for (mostly women's) critiques and expressions of genuine hurt and dismay – is backfiring for both series. Both are still entertaining, but they are now entertaining in spite of an albatross weighing them down. The solution is simple: when everyone is treated with respect, everyone wins. When everyone is fully human, everyone is a stronger, better-realized character. This is not new news. But if the message doesn't get through soon, Steven Moffat may go down in TV history right alongside Ben Steed. Steed had talent; he could have been known for more than being a bigot. Moffat still has a chance to be.
* A terminology note: I'm drawing a distinction between “misogyny” and “sexism." “Misogyny,” to me, denotes assumptions that belittle women. Almost all writing in a patriarchy is at least a little misogynistic. Mine certainly is; it’s hard to avoid writing from within your own culture's assumptions. “Sexism,” however, suggests to me a conscious investment in resisting women’s equality. Doctor Who and Sherlock under Moffat’s command are misogynistic (almost all TV is), but it’s hard not to see frank sexism in the persistence of the blows they strike against women.
I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that Steven Moffat is the Ben Steed of his generation. For those not up on their BBC TV writers of thirty-plus years ago, Ben Steed was a writer for Blake’s 7 (among other things), now widely remembered in Blake’s 7 fandom as that sexist pig. This is a shame for the late Steed: in many respects he was a good writer, but he allowed his bigotry to distort the virtues of his stories, leaving a sour taste in the mouth of many fans across the decades. Steven Moffat seems committed to an updated version of the same trajectory, and it’s a shame for him too because he, too, is a good writer, but that fact is increasingly being obscured by the sexism* of his shows.
The Lessons of History
Ben Steed wrote three Blake’s 7 episodes: “The Harvest of Kairos,” “Moloch,” and “Power.” Together they comprise the most sexist moments of a show generally well ahead of its time in its gender discourse.
In “The Harvest of Kairos,” a Marty-Stu named Jarvik comes very close to defeating our motley band of anti-heroes in heroic combat against the space battle skills of handsome young man character, Tarrant. Along the way Servalan, one of the most self-assured villainesses in the history of TV, falls madly in love with him after he forcibly kisses her, picks her up, flings her over his shoulder, throws her on a couch, grabs her neck, and tells her to be quiet. Jarvik then goes on to defeat powerful hand-to-hand fighter Dayna after mocking her mere girlishness (though she does get some good blows in), while the only other female character, the usually fairly proactive Cally, stands around and does nothing.
Steed’s second episode, “Moloch,” is his least offensive. The core characters are written reasonably, and while some poor native women are sexually molested, this is presented as Bad. Servalan gets threatened with rape, but at least she doesn’t fall in love with her would-be rapists and retains her typical Servalan composure. The creepy thing about “Moloch” is the “lovable rapist” character, a charming cockney Federation soldier who befriends amiable comic relief character, Vila. This ex-con, conscripted into army, tells Vila his problem was always women.
“You like them?” Vila guesses.
“No,” he replies.
The implication seems to be he’s gone to prison for murdering (and possibly raping) women. Later, he mentions explicitly that when he gets angry, he kills people, and he encourages Vila to rape Servalan, yet he’s written as Vila’s jovial new best friend. It’s just very creepy.
And then there’s “Power,” which features a social breakdown in which men and women have become two separate societies battling against each other. The men win. Where to begin with “Power”? -- more forcible kissing (this time by protagonist, Avon); a smart, mature woman who found true happiness being dragged away from her scientific work and all the people she ever knew to be the bride of a barbarian; the line about how a man’s power will always be greater than a woman’s; the way it’s ultimately a selfish, unbalanced woman who kills the last nice girl…
Anyway, the rough thing about all this for Steed is that his vitriol against women eclipses his strength as a writer. All three of Steed’s episodes show a true science fiction writer’s concern with social extrapolation. “The Harvest of Kairos” questions the extent to which computing can replace the human element in war and politics and has an interesting sci-fi device with a rock-like alien that reflects telepathically the identity of whoever sees it.
“Moloch” not only furthers the theme of technological caution by depicting a society controlled by its own evolutionary extrapolations (in the form of a super-evolved autocrat of its own creation); it also produces a nicely nuanced depiction of the Federation sphere of influence in a state of contraction following the Andromedan War that opens Season 3. This adds depth to the arc of the series by exploring what might happen on the frontier worlds when the Federation’s grip slackens and Federation soldiers, separated from a rigid command structure, are left roving the provinces. (The answer, in a nutshell is, “Give her to your men,” which is a pretty reasonable depiction of a bored imperial army, stripped of authority, playing with the natives.)
Even “Power” fits well within the series’ larger arc, moving the characters into their Season 4 configuration on a new planetary base. Both the male and female cultures depicted have complexity and a sense of history behind them. Moreover, Steed creates differentiated personalities, life histories, and multiple relationships for at least five guest characters within a single episode, while also handling major roles for Avon and Vila as regulars.
Yet these virtues don’t get discussed because we’re too busy discussing how much we hate Jarvik and how “a man’s [power] will always be greater.” And, make no mistake, we are discussing the right things: Steed’s sexism is egregious, and we cannot let it pass. But it’s too bad that he let this become his legacy.
Meanwhile in the 21st Century
Moffat and his creative team do not write this egregiously. Of course, they don’t. Thirty years have passed, and our standards of pop cultural gender discourse have progressed (albeit too slowly). Today, one simply could not get away with saying flat out, “Men will always be more powerful than women.” But to say that Moffat’s writing is not as sexist as Ben Steed’s is damning with faint praise. His writing (and/or the writing he endorses) puts women down again and again. And again. And eventually, even in stories where we accept that the main characters are men and the focus will be on them, it becomes impossible not to get distracted by the persistent putdowns.
