Children's story values flash over substance.
Let's take a moment to pity the children of English majors whose parents' uncontrollable lit-crit tendencies keep the books their peers love out of their reach. Our first child is not even born, and already I'm culling his library for unsavory messages, tacky topics, and egregious grammar. Will he have a severe knowledge deficit if he doesn't read Everyone Poops? This mom is willing to risk it.
Currently on the chopping block is Marcus Pfister's The Rainbow Fish. Despite its vibrant cover and shimmering illustrations, the story has a dark underbelly with a warped message about how to make friends.
The Rainbow Fish (RF) starts out as a vain jerk. He won't play with the other fish because he's "too beautiful." Another fish asks him if he can have one of his shiny scales. RF is quite justifiably appalled (after all, that is a piece of his body!), and the beggar fish swims away. Then RF has an odd moment where he asks an octopus why no one likes him (how RF got from being "too beautiful" to caring about what others think is not explained). The octopus advises RF to give away his shining scales: "You won't be as beautiful, but you will have friends." Heeding this advice, RF gives away all but one of his scales and swims off happily with his new scale-sporting friends. The end.
Um, let's go back to: "You won't be as beautiful, but you will have friends." What a message! Arguably, the word "beautiful" could represent RF's vanity here—meaning he had to let go of his snotty attitude in order to befriend others. But literally—which is how I think most youngsters would read this—it sounds like having a distinguishing characteristic all your own is a bad thing. Distribute the wealth, or else the proles will get you! Worse is the idea that you have to buy friendship by giving away the part of yourself that makes you who you are. The Rainbow Fish gave up his rainbowness to be part of the pack. The word for that in the adult world is sell-out.
If the other fish in RF's world were also special and had something to share, I wouldn't be as bothered by the overall story arc. In that case, there would have been wonderful opportunities for lessons celebrating the uniqueness of individual contributions and the rewarding result of cooperation. But as is, RF comes across as a stereotypical bourgeois pig, who gives in to proletariat demands to share his wealth in exchange for social status. What kind of worldview is that for a child? It sounds like a Faustian bargain to me.
True friendship can't be bought—not with shiny scales or bits of one's soul. While the value of sharing and being unselfish can't be stressed enough, it can never be gained at the expense of one's integrity. Maybe it's asking too much of a children's book to make that distinction, but it's enough to keep The Rainbow Fish off our baby's shelf.
The Rainbow Fish: *
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
Tube Talk: PBS Bio-Pic Is Pure Austen-tation
The drama centers on an unsympathetic heroine who wishes she were a missus.
If the premise of the PBS bio-drama Miss Austen Regrets—that all women live to rue something in their pasts—is true, then my regret is sitting through the whole 90-minute film without changing the channel. In this fourth installment of the "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" series, writer Gwyneth Hughes presents the novelist in her final years, ruing her spinsterhood, sparring with her much younger niece over men, and generally wallowing in self-pity—all qualities that go unrewarded in Austen's own novels. What would the original think of such a shallow copy?
It's no wonder that fans of Jane Austen's works become obsessed with the writer herself. After all, very little is known about her beyond what you would find in a fourth-grade book report. Yes, there are the basic facts—year of birth, year of death, years of residence in one part of the country and another, not to mention an extensive genealogy—but there is very little insight into her interior life. No diaries survive, and beyond her novels themselves and the tenuous written memories of her surviving relatives, there are just a few personal letters to hint at the character of the person who wrote them.
Nearly 200 years after her death, reconstructing that character is still a feverish trend in the literary world. As Kathryn Sutherland notes in her introduction to the 2002 Oxford University Press edition of J.E. Austen-Leigh's A Memoir of Jane Austen, "it is not facts and information we crave but intimacy and identification." That desire to know the author better—in the same way that readers become intimately acquainted with her heroines—unfortunately leads to wild speculation on the part of critics and biographers, who cast many Jane Austens based not on available information, but on Catherine Morland-style extrapolations of small details.
