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septembercfawkes · 4 years

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Tips on Writing a Great Short Story

Weeks ago I was asked to do an article on short stories, specifically. What makes a short story great? And how is it different from writing a novel?

To be honest, writing a novel and writing a short story are very similar in many ways, and most of the techniques I've written about on my blog apply: creating complex characters, writing great dialogue, utilizing subtext, including hooks . . .

Sure, there are some exceptions, as always. You can find famous short stories that don't really have complex characters, for example, but often such stories are really short stories--maybe by today's standard, considered flash fiction. Here is a famous flash fiction story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn

Does that really tell us much about the complexity of the characters? Not really. But it does still have great subtext.

So keep in mind that there are always exceptions when it comes to writing, but they are just that, exceptions.

So let's got started.

Focus

One of the most important things about writing a short story is to keep it focused. Technically, novels should be focused too, but their focus has a broader range whereas short stories need to be narrower, like a flashlight beam compared to a laser beam. A common problem I've seen with newer writers is that they try to fit a novel-length concept into 50 pages. Problematic. Here are some ways to avoid that.

Limit Plotlines--In a novel, you will need a lot of plotlines to carry the story; if you don't have that, a novel will start to feel repetitious since it lacks variety for so many pages. But in a short story, you need to limit your plotlines. Many short stories really have one plotline, with two components working closely together: the outer journey and the inner journey. Think about the premise or main concept of your short story, and keep a laser-beam focus on that. Aim to go deep into the concept, not broad on the topic.

Limit Your Characters--In a short story, you'll usually focus largely on one main character and that character's arc. The more focal characters you include, the more length you typically add. Sure, you can write a story with more than one focal character--you might be able to get away with maybe two. If you have more than that though, usually the focal characters--while individuals--have the same goals and function as a unit. As opposed to most novels, where each focal (or viewpoint) character may have somewhat different goals and more of their own, individualized journeys. (Again, keep in mind that everything in this post is generally speaking).

A good word of advice that gets pushed around in the industry, related to character and plot, is that in a short story, you should specifically write about the most important event that happened in that character's life. I don't know that I agree with this 100%, but it's a good thing to keep in mind when evaluating plot and character. Capture the most important event, which naturally means that it will be an event that changed the character.

Laser-Beam the Theme--Unfortunately, people still talk and treat theme like it's this elusive animal--something wild and beautiful, but dangerous if caged. In reality, the more you understand about theme, the more intentional you can be about it. It's only dangerous when you try to tame it improperly, because you don't understand it. For a recap on how theme actually works, check out this post, "How to Write Your Story's Theme"

Themes are fantastic for focusing stories (and especially in short stories that may seem to lack a feeling of . . . cohesion). And because a lot of people don't understand how to do them, you can really stand out if you master the theme in your story. Theme is what makes a story feel timeless. It sticks with us after we are done, so we aren't left closing the book and thinking, Well that was entertaining, time to get back to normal life! If you read five excellent stories, but only one of them has a powerful theme that changed you, guess which one you will think about long, long after you've finished it?

In a novel, you have room to explore a theme topic rather broadly. Consider all the ways the theme topics of mercy and justice are illustrated and explored in Les Mis. In a novel, you can also explore how the theme topic interacts with other theme topics, societies, and ideologies. In a short story, you are going to be more laser-focused. Take the classic fable of The Tortoise and The Hare--it stays laser-focused on really one illustration of the theme. It doesn't go into, say how in some situations in the real world, getting a head start can have benefits. So focus in on a particular rendition or two (but probably no more than three) of your thematic statement.

Often the most famous and powerful short stories are so great because they say something profound in a small amount of space. In a way, it's similar to poetry. Professional poetry isn't actually about using beautiful words (which is what a lot of people who have never legit studied it seem to think)--it's about capturing specific, significant ideas, concepts, and images, in a brief space, for maximum impact. Great short stories function in similar ways, except you have more room to develop a powerful thematic thread. It can be hard to impact a reader in such a short space with the characters and plot, but you can really hit them in the feels with the theme.

Significant Stakes

Like a novel, you need to make sure what you write in a short story holds significance--maybe even more so, since you have fewer words. Theme, as we touched on, lends significance to a story, but, in general, you'll want to make sure that what's happening in the plot, concretely, is significant as well. Remember how I defined significance in my post on writing stakes (significance relates to stakes):

What makes something "significant"?

1 - It has important personal consequences, or

2 - It has far-reaching, broad consequences

In a short piece of fiction, my opinion is that you'll more likely be focusing more heavily on personal stakes/significance. Because it's a short length, it's difficult to properly and satisfyingly address very broad stakes/significance. Like anything, it has and can be done, but keep in mind that often in those cases, that means that, probably, the story opened with already rather broad stakes and a protagonist already involved in those--say the president of the United States. Unlike a novel, where you have hundreds of pages, it's difficult to really broaden the stakes in say 7k words and get the audience properly invested in the far-reaching consequences at the same time. Generally speaking.

So even if you are writing about the president making a key decision that will save people from the zombie apocalypse, in a short story, it will probably be more satisfying if it focused more on his personal stakes and experiences.

Exceptions to this would be a short story that is more focused on an intriguing idea or event or world, where the protagonist is what's called an "everyman" character, where it's the event and concept that is the real point. But today, in cases like that, I would say that the idea, event, or world must be quite exceptional to carry such weight. After all, the modern audience has consumed a lot of fantastical fiction already.

In broad stakes, because the audience doesn't have enough time to appreciate the build-up, they can't appreciate the outcome as much. They likely aren't as invested. In contrast, all of us are humans with relationships, personal hopes and fears, so we can become deeply invested in personal stakes much more quickly. The personal stakes, the inner journey, are what usually speak to our human experience.

However, with all this said, this is not to say you can't broaden stakes at all. All I'm saying is if you are relying on starting a short story with an ordinary, modern day and ending it with the entire world possibly being obliterated, and that's your main focus, it will be much harder to pull off, than a character with personal things at stake. But you can (and should) broaden smaller stakes to smaller degrees. And you can still broaden them quite a bit, but it will be more satisfying if you focus on the personal in those cases.

Wow, was that confusing? I hope not. Focus on going deep and personal more than broad and far-reaching.

Utilize Subtext

Subtext is vital for any good story (except, perhaps, stories for young children). But in short fiction (like poetry), it is particularly important, precisely because you are working with less space.

Subtext makes the story bigger than what's on the page. It also helps draw in the audience, inviting them to become a participator in the story. It can create a powerful impact, in less words. For an example, check back at that baby shoes flash fiction story. It says a lot, begs for interpretation, and has impact. Remember, one of the things that can make short stories memorable is how profound they can be in so little space.

But it's more than that. Unlike a novel, you won't have a lot of space in a short story for explanations. Sure, you should never have info-dumps, but in a novel, it's much easier to weave in information when you have more space to tell the story. In a short story, you need to explain and imply enough, and probably not much more than that.

For example, it's unlikely you will focus much on character backstories--unless, of course, the backstory directly affects what's unfolding (see my post on flashbacks), and that's the main plot of the story. But that doesn't mean you should scrap a sense of backstory completely, because we are still trying to give the impression that this world and its characters are real. So instead, you'll hint at the backstories through subtext.

In speculative fiction, something similar will happen with worldbuilding. Some elements don't merit much space, so you'll be using subtext, along with context, to help the audience understand enough. If the worldbuilding element is a main focus of the story, it will have more explanation. If it's more on the outskirts, it will have little. Use context and validation to limit confusion, and subtext to hint at a bigger world and deeper magic system.

In a novel, you may have more space to eventually bring more subtext content to the surface of the text to be explored and discussed. In a short piece of work, you will have less space and may never bring things to the surface--you need to let the reader get a sense or fill things in themselves, and be okay with that.

Generally, this means in short stories, the narrator will likely be doing less "hand-holding" of the audience, less guiding of the reader, and instead, leaving more room for them to come to their own conclusions.

Subtext also increases the story's re-read value, which may be particularly important to short fiction. Again, I'm relating this back to how poetry functions. It's short, but it's condensed. Poetry is meant to be read over and over again. Why? Because in good poetry, you will appreciate and understand it more each time. It has more in it, than the reader initially thought. Great subtext in stories creates a similar effect. Not only will most people not complain about reading "The Yellow Wallpaper" more than once, but by the end of the first reading, most people want to read it more than once, to see what other subtext they can pull out of it for new interpretations.

So in short fiction in particular, you need to rely and utilize subtext more.

Structure

An obvious way short stories are different from novels is in structure.

Or is it?

Novels are obviously longer, so they have longer and more complicated structures.

But really, when you look at the basics, the short story is usually rather similar, just a smaller scale.

In my post about scene vs. sequence vs. act, I showed how all of those segments actually have the same structure, and each one actually fits within a bigger structure:

And in reality, this shape permeates just about any small or large structure in anything (creatively) written successfully. It's like the equivalent of breaking down a number forever, into infinity: it's a whole story, it's an act, it's a sequence, it's a scene, it's a beat, it's a description. (More on that here.)

So yes, a short story works on a smaller scale, but it will, in some sense, almost always have this shape with these elements:

inciting incident

rising action (progressive complications)

climax

falling action/denouement

Decades ago, there was a school of thought that a great short story cuts off the beginning and the ending of the narrative and only gives the audience the middle, but really . . . on a smaller scale, the middle should still have this shape, if you are writing genre or commercial fiction. Think of it as the "Act II" in the plot image above. Sure, maybe there is more background (beginning) and more resolution (ending) in the big picture, but even the middle section should really still have an inciting incident, rising action, climax, and a falling action. So maybe it would be helpful for some to think of a short story as a single act, or a sequence.

In a sense, I personally believe you can really shrink down any "story structure" to the small scale. It's just that the inciting incident might happen in a single sentence, the pinch points in single paragraphs, The Ordeal in a page, etc. It's just a shorter space, with smaller and more simplistic things.

Of course, you will find stories that break the rule, but personally, I don't think you can go wrong with following this. And usually those that deviate and are well done are breaking the rule to good effect.

In some short stories, you can cut off the denouement. I've seen this done very well on a few occasions--great for short stories that are posing a thematic choice or decision to the audience, where perhaps the protagonist is an everyman character--but almost always, a story needs some denouement to be satisfying, even if it's only a few lines. While most people will tell you that the point of a denouement is to wrap up loose ends, I would strongly argue the true, structural purpose is to validate what has (or hasn't) changed in the story.

Bring Something New to the Table

As we've been talking about, with short stories, you need to impact the audience in less space. It's harder to do this if you aren't bringing anything original to the narrative. If it's just a repeat of what we've seen before, what's the point, really? And since it's a repeat, it won't hold as much power as our first experience with the subject. Instead, we'll be reminded of the first time we read a similar story, rather than just enjoying the story. I mean, I can't read a story about a protagonist discovering he's been dead the whole time without automatically thinking of The Sixth Sense and comparing it to that.

But if it's something fresh, it's like a whole new experience, or a playful twist on a familiar one.

Work to bring something new to the table.

Now, the original aspect doesn't have to be mind-blowing, so don't kill yourself trying to figure it out. When we say "original," we often think of the plot, premise, or overall concept, especially for speculative fiction. We might feel like we need to come up with something as original as Phillip Pullman who asked what it would be like if our souls lived outside our bodies. But originality can come from less obvious elements. An unexpected type of character thrown into a role we've seen a million times, for example. What if we made an old woman into a superhero instead? That brings something new to the table. It can sometimes just be a unique perspective or character voice that breathes fresh air into a tired trope. It might be an unexpected theme paired with a setup we've seen before.

People tend to think that originality means we must come up with something entirely new, but often it means we twist, turn, flip, combine what audiences are familiar with in new ways to make it fresh again, like I talked about when I did that post on obligatory scenes and conventions. Often what feels most original, is a familiar concept that has been pushed to an extreme, new direction, one we never imagined.

Navigating Slush Piles

Once you have your short story written, polished, and ready to go, you might think it's time to submit it for publication or a contest. Remember, about 80% - 90% of submissions get rejected in the first 1 - 5 pages. It sounds brutal to outsiders, but now that I've worked in the industry for this long, it makes sense; I can usually tell what level a writer is at within the first pages and most of them aren't writing at a professional level yet. That's okay, they just need to keep working at it. A professional is just someone who stuck with it.

There are a few things you should keep in mind though, to help you stand out. Follow the submission guidelines and make sure the manuscript is properly formatted. You'd be surprised how many submissions don't do those two things.

By the end of the first page, and especially by the end of the second page, we should have a clear sense of who the character is, when and where the story takes place, and a sense of the conflict. Maybe even a whiff of the theme topic as well. Sure, there are sometimes exceptions to that, but they are just that, exceptions. (Also, don't forget the main conflict may be the inner, personal journey in a short story, more so than the outer one).

If you want to read more about standing out in slush piles, I did a post about that here.

I hope this article is helpful to anyone wanting to writing better short stories.

#writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writeblr #short story #writing advice #writing help #writing reference #fanfic

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loopy777 · 4 years

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Is Deus Ex Machina always a bad thing? People who didn't like the finale of Avatar are always quick to point out the lion turtle, but I think we both agree the ending was both emotionally and thematically satisfying, and to me that's the most important thing. But my question is: if it IS satisfying, is it still a DEM? After all, DEM usually carries this idea that the ending is ruined and it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, which the Avatar finale doesn't.

Coincidentally, I was thinking about this just the other day, although I wasn’t considering making a post on it.

I think what makes this discussion troublesome is that there are two very different operating definitions for “deus ex machina.” I tend to think of it in terms of the classical definition, so I don’t personally have any problem with it when it’s done well, but most people seem to be operating with something like the same kind of shorthand that has turned “Mary Sue” into a meaningless complaint.

The term translates to ‘god from the machine.’ Wikipedia can give a functional summary of how it was originally employed and the criticisms that arose about it even amongst those old-timey Greeks. My own take is informed by those origins and the Greek myths that I’ve loved since I first learned about them in grade school. In a setting where gods and magic are in play, I don’t see a problem with a god being so moved by the events of the story or the character of the protagonist(s) that they intervene in otherwise impossible scenarios. The key here is that the story needs to justify why the god/power is intervening here and not in all kinds of other situations; if a god comes along and raises someone from the dead, or hands over a magic sword, or whatever, then it needs to be clear why people still die and magic swords aren’t sold at every corner market.

The Lionturtle is indeed a deus ex machina in that it is a god-like power suddenly entering the story to hand Aang knowledge that he would not otherwise have been able to attain. However, AtLA firmly establishes that there are spirits in the world with god-like power. Hei Bai is the first at a relatively small scale (and was another spirit moved by Aang’s steadfast purity to enact a happy ending, hmmm…), but we also see Koh having knowledge that predates the existence of the moon and the ocean, Koizilla being able to smash a whole fleet with the help of the Avatar State, Wan Shi Tong being able to move an infinitely-large library between the spirit and material worlds, and an eclipse of the sun shutting down all Firebending. These are all powers that the normal humans of the setting do not have, but they are all exercised as a result of the intervention of the protagonists, so I think they’re perfectly fine elements to have in the story.

Just about the only thing that might separate the Lionturtle from these other examples is that it seeks Aang out, rather than the other way around. However, I think that’s an oversimplification of the situation, in which we had just gotten an full episode of Aang holding fast to his belief in the sacredness of all life, despite disagreement and harassment from his friends. He meditates in search of an answer, and it’s then that the Lionturtle reaches out. So I think Aang ‘earns’ its attention by his unique beliefs, his steadfastness in the face of painful opposition, and his action in seeking a solution via meditation.

Why does the Lionturtle not reach out to other people? Well, the only pacifists in the franchise are Air Nomads like Aang, and there’s possible evidence that they weren’t all as steadfast when push came to shove. However, I don’t think the fate of the world hinged on whether Gyatso or some other random Air Nomad killed an enemy while fighting; Aang is in a fairly unique situation in that regard. Theoretically, a previous Avatar might have faced the same dilemma that could have been resolved with Energybending, but as we saw of Yanchen, perhaps those Avatars didn’t really seek out another solution besides violence. The Kyoshi novel does a great job handling this, showing Kyoshi struggling with similar questions but finding her own answers that do not match Aang’s. Perhaps Aang really is the first person in an Age who merited the Lionturtle’s intervention. It helps that the intention at the time of writing was for it to be a technique only available to the Avatar, so that definitely limits the potential situations where it might have been relevant.

So we’re left with the question of whether Energybending itself conforms to the established rules of the setting. I personally think it does, quite handily. We saw examples of bending being taken away before, at least on a temporary basis. The death of the Moon Spirit takes away all Waterbending. The eclipse on the Day of Black Sun takes away Firebending for its duration. Ty Lee pokes Qi-points to disable bending even while leaving limbs otherwise functional (sometimes). Those all help clearly establish that bending is tied to the physical body, and specifically the Qi energies flowing through it. We see esoteric manipulation of those energies by way of Waterhealing, Lightningbending, and the time Aang’s spirit is knocked out of his body by physically crashing into a bear-shaped shrine/idol.

So yes, the Lionturtle is a newly-arrived god who imparts special magic to solve a problem that couldn’t otherwise have worked out so neatly, but all the elements are there to make it a workable plot element. If the Day of Black Sun had worked out, would people be complaining about how Deus Ex Machina it is for the gAang to stumble across information on an eclipse coming before the return of Sozin’s Comet that will take away Firebending and allow Aang to confront Ozai without training up to the a higher fighting level?