I see the problems with Moffat's handling of female characters in Doctor Who and Sherlock as falling into two main categories:
1) Viewing women through a lens of putdowns, stereotypes, and disrespect: Molly being a figure of fun for her unrequited love, Sherlock semi-permanently tuning out what Mrs. Hudson says because it doesn't matter, the (quite pretty) fangirl in Doctor Who who has low self-esteem because she envies her prettier sister, forced kisses, the Doctor praising Clara by saying she's a "man," the unquestioned assumption that John should notice his wife is pregnant before she does, various damsels in need of rescuing, and so on. These attitudes are generally shown through the words and actions of the male characters or coding (through dress, emphasized plotlines, etc.) of female characters.
2) Writing female characters as if they were not human agents. This is far more pernicious as it does not just belittle women; it denies our personhood: erasing the entire prior life of Mary Watson so that she is literally nothing but Mrs. Watson, not holding her morally accountable for her actions as an assassin, not holding Irene morally accountable for her own rather psychopathic behavior, not investigating at all the type of life experience Clara had being splintered into different lifetimes at different points of the Doctor's timeline so that we have no idea what her basic perception of reality is like, reducing Queen Elizabeth to a girl obsessively in love with the Doctor. These attitudes are usually shown through a combination of the female characters' own words and actions (often childish, unhealthy, immoral, or just implausible) and others' responses to them (typically that this is okay/normal).
These two types of writing reinforce each other. When it is acceptable to mock and belittle a class of people, it becomes easier to view them as intrinsically inferior human beings, and of course, if one's views a class of people as inferior, it readily becomes acceptable to mock and belittle them. In this narrative context, female characters are routinely…
* robbed of agency (the ability to be drivers in their own lives, plots: Mary blackmailed, Amy imprisoned, Clara locked out of the TARDIS)
* robbed of moral responsibility for their actions (i.e. not written as adult people): see Mary and Irene
* sexualized, i.e. they must be sexually attractive or attracted to someone (most often the lead) as an important part of their identity/reason for being in the story: Amy initially, River, Clara (in a last-minute way, as if she couldn't be allowed out of the series without "fancying" the Doctor), Queen Elizabeth, Irene, Molly, various minor characters who ogle/flirt with the Doctor/Sherlock)
* primarily present to be rescued by, listen to, or offer loving support to the male lead: the substantial exceptions may be River and Irene, who have considerable agency but both take turns at needing to be rescued by the hero (Irene in a strange, tacked-on way after the plot of her episode is over).
* made fun of for being unattractive, silly, and/or old: Molly, Mrs. Hudson, parodies of fans
* in plots that make marriage/achieving long-term romance the chief marker of "a happy ending": Amy, arguably River, Molly, Mary, Queen Elizabeth
* not taken seriously in their own careers/vocations: Amy and Clara flitting between careers with no show of preparation/training, Molly more prominent for unrequited love than forensics, Queen Elizabeth full stop
There have been many essays on gender in Doctor Who and Sherlock, so I won't rehash all the details. Here are some links:
”Sherlock” Wrote a Female Character out of a Classic Story
Mary and Sherlock: I have No Idea Whatsoever What Just Happened There
Knows Nothing of Practical Gardening (Mary)
Mary and Irene
Doctor Who Christmas Special Was Everything Fans Dislike about the Moffat Era" (Not only about gender)
How Moffat Ruined Doctor Who for My Little Sister
Despite these problems with female characters (and various other arguably deserved criticisms), Moffat is, in many ways, a good show runner. His tenure has lots of moments of excellent wit (ex. much of the Sherlock-John-Mary discourse), creative plot devices (ex. the Angels in Doctor Who), interesting new twists (ex. the Doctor traveling with a married couple), strong characterizations, and even many nice moments for female characters: Amy, Clara, River, Irene, Mary all get wit, skill, and some proactivity. But more and more, this is not what we're talking about; the sexism has become so systemic that it pushes itself to the fore.
And just in case it were true, as Moffat has sometimes intimated, that all viewers really care about is the male leads anyway, this type of writing hurts the male leads, as misogyny always hurts men too. See, for example, How Moffat Ruined Doctor Who for My Little Sister, which eloquently describes the sense of betrayal a long-time fan feels at seeing a role model of hers, the Doctor, speak in a way that belittles and silences her as a woman. He has ceased to be a positive role model for her.
For me, it is difficult to like Sherlock when he deceives a woman into agreeing to marry him just to get into a building: in a season where he is consistently shown to be more emotionally aware than he had been, this comes off as indefensibly cruel (though the show treats it as no more hurtful than standing someone up on a date).
Moreover, I should not have difficulty distinguishing the Eleventh Doctor from Sherlock Holmes. They are very different men. Yet in the recent runs of both series, both characters got put through scenes of swanning about, loudly showing off to admiring women in very similar tones. The repetition of the trope places it outside the realm of individualized character development and into the realm of social message, whether intentional or not.
This disregard for women – and for (mostly women's) critiques and expressions of genuine hurt and dismay – is backfiring for both series. Both are still entertaining, but they are now entertaining in spite of an albatross weighing them down. The solution is simple: when everyone is treated with respect, everyone wins. When everyone is fully human, everyone is a stronger, better-realized character. This is not new news. But if the message doesn't get through soon, Steven Moffat may go down in TV history right alongside Ben Steed. Steed had talent; he could have been known for more than being a bigot. Moffat still has a chance to be.
