"'Cause My Baby Broke All the Rules": More Bastard Protagonists

I've been ensconced in Italian film lately. Spooky murder junkie that I am, I unfortunately don't mean masterpieces like Bicycle Thieves or La grande bellezza (I’d recommend both anyway). I mean I've been mainlining violent, flashy, off-the-wall gialli.

I love Italian giallo films; I'm a terrible sucker for turning fake violence into striking art. I'll write a little more about what storytelling and character lessons you learn from gialli (I'll be using the technically correct Italian term for the plural of giallo, because I am a shameless pedant) later, but I want to focus on one in particular right now.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit how much I loved What Have You Done to Solange? It’s a graphic, disturbing story that constantly teeters between effective shock and exploitation; so that I don’t diminish any of the film’s impact, I’ll only say that it involves the murder of teenage girls, and that the first scene features our protagonist, a gym teacher at a private girls’ high school, out with one of his very young students, with whom he is having an affair. But that’s almost part of the film’s allure, and it’s a wonderfully effective thriller. Those of you familiar with this genre know that murky, slippery plotting is more or less par for the course (the energy and visual/auditory impact makes up for it), but Solange has a clear, engrossing narrative. The fact that the name is never mentioned until about an hour in— and that every character is reluctant to even admit she exists—heightens the tension.

Even in the seventies, kicking the movie off with a pedophilic, predatory lead seems like a bold move. But nevertheless, I spent the entire movie hoping this fella would clear his name. It’s not giving anything away to say that Enrico Rosseni, our lead, is not responsible for the murders; the film never tries to turn the audience in that direction. It’s driven me back to pondering how you bring an audience to care about a despicable character.

 I’ve written a little about this before; a viewer or reader needs to connect with characters in a story, on screen or in writing, to understand them. I don’t know how anyone can enjoy a story if they don’t care what happens to the characters. The only successful attempt at this that I can think of is Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne compete for the reader’s hatred. Gone Girl was brilliantly written and executed, but I can’t say I enjoyed a single page of listening to those two freaks. I maintain that the end of that novel is beautifully happy; Nick and Amy back together means everyone else in the world is spared their sniveling bullshit.

 In any case, I turn back to Giorgio Pellegrini of Massimo Carlotto’s At the End of a Dull Day, who I still think is the worst (as in, terrible person) character I’ve ever encountered in a book. I said previously that Pellegrini remains compelling because above all else, he fears losing control; this is a universal fear. Thinking about Solange, I wonder if the issue of injustice is also involved. For all his dastardly deeds in A Dull Day, despite his contempt for all women that is matched only by his hatred of every other man he meets, Pellegrini suffers an injustice. Mafiosi take over his beloved restaurant purely because they can, and even the reader knows this is unfair. Suffering a miscarriage of justice, I think, is a powerful and visceral fear. For a good chunk of Solange—or long enough—Rosseni is suspected of murdering the girls. The audience knows this isn’t true; Rosseni might be several things, but he isn’t a murderer. I think this very real fear, of the unfairness of being accused of a crime you didn’t commit, is enough to get the viewer to connect.

 There are additional reasons for the audience sympathy for Rosseni, I’ll admit. Played by Fabio Testi, he’s poised, cultured, and very good looking (see above). There’s no polite way of saying this, so here it is: despite his affair, he doesn’t come off as a predator. He isn’t manipulative or violent. Unlike Pellegrini, he has a motivation beyond self-preservation. He might have shockingly poor judgment, and almost certainly shouldn’t be teaching teenagers, but he does have a moral center. So just what it is that makes him palatable—and soon enough, likeable—I'm still not certain.

“You're a Choir Boy Compared to Me!”: Protagonists Who Would Be Raging Bastards in Real Life

I came across this piece some weeks ago by Annie Cardi, weighing in on likeability.  The whole piece is worth a read, but for the time constrained, I'll sum it up.  Cardi believes readers miss out on meaningful experiences in literature when they gravitate only towards "likeable" or "relatable" characters.  As in politics, if readers encounter a character--particularly a protagonist--they wouldn't want to have a beer with, they'll dismiss the work.  So, she urges readers to look instead for characters that seem human, who express important facets of the human condition or challenge our worldview.  Remove "likeable" and "relatable" from your review vocabulary, she suggests.