Well, not if Aang kills Ozai in that scenario, I expect.

The root of the way most people use ‘deus ex machina’ in modern times, I think, links to what Aristotle is said to have been alluding to in that Wikipedia article, and what Nietzsche also seems to be getting at. Specifically, they seem to think it’s better when a tragic story is allowed to end in tragedy, rather than an audience-pleasing happy ending getting tacked on in an act of weakness and cowardice. It’s fair to criticize this (I enjoy tragedy as well as happy endings, when it’s done right), but I think it can be taken too far into a desire for bleak endings in general. It would be more ‘mature,’ the thinking goes, for Aang to have to kill Ozai, be tainted, scream his angst to the sky, and show the audience that Life Is Dark even though it’s a trite message that doesn’t really follow from anything that came before. The thing about Tragedy that a lot of people forget is that it needs to be set up with as much care and earnestness as Deus Ex Machina, or else it’s just as hackneyed and immature.

AtLA is not a tragedy. It is not about the mistakes and flaws of the protagonists piling up into chaos. So the complaint about ‘deus ex machina’ doesn’t even really apply, according to the original controversy about it. Aang is not freed from the consequences of a flaw, because his desire for peace and life is something that’s consistently portrayed as good throughout the rest of the series. It’s built up in his culture, the appreciation for the Air Nomads that’s conveyed despite their flaws, the focus on his being the last survivor of a genocide, and even the subtitle of the series (providing you don’t live somewhere that got the much more generic “Legend of..” title that fits Korra’s more generic legend so much better). It’s not a tragedy if everything is working out until a last minute swerve when all the good things suddenly become bad.

That’s a Comedy, according to certain modern definitions. ;)

The only story that could end with Aang giving up his ideals to kill Ozai using the philosophy and ways of the Fire Nation is a story about how the Fire Nation is right- that morality is secondary to strength and necessity. And if that’s the story being told, wouldn’t it have been easier to just make the Fire Nation the heroes in the first place, slaughtering corrupt pacifist hippies who would rather we all die than fight to improve the world?

No matter how you look at it, people who criticize AtLA’s ending by calling it a ‘deux ex machina’ aren’t doing so by using the text of the story at all. They’re either glossing over how the setup for all the plot elements is all right there in the story, or else they’re doing exactly what the ancient Greeks criticize bad deus ex machina for in the first place by putting the wrong ending on a story. So most who use ‘deux ex machina’ as a criticism aren’t thinking about the nature of Story at all, I think. They’ve heard the term, mistake it for general criticism of ‘unearned’ plot points, and/or use it as justification for their own pretentious fascination with bleak endings.

So, to summarize my answer- yes, DEM can be a criticism in and of itself, depending on the definition in play. It can apply to AtLA, also depending on the definition in play.

But applying DEM to AtLA as a criticism just doesn’t add up.

#deus ex machina #story #tragedy #literary criticism #Anonymous

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thetravelerwrites · 5 years

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Monster Match #17

The Traveler's Masterlist

For @floral-and-fine: “I'm a plus sized woman with small boobs and a big butt. I’m 5’8, in my late 20’s, a Gemini, an infp, ravenclaw. I have gray-blue eyes and wavy brown/blonde hair, I bleach the ends. I wear lots of dresses, skirts, floral patterns. My hobbies are art (drawing and painting mostly), writing, and video games. I love spending time at home, but sometimes I really like going out, because it gives me an excuse to wear a cute outfit and do my makeup.

Personality: girly, bubbly introvert who is very conflict averse and excitable. I’m kind of lazy but proactive when it comes to my education or career. My acquaintances/coworkers usually assume that I’m super innocent, they’ll apologize if they cuss in front of me and treat me like i’m delicate. So It usually surprises people the first time they see me mad or find out how kinky I am, just because it’s so unexpected.My favorite activity is watching a scary movie while drawing/doodling.

My partner: I definitely prefer bigger guys, and usually ones older than me. Someone who I can have a fun debate with and joke around with. I worry a lot, and get anxious especially when I have to talk to a stranger, so someone I can rely on and to help me out in social situations.”

Content Warning: Children, Babies, Mention of Birth

You’ve been matched with a Bugbear!

You’d thought childbirth was the hardest thing you’d ever done, but now you were faced with something much more difficult: going back to work and leaving her with a stranger.

Being a single working mom had some drawbacks, unfortunately. Daycare could get incredibly expensive, and you didn’t want some teenager who cared more about the money than about the kid to look after your new little girl, so you looked for a sitter service. You were having trouble finding one that was both within your budget and also reputable, but eventually you found one within your price range that had great reviews. Ironblood’s Interspecies Caregivers was specifically for lower income families that employed the highest quality professionals.

After talking with the owner, he emailed you a list of prospectives. They purposefully did not have pictures so that there wouldn’t be any racial bias and that you’d choose solely on their merit. Based on his amazing credentials, you chose one named Sorka.

He arrived for an interview a week before you were due back to work, and you were surprised to find a giant bugbear standing at your door. He was dressed well in a button up and slacks, though his fur poked through every available opening. He was green in the front, but the fur on his back was more brown-black with grey peppered through. His face was a grimace that made you step back a little.

“Hello,” He said, his voice gruff. “I’m here for the childcare interview.”

It took you a second to recover before inviting him in. “Oh… yes… of course, please come in.”

He had to bend to get through the door frame, and he definitely made your apartment look tiny in comparison, but he stood there with muted confidence.

Right at that moment, you heard your baby start to fuss.

“Oh, excuse me,” you said apologetically. “She must have woken up.”

“No problem at all,” He said, actually smiling a little. It was strange how that smile changed his face. It actually made him look kind of… cute.

You went to retrieve the baby from her crib and brought her back out into the living room.

“She’s adorable,” Sorka said. “Seven weeks, right?”

“Yeah,” You replied. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Absolutely!” He said, his smile widening to a bright grin. He held his hands out for her. With a little bit of trepidation, you handed her over.

Turns out, you’d had no reason to be concerned. He cradled her expertly and and began to bounce her, smiling down and making sounds at her. She began to coo back at her. You were amazed; she hadn’t really taken to anyone else yet, not even your parents.

“Do you have kids?” You asked him.

“No, no,” He said, looking up with the same bright smile. “But I was the oldest of twelve. Practically raised my youngest siblings.”

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“I really care about my job,” He said. “Kids deserve the best.”

You smiled and felt a deep warmth in your chest.

“When can you start?”

To get your own Monster Match, buy me a Kofi!

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider becoming a Patron or donating directly to my PayPal.

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

#Exophilia #Bugbear #Children #Babies #Floral-and-fine #Monster Match

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fyeahbatcat · 5 years

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Just finished Batman: Hush the animated movie. What are your thoughts on it?

Alright, everyone. Here we go:

Batman: Hush Movie Full review

To begin, as I’ve stated here previously, Batman: Hush is a very important story to me. It was the first Batman comic that I ever read many years ago. In the sixteen years since its original publication it has undergone at least nine different editions and is still one of the most recommended and critically praised Batman stories of the modern era. It was the starting point for many people in the Batman fandom, and I still believe that it is the most pinnacle story regarding Batman and Catwoman’s relationship. The fact that it’s still so influential, nearly twenty years later, in indicative of its importance and merit.

When DC Comics announced last summer that they were officially making Hush into an animated movie I was happy, but I cannot say that I was excited. This was due to unrelated factors that were happening simultaneous to its announcement that obliterated my faith in DC Comics as a whole. You can imagine my dismay when I learned that instead of creating a direct adaptation, in the same vein as Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns and Year One, they would be changing the story to fit in with their current New 52 inspired animated universe.

As anyone whose been following me for a while may have observed; I’m highly critical. I can usually find the good and bad in something and when I’m giving my take on things from my perspective it’s pretty fair and balanced. I was fully aware that the Hush movie made changes to the story and knew going in that I would have to temper my expectations, but I still gave it a chance.

Many will say that the film should be viewed on its own merit, and I generally tend to agree. If not held up to the book the movie is watchable and very easy to enjoy. But it’s an adaptation. An adaptation of one of the best and most popular Batman stories of all time. An ambitious and operatic year long event from Jeph Loeb, and one that I personally hold in the highest regards. Completely divorcing the movie from its source material is unfeasible.

With that said; as I review this movie I will be critiquing as loosely inspiredimagination of the Batman: Hush comic, and only making comparisons to demonstrate potential compromises of the story or the characters.

***Obvious spoilers ahead***

THE GOOD AND THE BAD

After many years of begging, pleading, rumors, and teasing the Batman: Hush animated film was finally released during SDCC weekend. The basic plot remained intact: a mysterious new villain named Hush targets Batman’s crime fighting career as well as his personal life, which is further complicated by his burgeoning romance with Catwoman. While making concessions that range from minor to pivotal the movie manages to be different while maintaining a degree of familiarity. All the most iconic scenes are there in one aspect or another, with only one notable exception; the Jason Todd graveyard scene.

There’s not much to say about the general plot. It for the most part, stays true to the essence of the story, while being different in execution. Most changes were traversable, while others were pointless and baffling. The first questionable change occurs early in the movie, when Catwoman delivers the stolen money to Poison Ivy; Ivy kisses Catwoman, which she does not reciprocate. In the original script for the book, I believe, that Ivy did kiss Catwoman, but Jeph Loeb was told by editorial to remove it, because it was “too much.”

It was clear in the comic book that Ivy was using her powers to mind-control Catwoman. In that context kissing her would have made more sense. In the movie the extent of her influence over Catwoman is unclear. It appears that she is blackmailing Catwoman. Catwoman’s coldness and irritation afterwards implies that she has maintained some degree of self-awareness. Her use of coercion rather than force renders the kiss pointless, and its intention to merely be salacious.

Other needless changes involve swapping out characters. Bane, for some reason, has taken the place of Killer Croc. Damian Wayne has taken the place of Tim Drake, and Amanda Waller makes a token appearance, but both proceed to only have one scene.

As Rick Austin from FortressofSolitude put it:

Some changes to the original story are surface-level questionable, making you wonder why they changed them at all – like substituting Killer Croc for Bane, for instance. Presumably it was done for recognition and name value, and barely has any relevance to the story. Huntress is replaced by Batgirl, probably for the similar reasons, but that’s more important and naturally means Oracle’s role in the story is gone. Slowly but surely, the small tweaks begin to have a big knock-on effect. Important lines of dialogue have been jettisoned, some elements have been removed and some characters replace others just to make this fit with other recent DC animated films.

The movie takes a more action/adventure route rather than a character driven mystery, chugging along at breakneck pace making several plot concessions along the way. What it does manage to improve from the book, as far as a Batman and Catwoman shipper can see, is it beefs up Batman and Catwoman’s ill-fated romance, by way of a montage depicting adorable, if at times out-of-character, domesticity that even involves matching his and hers robes. Its inclusion was more fan-servicey than plot driven, but the ship isn’t doing well right now so I’m not about to complain about that.

What I will complain about isn’t what was added to the romance, but what was excluded from it. The film cuts out all the most important scenes that demonstrate why the dynamics of Batman and Catwoman’s relationship works for them. Yes, we get the rooftop kiss that has graced a thousand screensavers and Batman ultimately making the decision to reveal his identity to Catwoman, but everything in service of Catwoman’s perspective are removed entirely.

The scene from the book when Catwoman admonishes Batman for saving her instead of going after the Joker after she is shot at the opera, is changed to Catwoman merely telling Batman to go after Harley Quinn.

If you ever choose to rescue…me again over catching the bad guy…I swear I’ll scratch your eyes out. I’m not some kid you took in and trained.

This scene is important because this is where Catwoman affirms how she sees herself in this relationship: she is Batman’s equal and she expects– demands– that he treat her as such. These changes seem benign at first, until it becomes clear later why they were made. More on that in a bit.

The original script for Hush also included a tasteful post-coital scene that was ultimately cut by editorial. The scene makes its way back into the movie in lieu of some of the more emotionally intimate moments, like Selina dialoguing with Alfred in the bat-cave. The dialogue also fails to compensate for this. Batman and Catwoman’s pillow talk topic include how Batman used to think Catwoman was a kleptomaniac.

“You were beautiful, intelligent, and brilliant,” he tells her. “I assumed if you were stealing it was because you couldn’t control it.” I see this come up in fandom every now and again, and Catwoman cannot be a kleptomaniac because kleptomania is an impulse control disorder. Catwoman steals for profit and executes elaborate premeditated heists. I can see why other people would make that mistake, but the world’s greatest detective should have more cognizance.

Most of the changes to film are surface-level and trivial, but where the movie majorly fails is when they attempt to fix things that weren’t broken to begin with.

The most major change doesn’t occur until the final act of the movie when it is revealed that Hush is actually the Riddler. At first, I thought this was a misdirect, but no. The Riddler is really Hush and Tommy Elliot was just a plot device, and he is really dead. Like in the book, Riddler gained knowledge of Batman’s identity while in the Lazarus Pit, and decides to take revenge by going after Bruce Wayne’s friends and loved ones.

This change is nonsensical and renders Tommy Elliot’s role in the movie essential meaningless. He is a mere plot device, a shamefully underdeveloped plot device, intended to provide Batman with angst. Villains targeting Batman’s loved ones is all too familiar occurrence, but audiences barely get to know Tommy long enough understand the depths of Batman’s grief and mourning.

As I’m sure all of you are aware at this point that in the book it is revealed that Hush is Tommy Elliot. Substituting Tommy for Riddler diminishes the impact of the reveal and Hush’s motivations. Tommy, Bruce’s close childhood friend, has a personal vendetta against Bruce. He uses his friendship, familiarity, and access to Bruce Wayne to attack him both personally and as Batman. It also complicates Batman’s relationship with Hush as a villain. The Riddler being Hush is just a theatrical Gotham villain pretending to be a different theatrical Gotham villain for no reason whatsoever.

Towards the end of the movie Riddler kidnaps Catwoman and tries to kill her in an elaborate trap. Since Bruce was damseled early in the movie, I didn’t so much mind that they did the same to Catwoman. I like that Batman and Catwoman can depend on each other, and it demonstrates a degree of equality in their relationship. However, while Batman was only incidentally damseled for maybe 60 seconds, Catwoman was subtly threatened with rape for intervening on his behalf and later got the full-on woman-tied-to-railroad-tracks-treatment. Predictably Batman shows up and saves the day.

THE UGLY

Batman: Hush made several missteps that I was willing to overlook, and almost got through its entire 82-minute run time before doing the only thing that I considered truly egregious.

After the ensuing fight the building begins to collapse and Catwoman leaves Riddler to die, after Batman attempts to save him. Batman argues that they could’ve saved Riddler instead of letting him die. Catwoman becomes angry. “You’re crazy! You’re absolutely insane,” she exclaims melodramatically. Batman and Catwoman decide that their moral differences are too stark and break up, but leave the door open for the future.

This is where the movie took an unexpected turn for the worse. This is where the reason why so many changes to Catwoman’s character becomes clear.

Batman goes out as the voice of morality and looks like the hero, and Catwoman is completely thrown under the bus to make it happen.

Early in the movie during the famous battle of Metropolis when Superman is under the influence of Poison Ivy, Catwoman throws Lois Lane off a building to snap him out of the spell. Later when Superman is out of earshot Batman tells Catwoman that throwing Lois off the building was not part of the plan and that he did not approve of her methods. In the book it was Batman’s idea to throw Lois from the building. This moment frequently makes appearances on Worst-Things-Batman-Has-Ever-Done lists on comic sites.

During the opera scene Catwoman attempting to stop Batman from killing the Joker in a fit of rage was also cut. Here it was Batman who was acting morally questionable, and Catwoman was the reasonable and morally righteous one, so to speak.

These, along with Catwoman allowing Riddler to die, are intended to make Catwoman seem like she has a cursory attitude towards killing, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. All of this inevitably shifts all the blame for the relationship not working out on Catwoman. Catwoman’s flaws are irreconcilable while Batman is the blameless voice of reason. This is abominable at best, and sexist at worst.

The book ends similarly and yet profoundly different. Upon the announcement of the film some people were hoping for the ending to be changed to something presumably happier for Bruce and Selina. In the book Batman and Catwoman break up, but under much different circumstances.

I personally feel that the ending to the original was appropriate for the story. Batman sabotages their relationship pushes Catwoman away because he realized was not ready for the vulnerability required in that type of relationship, It ends on a bittersweet note. Batman and Catwoman can have a relationship “someday.” All they need is a little more time, and it’s Batman who need to be a little bit different.

Even as things end Loeb simply and perfectly sums up why Batman and Catwoman work:

We are who we are. That’s why this works.

The film makes fundamental differences, that can only be remedied by Catwoman changing herself, are the root of Batman and Catwoman’s relationship dysfunction.

The changes to Catwoman’s character occur only to justify the ending. The filmmakers went to great lengths to villainize Catwoman to make it seem like it was all her personal shortcomings that ended things instead of Batman’s to make him seem more heroic. It relegates Batman and Catwoman’s relationship to a tool to demonstrate Batman’s inflexible moral code.

To add insult to injury, as Batman and Catwoman’s relationship comes to an end, Selina tells Bruce bitterly that she changed herself to be with him and was willing to continue changing. This robs Selina the agency of having reformed on her own, in a film that has already diminished much of her voice and independence.

It’s almost laughable that Selina once told Huntress that reforming was worthwhile, “as long as you’re doing it for yourself, and not for what someone else thinks of you,” in the same book the movie was based on.