* A terminology note: I'm drawing a distinction between “misogyny” and “sexism." “Misogyny,” to me, denotes assumptions that belittle women. Almost all writing in a patriarchy is at least a little misogynistic. Mine certainly is; it’s hard to avoid writing from within your own culture's assumptions. “Sexism,” however, suggests to me a conscious investment in resisting women’s equality. Doctor Who and Sherlock under Moffat’s command are misogynistic (almost all TV is), but it’s hard not to see frank sexism in the persistence of the blows they strike against women.
December 19, 2013
This Is Not a Review of The Hobbit
This is not a review of The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, but I’ll share some impressions for context. Though it kept me entertained, I didn’t think it was very good. The story felt padded; the implausible action scenes lacked tension; the moralizing was often forced. But for all that, I’m glad the movie was made because it means that the narrative of Middle-earth is still alive.
Storytelling belongs to the public consciousness. All the copyright laws in the world cannot stop that being true. It is human nature to imitate: it is how we learn to talk, to dress, to be polite, to live in society. It is embedded in human nature to take in stories and breathe them out again. This is not to say there is no place for copyright. As long as we live in a nominally free market society, artists must be able to make money from their work for art to flourish, and copyright (ideally) gives them control over distribution of their work to prevent market saturation and grant them remuneration. But if copying must be restricted, the creation of art itself is naturally free: the mind flies to it as it flies to love, and no prison nor prison sentence can stop it.
One common complaint about derivative works is that they are often bad quality. And this is true. (It’s true of original works just as much.) I would argue that The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, despite a great deal of talent and effort, is bad quality in many ways. It’s a legal, licensed work, but aside from giving it a big budget, that doesn’t affect whether it’s good or bad art. Likewise, some still claim fan fiction has dubious legality, but that has no bearing on whether it is brilliant or painful to read. Art is speech, and democratic society has long understood that respecting freedom of speech exposes us to reams of stupid speech. That is a very small price to pay for the freedom to share thought and learn and grow as individuals and cultures.
I don’t doubt that Tolkien would be rolling over in his grave at the excesses of the Jacksonverse. In this particular movie, I suspect he’d find the Elf-Dwarf romance ridiculous, the sex joke appallingly inappropriate, the fight scenes mostly absurd and undercutting of the quieter narrative of Bilbo’s clever heroism--and that’s just for a start. I wouldn’t be surprised if his heirs have similar feelings. I have many of the same feelings myself.
Who cares? We don’t really deserve any say in how others choose to retell a tale. I mean this as a statement about natural rights rather than gracious conduct. A gracious standard of conduct might well choose to consult with a respected original author or their heirs, might make an effort not to bruise their feelings, might listen to critiques and revise accordingly. But a narrative belongs to the mind of every person it has touched. And no one has a right (regardless of the current law of the land) to tell any person not to re-envision that narrative however they wish.
Without such re-envisioning, The Hobbit is just a novel, a good novel, written in the 1930s in Britain, growing slowly more remote from the language, tastes, and customs of the new century. Without this re-envisioning, one day it will die. And so we create new versions, and they have women and more action and additional tie-ins to The Lord of the Rings and sex jokes and a younger, sexier Thorin and a scarier Ring. And out of what might be considered the mess of this particular version, out of the sloppy, poorly paced, bad taste et cetera comes a new perspective on an old story.
I liked the scarier Ring, the almost-heavy handedness in showing its immediate hold on Bilbo, the changes in his behavior when he fears he’ll lose it. I liked the general tone of foreboding, the sense of social breakdown among the Wood Elves and the Lake Men that presages the cataclysmic War to come in The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien could not have done this for the simple reason that he hadn’t yet written The Lord of the Rings when he wrote The Hobbit. Whether or not he would have done it if he had already developed the full history of the War of the Ring is moot (as an Ent would say). The story left Tolkien years ago. It is our story now. It is Peter Jackson’s. It is mine. It is yours. And as the years pass and its iterations continue to ripple out--a cartoon here, a CGI-heavy trilogy there, a radio drama, a few thousand fan fics, and who knows what--it will be reshaped by the minds it meets, often badly but perhaps one day with hammer-blow of genius that will truly reinvent it. Perhaps Tolkien has yet to meet his Shakespeare. But the tale will always be reshaped to meet the changing world it continues to speak in. And it will keep living, as art has to if the human spirit is to thrive.
Storytelling belongs to the public consciousness. All the copyright laws in the world cannot stop that being true. It is human nature to imitate: it is how we learn to talk, to dress, to be polite, to live in society. It is embedded in human nature to take in stories and breathe them out again. This is not to say there is no place for copyright. As long as we live in a nominally free market society, artists must be able to make money from their work for art to flourish, and copyright (ideally) gives them control over distribution of their work to prevent market saturation and grant them remuneration. But if copying must be restricted, the creation of art itself is naturally free: the mind flies to it as it flies to love, and no prison nor prison sentence can stop it.
One common complaint about derivative works is that they are often bad quality. And this is true. (It’s true of original works just as much.) I would argue that The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, despite a great deal of talent and effort, is bad quality in many ways. It’s a legal, licensed work, but aside from giving it a big budget, that doesn’t affect whether it’s good or bad art. Likewise, some still claim fan fiction has dubious legality, but that has no bearing on whether it is brilliant or painful to read. Art is speech, and democratic society has long understood that respecting freedom of speech exposes us to reams of stupid speech. That is a very small price to pay for the freedom to share thought and learn and grow as individuals and cultures.
I don’t doubt that Tolkien would be rolling over in his grave at the excesses of the Jacksonverse. In this particular movie, I suspect he’d find the Elf-Dwarf romance ridiculous, the sex joke appallingly inappropriate, the fight scenes mostly absurd and undercutting of the quieter narrative of Bilbo’s clever heroism--and that’s just for a start. I wouldn’t be surprised if his heirs have similar feelings. I have many of the same feelings myself.