Cardi, I think, is mostly right.  "Likeable" means too much to too many people; it puts too much stock on individual taste.   And anyone can point out the heap of stories that have been told by, and about, terrible assholes: your Patrick Batemans (American Pyscho), your Alexes (A Clockwork Orange).

Or this fella, from one of my very favorite films, which I won't talk about further here lest this post run about 10,000 words:

Seriously, I could go on and on about how much I love this damn crazy movie.

I see Cardi's point regarding "relatable"; it too is a relative term, relying on individual taste.  Still, I don't think we should dismiss relatability so quickly.  Or at the very least, consider that relatability tends to factor in what we can find human.

Association Three: Back to Perfection

This week, it’s back to description.  It might be obvious by now that I just love description.  My favorite writing exercise (along with writing Wikipedia-style summaries of characters I invent) is to describe objects, places, or people, usually to no point or purpose.  To that end, I’ve been thinking of the best kind of description: the short kind.

You might instead call it the efficient kind.  I might love description, but I won’t tolerate entire paragraphs devoted to one person, one miserable car.  What gives the greatest shudder of pleasure when I read is that perfect one-liner.  

"Last time I saw a mouth like that, it had a hook in it."

It's a Little 'Too' Quiet in Here: Writing an Atmosphere

photo credit: National Weather Service

I’m going to step away from being OCD about description, and get OCD about something slightly different this week.

Atmosphere changes a story. Unlike plot or thematic content—speaking to the audience’s sense of logic or intellect—atmosphere appeals almost entirely to the emotions. Like “immersion” for video games, atmosphere in narrative does the work of removing readers from their own time and place. And subject matter, characters, and language that look fun and sunny in one piece of writing turn warped and frightening when the narrative’s atmosphere changes.

"Well this place seems relaxed and friendly!"

“It Came from Planet Plothole”: What I Learned about Writing from Ed Wood, Jr.

I am a gigantic bad movie fan.  Battlefield Earth, Manos: The Hands of Fate, The Shadow, The Beast, Disaster Zone: Volcano in New York; classics all.  I’ve watched hours of Mystery Science Theater 3000, allowing Joel and/or Mike and the Bots to subject me to piles of dreck: Escape 2000, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, The Thing that Couldn’t Die, Deathstalker and the Warriors from Hell.  I’ve listened to “The Flophouse” and “How Did This Get Made?” as they marvel at The Room, Birdemic, Foodfight!, and Gymkata (“The skill of gymnastics.  The KILL of karate!”).  I love the listless acting and the scenery-chewing; I love the cardboard props and forced-perspective monsters; I love the motivations of characters the audience isn’t privileged enough to know; and I love the hard crack my suspension of disbelief makes when it finally snaps.  

You might think that slogging through hours of mediocre “art” and “entertainment” would amount to little more than An Amazing Colossal Waste of Time for me, but hear me out; I promise I’m going somewhere with this.

Association Two: Aftershocks

After I spent the last post discussing when associative devices really work, I’d like to go back to passages I’ve encountered that, to me, really don’t. 

Perhaps you have seen this series of mystery novels by Monica Ferris, in which needlework shop owner Betsy Devonshire solves crimes in the suburban, lakeside town of Excelsior, Minnesota, which in this universe has a murder rate roughly equivalent to Detroit:

Yes, these books are just as goofy as they look.  I have read several of them.  The less said about this, the better*. 

*Okay fine I know I’m acting super elitist about this series, so to make up for it I have to admit that they are not without their own comforting, whimsical charm; like spending the afternoon gossiping with your grandmother over coffee and almond cookies.  

Association: When a Thing is Like a Sort of Like Another Thing

Continuing from the last post on description, I want to work further with the type of descriptive device Victor Hugo employs.  Metonymy, the use of an association to create an impression, is one of my personal pet devices, and one of my favorite avenues for creativity in a work of fiction (or non-fiction, if you’re into that sort of thing).  Hugo, as I described before, brings in Classical allusions to paint Fantine as the archetypical pastoral girl.