Some dude (and it’s a dude; I checked) read the book, saw this panel, then decided to have her say literally the opposite. I wish I was making this up.

On its own the Batman: Hush movie is watchable. The casual viewer and batcat shippers alike can easily find something to enjoy. But watchable is a low bar to pass when based on one of the most popular Batman stories of our era. What should have been an exceptionally easy recipe for success did not exceed the bare minimum. It’s drab, bland, and dark animation style does not hold up to Jim Lee’s iconic penciling or Scott Williams’ colorful fills. The changes to the story are generally acceptable, until the final act of the movie when things go off the rails.

Ultimately the movie exceptionally fails at capturing the dynamics of Batman and Catwoman’s relationship, trading in much of the depth and intimacy for shower sex and pet names. On its own Batman: Hush stands as a mindlessly entertaining adaptation, loosely inspired by a Batman story of mystery and intrigue. Held up to the source material, it’s a pale and grotesque imitation.

#ask #blackbatpurplecat #batcat #Batman #Catwoman #Bruce Wayne #Selina Kyle #personal note #review #long post #batman hush spoilers

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popolitiko · 4 years

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“What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?”

Frederick Douglass | July 5, 1852

Mr. President, Friends and Fellow Citizens:

He who could address this audience without a quailing sensation, has stronger nerves than I have. I do not remember ever to have appeared as a speaker before any assembly more shrinkingly, nor with greater distrust of my ability, than I do this day. A feeling has crept over me, quite unfavorable to the exercise of my limited powers of speech. The task before me is one which requires much previous thought and study for its proper performance. I know that apologies of this sort are generally considered flat and unmeaning. I trust, however, that mine will not be so considered. Should I seem at ease, my appearance would much misrepresent me. The little experience I have had in addressing public meetings, in country schoolhouses, avails me nothing on the present occasion.

The papers and placards say, that I am to deliver a 4th [of] July oration. This certainly sounds large, and out of the common way, for it is true that I have often had the privilege to speak in this beautiful Hall, and to address many who now honor me with their presence. But neither their familiar faces, nor the perfect gage I think I have of Corinthian Hall, seems to free me from embarrassment.

The fact is, ladies and gentlemen, the distance between this platform and the slave plantation, from which I escaped, is considerable — and the difficulties to be overcome in getting from the latter to the former, are by no means slight. That I am here to-day is, to me, a matter of astonishment as well as of gratitude. You will not, therefore, be surprised, if in what I have to say I evince no elaborate preparation, nor grace my speech with any high sounding exordium. With little experience and with less learning, I have been able to throw my thoughts hastily and imperfectly together; and trusting to your patient and generous indulgence, I will proceed to lay them before you.

This, for the purpose of this celebration, is the 4th of July. It is the birthday of your National Independence, and of your political freedom. This, to you, is what the Passover was to the emancipated people of God. It carries your minds back to the day, and to the act of your great deliverance; and to the signs, and to the wonders, associated with that act, and that day. This celebration also marks the beginning of another year of your national life; and reminds you that the Republic of America is now 76 years old. I am glad, fellow-citizens, that your nation is so young. Seventy-six years, though a good old age for a man, is but a mere speck in the life of a nation. Three score years and ten is the allotted time for individual men; but nations number their years by thousands. According to this fact, you are, even now, only in the beginning of your national career, still lingering in the period of childhood. I repeat, I am glad this is so. There is hope in the thought, and hope is much needed, under the dark clouds which lower above the horizon. The eye of the reformer is met with angry flashes, portending disastrous times; but his heart may well beat lighter at the thought that America is young, and that she is still in the impressible stage of her existence. May he not hope that high lessons of wisdom, of justice and of truth, will yet give direction to her destiny? Were the nation older, the patriot’s heart might be sadder, and the reformer’s brow heavier. Its future might be shrouded in gloom, and the hope of its prophets go out in sorrow. There is consolation in the thought that America is young. Great streams are not easily turned from channels, worn deep in the course of ages. They may sometimes rise in quiet and stately majesty, and inundate the land, refreshing and fertilizing the earth with their mysterious properties. They may also rise in wrath and fury, and bear away, on their angry waves, the accumulated wealth of years of toil and hardship. They, however, gradually flow back to the same old channel, and flow on as serenely as ever. But, while the river may not be turned aside, it may dry up, and leave nothing behind but the withered branch, and the unsightly rock, to howl in the abyss-sweeping wind, the sad tale of departed glory. As with rivers so with nations.

Fellow-citizens, I shall not presume to dwell at length on the associations that cluster about this day. The simple story of it is that, 76 years ago, the people of this country were British subjects. The style and title of your “sovereign people” (in which you now glory) was not then born. You were under the British Crown. Your fathers esteemed the English Government as the home government; and England as the fatherland. This home government, you know, although a considerable distance from your home, did, in the exercise of its parental prerogatives, impose upon its colonial children, such restraints, burdens and limitations, as, in its mature judgment, it deemed wise, right and proper.

But, your fathers, who had not adopted the fashionable idea of this day, of the infallibility of government, and the absolute character of its acts, presumed to differ from the home government in respect to the wisdom and the justice of some of those burdens and restraints. They went so far in their excitement as to pronounce the measures of government unjust, unreasonable, and oppressive, and altogether such as ought not to be quietly submitted to. I scarcely need say, fellow-citizens, that my opinion of those measures fully accords with that of your fathers. Such a declaration of agreement on my part would not be worth much to anybody. It would, certainly, prove nothing, as to what part I might have taken, had I lived during the great controversy of 1776. To say now that America was right, and England wrong, is exceedingly easy. Everybody can say it; the dastard, not less than the noble brave, can flippantly discant on the tyranny of England towards the American Colonies. It is fashionable to do so; but there was a time when to pronounce against England, and in favor of the cause of the colonies, tried men’s souls. They who did so were accounted in their day, plotters of mischief, agitators and rebels, dangerous men. To side with the right, against the wrong, with the weak against the strong, and with the oppressed against the oppressor! here lies the merit, and the one which, of all others, seems unfashionable in our day. The cause of liberty may be stabbed by the men who glory in the deeds of your fathers. But, to proceed.

Feeling themselves harshly and unjustly treated by the home government, your fathers, like men of honesty, and men of spirit, earnestly sought redress. They petitioned and remonstrated; they did so in a decorous, respectful, and loyal manner. Their conduct was wholly unexceptionable. This, however, did not answer the purpose. They saw themselves treated with sovereign indifference, coldness and scorn. Yet they persevered. They were not the men to look back.

As the sheet anchor takes a firmer hold, when the ship is tossed by the storm, so did the cause of your fathers grow stronger, as it breasted the chilling blasts of kingly displeasure. The greatest and best of British statesmen admitted its justice, and the loftiest eloquence of the British Senate came to its support. But, with that blindness which seems to be the unvarying characteristic of tyrants, since Pharaoh and his hosts were drowned in the Red Sea, the British Government persisted in the exactions complained of.

The madness of this course, we believe, is admitted now, even by England; but we fear the lesson is wholly lost on our present ruler.

Oppression makes a wise man mad. Your fathers were wise men, and if they did not go mad, they became restive under this treatment. They felt themselves the victims of grievous wrongs, wholly incurable in their colonial capacity. With brave men there is always a remedy for oppression. Just here, the idea of a total separation of the colonies from the crown was born! It was a startling idea, much more so, than we, at this distance of time, regard it. The timid and the prudent (as has been intimated) of that day, were, of course, shocked and alarmed by it.

Such people lived then, had lived before, and will, probably, ever have a place on this planet; and their course, in respect to any great change, (no matter how great the good to be attained, or the wrong to be redressed by it), may be calculated with as much precision as can be the course of the stars. They hate all changes, but silver, gold and copper change! Of this sort of change they are always strongly in favor.

These people were called Tories in the days of your fathers; and the appellation, probably, conveyed the same idea that is meant by a more modern, though a somewhat less euphonious term, which we often find in our papers, applied to some of our old politicians.

Their opposition to the then dangerous thought was earnest and powerful; but, amid all their terror and affrighted vociferations against it, the alarming and revolutionary idea moved on, and the country with it.

On the 2d of July, 1776, the old Continental Congress, to the dismay of the lovers of ease, and the worshipers of property, clothed that dreadful idea with all the authority of national sanction. They did so in the form of a resolution; and as we seldom hit upon resolutions, drawn up in our day whose transparency is at all equal to this, it may refresh your minds and help my story if I read it. “Resolved, That these united colonies are, and of right, ought to be free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown; and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, dissolved.”

Citizens, your fathers made good that resolution. They succeeded; and to-day you reap the fruits of their success. The freedom gained is yours; and you, therefore, may properly celebrate this anniversary. The 4th of July is the first great fact in your nation’s history — the very ring-bolt in the chain of your yet undeveloped destiny.

Pride and patriotism, not less than gratitude, prompt you to celebrate and to hold it in perpetual remembrance. I have said that the Declaration of Independence is the ring-bolt to the chain of your nation’s destiny; so, indeed, I regard it. The principles contained in that instrument are saving principles. Stand by those principles, be true to them on all occasions, in all places, against all foes, and at whatever cost.

From the round top of your ship of state, dark and threatening clouds may be seen. Heavy billows, like mountains in the distance, disclose to the leeward huge forms of flinty rocks! That bolt drawn, that chain broken, and all is lost. Cling to this day — cling to it, and to its principles, with the grasp of a storm-tossed mariner to a spar at midnight.

The coming into being of a nation, in any circumstances, is an interesting event. But, besides general considerations, there were peculiar circumstances which make the advent of this republic an event of special attractiveness.

The whole scene, as I look back to it, was simple, dignified and sublime.

The population of the country, at the time, stood at the insignificant number of three millions. The country was poor in the munitions of war. The population was weak and scattered, and the country a wilderness unsubdued. There were then no means of concert and combination, such as exist now. Neither steam nor lightning had then been reduced to order and discipline. From the Potomac to the Delaware was a journey of many days. Under these, and innumerable other disadvantages, your fathers declared for liberty and independence and triumphed.

Fellow Citizens, I am not wanting in respect for the fathers of this republic. The signers of the Declaration of Independence were brave men. They were great men too — great enough to give fame to a great age. It does not often happen to a nation to raise, at one time, such a number of truly great men. The point from which I am compelled to view them is not, certainly, the most favorable; and yet I cannot contemplate their great deeds with less than admiration. They were statesmen, patriots and heroes, and for the good they did, and the principles they contended for, I will unite with you to honor their memory.

They loved their country better than their own private interests; and, though this is not the highest form of human excellence, all will concede that it is a rare virtue, and that when it is exhibited, it ought to command respect. He who will, intelligently, lay down his life for his country, is a man whom it is not in human nature to despise. Your fathers staked their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor, on the cause of their country. In their admiration of liberty, they lost sight of all other interests.

They were peace men; but they preferred revolution to peaceful submission to bondage. They were quiet men; but they did not shrink from agitating against oppression. They showed forbearance; but that they knew its limits. They believed in order; but not in the order of tyranny. With them, nothing was “settled” that was not right. With them, justice, liberty and humanity were “final;” not slavery and oppression. You may well cherish the memory of such men. They were great in their day and generation. Their solid manhood stands out the more as we contrast it with these degenerate times.

How circumspect, exact and proportionate were all their movements! How unlike the politicians of an hour! Their statesmanship looked beyond the passing moment, and stretched away in strength into the distant future. They seized upon eternal principles, and set a glorious example in their defense. Mark them!

Fully appreciating the hardship to be encountered, firmly believing in the right of their cause, honorably inviting the scrutiny of an on-looking world, reverently appealing to heaven to attest their sincerity, soundly comprehending the solemn responsibility they were about to assume, wisely measuring the terrible odds against them, your fathers, the fathers of this republic, did, most deliberately, under the inspiration of a glorious patriotism, and with a sublime faith in the great principles of justice and freedom, lay deep the corner-stone of the national superstructure, which has risen and still rises in grandeur around you.

Of this fundamental work, this day is the anniversary. Our eyes are met with demonstrations of joyous enthusiasm. Banners and pennants wave exultingly on the breeze. The din of business, too, is hushed. Even Mammon seems to have quitted his grasp on this day. The ear-piercing fife and the stirring drum unite their accents with the ascending peal of a thousand church bells. Prayers are made, hymns are sung, and sermons are preached in honor of this day; while the quick martial tramp of a great and multitudinous nation, echoed back by all the hills, valleys and mountains of a vast continent, bespeak the occasion one of thrilling and universal interest — a nation’s jubilee.

Friends and citizens, I need not enter further into the causes which led to this anniversary. Many of you understand them better than I do. You could instruct me in regard to them. That is a branch of knowledge in which you feel, perhaps, a much deeper interest than your speaker. The causes which led to the separation of the colonies from the British crown have never lacked for a tongue. They have all been taught in your common schools, narrated at your firesides, unfolded from your pulpits, and thundered from your legislative halls, and are as familiar to you as household words. They form the staple of your national poetry and eloquence.

I remember, also, that, as a people, Americans are remarkably familiar with all facts which make in their own favor. This is esteemed by some as a national trait — perhaps a national weakness. It is a fact, that whatever makes for the wealth or for the reputation of Americans, and can be had cheap! will be found by Americans. I shall not be charged with slandering Americans, if I say I think the American side of any question may be safely left in American hands.

I leave, therefore, the great deeds of your fathers to other gentlemen whose claim to have been regularly descended will be less likely to be disputed than mine!

My business, if I have any here to-day, is with the present. The accepted time with God and his cause is the ever-living now.

Trust no future, however pleasant, Let the dead past bury its dead; Act, act in the living present, Heart within, and God overhead.

We have to do with the past only as we can make it useful to the present and to the future. To all inspiring motives, to noble deeds which can be gained from the past, we are welcome. But now is the time, the important time. Your fathers have lived, died, and have done their work, and have done much of it well. You live and must die, and you must do your work. You have no right to enjoy a child’s share in the labor of your fathers, unless your children are to be blest by your labors. You have no right to wear out and waste the hard-earned fame of your fathers to cover your indolence. Sydney Smith tells us that men seldom eulogize the wisdom and virtues of their fathers, but to excuse some folly or wickedness of their own. This truth is not a doubtful one. There are illustrations of it near and remote, ancient and modern. It was fashionable, hundreds of years ago, for the children of Jacob to boast, we have “Abraham to our father,” when they had long lost Abraham’s faith and spirit. That people contented themselves under the shadow of Abraham’s great name, while they repudiated the deeds which made his name great. Need I remind you that a similar thing is being done all over this country to-day? Need I tell you that the Jews are not the only people who built the tombs of the prophets, and garnished the sepulchres of the righteous? Washington could not die till he had broken the chains of his slaves. Yet his monument is built up by the price of human blood, and the traders in the bodies and souls of men shout — “We have Washington to our father.” — Alas! that it should be so; yet so it is.

The evil that men do, lives after them, The good is oft-interred with their bones.

Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold, that a nation’s sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude, that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish, that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation’s jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that, the dumb might eloquently speak, and the “lame man leap as an hart.”

But, such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. I am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice, are not enjoyed in common. — The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity and independence, bequeathed by your fathers, is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought life and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth [of] July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn you that it is dangerous to copy the example of a nation whose crimes, lowering up to heaven, were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrecoverable ruin! I can to-day take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people!

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.”

Fellow-citizens; above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, to-day, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, “may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!” To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY. I shall see, this day, and its popular characteristics, from the slave’s point of view. Standing, there, identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine, I do not hesitate to declare, with all my soul, that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this 4th of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past, or to the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the constitution and the Bible, which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery — the great sin and shame of America! “I will not equivocate; I will not excuse;” I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, or who is not at heart a slaveholder, shall not confess to be right and just.

But I fancy I hear some one of my audience say, it is just in this circumstance that you and your brother abolitionists fail to make a favorable impression on the public mind. Would you argue more, and denounce less, would you persuade more, and rebuke less, your cause would be much more likely to succeed. But, I submit, where all is plain there is nothing to be argued. What point in the anti-slavery creed would you have me argue? On what branch of the subject do the people of this country need light? Must I undertake to prove that the slave is a man? That point is conceded already. Nobody doubts it. The slaveholders themselves acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for their government. They acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the State of Virginia, which, if committed by a black man, (no matter how ignorant he be), subject him to the punishment of death; while only two of the same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is this but the acknowledgement that the slave is a moral, intellectual and responsible being? The manhood of the slave is conceded. It is admitted in the fact that Southern statute books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or to write. When you can point to any such laws, in reference to the beasts of the field, then I may consent to argue the manhood of the slave. When the dogs in your streets, when the fowls of the air, when the cattle on your hills, when the fish of the sea, and the reptiles that crawl, shall be unable to distinguish the slave from a brute, then will I argue with you that the slave is a man!

For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not astonishing that, while we are ploughing, planting and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver and gold; that, while we are reading, writing and cyphering, acting as clerks, merchants and secretaries, having among us lawyers, doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators and teachers; that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hill-side, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives and children, and, above all, confessing and worshipping the Christian’s God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!

Would you have me argue that man is entitled to liberty? that he is the rightful owner of his own body? You have already declared it. Must I argue the wrongfulness of slavery? Is that a question for Republicans? Is it to be settled by the rules of logic and argumentation, as a matter beset with great difficulty, involving a doubtful application of the principle of justice, hard to be understood? How should I look to-day, in the presence of Americans, dividing, and subdividing a discourse, to show that men have a natural right to freedom? speaking of it relatively, and positively, negatively, and affirmatively. To do so, would be to make myself ridiculous, and to offer an insult to your understanding. — There is not a man beneath the canopy of heaven, that does not know that slavery is wrong for him.