Who cares? We don’t really deserve any say in how others choose to retell a tale. I mean this as a statement about natural rights rather than gracious conduct. A gracious standard of conduct might well choose to consult with a respected original author or their heirs, might make an effort not to bruise their feelings, might listen to critiques and revise accordingly. But a narrative belongs to the mind of every person it has touched. And no one has a right (regardless of the current law of the land) to tell any person not to re-envision that narrative however they wish.
Without such re-envisioning, The Hobbit is just a novel, a good novel, written in the 1930s in Britain, growing slowly more remote from the language, tastes, and customs of the new century. Without this re-envisioning, one day it will die. And so we create new versions, and they have women and more action and additional tie-ins to The Lord of the Rings and sex jokes and a younger, sexier Thorin and a scarier Ring. And out of what might be considered the mess of this particular version, out of the sloppy, poorly paced, bad taste et cetera comes a new perspective on an old story.
I liked the scarier Ring, the almost-heavy handedness in showing its immediate hold on Bilbo, the changes in his behavior when he fears he’ll lose it. I liked the general tone of foreboding, the sense of social breakdown among the Wood Elves and the Lake Men that presages the cataclysmic War to come in The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien could not have done this for the simple reason that he hadn’t yet written The Lord of the Rings when he wrote The Hobbit. Whether or not he would have done it if he had already developed the full history of the War of the Ring is moot (as an Ent would say). The story left Tolkien years ago. It is our story now. It is Peter Jackson’s. It is mine. It is yours. And as the years pass and its iterations continue to ripple out--a cartoon here, a CGI-heavy trilogy there, a radio drama, a few thousand fan fics, and who knows what--it will be reshaped by the minds it meets, often badly but perhaps one day with hammer-blow of genius that will truly reinvent it. Perhaps Tolkien has yet to meet his Shakespeare. But the tale will always be reshaped to meet the changing world it continues to speak in. And it will keep living, as art has to if the human spirit is to thrive.
December 13, 2013
Anime Review: Ergo Proxy
Ergo Proxy (Manglobe, 2006) is an anime that names giant, dystopia-governing Greek statues after literary critics. Know this going into it. It does not pull punches in its complexity, convolution, or detailed philosophical referentiality. But if you enjoy that level of challenge (or can put up with it), you may be very pleased: the series is artistically superb, thought provoking, and exceptional in its character development. (Light spoilers follow.)
Ergo Proxy presents a future in which an environmentally devastated Earth maintains life in domed cities inhabited by three peoples: AutoReivs (android servants), humans, and Proxies (genetically engineered beings with almost godlike power). Not everyone, however, is aware of Proxies, and our story opens with aristocratic young detective Re-L Mayer beginning to stumble onto the Proxy mystery as she investigates sightings of a monster. Her investigations keep leading her back to an unprepossessing working class technician, Vincent Law, who, for his part, is baffled by his entanglement in monster attacks. When the statue-like things that govern the city abort Re-L’s investigation, she begins to suspect a conspiracy and becomes more determined than ever to uncover the truth. Meanwhile, Vincent finds himself outlawed and thrust into the outside world with an AutoReiv child, Pino. It is, of course, only a matter of time before Re-L’s curiosity leads her to follow them and learn the truth about their society’s history and purpose.
And that setup-summary expresses nothing about what makes this anime fantastic...
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project
Ergo Proxy presents a future in which an environmentally devastated Earth maintains life in domed cities inhabited by three peoples: AutoReivs (android servants), humans, and Proxies (genetically engineered beings with almost godlike power). Not everyone, however, is aware of Proxies, and our story opens with aristocratic young detective Re-L Mayer beginning to stumble onto the Proxy mystery as she investigates sightings of a monster. Her investigations keep leading her back to an unprepossessing working class technician, Vincent Law, who, for his part, is baffled by his entanglement in monster attacks. When the statue-like things that govern the city abort Re-L’s investigation, she begins to suspect a conspiracy and becomes more determined than ever to uncover the truth. Meanwhile, Vincent finds himself outlawed and thrust into the outside world with an AutoReiv child, Pino. It is, of course, only a matter of time before Re-L’s curiosity leads her to follow them and learn the truth about their society’s history and purpose.
And that setup-summary expresses nothing about what makes this anime fantastic...
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project
November 8, 2013
Anime Review: Akira
Akira (1988) is timeless. If you’re okay with violent anime, watch it. If you saw it a long time ago (and are okay with violent anime), watch it again. You may be very pleased at how well Katsuhiro Otomo’s twenty-five-year-old anime film, loosely based on his lengthy manga, stands up both as a story and work of cinematic art.
Akira is a near-future dystopian drama set in a post-apocalyptic Neo-Tokyo run by corrupt a government, a nefarious military-scientific complex, and—nearer the ground—by teen motorcycle gangs. The story centers on teen bikers, Kaneda and Tetsuo. Kaneda is the flashy, badass gang leader, Tetsuo the runt of the pack, who, we can guess, is only included in the gang because he’s Kaneda’s best friend. This power dynamic changes, however, when Tetsuo is abducted by the sinister Akira project, concerned with channeling massive energy through children. Tetsuo becomes the latest in a line of young test subjects, including the eponymous Akira, to have their lives and health devastated in exchange for superpowers. To save Tetsuo, Kaneda joins a band of revolutionaries and infiltrates the top secret Akira installation, only to discover that the friend he set out to rescue is no longer the boy he knew…
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project.