Miss Austen Regrets provides a perfect example of decontextualizing the surviving source material. Among Austen's surviving letters, the most tantalizing are those addressed to her niece, Fanny Knight, who was 18 years her junior. In these letters, Austen discusses Fanny's love life, particularly whether she should accept a proposal from a certain gentleman and how to read the signs of her own heart. In these letters, she praises Fanny warmly for her complex character and feelings, and it is obvious that Aunt Jane had nothing but the highest esteem for her young niece. It is fun to see how Austen's opinion—whether Fanny should accept or wait for a better offer—oscillates from nearly one paragraph to the next. Her excitement seems genuine, as does her earnestness to prove helpful without overinfluencing Fanny's own thoughts on the matter.
Hughes' script borrows heavily from these letters, placing verbatim lines into face-to-face dialogue scenes between aunt and niece throughout the film. Rather than the comeraderie Austen's letters suggest, Hughes uses these conversations to fuel conflict between the two characters, who get into heated discussions about weighing the values of love and money in marriage. Hughes also paints a Jane (Olivia Williams) who, at 40, flirts shamelessly with men and even begins to have feelings for her brother's young doctor—feelings that cause an unlikely rivalry to develop between Jane and Fanny (Imogen Poots). Frustrated, lonely, and perpetually defensive, Jane becomes more wretched and dissatisfied as her physical condition deteriorates. At long last, the film ends with Fanny's own wedding—three years after Jane's death—and somehow Fanny finally realizes what all her aunt's fuss was about. Unfortunately, the audience is left in the dark.
Whether Jane Austen truly wrestled with loneliness, self-doubt, and long-standing regret can never be known. But it does seem that someone with her wit, intelligence, and humor would not have spent her days in long laments as this film suggests. While the lack of hard evidence leaves plenty of room for biographical interpretations, it seems unfair to bend out of shape the few surviving artifacts. In the quest to know her better, why not look for Austen's thoughts about life and society where they are most well-preserved—within the pages of her novels.
Miss Austen Regrets: *
If the premise of the PBS bio-drama Miss Austen Regrets—that all women live to rue something in their pasts—is true, then my regret is sitting through the whole 90-minute film without changing the channel. In this fourth installment of the "Masterpiece: The Complete Jane Austen" series, writer Gwyneth Hughes presents the novelist in her final years, ruing her spinsterhood, sparring with her much younger niece over men, and generally wallowing in self-pity—all qualities that go unrewarded in Austen's own novels. What would the original think of such a shallow copy?
It's no wonder that fans of Jane Austen's works become obsessed with the writer herself. After all, very little is known about her beyond what you would find in a fourth-grade book report. Yes, there are the basic facts—year of birth, year of death, years of residence in one part of the country and another, not to mention an extensive genealogy—but there is very little insight into her interior life. No diaries survive, and beyond her novels themselves and the tenuous written memories of her surviving relatives, there are just a few personal letters to hint at the character of the person who wrote them.
Nearly 200 years after her death, reconstructing that character is still a feverish trend in the literary world. As Kathryn Sutherland notes in her introduction to the 2002 Oxford University Press edition of J.E. Austen-Leigh's A Memoir of Jane Austen, "it is not facts and information we crave but intimacy and identification." That desire to know the author better—in the same way that readers become intimately acquainted with her heroines—unfortunately leads to wild speculation on the part of critics and biographers, who cast many Jane Austens based not on available information, but on Catherine Morland-style extrapolations of small details.
Miss Austen Regrets provides a perfect example of decontextualizing the surviving source material. Among Austen's surviving letters, the most tantalizing are those addressed to her niece, Fanny Knight, who was 18 years her junior. In these letters, Austen discusses Fanny's love life, particularly whether she should accept a proposal from a certain gentleman and how to read the signs of her own heart. In these letters, she praises Fanny warmly for her complex character and feelings, and it is obvious that Aunt Jane had nothing but the highest esteem for her young niece. It is fun to see how Austen's opinion—whether Fanny should accept or wait for a better offer—oscillates from nearly one paragraph to the next. Her excitement seems genuine, as does her earnestness to prove helpful without overinfluencing Fanny's own thoughts on the matter.