What, am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood, and stained with pollution, is wrong? No! I will not. I have better employments for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.

What, then, remains to be argued? Is it that slavery is not divine; that God did not establish it; that our doctors of divinity are mistaken? There is blasphemy in the thought. That which is inhuman, cannot be divine! Who can reason on such a proposition? They that can, may; I cannot. The time for such argument is passed.

At a time like this, scorching irony, not convincing argument, is needed. O! had I the ability, and could I reach the nation’s ear, I would, to-day, pour out a fiery stream of biting ridicule, blasting reproach, withering sarcasm, and stern rebuke. For it is not light that is needed, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. The feeling of the nation must be quickened; the conscience of the nation must be roused; the propriety of the nation must be startled; the hypocrisy of the nation must be exposed; and its crimes against God and man must be proclaimed and denounced.

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.

Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the old world, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.

Take the American slave-trade, which, we are told by the papers, is especially prosperous just now. Ex-Senator Benton tells us that the price of men was never higher than now. He mentions the fact to show that slavery is in no danger. This trade is one of the peculiarities of American institutions. It is carried on in all the large towns and cities in one-half of this confederacy; and millions are pocketed every year, by dealers in this horrid traffic. In several states, this trade is a chief source of wealth. It is called (in contradistinction to the foreign slave-trade) “the internal slave trade.” It is, probably, called so, too, in order to divert from it the horror with which the foreign slave-trade is contemplated. That trade has long since been denounced by this government, as piracy. It has been denounced with burning words, from the high places of the nation, as an execrable traffic. To arrest it, to put an end to it, this nation keeps a squadron, at immense cost, on the coast of Africa. Everywhere, in this country, it is safe to speak of this foreign slave-trade, as a most inhuman traffic, opposed alike to the laws of God and of man. The duty to extirpate and destroy it, is admitted even by our DOCTORS OF DIVINITY. In order to put an end to it, some of these last have consented that their colored brethren (nominally free) should leave this country, and establish themselves on the western coast of Africa! It is, however, a notable fact that, while so much execration is poured out by Americans upon those engaged in the foreign slave-trade, the men engaged in the slave-trade between the states pass without condemnation, and their business is deemed honorable.

Behold the practical operation of this internal slave-trade, the American slave-trade, sustained by American politics and America religion. Here you will see men and women reared like swine for the market. You know what is a swine-drover? I will show you a man-drover. They inhabit all our Southern States. They perambulate the country, and crowd the highways of the nation, with droves of human stock. You will see one of these human flesh-jobbers, armed with pistol, whip and bowie-knife, driving a company of a hundred men, women, and children, from the Potomac to the slave market at New Orleans. These wretched people are to be sold singly, or in lots, to suit purchasers. They are food for the cotton-field, and the deadly sugar-mill. Mark the sad procession, as it moves wearily along, and the inhuman wretch who drives them. Hear his savage yells and his blood-chilling oaths, as he hurries on his affrighted captives! There, see the old man, with locks thinned and gray. Cast one glance, if you please, upon that young mother, whose shoulders are bare to the scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the brow of the babe in her arms. See, too, that girl of thirteen, weeping, yes! weeping, as she thinks of the mother from whom she has been torn! The drove moves tardily. Heat and sorrow have nearly consumed their strength; suddenly you hear a quick snap, like the discharge of a rifle; the fetters clank, and the chain rattles simultaneously; your ears are saluted with a scream, that seems to have torn its way to the center of your soul! The crack you heard, was the sound of the slave-whip; the scream you heard, was from the woman you saw with the babe. Her speed had faltered under the weight of her child and her chains! that gash on her shoulder tells her to move on. Follow the drove to New Orleans. Attend the auction; see men examined like horses; see the forms of women rudely and brutally exposed to the shocking gaze of American slave-buyers. See this drove sold and separated forever; and never forget the deep, sad sobs that arose from that scattered multitude. Tell me citizens, WHERE, under the sun, you can witness a spectacle more fiendish and shocking. Yet this is but a glance at the American slave-trade, as it exists, at this moment, in the ruling part of the United States.

I was born amid such sights and scenes. To me the American slave-trade is a terrible reality. When a child, my soul was often pierced with a sense of its horrors. I lived on Philpot Street, Fell’s Point, Baltimore, and have watched from the wharves, the slave ships in the Basin, anchored from the shore, with their cargoes of human flesh, waiting for favorable winds to waft them down the Chesapeake. There was, at that time, a grand slave mart kept at the head of Pratt Street, by Austin Woldfolk. His agents were sent into every town and county in Maryland, announcing their arrival, through the papers, and on flaming “hand-bills,” headed CASH FOR NEGROES. These men were generally well dressed men, and very captivating in their manners. Ever ready to drink, to treat, and to gamble. The fate of many a slave has depended upon the turn of a single card; and many a child has been snatched from the arms of its mother by bargains arranged in a state of brutal drunkenness.

The flesh-mongers gather up their victims by dozens, and drive them, chained, to the general depot at Baltimore. When a sufficient number have been collected here, a ship is chartered, for the purpose of conveying the forlorn crew to Mobile, or to New Orleans. From the slave prison to the ship, they are usually driven in the darkness of night; for since the antislavery agitation, a certain caution is observed.

In the deep still darkness of midnight, I have been often aroused by the dead heavy footsteps, and the piteous cries of the chained gangs that passed our door. The anguish of my boyish heart was intense; and I was often consoled, when speaking to my mistress in the morning, to hear her say that the custom was very wicked; that she hated to hear the rattle of the chains, and the heart-rending cries. I was glad to find one who sympathized with me in my horror.

Fellow-citizens, this murderous traffic is, to-day, in active operation in this boasted republic. In the solitude of my spirit, I see clouds of dust raised on the highways of the South; I see the bleeding footsteps; I hear the doleful wail of fettered humanity, on the way to the slave-markets, where the victims are to be sold like horses, sheep, and swine, knocked off to the highest bidder. There I see the tenderest ties ruthlessly broken, to gratify the lust, caprice and rapacity of the buyers and sellers of men. My soul sickens at the sight.

Is this the land your Fathers loved, The freedom which they toiled to win? Is this the earth whereon they moved? Are these the graves they slumber in?

But a still more inhuman, disgraceful, and scandalous state of things remains to be presented. By an act of the American Congress, not yet two years old, slavery has been nationalized in its most horrible and revolting form. By that act, Mason and Dixon’s line has been obliterated; New York has become as Virginia; and the power to hold, hunt, and sell men, women, and children as slaves remains no longer a mere state institution, but is now an institution of the whole United States. The power is co-extensive with the Star-Spangled Banner and American Christianity. Where these go, may also go the merciless slave-hunter. Where these are, man is not sacred. He is a bird for the sportsman’s gun. By that most foul and fiendish of all human decrees, the liberty and person of every man are put in peril. Your broad republican domain is hunting ground for men. Not for thieves and robbers, enemies of society, merely, but for men guilty of no crime. Your lawmakers have commanded all good citizens to engage in this hellish sport. Your President, your Secretary of State, our lords, nobles, and ecclesiastics, enforce, as a duty you owe to your free and glorious country, and to your God, that you do this accursed thing. Not fewer than forty Americans have, within the past two years, been hunted down and, without a moment’s warning, hurried away in chains, and consigned to slavery and excruciating torture. Some of these have had wives and children, dependent on them for bread; but of this, no account was made. The right of the hunter to his prey stands superior to the right of marriage, and to all rights in this republic, the rights of God included! For black men there are neither law, justice, humanity, not religion. The Fugitive Slave Law makes mercy to them a crime; and bribes the judge who tries them. An American judge gets ten dollars for every victim he consigns to slavery, and five, when he fails to do so. The oath of any two villains is sufficient, under this hell-black enactment, to send the most pious and exemplary black man into the remorseless jaws of slavery! His own testimony is nothing. He can bring no witnesses for himself. The minister of American justice is bound by the law to hear but one side; and that side, is the side of the oppressor. Let this damning fact be perpetually told. Let it be thundered around the world, that, in tyrant-killing, king-hating, people-loving, democratic, Christian America, the seats of justice are filled with judges, who hold their offices under an open and palpable bribe, and are bound, in deciding in the case of a man’s liberty, hear only his accusers!

In glaring violation of justice, in shameless disregard of the forms of administering law, in cunning arrangement to entrap the defenseless, and in diabolical intent, this Fugitive Slave Law stands alone in the annals of tyrannical legislation. I doubt if there be another nation on the globe, having the brass and the baseness to put such a law on the statute-book. If any man in this assembly thinks differently from me in this matter, and feels able to disprove my statements, I will gladly confront him at any suitable time and place he may select.

I take this law to be one of the grossest infringements of Christian Liberty, and, if the churches and ministers of our country were not stupidly blind, or most wickedly indifferent, they, too, would so regard it.

At the very moment that they are thanking God for the enjoyment of civil and religious liberty, and for the right to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences, they are utterly silent in respect to a law which robs religion of its chief significance, and makes it utterly worthless to a world lying in wickedness. Did this law concern the “mint, anise, and cumin” — abridge the right to sing psalms, to partake of the sacrament, or to engage in any of the ceremonies of religion, it would be smitten by the thunder of a thousand pulpits. A general shout would go up from the church, demanding repeal, repeal, instant repeal! — And it would go hard with that politician who presumed to solicit the votes of the people without inscribing this motto on his banner. Further, if this demand were not complied with, another Scotland would be added to the history of religious liberty, and the stern old Covenanters would be thrown into the shade. A John Knox would be seen at every church door, and heard from every pulpit, and Fillmore would have no more quarter than was shown by Knox, to the beautiful, but treacherous queen Mary of Scotland. The fact that the church of our country, (with fractional exceptions), does not esteem “the Fugitive Slave Law” as a declaration of war against religious liberty, implies that that church regards religion simply as a form of worship, an empty ceremony, and not a vital principle, requiring active benevolence, justice, love and good will towards man. It esteems sacrifice above mercy; psalm-singing above right doing; solemn meetings above practical righteousness. A worship that can be conducted by persons who refuse to give shelter to the house-less, to give bread to the hungry, clothing to the naked, and who enjoin obedience to a law forbidding these acts of mercy, is a curse, not a blessing to mankind. The Bible addresses all such persons as “scribes, Pharisees, hypocrites, who pay tithe of mint, anise, and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy and faith.”

But the church of this country is not only indifferent to the wrongs of the slave, it actually takes sides with the oppressors. It has made itself the bulwark of American slavery, and the shield of American slave-hunters. Many of its most eloquent Divines. who stand as the very lights of the church, have shamelessly given the sanction of religion and the Bible to the whole slave system. They have taught that man may, properly, be a slave; that the relation of master and slave is ordained of God; that to send back an escaped bondman to his master is clearly the duty of all the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ; and this horrible blasphemy is palmed off upon the world for Christianity.

For my part, I would say, welcome infidelity! welcome atheism! welcome anything! in preference to the gospel, as preached by those Divines! They convert the very name of religion into an engine of tyranny, and barbarous cruelty, and serve to confirm more infidels, in this age, than all the infidel writings of Thomas Paine, Voltaire, and Bolingbroke, put together, have done! These ministers make religion a cold and flinty-hearted thing, having neither principles of right action, nor bowels of compassion. They strip the love of God of its beauty, and leave the throng of religion a huge, horrible, repulsive form. It is a religion for oppressors, tyrants, man-stealers, and thugs. It is not that “pure and undefiled religion” which is from above, and which is “first pure, then peaceable, easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.” But a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves; which says to the man in chains, stay there; and to the oppressor, oppress on; it is a religion which may be professed and enjoyed by all the robbers and enslavers of mankind; it makes God a respecter of persons, denies his fatherhood of the race, and tramples in the dust the great truth of the brotherhood of man. All this we affirm to be true of the popular church, and the popular worship of our land and nation — a religion, a church, and a worship which, on the authority of inspired wisdom, we pronounce to be an abomination in the sight of God. In the language of Isaiah, the American church might be well addressed, “Bring no more vain ablations; incense is an abomination unto me: the new moons and Sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity even the solemn meeting. Your new moons and your appointed feasts my soul hateth. They are a trouble to me; I am weary to bear them; and when ye spread forth your hands I will hide mine eyes from you. Yea! when ye make many prayers, I will not hear. YOUR HANDS ARE FULL OF BLOOD; cease to do evil, learn to do well; seek judgment; relieve the oppressed; judge for the fatherless; plead for the widow.”

https://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/document/what-to-the-slave-is-the-fourth-of-july

#Frederick Douglass #Fourth of July

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gibelwho · 4 years

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Reflections on Authenticity: A Star is Born

Remaking a film that has been done three times before sets up a baseline challenge for a film’s success. Throw in a major actor’s directorial debut, casting a novice actor to portray the star, and you’ve got a film that is destined to either exceed its potential or completely fall apart. Thankfully, A Star is Born (2018), directed, co-written, and starring Bradley Cooper, alongside a headlining debut of Lady Gaga, delivers on many fronts - artistically, musically, and perhaps more importantly - authentically.

Singer-songwriter Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper) is a world famous, hard drinkin’ country artist who is just past his prime. After a concert, he meets Ally (Lady Gaga), who is performing at a drag bar; he is instantly smitten and convinces her to spend the night talking, where he discovers that she is a talented singer-songwriter herself. The next day, he flies her out to his show, where they perform the song she shared with him the night before. This performance kicks off her singing career, as well as their fiery relationship. As Ally’s star begins to rise, Jack’s descent into alcoholism becomes more apparent; despite their shifting paths, they decide to get married. However, their troubles only intensify, culminating in a drunken and embarrassing event at an awards show that lands Jackson in rehab. He successfully goes through the program and is welcomed back by Ally, but he ultimately recognizes that his addiction will only hold her career back, so he makes a choice to end his life. Ally, devastated, performs a tribute song to her man; his star has fizzled out as hers continues to shine brightly, although a bit diminished from heartbreak.

Bradley Cooper set himself up for a double challenge in this film - directing himself in a lead role in his first directorial debut - and he rises to the occasion. His character spends the majority of the film on a spectrum of haze from being drunk or high and Cooper is able to capture this altered state, even showing the difference in his eyes; however, the heartbreak of the film wouldn’t work without his winning over the audience with his genuine heart. The performance is truly amazing, not only considering his significant amount of screen time, but also the majority of those in difficult and vulnerable scenes; he has set the stage for his future directorial career, even more notable if he can pull off this duo role additional times.

There are also stellar turns from other players, from Dave Chapelle to Sam Elliot, both who contribute to the film’s tone of being grounded in reality. More credit must be given to Cooper, who co-wrote the script and knew the story inside and out, but also has emerged as an actor’s director, understanding the language necessary to speak directly to his fellows. A highlight is the authentic interplay between Elliot and Cooper, who felt like true brothers with weighted history. Even after their falling out, when they see each other again at a loud venue, the way that Elliot’s character is conscious of Jackson’s hearing difficulties is such a small detail, but one that demonstrates the residual care and deep understanding of these siblings. Also, their final scene, where Elliot drives away after an emotional Jackson tells him a truth that was hard to say and yet means everything, the look on his face as he drives back in reverse...well, that is some good acting while operating heavy machinery.

And finally, the star of the show, Lady Gaga, a worldwide mega-star herself who must capture the journey of a nobody, rising star, and transformed diva, all in her first starring acting role. A herculean effort, but one that she pulls off with humor, strength, and vulnerability. The audience will surely be aware of her queen of pop status when entering into the theater - talented singer-songwriter with outlandish costumes (that include a meat dress), and songs with hooks that get stuck in your head for days. Lady Gaga herself has crafted her career on constructing her image and brand, clothing and making up her body with extravagant concepts and creating pop hits with a clearly studio produced sound; at the same time, she is an accomplished piano player, sings with skillful technique, and has collaborated on jazz albums with Tony Bennett - so her musical bonafides are also legit. This interplay between constructed image and underlying authenticity is at the heart of this iteration of A Star is Born, and Lady Gaga was perfectly cast, as her star persona and career is already a mixture of these two concepts.

The first time we glimpse Lady Gaga as Ally, she is performing at a drag bar, where she is dolled up on stage, performing La Vi En Rose. She catches Jackson’s attention, who is intrigued enough to visit backstage and, in an intimate moment, assists in taking off her fake eyebrows. She emerges from the dressing room as a subversion of her current star persona - she appears with no makeup, regular hair, and street clothing. Once Jackson pulls her onstage and ignites her career, Ally has transformed into the Gaga we know, with outlandish clothing and dyed hair, pop beats that overwhelm perceived musicality, and appearances on popular talk shows. Once tragedy has unfolded, we are presented with a new sophisticated Ally, singing a torch song in an elegant dress and with an orchestra, the focus of the music on her powerful voice.

These various iterations of Ally set the stage for the exploration of the theme of authenticity - what defines it, who controls it, and what is allowed within image, music, career, and love. What can be considered real? The film’s narrative posits the belief that acoustic rock is natural and that the world of pop, with its outrageous outfits, designed makeup, and vapid lyrics, are a construct and therefore not as real. Jackson clearly resents that Ally chooses that path in her career - they have the same conversation three times in the film - on the rooftop in full view of her billboard, an epic fight in the bathroom, and finally her visit to him in rehab - and each time he asserts his disappointment in her choices; only in the final conversation does she see that he won’t back down from this belief. While she defends her career and brand, she does show some early reticence about adding dancers to her act, stating “I don’t want to lose the part of myself that is talented,” implying that adding elements that contribute to spectacle takes her further from the authentic music.

