All Things Austen

[Note: For the next few posts--or however long it takes me to come down from my manic high--I'm going to be posting all about the stuff I LOVE... and if you prefer depressing, angst-ridden posts by me, you'll need to scroll down a few days (I have plenty of them to spare, I'm afraid). I'm too happy to be sad right now.]

I, like many women adore Jane Austen. Unlike some, I cannot say I'm a fan of the dresses usually displayed in illustrations and films. Instead, I love the manners, the characters, the walking around fields and other stuff that seems to happen. Vacuous? I beg to differ. I am many things, but not vacuous. Besides, I adore so much related to Austen's books, and I've recently found reasons to adore them even more.

I've long kept my heart Austen-centered, for I watched the original PBS version of Pride and Prejudice when I was in my teens, read the book, and read it again (and again, and again). I read it in graduate school, and realized at that point that the PBS version didn't do the book justice at all.

But then A and E's version came out--you know the one I'm talking about, with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. Dreamy, dreamy, dreamy. I taped it all, then bought the VHS set, and a few years ago my brother bought me the 3-CD Special Edition. I've watched it every few months or so ever since the movie came out originally. It is by far the best version ever made. I also adored Gwineth Paltrow as Emma, the best version of that book I've seen. The film adaptation of Mansfield Park actually improved on the book, so I've seen that one several times over, too.

Recently, though, other Austen wonders have come out--not adaptations of the original novels, but new takes on the themes which run through them. PBS presented a delightful if impossible spin on Pride and Prejudice called Lost in Austen, taking the life of a woman fascinated with Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy character and turning it into a romp through the book, changing events in hilarious ways. (Yes, hilarious. Not just cute or quirky. Laugh out loud funny.)

And recently, I've read Shannon Hale's novel Austenland, a more realistic (sort of) exploration of a fictional "resort" for women who love Jane Austen's time period and characters. The resort goers dress in period costume, participate in pastimes of the period (lots of walks and whist), and mingle with paid actors who pretend to be "types" from the books. Several of my friends read the book as well, and we all wonder whether such a place exists. (It doesn't, at least not that I know of. Yes, I looked.)

So, there it is. And since many of my readers are men, don't think you'll be left out in future posts, for I have many other things I love to discuss. Besides, you could learn a lot from Mr. Darcy.

Not Laughing

I believe, deep down, I have no sense of humor. 

Or at least, if I do have a sense of humor, it's vacuous and superficial, willing to laugh at a comedian, but not willing to dig deeply into what makes something funny, or to care about anything that brings a smile to my face. 

Don't get me wrong. By my very nature, I am overtly cheerful. I resemble Pollyanna more than any other person I know, despite my tendency to seek and tell truth. I'm a glass-half-full kind of person, living a life with little angst (and what angst I do have I put here). But my characteristics don't lead to a corresponding taste in literature. Certainly, I don't gravitate to the violent, or the sex-crazed star-crossed lovers sort of thing, but I also don't gravitate towards humor.

I'm reading through Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince again (how many times has it been?), and I am struck by how little I value the humor of it the umpteenth time through. What do I love? The emotional impact. The seriousness of certain situations. Even in the film, the scene that left me coldest was the one in the Weasely twins' shop... and in the whole set of books, my favorite scenes are the serious ones... especially the dementor attack in Book #5. 

It isn't just Harry. It's every book I've ever read. I am drawn to the pathos, the weeping. I saw Gladiator three times in the theater--I even saw Titanic five times, and though the romance between Rose and Jack left me completely cold, I found the other "real" characters mesmerizing: the old couple snuggling together on their bed; the mother reading to her children below deck, knowing they would all die because she wasn't allowed to leave; the carpenter staring at the clock on the mantle, aware that it was all his fault the ship was sinking. The same events that make it certain my husband will never watch a film again are what drives me to see it. 

Maybe those films provide me with what I don't have in my real life. I have laughter. I have romance. I have all sorts of joy. I don't want real tragedy in my life, so I just enjoy it vicariously through film and books. I live through Harry, grateful that I don't have to live a life like his, yet fascinated by the trauma all the same. My writing does the same thing: it creates extraordinary events for me to involve myself in, fantasies that I would never want in real life but that are compelling for me (and hopefully, someday, for readers). 

What's missing in your life? What do you read/write for?

Holding Back

I've read hundreds of plays in my lifetime so far--and seen even more films. The one thing that links most plays, as well as plenty of films, together is that moment when some character can't take any more and loses his/her mind. To find an example most of you have probably seen, think of Steel Magnolias for a moment (which was first a play, but then was adapted for the screen).

Remember that scene after Julia Roberts is buried? Sally Field starts crying, screaming, losing her mind. I watched that in the movie theater, and I can still remember how uncomfortable I grew with each passing sob. And then Olympia Dukakis moved in and broke the tension with some brilliantly written humor (I still love the end of this scene for that very reason).

We may certainly see this as the climax of the film--the moment when emotions are at their highest, when the characters are most intimately involved in what is going on with each other, when a shift in the relationships is about to happen or a character is about to go through an epiphany. And such a scene can be very meaningful. However, if it becomes an expected pattern, it is just that--a pattern--and it may be neither appropriate nor effective anymore. And if the emotions are overplayed, the result is even worse.

I am reminded of Armageddon in this--and any of you regular readers already know this is a film I detest--when Bruce Willis is on the rock, about to sacrifice his life to save the earth from destruction (I'm already gagging), and he has an emotional moment with his daughter and the rest of his crew. I know I'm supposed to be sobbing. But I can't. It's so badly done it's annoying, not emotional at all. A scene played over the top can create the opposite effect to what is intended. Again, I think of another terrible movie, one even worse than Armageddon: an older film based on the fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast." I found it on the free movies on cable a few months ago, and my kids and I watched it. 

In this version the "beast" was a man who changed into a beast only at night, after the sun went down (sort of a cross between the old werewolf tradition and Swan Lake). Each time he changed--maybe five times through the course of the film (until I couldn't bear to watch anymore)--he went through horrible ranges of emotions, from yelling to crying, bemoaning his fate, calling for his own death, whining, etc. And all the while he was slowly transforming into a beast.

What did my kids do when this happened? Cower in fear? Cry? Nope. They both burst out laughing. They thought he was HILARIOUS. And he was. I had to admit that he produced the best gut laugh I had ever heard out of my son. My kids wanted to watch the film the next day, scanning through to the transforming parts so they could laugh at him some more (they found the rest of the film utterly boring, and for good reason). 

Had the beast held back more, had the emotions been more subtly conveyed, the film might have had a chance (okay, maybe not--the whole thing was terrible, not just the transformation scenes).

Now, imagine the scene in Steel Magnolias if Olympia Dukakis hadn't stepped in and stopped Sally Field's rant. It would have become excruciating... and the whole film would have faltered as a result. 

If you feel tempted to emote (or to have a character do so), consider writing the scene with less. Go Greek instead of Roman. Step back from the emotion a little. You might surprise your readers, and yourself, by the impact you can create if you don't overdo it.

Can you think of an example that fits? Or one that doesn't?