Akira is a near-future dystopian drama set in a post-apocalyptic Neo-Tokyo run by corrupt a government, a nefarious military-scientific complex, and—nearer the ground—by teen motorcycle gangs. The story centers on teen bikers, Kaneda and Tetsuo. Kaneda is the flashy, badass gang leader, Tetsuo the runt of the pack, who, we can guess, is only included in the gang because he’s Kaneda’s best friend. This power dynamic changes, however, when Tetsuo is abducted by the sinister Akira project, concerned with channeling massive energy through children. Tetsuo becomes the latest in a line of young test subjects, including the eponymous Akira, to have their lives and health devastated in exchange for superpowers. To save Tetsuo, Kaneda joins a band of revolutionaries and infiltrates the top secret Akira installation, only to discover that the friend he set out to rescue is no longer the boy he knew…
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project.
October 21, 2013
Sci-Fi Technology Thoughts Inspired by Gravity
I agree with the rest of the world: Gravity is a fantastic film that I recommend to everyone. For an excellent analysis, see Lettered’s post on Dreamwidth.
For now, I’d like to talk specifically about technologies used in Gravity as an example of a type of technological reasoning I use in my science fiction in the Continuation universe.
Gravity is set in space – space! – presumably around 2013: it “should” be reflecting the pinnacle of modern technological development, right? Yet many of the technologies we see the characters use are retro, as if they came out of 1960s conceptions of space travel. We see airlocks that open with the turn of a handle (a rather 19th-century technology). We see landing modules that operate using rows of old-fashioned pushbuttons rather than touch screens. We see print instruction manuals color-coded by cover. As many have remarked on the considerable realism of Gravity, I’m going to posit that these technologies are fairly plausible for current space exploration. And well they should be: they make perfect sense.
But our society has a tendency to assume that more recent, more “advanced” technology equals better technology and to extrapolate this into science fiction. For example, the theory goes, in the future, you certainly won’t see space ships run by pushing buttons. Buttons have already been made obsolete by touch screen icons. Before long, people will just use neural implants, and so on.
The pushing buttons thing keeps coming back to me because my far-future, technologically advanced civilizations do, in fact, push buttons. And it’s not because I’m not aware that touch screens exist, or holograms, or neural implants (as future possibilities). It’s because there’s a stability to an on/off button. Or to go back to Gravity, when you’re about to smashed by space debris and have just a few minutes to launch your escape module for Earth, what you really, really don’t want is for your touch screen to have an electrical fault and black out or get greasy and not respond to your touch. What you want is a nice button that will directly activate a mechanism when you push on it.
Well, that’s 2013, one might say. In the future touch screen technology will be better. Yes, this is a good point. And in science fiction, of course, you can posit whatever you like. You can imagine that humans develop such advanced technology that it’s almost godlike and, like Iain M. Banks’ Culture, you can pretty much do whatever you want. But if you’re in a middle zone, where futuristic tech meets some sort of some imperfection, some possibility of malfunction, you want to minimize the chance for malfunction, and you do that by minimizing the complexity of the mechanism. A touch screen is more complicated than a button; all things being equal, it is, therefore, more prone to error. The basic dictum is:
A technology should be the simplest mechanism available for optimally performing the task.
Now, for some tasks, that will be a very complex mechanism: the results of micro-laser surgery cannot be replicated with needle and thread. But there’s no reason an airlock can’t be cranked open or that landing module directions can’t be in print.
My readers sometimes express confusion that I have some very high tech peoples using very simple technologies. A recent recurrent comment from a critiquer (a very helpful critiquer, let me add) goes something like, “Why are these high tech people using a knife?” Well, why do the Japanese, who are the world’s premier producers of robots, use two sticks to pick up their food? Because it works. Because – for all intents and purposes – there’s nothing to improve on.
I don’t claim that my schemes for tech use in the Continuation always make sense. I’m not a great technician, even in fiction. But the general philosophy is sound. Cutting edge is not always better. And there’s no reason why the distant, high-tech future shouldn’t keep on using knives, forks, chopsticks, cups, plates, robes with belts, shoelaces, metal hair clips, ink on a piece of paper, or push buttons. If it ain’t broke, don’t give it more pieces to break.
For now, I’d like to talk specifically about technologies used in Gravity as an example of a type of technological reasoning I use in my science fiction in the Continuation universe.
Gravity is set in space – space! – presumably around 2013: it “should” be reflecting the pinnacle of modern technological development, right? Yet many of the technologies we see the characters use are retro, as if they came out of 1960s conceptions of space travel. We see airlocks that open with the turn of a handle (a rather 19th-century technology). We see landing modules that operate using rows of old-fashioned pushbuttons rather than touch screens. We see print instruction manuals color-coded by cover. As many have remarked on the considerable realism of Gravity, I’m going to posit that these technologies are fairly plausible for current space exploration. And well they should be: they make perfect sense.
But our society has a tendency to assume that more recent, more “advanced” technology equals better technology and to extrapolate this into science fiction. For example, the theory goes, in the future, you certainly won’t see space ships run by pushing buttons. Buttons have already been made obsolete by touch screen icons. Before long, people will just use neural implants, and so on.
The pushing buttons thing keeps coming back to me because my far-future, technologically advanced civilizations do, in fact, push buttons. And it’s not because I’m not aware that touch screens exist, or holograms, or neural implants (as future possibilities). It’s because there’s a stability to an on/off button. Or to go back to Gravity, when you’re about to smashed by space debris and have just a few minutes to launch your escape module for Earth, what you really, really don’t want is for your touch screen to have an electrical fault and black out or get greasy and not respond to your touch. What you want is a nice button that will directly activate a mechanism when you push on it.