And so, the question is posed - is she asserting her own personality in the pop star version of Ally? Is it an act that she is even conscious of making? When Ally is first presented on-screen, she is completely made up at the drag queen bar and Jackson’s first act is to remove her stage makeup - and they never really break out of this pattern until the end of the film. Does his death shock her out of a constructed inauthentic state - so much that in tribute to their love, she asserts a new star persona - abandoning the roles of the rock sidekick or designed pop star - and evolving into a refined singer in a beautiful dress, backed by an orchestra, and singing a torch song to the man she loved. The film seems to pass judgement on the type of career that Lady Gaga herself personifies and yet, must acknowledge that any presentation on stage is a constructed image, just as the composition of the film itself is a construction as well. Striving for authenticity is a noble task in all works of art, but what defines something as authentic? When asked in an interview for the film about whether it was scary to show her face on-screen with no makeup, Lady Gaga responded that was a representation of Ally and that she herself, as Lady Gaga, felt more authentically herself when dressed up in makeup and hair done. In the end, authenticity is a representation of one’s true nature or belief - who am I (or Jackson Maine) to question someone’s true definition of themselves - whether sans makeup or outrageously painted, expressing studio produced pop music or live acoustic ballads.

Speaking of music, the soundtrack for this film is delightful, not surprising given the talent of Lady Gaga writing the songs, but Cooper contributes to his long list of accomplishments for this film by adding his guitar, voice, and musicality to the songs. Music is integral to the dna of this film, which takes time to feature the multitude of songs, not just in clips or sequences, but sometimes highlighting an entire set piece. To justify spending that much film time, the songs must carry weight in the storytelling. For example, a song lyric that Jackson croons - “maybe it’s time to let the old ways die” - captures the story arc of Cooper’s character in a single melodic expression; he is the old, Ally is the new, and the song is almost a predictive, mournful lament to his future. The variety of the soundtrack is also notable, tracking the various stages of Ally’s persona and career - demonstrating the talent of Gaga’s ability to craft songs that serve story and character, but also that can be listened to and enjoyed on their own merits.

Another aspect of the film that shows a thoughtfulness of direction was the use of light, adding a layer of commentary on character to the scenes. For example, the beginning of the film shows Jackson performing a concert while high and the bright, blurry lights and constant camera movement captures that feeling and invites the audience to (almost) share that experience. After he returns from rehab and enters his dark house, a sign that reads La Vi En Rose turns on and floods his empty house with red light and a burst of Ally’s energy and spirit, a touch that reminds the character and the viewer of the beginning of this couple’s journey. Additionally, when he is settling into the house, sober and playing with the dog as Ally watches from afar - this is literally the most pure that he’s been and the light shows that quality; it is warm and golden and shines bright, almost taking over the entire frame with its radiance, but only for a moment, which parallels his character’s trajectory. Pure in that moment, but winking out soon, for when the camera returns to the house later, flooded with the police’s flashing red and blue lights, interplaying hauntingly with the red sign in the house, the audience knows that this light means death.

The bookends of the film show the crossing of the two people’s careers, life, and energy. At the beginning of the film, Jackson invites Ally to attend one of his concerts, and he sends her a car to pick her up; here, he has the power in the relationship, but by the end, she is the one with the concert, she offers to send a car, she has the complete power in the dynamic. The narrative is truly one of his star falling and hers rising.

The final conclusion to Jackson’s fall from stardom is a heartbreaking one, pushed by a music executive that is selfishly concerned with his pop star’s career rather than a human being’s fragility. Tragically, rock stars too often live the story that is dramatized by Jackson’s character - extremely talented, leaning into the rockstar lifestyle, only to flame out from drugs. For Jackson, addiction is a powerful disease and the chances of relapse could be high; he is vulnerable and listens to a voice that expresses all his fears out loud, internalizes that message, and then makes his decision. At the same time, it is infuriating that this person (who has dragged down multiple people he loves), who put in some work and had been making amends with those people, to be so completely in a vulnerable place and to be thrown down by a ruthless stranger was heartbreaking to watch. Because you want to root for people. But old habits die hard. And he really did love her and want the best for her and so decided to take his potential destructive behavior out of the equation so she could go on to better heights than he could ever have achieved.

This film may be the fourth remake and may be telling a familiar story about artists rising and falling, but ultimately, it is about the journey of that story, the music that is created, the moments that are captured, and the chemistry of the players. A Star is Born, 2018 edition, captures the essence of these characters, highlights the stellar music, and delivers a heartbreaking ending that leaves viewers thinking about the question of authenticity in art, love, and oneself.

#a star is born #lady gaga #bradley cooper

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siren-theories · 5 years

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Repeating the past - Ben and Ryn as modern parallels to Charles Pownall and his mermaid?

When I wrote my previous post about the Pownall Massacre I noticed just how many parallels between the massacre and our trio exist, especially for the characters of Ben and Ryn. In fact, I saw so many parallels that I started writing the following as the last part of my analysis. But I soon realized that this was too large and merited an article of its own.

If you are unfamiliar with the story of the Pownall Massacre feel free to read my previous article on it (or alternatively you can just accept my conclusions at face value).

Gifs in this post are either taken from the official freeform site, Crayonboxhearts, koortega or sirensource.

Due to the characters involved in the Charles Pownall story this analysis has to mainly focus on Ben and Ryn. I apologize beforehand if it seems as if I am ignoring Maddie. You will understand why once you get to the last part of this article.

Hypothesis: The story of Charles H. Pownall and his mermaid might be repeating itself in the form of Ben and Ryn (and to a certain extent Maddie).

(Polymarine fans upon reading the previous sentence)

The looming threat of Ben turning into his ancestor and Ryn into the original mermaid is always present in the show and adds drama and spice to their relationship. A huge part of what makes their relationship worth watching is experiencing how they overcome the past - or not - and how they make different choices than their respective families / societies. This piece will examine how the show creates parallels and in which way they differ from the original characters.

Part I: The Parallels

There are multiple obvious parallels between the story of Charles and his mermaid and our trio, so many in fact that this is very unlikely to be coincidental.

1. Charles Pownall was the first of the Bristol Cove community to meet a mermaid and became entranced with her and her song

(ELAINE: “I*m curious, how did you and Ben become friends? RYN: Ben almost hit me with car.”)

Likewise, Ben is the first person in close to 150 years to meet a mermaid and he too becomes entranced with her song in Episode 101: “The Mermaid Discovery”.

2. Both Charles and Ben were already in a committed relationship when they met the mermaid.

Charles was married to an unnamed woman (presumably Bens great-great-great-grandmother), Ben was dating Maddie for several months until Ryn arrived on the scene.

(Player 3 has entered the game)

As with Charles, the new presence complicates the existing relationship, to the point that Ben and Maddie break up for a short while in Episode 110 when he (under the influence of the song) consistently put his need to protect Ryn over communicating with Maddie.

3. Charles and the mermaid lived together on land.

(”Ryn choose[...] I stay on land with Ben and Maddie”)

Ryn too lives with Ben and Maddie on land, As of 209, she wants to stay on land permanently even though it might put her in danger.

4. Charles Pownall suffered from alleged mental illness due to the song.

Likewise, Ben and Maddie experience visions and exhibit poor impulse control after being exposed to it. This ranges from visions of Ryn being in danger to a unique way of telling your prospective inlaws about the nature of your relationship with their son and the “friend from Finland”.

5. Charles tried alcohol to cope with the effects of the song.

(Episode 209 “No North Star” and Episode 211 “Mixed Signals”)

Maddie and Ben start drinking alcohol whenever missing Ryn or daydrinking when under the effect of the song.

6. Charles started to act abnormally when his mermaid was gone.

Ben and Maddie also act abnormally whenever Ryn might have left them for good. Ben takes risky trips to sea at night in Episode 105 "Curse of the Starving Class" , both Maddie and Ben self-medicate with the song in Episode 209 "No North Star".

7. As with Charles the song causes brain damage in Ben and Maddie.

(“My song do this? Make Heads go dark?” - from Episode 211: “Mixed Signals” )

8. It is likely that Charles’ mermaid was the one initiating the sexual part of the relationship.

"I have a dream. About Ben.[...]Maddie says it is because I want you."

While Ben and Ryn discussed having feelings for each other before, it is Ryn who pursues him in 204 “Oil and Water”.

Ryn is the first to kiss both Maddie and Ben (mimicking human behaviour in episodes 105 and 106 with first true kisses happening in episode 204). It is Ryn who first states the wish to have sexual relations with the other two.

All subsequent sexual encounters we see depicted on the show happen with Ryn being the one initiating them.

(Episode 208)

(Episode 209)

(Episode 210)

(Episode 213)

9. According to other humans the mermaid was a woman of ill repute, even slandered as a tavern prostitute after her disappearance.

Likewise, Ryn is seen as a drug addict, murder suspect and person-who-holds-wild-orgies-at-the-cabin-with-Ben by elements of the police force. The look on Deputy Marissa Staub's face when Ryn appears besides Ben at the Cabin in Episode 203 “Natural Order” speaks volumes.

(Tfw you discover the local prince is way too intimate with the local druggie, offending conservative sensibilities everywhere. Oh the humanity.)

Marissa also likely views Ryn as a home-wrecker (considering she knows Maddie is dating Ben and is close to Dale), much the same way other humans would have viewed Charles mermaid.

10. Charles and the Mermaid had a baby

One thing missing at this point in the show is the presence of a hybrid baby but that might (and I think eventually will) change in the following seasons. There were multiple scenes in Episode 213 where both Ben and Ryn clearly exhibited signs of wanting to have children with each other and one scene in particular where they both had to force themselves not to do so within that episode.

[Sidenote: The acting in Episodes 213-216 was on point.]

Wwhether there will be a baby in the relationship due to Ryn getting her full-blood baby back (although I think it more likely that one - if it survives - will end up with the other sirens in the sea) or a hypothetical future hybrid baby she might have with Ben (something I personally thnk will be the direction the show will eventually take in the penultimate, maybe ultimate season) the massive anvil sized hints the writers dropped in 213 are too huge to ignore.

[Sidenote: Would Ben and Ryn need IVF to conceive? Probably not. As the tests showed in Episode 213 "The Outpost" there was nothing wrong with Ryn. I believe the problem with getting pregnant was firmly on the male side as infertility in apex predators (and humans) is most often a male problem and the procedure they used is typically used to fix low sperm count in male humans. More on that maybe in a later article.]

11. There is persistent symbolism associated with Charles Pownall, Ben and Ryn in Season 1

In Episode 109 “Street Fight” the most tragic event of Season 1 (Donna getting fatally wounded) happens right near the statue of Ben's Ancestor, with the camera panning over to the statue multiple times to make sure the audience gets the hint.

It also featured a storyline of Ben acting increasingly irrationally (albeit in a very mild manner compared to Charles) while trying to protect Ryn from Katrina.

Conclusion:

So there you have it. The Siren trio is just a retelling of the Charles Pownall story adapted for modern times, destined for the same tragic ending. After all, the parallels are there. Charles = Ben, his mermaid = Ryn.

(Polymarine representatives gather near the author’s house to register their difference of opinion, 2019, decolorized)

Maybe not.

Or rather, this is not the same story and the show tells us that they are not reliving the past.

B) Differences

Whereas the story of Charles Pownall was that of a tragedy and eventual separation, the story of our trio is not. In fact, what the writers are going for seems to be the kind of story that shows that people in similar situations might act in a different manner than their ancestors and thus that similar situations might have different, better outcomes.

Let us take a look at the ways the show differentiates the trio from the Pownall story and also the ways the show outright tells us that this is not the same story.

1. Ryn and Ben’s motivations are different than those of their ancestors

Unlike the mermaid which helped Charles find material wealth, Ryn's initial motive is to find her sister, then stop the overfishing, then safeguard her pack, then save her species from extinction. This of course is accompanied by the motive of Ryn to stay with Ben and Maddie, a motive which might even have taken priority if Ryn leaving her pack to stay on land permanently in Episode 209 is any indication.

The initial motive on the actions of Charles were profit (and maybe fame), which is definitely not the case with Ben who seems to not care much about material wealth as evidenced by Episode 108 where he declines a new car.

ELAINE: "Your car is disgusting." BEN: "I like my car" ELAINE: "We could buy you a new one, you know. One of those electrics....good for the environment."

Ben could easily become famous and have a huge career boost by "discovering" Ryn and publishing his findings but he does not. Instead his main motive seems to protect both humans and Sirens from harming each other - something that Ryn comes to eventually share as well.

2. The characters act as a bridge between the cultures, not as dividers

The show sometimes attaches imaginery to fit that purpose, as in Episode 203 “Oil and Water”.

(Let's just look each other in the eyes for 30 seconds while the merpack safely sleeps between us and hope that the viewers are not too distracted by the sexual tension to not notice the symbolism)

The writers further bring up the idea of characters (specifically Ryn) acting as a bridge between the cultures in Epsiode 206.

RYN: “Shapeshifter like me” DALE: Yes. And in those stories, the ones like you often represent the idea of two worlds coming together. [...] But maybe that is your calling, to lead my kind and your kind to a peaceful existence in this new world.”

In 208 Ben reveals his hope that eventually the two species can live together (again) in harmony (something that Ryn, Maddie and Ben already practice on a smaller scale).

3. When facing a choice between their respective societies/families and their relationship the trio consistently chooses the relationship

After becoming Alpha in Episode 109 "Street fight" Ryn still choses to leave her pack behind to stay on land.

In 207 Ryn decides to volunteer as a military test subject in order to get Ben out of jail.

This was a very risky choice - she had no reason to trust the military, no reason to believe they would ever let her go and she also risked her entire pack's welfare by placing herself in the hands of the military. Yet she still did it for Ben.

In episode 208 Ryn leaves her pack to spend the night with Ben and Maddie and in episode 209 she reveals she permanently wants to stay with them no matter the costs or risks attached, even though it might expose her to capture by the military and thus risk her colony. The vehemence with which she defends her choice is telling.

RYN:"Ryn hurt inside. Need Ben and Maddie" BEN: "We need you too. There is a woman looking for you". MADDIE: "She's with the military. RYN: "Yes. I help her." BEN: "Why?" RYN: "She get Ben out of cage." MADDIE: "You agreed to work with her to get Ben out of jail?" RYN: "Yes." BEN: You shouldn't have done that" RYN: "Ben is love" BEN: "Look you shouldn't have put yourself in danger for me." MADDIE: "We think it's better for you to go back to the water. Just for a while."

At this suggestion, Ryn gets visibly angry.

RYN: "Ryn choose...Military was bad to sister, but good to Ryn." MADDIE: "For now. But we don't know what they want to do to you." RYN: "I stay with Ben and Maddie."

Ben likewise rejects his family business and refuses to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors. When presented with a "dark" vision of himself in Episode 214 he rejects it with horror. He consistently lies to his family to keep Ryn safe and to help her. Most importantly at the end of Episode 215 “Sacrifice” he puts Ryn’s safety above the health of his own mother, who might very well die because of this choice.

Kyle, slimeball extraordinaire and commander of the military facility had previously told Ben that his mother would need another injection of Ryn's stem cells soon in order to continue healing, leading to the following conversation:

MADDIE: “As soon as he finds out what we did, that'll be the end of our relationship with him.” BEN: “Yeah. This is what matters right now. For Ryn and her species. All the rest we'll just have to figure out.”

Maddie likewise choses to protect Ryn and breaks a solemn vow to her father to do so in Episode 107 “Dead in the water” . While maybe not on the same level of the above-mentioned sacrifices made by Ryn and Ben there is not a single reason to doubt that she too would choose her two mates over anybody else.

4. The human families of the trio are not openly hostile to them being together with Ryn

Charles Pownall's family was hostile to the mermaid with the Hawkins being permanently ostracized by the Pownells.

The human families reaction to the relationship between Ben, Ryn and Maddie are different from that. Maddie's mother, Susan, is concerned - but not about the nature of the relationship, instead she is concerned about Maddie getting hurt. We do not know what Dale thinks about the relationship or if he even knows about it though I find it hard to believe Maddie would keep it from him. Thus I would argue he at least tolerates it).

Ben's father seems completely unfazed by his son being in a polyamorous relationship. If anything he seems more amused by the display Maddie made when she announced that she, Ryn and Ben were in such a relationship instead of the fact itself.

HELEN: "That was quite the show" TED *laughs* : "That's one way to put it. I just hope those three figure it out, whatever it is."

Elaine was shocked but that might have been more due to the nature of the announcement - she certainly did not have any problems with Ryn kissing Ben in Episode 209 despite knowing that Ben was with Maddie.

There are a few caveats to the above. Nobody except Dale knows Ryn’s true nature. Ted's reaction might very well be different and even hostile in the future considering he is on the verge of finding out about Ryn. Of course the Sirens having something to do with the boat accident that crippled Elaine or that Elaine might suffer more in the future due to Ryn having to withhold stem cells from her might also cause Ted and Elaine to react negatively in the future.

5. (Human) society has evolved a bit since the 19th century

Humans in the 19th century would not have reacted kindly to an unmarried woman (the siren) spending time with a married man (Charles) , even if they did not know her true origin,

[Sidenote: If you want to have a “fun” time read up what people did in the 19th and early 20th centuries to sabotage relationships that were considered abnormal. In the infamous example of Virginia Woolf this even involved a plane chase across two countries.]