To read an association used to wildly different ends, I’ll turn a wildly different writer.  Raymond Chandler still is, I believe, the master of noir, and perhaps as well the master of establishing atmosphere in a narrative (Digression note: I’ll dig into this for real in a future post, but I believe the keystone of the “noir”, whether in literature or film, is the bleakness of the atmosphere.  Chandler’s ability to cultivate atmosphere is, I find, a large part of the reason why he is the standard by which all others are judged.  /Digression).  He uses several instruments to create a setting of vague, disengaged despondency; association helps prop it up:

“The noise of the traffic from the boulevard came in waves, like nausea.”

(Farewell, My Lovely, Chapter 13)

The Ways and Means of Description: Or, Why Fantine's Hands Make Me Swoon

For the first actual-content post of this little blog, I’m going straight into one of my favorite sentences in all of literature, courtesy of the great Victor Hugo. 

“Her long, slender fingers were those of a vestal stirring the ash beneath the sacred flame with a rod of gold.”

(Les Misérables, Part One, Book Three: “Four and Four”.  Translation by Norman Denny.)

For the completionists, here is the original French:

Fantine avait les longs doigts blancs et fins de la vestale qui remue les cendres du feu sacré avec une épingle d’or.

I was nearly moved to tears the first time I read that sentence. 

Perhaps you think this description of Fantine’s hands isn’t the most world-breaking, face-meltingly staggering sentence I could have found in literature.  Perhaps it isn’t even the most staggering sentence in Les Misérables.  You may be right; but I value this sentence so highly for a reason.  It changed the way I understand the craft and art of description. 

Starting Out: Or, When You May as Well Steal from the Best

“I enter the courts of ancient men, where, lovingly received by them…I am not ashamed to speak…and they, in their humanity, respond to me.”[1]

I can’t say why it is that I write.  It’s a constant, unwavering urge, to wind up stories and fight to turn them into real works.  I’m the baboon waving its ass at kids visiting the zoo; I just feel compelled. 

When I was six years old, my parents gave me a six-inch stapler with a plastic yellow cover.  I scribbled words and crayon sketches on notepads and stapled the pages together.  At age nine, I had started to realize that my childhood dream—of being Minnesota Twins centerfielder Kirby Puckett—was probably not realistic.  Instead, I admitted to myself that I loved reading more than baseball, and that I never felt as vigorous as when I was creating those little books out of notepad scribbles.  At that point, I was determined to become an author. 

As I grew into a teenager, I dreamed of being like Minnesota’s most celebrated writer, Scott Fitzgerald.  I wanted to run off to France and live in a state of excess and semi-dissipation, writing astounding novels that brought not (necessarily) fabulous wealth, but enough to maintain a modest flat with a fridge full of liquor in a European capital.  Some more years passed and I came to terms with the facts that a) this lifestyle generally leads to depression, ill-health, and an early death, and b) to actually live it, I’d need a hell of a lot more supporting talent.  I moderated my expectations and set myself up for a more mellow career, but I haven’t given up writing. 

Thus, I’ve committed myself to continuous work and continuous improvement.  However, I’d like to think I’m not going at it alone. 

I’ve had several great writing teachers whose lessons still shape the work I do every day.  However, my single greatest source of instruction—and the most inexhaustible—has been other authors.  I’ve loaded up two bookshelves with the best writing teachers there are. 

That is my goal for this blog; to highlight excerpts of great writing, and unpack the lessons within.  Diction, syntax, detail, or character creation; hence, the title of this blog: Slova, Russian for “words” (слова).  I’m looking out for words that work, and finding out why. 

A few disclaimers before I close.  My biases and preferences will probably become obvious before long.  I read a lot of noir and hardboiled works—and do most of my work in that genre—so consider yourselves warned.  I read very few contemporary authors, with the exception of Umberto Eco.  I will almost certainly write a piece about hockey before too long.  I want to write a blog that helps me, and anyone else, understand good writing. 

---

[1] Letter from Niccolò Machiavelli to Francesco Vettori, 1513. Translated by Wayne A. Rebhorn.