Well, that’s 2013, one might say. In the future touch screen technology will be better. Yes, this is a good point. And in science fiction, of course, you can posit whatever you like. You can imagine that humans develop such advanced technology that it’s almost godlike and, like Iain M. Banks’ Culture, you can pretty much do whatever you want. But if you’re in a middle zone, where futuristic tech meets some sort of some imperfection, some possibility of malfunction, you want to minimize the chance for malfunction, and you do that by minimizing the complexity of the mechanism. A touch screen is more complicated than a button; all things being equal, it is, therefore, more prone to error. The basic dictum is:
A technology should be the simplest mechanism available for optimally performing the task.
Now, for some tasks, that will be a very complex mechanism: the results of micro-laser surgery cannot be replicated with needle and thread. But there’s no reason an airlock can’t be cranked open or that landing module directions can’t be in print.
My readers sometimes express confusion that I have some very high tech peoples using very simple technologies. A recent recurrent comment from a critiquer (a very helpful critiquer, let me add) goes something like, “Why are these high tech people using a knife?” Well, why do the Japanese, who are the world’s premier producers of robots, use two sticks to pick up their food? Because it works. Because – for all intents and purposes – there’s nothing to improve on.
I don’t claim that my schemes for tech use in the Continuation always make sense. I’m not a great technician, even in fiction. But the general philosophy is sound. Cutting edge is not always better. And there’s no reason why the distant, high-tech future shouldn’t keep on using knives, forks, chopsticks, cups, plates, robes with belts, shoelaces, metal hair clips, ink on a piece of paper, or push buttons. If it ain’t broke, don’t give it more pieces to break.
October 11, 2013
Anime Review: Kara no Kyoukai
If you’re in the mood for some horror anime this Halloween, you may want to check out Kara no Kyoukai (Boundary of Emptiness), a series of seven anime films (Ufotable, 2007-2009) based on the light novel of the same name. Each film is a standalone story, forming the loosely arced tale of a dark and quirky detective agency investigating magic-related crimes, usually grisly ones. As character drama, the series has its moments, but it is most notable for its dark, violent, intricately plotted mysteries showcasing strong female characters. Not for kids.
The central characters are Shiki Ryougi, a somber young woman with amazing supernatural fighting abilities; Mikiya Kokutou, a kind young man who was her high school friend; and (to a lesser extent) Touko Aozaki, their boss and a powerful, offbeat sorceress. The arc narrative—sometimes more central, sometimes less—concerns Shiki’s nature and how she grapples with her incredible powers and her desire to kill. In the course of Shiki’s search for her place in society and sense of identity, the team encounters numerous murderers, sorcerers, destructive spirits, and so on.
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project.
The central characters are Shiki Ryougi, a somber young woman with amazing supernatural fighting abilities; Mikiya Kokutou, a kind young man who was her high school friend; and (to a lesser extent) Touko Aozaki, their boss and a powerful, offbeat sorceress. The arc narrative—sometimes more central, sometimes less—concerns Shiki’s nature and how she grapples with her incredible powers and her desire to kill. In the course of Shiki’s search for her place in society and sense of identity, the team encounters numerous murderers, sorcerers, destructive spirits, and so on.
Read the rest at The Geek Girl Project.
September 24, 2013
A True Christian: Thanks from an Agnostic Niece
Recently my uncle, Bill Sanford, passed away at eighty-two years old. Bill was a minister in the Methodist Church. He was also one of the most purely positive role models in my life. I am grateful to Bill in countless ways for his loving presence, but I want to focus on the impact he had as a Christian on me as a lifelong agnostic. What a beautiful example he is of living the loving teachings of Jesus.
To explain Bill’s influence on me, it’s necessary to talk a little bit about me. I have always been an agnostic. I learned agnosticism at my parents’ knees as others learn Catholicism or Judaism. If I asked my parents if God existed, they would reply with “I don’t know.” This belief system was ingrained in me by the time I was five years old. In the years since, my sense of what agnosticism means has grown more complex, but I have never had the desire to be anything other than agnostic.
Being an Agnostic Kid in the United States
Compared to many countries, the United States, blessedly, has a high degree of religious freedom. But it is a nation culturally dominated by Christianity, and it is not always easy to be an agnostic child among a Christian majority. Here are a few of my childhood experiences:
In kindergarten, I had a Jehovah’s Witness friend. While she and her family were always nice to me, I was not allowed to play with her outside of school: my mother explained to me that they thought I was a bad influence because I wasn’t a Christian.
When I was five or six and playing with a friend at my house, I mentioned that I didn’t believe in God. My friend burst into tears and started walking for home (three miles away). As I followed her down the road, she explained, sobbing, that she couldn't play with me because I worshipped Satan. Finally I told her I did believe in God, which cheered her up. I think this is the only time I have ever flat-out lied about it.
At eleven, my lifelong best friend, a Catholic, noted offhandedly that I was damned. There was no malice in the statement: it was just a fact. I wasn’t a Christian, and only Christians are saved. (I should note that today's Catholic Church has a more nuanced view than this child's understanding.)
With such experiences, reinforced by cultural narratives like televangelists’, it is perhaps not surprising that as a child I was afraid of churches and resistant to Christian teachings. My mother dragged me to church once or twice for my cultural literacy. I remember sitting in Sunday School, being forced to sing “Jesus Loves Me” with a feeling of dark detestation at the fact that I was supposed to believe Jesus loved me because “the Bible tells me so,” as if we should believe everything we read!
But these negative impressions of Christianity were not my only childhood experience.
My Uncle, the Minister
My extended family background is Christian. From a young age, I remember saying grace with my Grandma Happy and with her son, my Uncle Bill. Saying grace bemused me a little. Very young, I understood that it wasn’t my tradition but something we did visiting the relatives. Yet I came to enjoy the family holding hands, giving thanks for our food, and giving each other’s hands a little squeeze as we let go. It was a moment of togetherness.