When the trio's human friend Xander learns about the relationship, his reaction is one of surprise and shock. (You can watch the scene here). However a discussion between him and Maddie in Episode 212 confirms that this is not due to a rejection of the nature of the relationship but more about Xander's worry that the Siren song is controlling Maddie. After being told this is not the case, he drops that objection and while he certainly does not like the relationship he is not taking active steps to sabotage it unlike 19th century people might have

In fact it seems as if nobody in Bristol Cove much cares about the relationship the three have. There must by now be a considerable amount of people seeing the trio interact in public like this:

(Yes officer, this scene right here)

And multiple people in the anchor saw Ryn and Ben dancing together in 204 in a manner that was way too intimate to just be friends.

(Taking bets on the number of gaskets Deputy Marissa will blow when she hears about this happening.)

Especially in a small town like Bristol Cove where everybody knows each other the gossip mill must already run wild about the trio. However nobody seems to mind.

This of course is a major difference of today's society to the 19th century society of Charles and his mermaid. Today's society cares much less about things like adhering to strict heterosexual norms and two-person relationships. Unlike in the 19th century where even marrying below your station would be considered a betrayal and seriously threaten your standing in society, the acceptance of sexuality and relationships as fluid concepts is at an all-time high.

There is only one person who openly is hostile against Ryn spending time with Ben and Maddie in the show and that is Deputy Marissa. However Marissa also believes that Ryn is a drug addict, possible dealer, possible murder suspect and person-who-holds-wild-drug-orgies-at-the-cabin-with-Ben. No wonder she is hostile to Ryn given that it is her duty to protect Bristol Cove from bad influences - which her inaccurate version of Ryn definitely is.

If anything it seems that the Siren society is less accepting of the relationship than humans are (at least Cami and Katrina are appalled by it). But as long as Ryn is Alpha then what are they going to do about it without risking an immediate beatdown by an enraged Ryn?

[Sidenote: At this time I feel it is my solemn duty to link you this great video of humans reacting to the trio, edited by Koortega.]

6. The reactions to the Siren Song might be different from those of Charles

This is more speculative than the other parts of this post because we do not know the specific reactions of Charles Pownall to the song. Yet so far - and speaking strictly about the effect of the song on the relationship - whenever the song is used it does not have negative effects with regards to threatening the relationship.

Ben's visions are not about domineering or being possessive about Ryn, but ultimately about protecting her (Episode 110 “Aftermath” and to a lesser extent Episode 203 “Natural Selection”), realizing he might hurt her through his behaviour and reaffirming how much he loves her (Episode 214 “The last mermaid”).

Likewise Maddie, despite being exposed to the more harmful defensive variant of the song only wants to tell the world about how much she loves Ryn and Ben.

[Sidenote: There is also the unlikely possibility that the relationship between Charles and his mermaid was solely based on the song, which in any case is not true for our trio.]

A cure for the brain damage due to the song also exists and the experience of obtaining that cure together brings the throuple closer together.

(From Episode 212: “Serenity”)

So there you have it. There are enough differences between the trio and Charles Pownall and his mermaid to not have them go down the same dark path. But in this case the show goes even further.

C) The events of the last episodes of Season 2

The writers themselves tell us in no uncertain terms in the last four episodes of Season 2 that this is not the same story because Ben and Ryn are not their respective ancestors.

In Episode 213 and 214 as the Pownall massacre as well as Ryn’s mating drive and her unilateral actions based on that drive put the relationship to its hardest test.

It is important to note that the writers used multiple contrivances to arrive at this point. For the biggest example, Ryn seems to have suddenly developed complete memory loss with regards to her knowledge about Ben being a Pownall. Which is more than a bit contrived considering Ben and Maddie discuss his father owning Pownall’s two meters away from her while she is clearly listening in Episode 106 “Showdown”.

This was not something Ryn overheard considering later in the same episode:

DONNA: I see his face. In that place take our food. RYN: That was not him. That was his father. Writers of Episode 213: FAKE NEWS.

Oh and if there was any doubt left there is also that time Bens father was called Mr. Pownall in front of Ryn in Episode 108.

(WRITERS: “You saw nothing.”)

In Episode 110 Helen explicitly names the father of the hybrid baby as “Charles Pownall” and also confirms that Ben and her are related through Charles. This is done while Ryn is listening and participating in that conversation (I have transcribed the whole conversation in my previous post about the massacre)

Ryn also seems to have paid no attention at all to her surroundings while living with Ben and Maddie for months (c’mon, does that sound anything like the hyperobservant, inquisitive and highly intelligent mermaid we know?). Anybody who walks around a modern human name would shortly know the name of the homeowner. Given all these factors, her not knowing before Episode 213 makes no sense at all.

So why the contrivance?

Of course one possibility is that the writers were too incompetent to remember what they wrote a year ago. But I do not believe this to be the case, especially with how few contradictions there are in the show otherwise and the great attention to detail the writers usually have. Maybe they wanted to score cheap drama? But there already was enough drama with Ryn trying to save her species from extinction (plus the effect this had on Ben and Maddie) and it seems odd to go to such great lengths just for that. Therefore I would argue that the Pownell revelation was (at least partly) included here to make a specific point.

What point would that be? Let us recap what happens in those episodes, especially 214.

After “suddenly discovering” (excuse me while I go grind my teeth in the corner) in Episode 213 that Ben’s last name is Pownell Ryn gets very upset and concerned, culminating in the following exchange in Episode 214:

BEN: "Charles." RYN: "He loved one like me and his love turned bad. It makes him angry. He killed my people. And it starts with love. Like *crying* Like Ben love Ryn."

Ryn is clearly concerned about a repeat of the original Pownall story. And in this episode Ryn (and the audience) is explicitly told by Maddie that Ben is not his ancestor - just as Ryn is not hers either.

MADDIE: "You know my mother, Susan?" RYN: "Yes" MADDIE: "Remember I told you how she was? The pain she caused me?" RYN: "Yes. She was weak and sad." Maddie: "Am I like her?" RYN: "No. You are strong." MADDIE: "Just because your family thinks or acts a certain way doesn't mean you have to repeat that. Ben's ashamed of what his family did. And many in your colony don't trust humans. They want to fight them. But you came on land, you trusted us, fell in love with us." RYN: "Love can be good or bad." MADDIE: "Yeah. But I trust Ben. I trust you. I trust that our love is good."

(Take ALL the Applause Maddie, you earned it.)

Ryn accepts Maddie's argument. The speed at which she does so as well as her obvious concern for Ben when he disappears during the episode seems to indicate that she was more conflicted about her own feelings than anything else - like Ben himself in that episode one might say. When Ben finally reappears, Ryn is visibly relieved at the sight of him and the following exchange happens:

RYN: "You are okay?" BEN: "No. Not okay." RYN: "Angry with me?" BEN: "Confused. About myself." RYN: "Ben. I know you would not hurt me. I know you are different from your family. Those who kill. BEN: "I want to believe that." RYN: "I believe. Our love is good." BEN: "You trust me?" RYN: "I don't want you to feel any more pain."

The relationship between her and Ben survives the stress test and trust seems to be fully restored through Ben’s following actions in Episode 215 (some of which have already been mentioned before).

The relationship seems to have been fully repaired by the end of 215 but if there was any lingering distrust I think Episode 216 would have dispelled that as Ryn is clearly willing to move forward with the relationsip at the end of Episode 216. Letting Ian drown might have been taken by Ryn as a display of trust, especially as she knows that it took a toll on Ben.

This of course is a parallel to another Season 1 episode. In Episode 106 “Showdown” Ben steps in to prevent Ryn from killing another antagonist that was a threat to her (Aldon Decker). Her reaction to Ben refusing to let a human die to keep her safe is one of anger and feeling betrayed.

RYN: "Why you help the bad man?” [Ben refuses to let Ryn kill Decker by placing himself between them] RYN: You choose him. You should choose me."

In Episode 216, Ben does so. He clearly chooses Ryn and her safety over the life of a fellow human.

Even without that choice it was in my opinion already clear from the looks they share at the end of Episode 215 that they will move forward with each other.

(Protip to a happy life: find yourself a relationship where the persons involved in said relationship can still look at each other like that even after they just finished putting each other through hell for several days).

Due to all the factors involved in Episodes 213-216 (Ryn unilaterally deciding for much of the storyline and expecting the others to go along without giving them a say, the whole fertility crisis amongst the Sirens and of course the Pownall “revelation”) this probably was the worst stress the relationship could ever be under at that point.

I therefore posit that if the relationship between Ben and Ryn would be “Charles Pownell 2.0″, this would have been a fracture point instead of a successful stress test.

And the relationship between Ben and Ryn surviving is of course in no small part due to the largest stabilizing element in the relationship, the one element that was missing from the story of Charles and his Siren.

D) The third element

Imagine how different the story of Charles and his mermaid might have happened had they lived with the Haida - people who knew how to deal with human-siren relationships, how to help hybrids and who were most likely used to that kind of relationship happening.

The present-day relationship the show is depicting has such a large stabilizing element to it. I am talking of course about the one person I have so far criminally neglected in favour of focusing on Ben and Ryn (because they are the parallels to charles and their mermaid and also because this allowed me to give this post a better structure).

Maddie might not be Haida biologically, but she is a Haida in the cultural sense of the word. She was raised by a Haida man and one of the first stories she tells Ryn to calm her down in Episode 102 “The Lure” is a Haida story. Now of course Maddie is not the solution to all the problems the trio faces. She does not have any Haida knowledge on how to deal with hybrids or Sirens.

However, she is by far the largest stabilizing element in the relationship as evidenced by episode 214 and the episodes before. Whenever Ryn and Ben are acting out of character or have communication issues (either between them, others or with Maddie), Maddie appears as the mediator that manages to get through to the other two and makes them see reason. Even when she initially fails (as with Ben in 110 and with her first discussion with Ryn in 214) she still manages to have enough of an impact on them to get them to reconsider their actions, change their behaviour and attempt to fix the situation.

Her second long dialogue between her and Ryn Episode 214 (which is quoted in the segment C of this post) is the best example of Maddie’s exceptional communication skills. It probably is one of my top 5 Maddie scenes of the show and highlights just how integral Maddie is for the story of the trio. The way Maddie (without recriminations) manages to make Ryn understand that she got the wrong impression of Ben, the way she focuses the communication on the love that is the basis of the trio relationship is unbelievably on point.

Or to put it more bluntly: The story of Siren is not the story of Ben and Ryn alone. It is the story of Ben, Ryn and Maddie. It is a story about the unique love and trust that develops between the three.

And this is why I firmly believe that we are not seeing a repeat o the CharlesPownell story here. Instead, what we are seeing is how the more enlghtened and more evolved characters of Ryn and Ben and Maddie make different choices than their ancestors. In short, just because History might look similar, it does not - and will not - repeat itself in this case.

Does that mean there will be no challenges to the relationship in the future? Of course not for otherwise there would be a lot less in the show. We already see the groundwork for multiple future stress tests of the relationship being laid (Ted having footage of Ryn underwater, the Sirens attacking Ted in the water when Elaine had the boating accident, the reaction by some sirens like Cami to the relationship, Ben letting Ian drown, him and Ryn keeping this from Maddie etc.)

But there is one certainty the show tells us over and over again, even chosing it as the end screen for season 2.

They are love.

And on that note, we shall end the analysis of the parallels between our throuple and the Pownall Massacre. Thank you for reading and for sticking with this rather long post until the end. I shall endeavour to make the next post a little shorter, I promise. Alternative interpretations, additional info or critique are always welcome.

[Final sidenote: Anybody wishing for the trio to become a duo (whether it be Ben/Ryn, Maddie/Ryn or Ben/Maddie) is asking for the show to be a lot poorer in terms of character interaction, to be less inclusive and to have fewer opportunities for future storylines.

Could the story work with just Ryn and Maddie or just Ryn and Ben? Yes, the love between each of them might be strong enough to survive without the third. But such a story would not be Siren, it would be another star-crossed-lovers story that has been done countless times before.

And this is why it was immediately clear that Episode 216 was a giant fake-out as soon as Maddie was fatally wounded in it.]

#siren freeform #Pownall Massacre #polymarine #analysis #long post #i swear the next one will be shorter #Ben #Ryn #Maddie #siren #freeform siren

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elesianne · 4 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter twenty-five – Last chapter

Chapter summary: The wedding day, which is for their families, and the night, which is for Carnistir and Tuilindien alone.

Rating: Teen and up audiences; Chapter length: ~6,700 words

Chapter notes: Here it is, the last, long chapter of this story. I hope my readers like it. I loved writing it, bringing these characters and their long courting to a happy conclusion.

The very end implies, hmm, marital activity. Though I don't describe it in any detail and I don't think it comes close to meriting an M rating, I wanted to mention it here in case someone wants to avoid it.

Many details of Valinorean marriage ceremony are from Laws and Customs among the Eldar (HoME 10), and some I made up.

(Read on AO3)

Chapter XXV // Love bound by gold

The morning of the wedding it rains.

Tuilindien eats breakfast in bed – Indis had it arranged that way – looking out of the window on the opposite wall. She would prefer fine weather, but the rain does not truly matter. Nothing could suppress or outshine the warmth in her heart.

That warmth is almost enough to make her not even feel nervous. She is a little nervous as she expected to be, but only about being at the centre of attention all day.

She has had a tiny but insistent seed of anxiety in her chest ever since she decided to ask Carnistir to marry her that she might feel doubt or hesitation on her wedding day, even though she has not felt it on any day before for a long time now.

As she sits on the edge of her bed, keeping her bare feet off the cool floor, and looks out to the rainy garden, she feels at peace. Expectant, yes, and excited, and that little bit nervous, but perfectly at peace with what she has decided.

It is time for a new kind of life, and against her own expectations, she feels ready for it now that this moment is here. She feels that she has what she needs to build a new life for herself in Tirion: as Carnistir's wife, as a scholar, as a Vanya among Noldor, as a protégé of Nerdanel and Indis. She will keep of her own life what she can: for all that she loves Carnistir with all that she is, she loved her old life too. Her family, her home, all the public spaces and the hidden places she used to spend her hours in in the settlement around king Ingwë's palace.

She will keep them all close in her memory and her dreams, and she will visit as much as she can and write when she cannot.

It still hurts to think of living so far from her family – it always must, she suspects – but it is a hurt she can bear with acceptance and equanimity.

She realises that she woke earlier than she needed to, so she sits back on the bed, leaning against the soft padded headboard, tucking her feet under her. She listens to the rain and lets herself sink into imagining soft touches from strong hands, and sweet words, and all the good things that she hopes for from the night to come, if not the public celebration of the day.

The day is for their families, the night for Carnistir and her alone.

Her mother comes to her when some time has passed. Tuilindien does not know much, but the rain has started beating down harder while she was lost in her hopes.

Sailiel comes alone. Usually she and all her daughters dress and prepare for feasts and celebrations together, with each of them helping the others, even little Wilwarindëa as much as she can with her clumsy fingers. It is a family tradition.

But Tuilindien is also accustomed to her mother knowing, without being told, when she needs peace and quiet. This morning her mother's calm presence and practised movements suit her own mood well.

Sailiel asks, 'Are you well this morning, my darling?' as she enters Tuilindien's room, and after Tuilindien replies that she is very well, they speak little.

Sailiel lays out her own dress and jewellery that she brought with her while Tuilindien washes her face. Sailiel has already braided her hair into a high crown decorated with tiny yellow jewels.

'I am all here for you, my darling.' Sailiel smiles at her daughter in the mirror as Tuilindien sits down at the dressing table. 'Have you changed your mind, do you want more than the flowers in your hair?'

Tuilindien smiles back at her mother's reflection. 'Just the flowers, thank you.'

They'd agreed on a hairstyle before they even came to Tirion. Sailiel simply brushes her daughter's curls until they shine as a rushing river of dark gold down her back, and weaves in small white flowers. Tuilindien knows that they shall stay beautiful and unwilted all day for as her mother picks up each bloom, she hums a low, melodic tune that Tuilindien can feel holds in it some power.

It is peaceful, nonetheless, the humming and her mother's careful movements, and Tuilindien enjoys the serenity of the morning.

Sailiel helps Tuilindien into her dress, careful of her hair and the many flowers adorning it. Sailiel dresses too and puts on her jewellery. She wears many more jewels than her daughter: sparkling colours in her ears, around her wrists and neck as well as in her hair.

Tuilindien wears only her silver ring which she will soon exchange for gold.

Her mother embraces her before they go. There are no words spoken, only feelings shared through the wordless connection that is weaker than the one Tuilindien shares with Carnistir but which has been a comfort to her all her life.

Her mother's embrace makes Tuilindien feel as though she were ensconced in a warm blanket instead of her light, gauzy dress, and going to join the rest of her family and being embraced by all of them in turn makes the glow in her fëa even warmer.

When they go to the great feasting hall and she sees Carnistir on the other side of the room wearing silver-grey clothes and a stern expression but also an excited blush, she feels her hröa must be glowing too.

Carnistir rouses early to Huan barking and the twins shouting – the former no doubt caused by the latter, as Huan is exceedingly well-behaved when not provoked – and finding rest again seems impossible.

For a moment he considers going to tell the dog and children alike to be quiet but he doesn't feel very inclined to do it, his irritation tempered by the happy awareness that it is the day he is to marry Tuilindien, and that tomorrow he will wake up beside her.