Hughes' script borrows heavily from these letters, placing verbatim lines into face-to-face dialogue scenes between aunt and niece throughout the film. Rather than the comeraderie Austen's letters suggest, Hughes uses these conversations to fuel conflict between the two characters, who get into heated discussions about weighing the values of love and money in marriage. Hughes also paints a Jane (Olivia Williams) who, at 40, flirts shamelessly with men and even begins to have feelings for her brother's young doctor—feelings that cause an unlikely rivalry to develop between Jane and Fanny (Imogen Poots). Frustrated, lonely, and perpetually defensive, Jane becomes more wretched and dissatisfied as her physical condition deteriorates. At long last, the film ends with Fanny's own wedding—three years after Jane's death—and somehow Fanny finally realizes what all her aunt's fuss was about. Unfortunately, the audience is left in the dark.
Whether Jane Austen truly wrestled with loneliness, self-doubt, and long-standing regret can never be known. But it does seem that someone with her wit, intelligence, and humor would not have spent her days in long laments as this film suggests. While the lack of hard evidence leaves plenty of room for biographical interpretations, it seems unfair to bend out of shape the few surviving artifacts. In the quest to know her better, why not look for Austen's thoughts about life and society where they are most well-preserved—within the pages of her novels.
Miss Austen Regrets: *
Friday, January 11, 2008
Tube Talk: "Grey's" Blacks Out Marriage
At Seattle Grace, commitment is toxic—and often fatal.
Okay, I admit it. When it comes to television and movies, I'm a sucker for the romantic comedies with the ludicrous obstacles, the longing looks, the delayed gratification, and the really bad jokes. This plot construction has been a time-honored girl magnet since Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice hit the stands, and probably even before. But, it doesn't work for every medium. With television shows, the push-me, pull-me between romantic leads can only hold water for so many episodes. Eventually, someone has to make a decision—and often, the decision kills the chemistry that attracted viewers in the first place. (Remember how unwatchable "Lois and Clark" became as they prepared for the wedding? Ick.)
"Grey's Anatomy," ABC's primetime hospital soap, charged out of the gate with the formula in full effect. Girl (Ellen Pompeo's Meredith Grey) meets guy (Patrick Dempsey's "McDreamy"), who is (gasp!) her boss. After falling for him anyway, she finds out he's married. Will he leave his adulterous wife for his adulterous girlfriend? There you have the first two seasons of "Grey's Anatomy." Silly premise though it was, the show was peppered with interesting patient story lines, good supporting characters, and fairly sharp, funny dialogue—enough to keep me coming back week after week.
But once the main conflict was resolved (early in Season 3 when boy and girl FINALLY choose each other), the engine of the show cranked to a halt. If this had been a film, the music would have swelled, the credits would have rolled, and the audience would have fumbled for their car keys on their way out the door. But, no. A zombified version of the show still limps along. Whether the creative juices haven't yet been replenished or whether there are too many new cooks in the kitchen, the strong characters developed in the first two seasons have become plot puppets with little consistency from week to week. For instance, is the Dr. Bailey (Chandra Wilson) who let her husband walk out the door without a fight last night really the same Dr. Bailey who told her coworker that the people you love always have priority over your career? It's almost like the writers haven't watched their own show.
In a strange effort to revive the show and keep ratings high, the writers have been viciously hunting down all couples since the end of Season 2, when a main love interest was killed off after proposing to one of the interns. This seemed okay at the time, as it felt like a one-time bout of bad luck. But Season 3 and Season 4 have ruthlessly mowed down every married (or potentially married) couple in its path. The idea of marriage is either toxic (Cristina and Burke, Callie and George) or fatal (Denny, George's dad, and Meredith's step mom don't survive). After running out of main characters to break up and guest stars to kill off, the writers fell upon supporting roles, leaving both the Chief and Dr. Bailey on their own after decades of marriage.
Season 4, which ended abruptly with last night's episode as a result of the writers' strike, has decimated the playing field. No couple is left standing, with the possible exception of McDreamy and his new scrub nurse, Rose (Lauren Stamile). There are no interesting combinations left, and the patient plot lifts have been flat to nonexistent for the past two seasons. The show has stagnated as much as the characters' love lives. Sharp dialogue has been replaced by terse, stale phrases and lingering, awkward beats—usually between the titular character and McDreamy trying to out-break-up each other.