When we got together with Bill’s side of the family, he presided over our table with a gentle oratorical presence I later came to recognize as influenced by his training in seminary. He was a quiet man: his words came slow and steady. He spoke with the confidence of one who believes in what he’s saying and the caring of one who says it in a way we can understand and enjoy. He said grace for us. He also told jokes. And while I’m sure he said a lot of other things too, it’s the jokes I remember. He told them soberly as if making a serious point. But if there was a point, he never hammered it home. He just led us in laughter. I didn’t care exactly what he had to say; I wanted to listen to him.
I had the privilege of knowing Bill for thirty-eight years, and in those thirty-eight years, he never once tried to convert me. He was quite happy to discuss religion. He discussed it in the context of topics he was studying, events happening at church, his personal conscience and philosophy, responding to thoughts I shared with him. He never told me what I should believe.
In generic terms, Bill was a liberal Christian who believed in a historical reading of the Bible. In his personal practice, he was a loving soul who believed in helping others, whether it be through his tireless work building homes for Habitat for Humanity, through his newspaper columns shining light on local community members and their good projects, or through helping individuals navigate their own way to a well-lived life.
Bill believed in honest inquiry. He investigated life's questions with an open and trusting heart and encouraged others to do likewise. A few years ago in response to letter I sent him, he sent me an article he'd written in 1979, entitled, "What I Believe about Doubt." I'd like to quote a small piece:
"I have come to believe that when expressions of doubt bother us, it may because our own faith is insecure, our conception of God is too limited. Let us recognize that our God is a very capable and adequate God. Human doubt no more threatens God's reality than doubt of the law of gravity threatens it. Let us embrace the view that truth can stand scrutiny. The Christian faith can stand testing. God can weather all our wonderings. Yes, we can even have faith in our doubts since they are likely to lead us to a more adequate faith."
Bill always supported my freedom to learn from my doubts. He respected my right to keep my questioning as my personal system of checks-and-balances to a better lived life.
While Bill was open to doubt and diversity in belief, he had a clear, concrete sense how to do good in the world, as clear and concrete as Jesus's call to love our neighbors as ourselves. In a re-affirmation of faith from 2007, Bill described his own faith practice as "pragmatic" in the sense of "what may be seen to work in the actual living out of life." This pragmatism led him to be "a respectful and obedient son in relationship with God, a sensitive and caring brother in relationship with other persons, and a wise and dependable steward in relationship with everything under my care." Bill lived a Christian life by modeling a Christ-like friendship for all around him. In his presence, the world was calm and comfortable. Whether hiking, taking photographs, or indulging his lifelong love of the railroad, Bill sought harmony. He loved people, plants and animals, landscapes, and societies unconditionally, not without moral discernment but without moral condemnation.
A Lasting Impact
Though I grew up a little afraid of Christianity, thanks in a large part to Bill's loving influence, I didn't grow up too afraid. I even gladly attended Justin-Siena Catholic high school so I could study Latin and get a high quality college prep education. I learned a lot of wonderful things about the Catholic Church along the way.
Sometimes, I still have a trace of the old fear of churches. But that didn't stop me in my mid-thirties from finally deciding to give church a serious try. The church I chose was the First Congregational Church of Eugene, Oregon, a progressive church explicitly welcoming to agnostics. (It was this welcome on their website that got me through the door.) What a wonderful institution--a caring community coming together in loving service to others without making particular demands as to faith. This is the soul of Christianity. I recognized it when I saw it because I had seen it in my uncle.
Today, my view of the Christian faith--despite some of its churches' absurd hijinks--is overwhelmingly positive. I owe much of this positivity to Bill. In his decades of service, he touched uncountable lives, and the effects of his good works and care for humanity will ripple out far. I miss Bill, and I am blessed to have had his loving example as one of the foundations of my life.
Postscript
My mother and Bill's sister, Pat, wishes to add the following:
His preparation for death was also exemplary. As a kindness to his family, his affairs were probably more in order than those of anyone I have known. He had perfect confidence that dying was no bad thing if one is prepared and trusts in the god of his faith, whatever it be. As a member of Compassion and Choices, he wished the same for everyone.
To explain Bill’s influence on me, it’s necessary to talk a little bit about me. I have always been an agnostic. I learned agnosticism at my parents’ knees as others learn Catholicism or Judaism. If I asked my parents if God existed, they would reply with “I don’t know.” This belief system was ingrained in me by the time I was five years old. In the years since, my sense of what agnosticism means has grown more complex, but I have never had the desire to be anything other than agnostic.
Being an Agnostic Kid in the United States
Compared to many countries, the United States, blessedly, has a high degree of religious freedom. But it is a nation culturally dominated by Christianity, and it is not always easy to be an agnostic child among a Christian majority. Here are a few of my childhood experiences:
In kindergarten, I had a Jehovah’s Witness friend. While she and her family were always nice to me, I was not allowed to play with her outside of school: my mother explained to me that they thought I was a bad influence because I wasn’t a Christian.
When I was five or six and playing with a friend at my house, I mentioned that I didn’t believe in God. My friend burst into tears and started walking for home (three miles away). As I followed her down the road, she explained, sobbing, that she couldn't play with me because I worshipped Satan. Finally I told her I did believe in God, which cheered her up. I think this is the only time I have ever flat-out lied about it.
At eleven, my lifelong best friend, a Catholic, noted offhandedly that I was damned. There was no malice in the statement: it was just a fact. I wasn’t a Christian, and only Christians are saved. (I should note that today's Catholic Church has a more nuanced view than this child's understanding.)