He lies there in his bed, staring up at the grey marble ceiling with its swirls and veins that he knows by heart, thinking of Tuilindien. But thinking of her brings frustration, too, because there are many hours left before the feast for their union even begins. He did not mean to wake this early.

He rolls over to his stomach and pulls a pillow over his ears.

When he rises not much later, having given up on rest, he washes and dresses in the clothes that have been carefully laid out. The surcoat is of charcoal grey with a hint of silver in the brocade fabric – only a hint, for Carnistir does not want to appear a glittering fool. The trousers are plain, fine linen in a lighter grey shade.

There is a cloak, too, of darker grey with a lining of burgundy velvet. His mother gave the cloak to him. It is unnecessarily warm for the crowded feasting hall where the ceremonies will take place, and Carnistir has a brief debate with himself about wearing it. Tuilindien will no doubt be wearing something of a lightweight fabric and pale colour that looks like light flowing down her body, as usual.

After a long moment of staring out of his window into the rainy garden he throws on the cloak. It is not like they will not look an unmatched pair anyway, even without the cloak. They are not like Tuilindien's sister and her husband, both fair-haired and delicate-featured, nor like Makalaurë and Tinweriel with their dark hair, equal height and fashionable clothes.

Carnistir doesn't pretend, not even to himself, that he understands why, with all their differences, he and Tuilindien love each other and connect as they do. It is enough that we do, he thinks, face no doubt flushed, as he leaves the peace of his room and enters the fray that is breakfast with his family.

The chaos lasts until the minute he and his father leave. They ride to the palace together, the rest of the family following not much behind. His mother kisses him on the forehead before they leave, her wish for his happiness clear though she doesn't put it into words.

Fëanáro says little on the short ride, and Carnistir even less. He doesn't want to start a fight with his father, and he has a feeling he might do it quite accidentally. It is safer to be silent. It is enough anyway – the most that he could realistically have expected – that his father is by his side on the morning of his wedding.

Even if Fëanáro seems to have trouble keeping a discontented look off his face.

Finwë couldn't beam with any more pride, though, when he comes to personally escort his son and grandson into the large room where the wedding feast is to be celebrated. It is the same hall where Carnistir officially betrothed himself to Tuilindien, now decorated in spring greenery. Carnistir spares a moment to think of how much effort it must have taken to gather that much green this early in the spring. He then paces around, getting in the way of the servants' last preparations, until his grandfather and father take him to a more private side chamber.

'It is my duty as your father to stop you making a spectacle of yourself today, Morifinwë', his father grumbles, though not unsympathetically.

'You had better stop Curvo from making one of himself later when he gets into the wine, too', Carnistir grumbles back.

He sits down and forces himself to stay still without fidgeting. He knows he can do it.

There is a tapestry of some hunting scene on the wall opposite of him and he quietens his mind by studying every single detail in it until it is time to step into the feasting hall again.

When he opens the door he sees Tuilindien. She is some distance away next to her mother who is, from afar, very similar in looks. But he could never mistake Tuilindien for Sailiel or anyone else, for as soon as he sees her, in his chest flares into life the dear, indescribable, wordless connection that leads him to her surer than a beacon in the dark.

His father, or grandfather perhaps, says something, but Carnistir is already walking away to his bride. She is dressed in one of her layered, draped dresses of diaphanous silk chiffon, this time in palest gold. It makes her hair and skin glow darker by comparison. She has white flowers in her beautiful hair.

He doesn't know if he appears to others shy and stilted on this day but if he does, it doesn't matter. He takes Tuilindien by the hand that for now bears his silver ring, and he tells her, 'You are utterly lovely, and I am very happy.'

'Carnistir.' Her smile makes her eyes bright, too. 'I am very happy too, already.' She touches his cheek quickly, gently, and he feels love pulsing from her, bright and tender. She then turns to curtsy deeply to someone behind him. 'Your majesty, your highness.'

His grandfather and father followed him, then. Carnistir mentally shakes himself to awareness of his surroundings beyond Tuilindien.

The first thing he sees is the amused face of his law-mother-to-be. He bows to her hurriedly.

Their rest of their parents and grandparents arrive and exchange pleasantries. Carnistir notes that his mother has a tight hold on his father's arm. He hopes and trusts that she will hold onto Fëanáro all day. His father has not said any rude things about Tuilindien lately, but neither Carnistir nor Nerdanel trust him entirely in that regard yet.

Carnistir doesn't let go of Tuilindien's hand either while they wait for the last guests to arrive and settle in their seats along the long tables.

There are welcoming words from Finwë, a musical piece from Makalaurë and Tinweriel (a love song, as is to be expected at a wedding feast; Pityafinwë, Telufinwë, and Tyelkormo make faces during it anyway), and then there is the sumptuous feast itself, with every Noldorin and Vanyarin delicacy on offer.

Carnistir tries some of both, but he has little appetite. He has attended many weddings in his life but only now does it occur to him that the feasting part of the feast should be last, not first, for it feels like an insurmountable ambition to even try and be sociable and appear presentable while waiting for the actual ceremony.

(Will his father embarrass him and Tuilindien? Will Carnistir himself embarrass Tuilindien?)

Once again it seems both fortunate and embarrassing that he has created for himself a reputation, both among family and people who don't know him well, of one who despises small talk and prefers to be alone. Few people attempt to talk to him.

Or perhaps it is as Tuilindien says when she squeezes his knee under the table and whispers to him, too quiet to be heard but with the aid of their soundless bond, 'It is not expected of couples to be excellent conversationalists at their own wedding feast.'

Her words appear to be for the comfort of both of them, so Carnistir squeezes back and tells her that he agrees.

She doesn't talk much either, mainly listens to various members of his and her family as they reminisce about their own weddings.

But she helps him.

When it is clear that he should say something but he struggles to think of it soon enough or is about to say something rude, she replies on his behalf. She does it in her own quiet, gentle way, and doesn't do it too often, and it doesn't anger Carnistir.

It is a relief, and helps him relax.

When the moment arrives that the servants have emptied the tables and the king rises, and everyone with him, Carnistir and Tuilindien's parents lead them to the empty dais in the fore of the room. It feels both too soon and far, far overdue.

He stands between his parents, as is the custom, and his father takes his hand, as is the custom. Facing them Tuilindien stands, radiant in her near-white dress, between her parents who wear darker clothes.

From the high windows a mingled light of Laurelin's gold and Telperion's silver falls upon them.

Tuilindien's mother and Fëanáro step forward for the joining of the hands. Tuilindien's hand feels warm and familiar as it slips into Carnistir's.

He quickly lifts his eyes from Tuilindien to his father and Tuilindien's mother as they begin giving the ceremonial blessings. Sailiel smiles, motherly and comforting in this moment though Carnistir knows that she can be steely and sharp-tongued.

Fëanáro's expression is far from a smile, but his voice isn't too harsh as he gives the blessing of himself and his family to Carnistir and Tuilindien's union, welcoming her into his family. This is the main purpose of the entire feast, to join families. Hearing his father speak formally but not coldly makes Carnistir finally relax.

He unclenches the his fingers of his free hand from his cloak.

At the end of their blessings, Sailiel and Fëanáro name Varda and Manwë as their witnesses, though not by those names. The rarely-heard names of the two greatest Valar in their own tongue flow fluently from the tongues of both Tuilindien's mother and Carnistir's own father, as does the name of Eru Ilúvatar. The name of The One is rarely spoken, only in the most serious of vows.

There is a silence in the hall, not even a child's voice to be heard. The quiet continues as Tuilindien takes off the slender silver band that Carnistir gave her a year and a half ago in this same place, gathered before the same people. She offers it back to him, holding it on her palm along with a golden ring.

It is only a lifetime of practise that makes it possible for Carnistir to keep his fingers from trembling as he takes off the silver ring made by a Vanyarin smith that he has been wearing for Tuilindien, and takes from his pocket the golden one that he has made for her. It feels cold in his fingers but will always feel slightly warm to Tuilindien's touch.

He and his beloved reach out to each other at the same time and exchange the rings, speaking the oath of love and care and loyalty to each other, swearing it all in the name of The One.

Carnistir has never said the name Eru Ilúvatar out loud before, and the act of saying it – to name the All High, the holy beoynd holy – makes something in him shake, like a rush of wind passing through the trees in a valley, and then settle.

Oaths sworn by the name of The One cannot be broken.

Oh, how she loves him. The love and the joy of this moment rush in her ears so that Tuilindien can hardly hear herself and Carnistir speak the oath and the Name. She thinks that her voice shakes a little, and her hands certainly do as she exchanges rings with her Carnistir.

His hands are as steady and warm as always; his face, when she raises her eyes to look at him, is red, as is his neck from the collar up, and even the tips of his ears.

Oh, how she loves him. She loves the determination in his beautiful dark eyes, his fierce focus and perseverance which encouraged her and brought them to his day, his strong arms that make her feel safe and cherished. He is always so ready to hold her within them.

He twines them about her waist now, after they close the small distance between them, and she smiles at him through a veil of unshed tears.

'Tears of happiness', she whispers to him.

'I know', he says.

He does not smile, but she knows it is no bad thing, just as he knows that her tears aren't either. The connection between them has never been stronger. It will be strengthened further when they join their bodies in the act of love, but the ceremony has already brought them closer.

And Tuilindien feels – it feels like her body can hardly contain all of her love without breaking, and yet she feels more complete and whole than ever for loving him. She hopes that he feels all of it. She certainly feels his love like a flame close to her skin, but inside; not burning her, but warming both her spirit and flesh, fëa and hröa, marking the edges of her and making her aware of her own body.

As they kiss, their families cheer, the solemn part of the ceremony over. Only the giving of gifts from their parents, in Noldorin tradition, remains, as well as a Vanyarin blessing.

But as Tuilindien feels her beloved's lips on hers and his arms around her, moving from her waist to sinking gently in her hair, she cannot think of their families. She is lost in a gentle-fierce storm of feelings, all of them right and true.

The rain has stopped by the time they walk out of the palace, hand in hand. A large group of jubilant and in some cases inebriated family members follow behind them to send them off to their new home.

Awaiting them in the Great Square are Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, both grinning and holding onto Varnerocco's halter. Around Carnistir's bad-tempered bay mare's neck is an enormous wreath of white and yellow flowers and green leaves.

'Our wedding gift to you, brother dear, fair new sister.' Tyelkormo nods to Carnistir and makes a show of dramatically bowing to Tuilindien. 'Your void-beast steed suitably adorned for the occasion, and to match you two.'

Varnë is definitely scowling if that can be said of a horse, and so is Carnistir who apparently doesn't much appreciate this surprise or the reference to the crown of yavannamírë blossoms on his own head that Tuilindien's mother placed there as a part of a Vanyarin blessing.

Tuilindien, however, cannot help but smile at the sight of Carnistir's grinning brothers and disapproving horse. Touching her own flower-crown, she thanks Tyelkormo and Curufinwë. 'What a wonderful surprise. Varnë looks beautiful, though I dare say she disagrees.'

Varnë tosses her head, dragging Curufinwë up to his toes until Tyelkormo tugs her back down.

Carnistir hisses to his brothers, 'A wedding gift, you say – more like a drunken fancy.'

'You wrong us', Tyelkormo protests. Tuilindien notes that he is flushed, less pale than usual, as is Curufinwë.

'If you knew how many bites we have sustained as we've fought to stop her from trying to get rid of the flowers, you would be more grateful', Curufinwë argues.

'We are very grateful', Tuilindien hurries to assure her new law-brothers before Carnistir can argue back. Their families are already gathered around them.

Carnistir rolls his eyes at his brothers anyway, and only then lifts Tuilindien on to Varnë's back. Slightly nervous even though they have practised riding together, she pats Varnë's neck as Carnistir swings himself up behind her.

The square ringing with their families and friends' shouts of congratulations, they ride into the glittering streets of the Noldor's white city, Tuilindien's new home city.

They are quiet for most of the way, communicating through small touches and shared feelings.

Only when they are close to their new house does Carnistir blurt, with the confusion in his voice which Tuilindien had felt in his spirit much earlier but has been waiting for him to speak of, 'I cannot believe that your parents gave me a farm as a blessing-gift.'

'It is only a small one', she tells him. 'And on the mountainside, so it is not the most productive.'

'It is a farm', Carnistir emphasises. 'My parents only gave you a jewel.'

Tuilindien lets go of the pommel of Varnë's saddle to touch the bejewelled choker around her neck. In its centre is set a large jewel, blood-red and blazing-brilliant.

'They gave me a precious jewel according to the customs of the Noldor', she replies. 'Among my people no such gift is traditionally given, only a wreath of flowers for the couple getting married. Out of respect for your people's traditions, my mother decided to have the wreath made from blossoms of yavannamírë from the little farm they wanted to give to us, combining the two traditions.' Tuilindien turns her head a little, rubbing her cheek against his chest for a second or two. 'They wanted us to have a place of our own to stay among the Vanyar, you see.'

'Hmm.' Carnistir turns Varnë to the short street at whose end their new house is located. 'Do they think that it will make me more likely to visit often?'

'Yes.' She cannot keep laughter out of her voice. 'And they are right, are they not?'

'They are', Carnistir admits, with some reluctance and embarrassment.

To comfort him, Tuilindien says, 'I am glad of it too.'

And then they are arriving at their house, and she makes noises of wonder and amazement. The last time she was here there was the half-demolished ruin of the old house in the place where now stands the new house designed and built by Carnistir.

He has written of it to her, describing some of its features in his letters, but finally seeing the house in all its glory has her astonished and wordless. She stares, straight-backed on Varnë's back, no longer leaning on Carnistir.

He brings the horse to a stop and dismounts. He has to call her name twice before she looks down at him and lets him help her down as well.

Once she is on the ground, they look at the house together while Varnë makes a renewed effort at eating flowers from the wreath around her neck. Carnistir lets her.

'It is a wonder you behaved for the duration of the ride', he tells her grumpily before turning to Tuilindien.

'I do not know what to say', she says after a long moment of looking at the house. Carnistir stands tense beside her, clearly waiting for her to say something. 'You must know – you must feel what I feel – that it is beautiful. That word feels too little but I have no better one to use. It is beautiful, and big but not too big, like you promised, and it is white but not too white. There are many windows –'

She runs out of words. She gathers her light skirts in her hands and runs towards the house. She can hear Carnistir follow her, dragging a recalcitrant Varnë behind him.

'Stained glass', she breathes quietly as she looks at the windows. 'You gave me many windows of stained glass.'

'I promised you I would.'

'The night we betrothed ourselves to each other', she remembers. 'You have not mentioned it since. I thought perhaps you abandoned the idea.'

'I keep my promises', he tells her. 'I said that I would give you a house that feels like home, with Vanyarin features and a large garden. I did all that.'

She turns to him. 'Show me, please.'

They hand Varnë off to the one groom Carnistir had instructed to wait for them, and then Carnistir takes his bride into the house he made for her.

Hand in hand, they wander from room to room. The house is quiet: all of their servants apart from the one groom were sent to work at the wedding feast, and accommodation was arranged for them at the palace's servants' quarters so that Carnistir and Tuilindien would have the house all to themselves this first night.

There are candles left burning in every room, though, and in their warm light he shows her all the rooms, both finished and unfinished. There is something to marvel at in each.

The house is a mixture of Noldorin and Vanyarin architectural features, and a few Falmarin ones too, Carnistir admits. 'Findaráto managed to convince me to try a few such things, and I kept the ones that seemed to fit'.

'It all flows together beautifully', Tuilindien says, leaning her head on his shoulder. He puts one arm around her and gesticulates with the other, pointing out details.

I will make my new home here, she thinks. Here in this beautiful house he built for us, and here within the circle of his arms.

'Tuilë?' Carnistir peers at her face.

'I am sorry, my love. I was lost in my thoughts for a moment, a happy reverie inspired by all this beauty around me.'

Cinder appears from the shadows suddenly, a little black shadow herself. She circles around Carnistir a few times and then takes off again to chase something only she can see.

Carnistir and Tuilindien continue their tour, smiling. They put out the candles as they go, leaving the rooms behind them to wait in darkness.

In the end there is only one wing of the house left to see.

Carnistir's voice is a little scratchy when he tells her, 'Our bedroom is this way.'

Instead of replying Tuilindien takes off, with careful movements, her crown of yellow yavannamírë blossoms.

'Before we go in there, we must go to the garden.'

Carnistir is so confused he cannot even feel annoyed or impatient, though he has been waiting for the first night together in their shared bedchamber for years.

Before he can ask why, Tuilindien begins explaining. 'Blessing-crowns like these are customarily not discarded but given as tribute to the Valar. In the case of wedding crowns, to Yavanna and Vána who watch over all things that grow and bloom.'

Carnistir can feel himself turn red as well, though it is exceedingly silly in these circumstances. 'I assume it has something to do with children, then?'

Tuilindien nods. 'The flowers are given back to Yavanna and Vána so that they may help the couple bring forth children when they so desire.'

'There are no altars in the garden', he has to tell her, to his shame and vexation. 'I wanted to decide together with you where to put them.'

'That is alright.' Tuilindien thinks for barely a second. 'We shall go and find the tree that carries most leaves and blossoms this early in the spring, and lay our flowers down around it, and that shall be our altar.'

He would never have thought of that, but it seems perfectly fitting for the Valier of things that grow and bloom.