Of course, it's unrealistic to assume that every couple that walks down the aisle (or talks about it) will live happily ever after. But many do stay together—and marriage doesn't have to be a fallow field for writers. After all, "I Love Lucy," "The Cosby Show," and even "Everybody Loves Raymond" lasted for years on the air with (gasp!) married protagonists that kept the audience interested. If ABC must keep the malingering "Grey's" on the air, there has to be more than a group of single losers to keep viewers engaged. Exploring more mature relationships—and bringing back the light, witty touch from earlier seasons—could pull it out of the downward spiral.
"Grey's Anatomy": **
Okay, I admit it. When it comes to television and movies, I'm a sucker for the romantic comedies with the ludicrous obstacles, the longing looks, the delayed gratification, and the really bad jokes. This plot construction has been a time-honored girl magnet since Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice hit the stands, and probably even before. But, it doesn't work for every medium. With television shows, the push-me, pull-me between romantic leads can only hold water for so many episodes. Eventually, someone has to make a decision—and often, the decision kills the chemistry that attracted viewers in the first place. (Remember how unwatchable "Lois and Clark" became as they prepared for the wedding? Ick.)
"Grey's Anatomy," ABC's primetime hospital soap, charged out of the gate with the formula in full effect. Girl (Ellen Pompeo's Meredith Grey) meets guy (Patrick Dempsey's "McDreamy"), who is (gasp!) her boss. After falling for him anyway, she finds out he's married. Will he leave his adulterous wife for his adulterous girlfriend? There you have the first two seasons of "Grey's Anatomy." Silly premise though it was, the show was peppered with interesting patient story lines, good supporting characters, and fairly sharp, funny dialogue—enough to keep me coming back week after week.
But once the main conflict was resolved (early in Season 3 when boy and girl FINALLY choose each other), the engine of the show cranked to a halt. If this had been a film, the music would have swelled, the credits would have rolled, and the audience would have fumbled for their car keys on their way out the door. But, no. A zombified version of the show still limps along. Whether the creative juices haven't yet been replenished or whether there are too many new cooks in the kitchen, the strong characters developed in the first two seasons have become plot puppets with little consistency from week to week. For instance, is the Dr. Bailey (Chandra Wilson) who let her husband walk out the door without a fight last night really the same Dr. Bailey who told her coworker that the people you love always have priority over your career? It's almost like the writers haven't watched their own show.
In a strange effort to revive the show and keep ratings high, the writers have been viciously hunting down all couples since the end of Season 2, when a main love interest was killed off after proposing to one of the interns. This seemed okay at the time, as it felt like a one-time bout of bad luck. But Season 3 and Season 4 have ruthlessly mowed down every married (or potentially married) couple in its path. The idea of marriage is either toxic (Cristina and Burke, Callie and George) or fatal (Denny, George's dad, and Meredith's step mom don't survive). After running out of main characters to break up and guest stars to kill off, the writers fell upon supporting roles, leaving both the Chief and Dr. Bailey on their own after decades of marriage.
Season 4, which ended abruptly with last night's episode as a result of the writers' strike, has decimated the playing field. No couple is left standing, with the possible exception of McDreamy and his new scrub nurse, Rose (Lauren Stamile). There are no interesting combinations left, and the patient plot lifts have been flat to nonexistent for the past two seasons. The show has stagnated as much as the characters' love lives. Sharp dialogue has been replaced by terse, stale phrases and lingering, awkward beats—usually between the titular character and McDreamy trying to out-break-up each other.
Of course, it's unrealistic to assume that every couple that walks down the aisle (or talks about it) will live happily ever after. But many do stay together—and marriage doesn't have to be a fallow field for writers. After all, "I Love Lucy," "The Cosby Show," and even "Everybody Loves Raymond" lasted for years on the air with (gasp!) married protagonists that kept the audience interested. If ABC must keep the malingering "Grey's" on the air, there has to be more than a group of single losers to keep viewers engaged. Exploring more mature relationships—and bringing back the light, witty touch from earlier seasons—could pull it out of the downward spiral.
"Grey's Anatomy": **
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