With such experiences, reinforced by cultural narratives like televangelists’, it is perhaps not surprising that as a child I was afraid of churches and resistant to Christian teachings. My mother dragged me to church once or twice for my cultural literacy. I remember sitting in Sunday School, being forced to sing “Jesus Loves Me” with a feeling of dark detestation at the fact that I was supposed to believe Jesus loved me because “the Bible tells me so,” as if we should believe everything we read!
But these negative impressions of Christianity were not my only childhood experience.
My Uncle, the Minister
My extended family background is Christian. From a young age, I remember saying grace with my Grandma Happy and with her son, my Uncle Bill. Saying grace bemused me a little. Very young, I understood that it wasn’t my tradition but something we did visiting the relatives. Yet I came to enjoy the family holding hands, giving thanks for our food, and giving each other’s hands a little squeeze as we let go. It was a moment of togetherness.
When we got together with Bill’s side of the family, he presided over our table with a gentle oratorical presence I later came to recognize as influenced by his training in seminary. He was a quiet man: his words came slow and steady. He spoke with the confidence of one who believes in what he’s saying and the caring of one who says it in a way we can understand and enjoy. He said grace for us. He also told jokes. And while I’m sure he said a lot of other things too, it’s the jokes I remember. He told them soberly as if making a serious point. But if there was a point, he never hammered it home. He just led us in laughter. I didn’t care exactly what he had to say; I wanted to listen to him.
I had the privilege of knowing Bill for thirty-eight years, and in those thirty-eight years, he never once tried to convert me. He was quite happy to discuss religion. He discussed it in the context of topics he was studying, events happening at church, his personal conscience and philosophy, responding to thoughts I shared with him. He never told me what I should believe.
In generic terms, Bill was a liberal Christian who believed in a historical reading of the Bible. In his personal practice, he was a loving soul who believed in helping others, whether it be through his tireless work building homes for Habitat for Humanity, through his newspaper columns shining light on local community members and their good projects, or through helping individuals navigate their own way to a well-lived life.
Bill believed in honest inquiry. He investigated life's questions with an open and trusting heart and encouraged others to do likewise. A few years ago in response to letter I sent him, he sent me an article he'd written in 1979, entitled, "What I Believe about Doubt." I'd like to quote a small piece:
"I have come to believe that when expressions of doubt bother us, it may because our own faith is insecure, our conception of God is too limited. Let us recognize that our God is a very capable and adequate God. Human doubt no more threatens God's reality than doubt of the law of gravity threatens it. Let us embrace the view that truth can stand scrutiny. The Christian faith can stand testing. God can weather all our wonderings. Yes, we can even have faith in our doubts since they are likely to lead us to a more adequate faith."
Bill always supported my freedom to learn from my doubts. He respected my right to keep my questioning as my personal system of checks-and-balances to a better lived life.
While Bill was open to doubt and diversity in belief, he had a clear, concrete sense how to do good in the world, as clear and concrete as Jesus's call to love our neighbors as ourselves. In a re-affirmation of faith from 2007, Bill described his own faith practice as "pragmatic" in the sense of "what may be seen to work in the actual living out of life." This pragmatism led him to be "a respectful and obedient son in relationship with God, a sensitive and caring brother in relationship with other persons, and a wise and dependable steward in relationship with everything under my care." Bill lived a Christian life by modeling a Christ-like friendship for all around him. In his presence, the world was calm and comfortable. Whether hiking, taking photographs, or indulging his lifelong love of the railroad, Bill sought harmony. He loved people, plants and animals, landscapes, and societies unconditionally, not without moral discernment but without moral condemnation.
A Lasting Impact
Though I grew up a little afraid of Christianity, thanks in a large part to Bill's loving influence, I didn't grow up too afraid. I even gladly attended Justin-Siena Catholic high school so I could study Latin and get a high quality college prep education. I learned a lot of wonderful things about the Catholic Church along the way.
Sometimes, I still have a trace of the old fear of churches. But that didn't stop me in my mid-thirties from finally deciding to give church a serious try. The church I chose was the First Congregational Church of Eugene, Oregon, a progressive church explicitly welcoming to agnostics. (It was this welcome on their website that got me through the door.) What a wonderful institution--a caring community coming together in loving service to others without making particular demands as to faith. This is the soul of Christianity. I recognized it when I saw it because I had seen it in my uncle.
Today, my view of the Christian faith--despite some of its churches' absurd hijinks--is overwhelmingly positive. I owe much of this positivity to Bill. In his decades of service, he touched uncountable lives, and the effects of his good works and care for humanity will ripple out far. I miss Bill, and I am blessed to have had his loving example as one of the foundations of my life.
Postscript
My mother and Bill's sister, Pat, wishes to add the following:
His preparation for death was also exemplary. As a kindness to his family, his affairs were probably more in order than those of anyone I have known. He had perfect confidence that dying was no bad thing if one is prepared and trusts in the god of his faith, whatever it be. As a member of Compassion and Choices, he wished the same for everyone.
Filmmaking Thought of the Day
The two most indispensable things in filmmaking are a camera and duct tape. If you have a camera and duct tape, everything else will fall into place. Or actually it won't fall because you duct-taped it.
Diary of a Readerly Writer (and Writerly Reader)
Truth is I prefer my dear old blogging home since 2009 on Dreamwidth:
https://labingi.dreamwidth.org/
It contains thoughts on fandom, reviews and meta, and general thoughts. Dreamwidth members I grant a ...more
https://labingi.dreamwidth.org/
It contains thoughts on fandom, reviews and meta, and general thoughts. Dreamwidth members I grant a ...more
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