He leads her to the stairs closest to the garden, picks up a lantern with one of his father's blue-white light-stones inside, and out they go back into the silver night. Though crisp, it is warmer than the last: true spring is fast approaching.

They look for the tree with most leaves and blossoms. They find it, an old lairelossë in the orchard, near a pavilion that Carnistir had had built in a little clearing for Tuilindien to read in. For their children to play in, perhaps, one day.

'Is there something we should say?' he asks awkwardly as they stand in the shadow of long branches.

'If we wish to, I suppose. But it is enough to hope and pray in our hearts, I think.' Tuilindien kneels and sets her flower-crown, now a little crushed, at the base of the tree's wide trunk.

Carnistir follows her example, laying his crown beside hers.

After a moment of silence Tuilindien bows her head. 'Will you take the flowers out of my hair, my love? I would like to leave them here too.'

For once it is easy for Carnistir to say, because it is not an empty gesture of politeness but from his heart, 'It would be my pleasure.'

With careful fingers, he teases the little white flowers out of Tuilindien's curls.

Unlike the flower-crowns, these blooms are not the least bit crushed or withered. They are as whole, alive and fragrant as if they were still growing in the place from where they were plucked many hours ago. Carnistir's fingers tingle when he touches them. There must be an enchantment in the flowers, small but persistent, lending them vitality.

He sets them on the ground respectfully. Tuilindien tucks herself to his side and lays her head on his shoulder for a quiet moment.

Her hair smells faintly of the flowers.

Then she straightens and turns and kisses him on the lips, soft and sweet. She did not speak to the Valier, but she speaks to him now.

'You have been calling out to me for so long', Tuilindien say, touching his lips with a gentle finger. 'I am here now.'

Entranced, he cups the side of her face, caressing her cheek. For his answer, though, he must tell her, 'It was you who called out to me. I would have not pursued a Vanya otherwise.'

He does not mean it badly, only that she is the only one he would have chased after and worked hard for.

Tuilindien seems to understand. 'I love you, Carnistir', she says, softly but with conviction. 'And I am yours now. Will you have me?'

She puts her arms around his neck and rises on her toes, just a little, to make up for their difference in height, and kisses him hard and pulls him close to her.

Carnistir is a little taken aback that she does it here, at their improvised altar, but very soon – in a split second – decides that Yavanna and Vána are not ones to mind a display of love.

He laces his hands in Tuilindien's hair that is now free of adornments. There is just the soft, curly mass of it, turned into pale gold by the silver light. He kisses her with both ardour and tenderness, with all the passion in his body, and all the affection in his spirit.

Those feelings are more than he thought he could ever feel: stronger, surer than any anger he has ever felt. Yet they don't make him lose control like anger does. He wants to and he can go slow, as slow as is comfortable for Tuilindien and as allows him to savour every feeling, every touch on this first night.

When they break for air he leans his forehead on hers and tells her, 'Yes, yes, I will have you, my love, my vanimelda, I am yours.'

They kiss, touch, clutch and explore each other – Carnistir doesn't know for how long.

It is he who starts the undressing: he unclasps Tuilindien's silk cloak, because it gets in the way of caressing her, and that irritates him. He lets it fall to the ground next to the flowers they gifted to the Valier, and Tuilindien doesn't seem to mind.

'The shoulders of my dress can be unclasped too', she whispers between delightful little gasps as he kisses his way down her neck, tasting and nibbling.

Carnistir takes the hint and quickly figures out how to open the tiny clasps half-hidden in the fabric. The jewel-decorated wide straps slide down Tuilindien arms, and then the whole dress. It pools on the ground, a pale puddle at Tuilindien's feet.

She still has a chemise and petticoat on, but she presses her body close against him, as if hiding from his gaze.

'You can take my clothes off too', Carnistir says with a dry mouth. To comfort her by evening up the situation, and to keep things moving. He likes the direction they've been moving very much, and has accepted that they may not be going back inside the house to complete their union.

As Tuilindien reaches for the brooch fastening his cloak, Carnistir's heart beats fast, as if wanting to gallop to the next moment.

He kisses the top of her head as she bends it to open the brooch and draw the heavy cloak from his shoulders.

He undoes his own belt, because he thinks she might be too shy for that step.

Tuilindien's fingers dance down his side to the hem of his grey surcoat, caressing at his thigh. 'It looks like silver in this light', she says dreamily before pulling the surcoat up and off him.

If this were any other moment he would be tempted to point out that actually, most things look silvery in this light.

But even in this moment, Tuilindien's remark shakes him out of his haze of his desire and he realises now, with less clothes on, that it is actually rather cold and it would not be as perfect as it could be, should be to join with Tuilindien in cold, wet grass.

Yet the house feels so far away –

Ah. Carnistir's eyes happen on the nearby pavilion . It has large windows, but they are glazed. It should be a little warmer inside.

He remembers that the long benches in there are cushioned and there are large pillows, too, for Tuilindien to lean on while she reads. They could be used for something else too…

While he forms plans in his mind, Tuilindien runs her hands down his back under his tunic, caressing his skin and sending flares of heat up his spine, and then pulls it off with a careful movement.

As she is about to touch his bare chest, he takes hold of her wrist, gently, and then sweeps her in his arms. She doesn't resist in the least, relaxing in his hold, trusting.

While he carries her to the pavilion, Carnistir's heart aches at her trust in him.

He deposits her on the pavilion's steps and then dashes back to get his cloak. It is soft and warm. He wants Tuilindien to have something like that to lie on when he takes her.

Tuilindien kisses him on the threshold when he gets back, quick but intimate. He opens the door and leads her inside, looking around to see everything in order.

'I thought – the long cushions on the benches, and the smaller ones too, on the floor –' He is even farther from eloquent than usual. All coherent speech seems to have left him.

Tuilindien understands him, though, and together they put together a makeshift bed on the floor. Before Tuilindien lies down Carnistir spreads his cloak on top of the cushions for her to lie on, a velvet sheet for his bride.

She could not look lovelier than she does there on the burgundy fabric, dressed only in her underclothes, her hair spread out around her, soft brown skin flushed. For a moment he can do nothing but stare. Tuilindien blushes more when she notices, but she looks at him too, and doesn't try to cover herself anymore.

He shakes himself out of the daze again. Why stare when he can touch, kiss, taste, explore all of her?

Join his body with hers, become truly married.

He joins her on the cushions, settling over her on his hands and knees.

Looking into her eyes… after all the persuading he had to do during the early days of their relationship, all the apologies and mistakes, all the waiting and the fear that ate at him until this day that she might change her mind, he finds he has to ask.

'Are you certain that you want to bind yourself to me here and now?'

Tuilindien's eyes are a summer day's sea of blue and green, liquid-soft, bright, full of feeling. 'I could not be more sure', she answers, rising up on her elbows. 'I have made a promise to you already, and I find that… I was never more free than now when I am binding myself to you. I never wanted anything more. You do not need to be so careful, or hesitant. Don't you understand, my beloved, my desired, my fierce Noldo? I want all of your fire tonight.'

She opens her spirit more fully than ever before, and he knows that it is all true.

He lets go of his control, and does everything that he wants to do because she wants it too.

It would not have mattered if they had stayed outside under the tree, he realises later. It could not have mattered because they create their own fire that burns hotter and sweeter than they could have imagined.

'Yours, I, love, love', Tuilindien gasps when he holds her tight and makes her his, giving himself to her.

He cannot speak but it doesn't matter because she knows him and she knows what is in his heart and how his spirit and body adore her, his vanimelda, his fair, gentle beloved, his desired –

And he knows her, despite all their differences he knows her and as they lie in each other's arms, after, that connection continues to make him feel euphoric even as their bodies cool down.

He dries the tears on Tuilindien's cheek and pets her hair. She draws figures on his back with a finger and whispers indistinct sweetnesses in his ear with a broken voice.

They fall, gently, into a shared reverie, a hazy world of lovely half-dreams and half-memories for them to explore together.

Carnistir rouses.

Without turning his head, without opening his eyes, he knows that Tuilindien's spirit is still in Lórien's hold while her body is tucked close to him, his arm around her and her head on her shoulder. She breathes peacefully, and Carnistir finds he doesn't wish to wake her. He would have her find more rest if she can. He could not be in less of a hurry to go anywhere or do anything.

When he opens his eyes he can tell that it is fully morning, for out of the pavilion's skylight he can see golden light in the air. He can hear birds in the surrounding trees starting to sing their morning chorus.

The air is still cool as it is on spring mornings and Carnistir can smell night-dew from the outside, but he is not cold, not with his wife close to him, her long, long hair draped all over his chest.

He smiles, though there is no one to see it.

It is the first in an eternity of mornings together.

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who made it to this chapter that was posted over three years after I started posting this fic, my first true longfic. Whether you've been reading since then, or just read all of this in one go, I appreciate you and hope to hear your thoughts and feelings about this chapter in a comment. I'd love to hear which bits you liked best!

I know that Carnistir and Tuilindien will not actually have an uninterrupted eternity of happy mornings together, but I blocked that from my mind when writing this, because they don't know it yet.(I'm sorry for that one tiny bit of foreshadowing.)

This is it for this particular fic but I have ideas for many more about Carnistir and Tuilindien. I have one little fic that is almost complete about how much Carnistir adores Tuilë's hair and how hot and bothered it makes him feel. So look out for that in a few weeks' time perhaps? The other fics about their future are still largely unwritten.

#tolkien fanfiction #silmarillion fanfiction #caranthir #caranthir's wife #tuilindien #my fics #your spirit calling out to mine #elesianne's fics

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theexistentiallyqueer · 5 years

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Okay so I’ve been thinking about that really bad Hot Take that’s been circulating about fanfiction. And it’s been kind of simmering in me. The root of the problem with it isn’t so much that it diminishes the quality of fanfiction so much as the way it characterizes two completely different genres of media.

Preface: at no point is this ever, ever, ever a diatribe or condemnation against fanart or the work fanartists put into their work. This is about the value that is ascribed to visual art vs the value ascribed to literary art. I am trying to talk specifically about the denigration of literary art in fandom spaces and the way it’s been recently, in a very popular tumblr post, martyred at the expense of queer and disabled writers and writers of color.

Fanart (as a collective genre, according to that post) - Good, artistically-driven, pure, wholesome. Fanartists draw for the sake of becoming better artists, and every work a fanartist draws or creates is made with the goal of becoming a better artist. Fanartists never draw anything that is base, silly, shippy, or smutty; if there is pornographic art, it isn’t pornographic but Erotica. There is no such thing as low- or middling-quality art, because all artists are striving to sharpen their skills and become better artists, and there are no fanartists who draw just for fun or shits and giggles. Fanartists achieve fame purely on the merit of their own artistic ability. There’s no room to criticize fanartists who attempt to cis-wash trans (or trans pesenting) characters, or fanartists who blatantly, frequently, and with frankly no impunity (as their art is reblogged, and reblogged, and reblogged) whitewash characters of color.

Fanfiction (as a collective genre, according to that post) - Smutty, ship-fodder, audience-pleasing trash. Fanfic writers write for the sake of expressing their inner boners or enacting their internal fantasies. No fanfic writers seek a sense of growth in their writing or work to improve their writing in any way. The only reason any works of fanfiction are popular is because they cater to the readership’s base instincts, and the True Authors, the Really Daring authors who write Real Literary Content, are cast the wayside.

It’s such a two-dimensional view of the situation--and it doesn’t even take into account edited content, such as gifsets, which makes up a huge portion of fandom content and has been a type of content, along with fanart, that fanfic writers have long voiced their (our) upset about getting more active & polarized attention than written works. It presents this dichotic view of fanart good/fanfiction bad. Which is also incredibly ugly and disturbing when you consider the fact that fanfiction is the earliest form of curated fan content, and fanfiction itself is inherently transformative in a way that fanart and edits are not, because fanwork in general, and and fanfiction in particular, is inherently in and of itself the public (fans) themselves overriding the corporate-owned landscape with their subversive interpretations.

Like, I have seen not-good fanart. I have seen bland, unimpressive, generic fanart. There is fanart from artists who don’t have their own unique sense of style. Fanart from artists who are just starting out and haven’t developed their skills yet. Fanart from artists who draw as a hobby, and damn they may be good, but they don’t give a fuck about contributing to The Body of Artistry because they have bills to pay and career interests outside of art, and damn, they’d really rather draw these two characters making out, or blushing at each other, or straight-up fucking, than they would create something of Great Artistic Importance. That art gets so many notes. It is liked and reblogged and shared.

And that’s all valid, because art ISN’T A COMPETITIVE SPORT. I embrace fanartists who draw just because they want to, because they don’t care about quality or artistic ideals or whatever, and just want to draw someone being happy, or sad, or angry, or getting dicked down, or whatever!!! It doesn’t matter. Draw because you want to draw. Because your art is an expression of yourself that speaks of your experiences and transgresses the definitions of the world you’ve been told to adhere to. You make art for yourself, to say fuck the system!!!! We’re just the lucky souls who get to appreciate it afterwards.

The complaints that come from fanfic writers--and yes!!! I am one, so proceed with the accusations of butthurt--are that fanart and edits get more social media attention (in the forms of likes, reblogs, retweets, shares, etc.) than fanfic does.

And it’s a valid complaint! It isn’t rooted in some alien reality that fanfiction is inherently more base and less artistic than fanart. I’ve seen some pretty aesthetically displeasing fanart get a high reblog count. And I’ve seen some incredible works of literary attention get no recs, no likes, no comments. I’ve seen works of middling writers who have a lot of fucking talent and show it in their work, and yeah maybe they write porn, but their prose SINGS, and no one comments, no one shares it, no one makes their love of it public the same way they do the fanart, the same way they do the edits and the gifsets.

It’s rooted in two things:

1. Literature (which fanfiction is a subgenre of) takes time to appreciate. You can look at a piece of art and reblog it without thinking about it. It could be a work on par with the Mona Lisa, and you could still look at it without any aesthetic or artistic sense and say, “Hey, that looks pretty.” But you can’t read without thinking; reading is an active mental pursuit you have to engage with. (If you try to pull out Twilight on this point to fight me, I’ll fight you back. I’ve actively read Twilight. Even reading awful literature takes effort; arguably it takes more effort than reading something good).

2. Literature is hard to market with words, because when you’re trying to encourage other people to read it, you have to use even more words. You have to use words to convince someone to read even more words! Some fanartists draw comics or fanart inspired by fanfiction--I love those artists and they do more for us than they could possibly know--but for the most part, you can’t use visuals to show someone why they should invest their time in reading a thing. And unlike fanart--when it’s a tribute, when it’s a showcase of the character’s or characters’ canonical attributes--fanfiction can’t be green-stamped by creators, because fanfiction is inherently built in narrative, and canon-compliant or not, that opens the legal owners of the property up to legal disputes.

So much easier, then, to focus on fanart, which distribution and publishing companies love because they see free advertising in sharing it, to complain that fanfiction is a dispirited genre of unartistic creators who just want to read the queer version of a bodice-ripper.

And then we get to the question of: why is the bodice ripper so bad? Are you willing to critique Jack Kerouac and Charles Bukowski with the same derision you have for queer writers? Are you going to hold the wish-fulfillment fantasies and introspective examinations of sexuality in relation to gender, race, class, and physical ability written by writers expressing their own experiences as inherently debauched and debased because pornographic fanfiction is popular, but not hold George R R Martin to the same standard? Are you going to criticize the prejudices and disparities and biases in publishing that prevent marginalized writers from being able to break into the industry?

Are you ready to combat the enduring popularity of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, which is overwhelmingly a series of heroism tales about shitty and mediocre white men?

Are you going to take aim at HBO for taking a fantasy series that, while still written by a sexist author who has a disturbing fixation on female sexuality has uplifted its female characters as heroes in their own right, and then drove it into the dirt to end on a note with the male “hero” murdering his female lover, an abuse survivor, after engaging her in an intimate kiss?

Did you take issue with the streaming blockbuster Stranger Things only confirming a character as canonically gay--after planning to have her be a straight romantic option for a major character--because the actress is the one who repeatedly badgered the showrunners about how she didn’t feel her character fit that role?

Are you invested in the fact that video games continue to be majority white, majority male, majority able-bodied, and majority inaccessible to disabled gamers?

You want to complain about fanfiction having too much porn and somehow that deligitimizes fanfiction as a genre as a whole?

Fuck off. There are hundreds, thousands even more likely, of other authors of equal skill to you or greater, who are struggling to have their works recognized in fandoms that don’t want to put the effort in to reading them, the effort into sharing and appreciating them. It’s harder to make someone care about a fanfic. You can reblog a fanart, and your followers will see the art itself right away. If you reblog fanfic, they have to make the conscious choice to engage with it. And none of that is your fault, because you can’t control how other people engage with fan content, but you can advocate, vocally, for the fair and equal respect for fanfiction and fan-written content. You can remind people, again and again, how fanfic writers do so much for so little.

But you want to come into my house and compare fanart to fanficton and claim one is inherently better? You’re the Banksy to my Catherynne L Valente, to my N.K. Jemisin, to my Seanan McGuire.

Start understanding the system is built against us all and start understanding why your battle is uphill. What’s oppressing your creative success is a white, straight, cis monopoly on what the good story, what the correct story is, limiting your options, tying you to a narrative you don’t belong to. Queerness and marginalization exist beyond what’s depicted in mainstream media, and fans expressing that through their own written content?

That’s us taking back the corporate-owned narrative for ourselves. It’s self-liberation through the written word. And yeah, some of it is porn.

It’s porn when it’s a drawing too.

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