Perhaps your fiction has stalled…perhaps you want your audience to see something your character cannot… perhaps you want to emphasize what your character cannot see without “telling”…perhaps you want a moment where your character metaphorically looks into the proverbial mirror but you don’t want to use a mirror because that would be too damn obvious…
RR is a tragedy very much in the vein of Shakespeare.
A common technique of Shakespeare, which RR borrows, is the fool. In Shakespeare, the fool is often a vessel of knowledge whose contents are disregarded simply because of his appearance. In RR, John Givings, a patient in a mental institution, plays the role of the fool. RR, however, doesn’t use the fool without its own invention.
Throughout King Lear, the fool brings advice to Lear, and Lear continually fails to see.
Fool: …The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,
The other found out there.
Lear: Dost thou call me a fool, boy?
Fool: All the other titles thou hast given away.
In RR, John Givings expresses to Frank and April Wheeler many sentiments with which they agree and which we’ve previously heard them express. Rather than speaking in puns and double-entendres as a Shakespearean fool might, Givings speaks bluntly. Rather than speaking unheard as the Shakespearean fool might, the Wheeler’s openly agree. Although Givings doesn’t act the fool, the validity of his ideas appears compromised to both the Wheelers and the audience because of his “social status,” much like a Shakespearean fool.
Alterations to the appearance and manner of the fool as seen in RR are easily contrived (they function to disguise the trope of the fool); however, the force of the alterations stems mainly from Givings’s bluntly insulting disapproval of the Wheeler’s decision to remain in America and not to move to Paris, which leads to a fight, which leads to (insert spoiler here). The tragedy then is amplified: in contrast to Lear, who is simply blind to the truth due to old age, the young Wheelers choose to blindfold themselves, continuing to live under a banner of truth they know to be false.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Brothers (2009)
In Brothers, a lesser talked about film this holiday season, the fiction writer might pay attention to the parallel storylines which arise from a familiar film technique: montage. Montage works on film because humans have a propensity to not look away from frenetic images. Frenetic images in fiction (or whatever technique may come closest) are not often successful (or labeled experimental) because a piece will feel non-sequitur, unfocused, and/or haphazard.
Brothers is inventive because it uses montage and then slows the montage to parallel storylines. We move between small town USA and worn-torn Afghanistan at slower and slower rates. The scenes feel progressively drawn out. Initially, the montage pulls at our heartstrings, juxtaposing images of a soldier at war with images of his wife and kids at home. Then, the film raises the stakes by slowing down. I won’t spoil how it raises the stakes (because I want you to see it) but the important thing is that the storyline slows down.
Parallel storylines is a popular, if not overused, technique of fiction. An issue I have with the term is that often the storylines are not parallel but converging. We know the two lines will eventually come together. Brothers is inventive because it makes its converging storylines feel like diverging storylines.
As montage becomes parallel storylines, the fiction writer should note how much its success relies on opposition. Foremost, there is simply the contrast in atmosphere between the US and Afghanistan. A more pointed example, however, comes when Captain Cahill is captured. He instructs his fellow captive to forget everything he knows. He tells him he no longer has a family as Afghanis rummage through his belongings, which include pictures of his wife and son. Meanwhile, Cahill’s wife sits on her couch watching home videos. While the husband is forgetting, the wife is remembering.
I think the use of opposition coupled with the slower rate at which the story progresses works to heighten tension—in a novel with converging storylines, it’s easy to see how progressively longer chapters might achieve the same effect. While parallel storylines is certainly not inventive in fiction or film, what is inventive (and counterintuitive) in Brothers is that the parallel storylines seem to suggest that the family will not reunite, the storylines will never converge. When they do, we’re relieved; but, we’re also eager to see how the film will resolve conflicts developed through the parallel storylines.
Brothers is inventive because it uses montage and then slows the montage to parallel storylines. We move between small town USA and worn-torn Afghanistan at slower and slower rates. The scenes feel progressively drawn out. Initially, the montage pulls at our heartstrings, juxtaposing images of a soldier at war with images of his wife and kids at home. Then, the film raises the stakes by slowing down. I won’t spoil how it raises the stakes (because I want you to see it) but the important thing is that the storyline slows down.
Parallel storylines is a popular, if not overused, technique of fiction. An issue I have with the term is that often the storylines are not parallel but converging. We know the two lines will eventually come together. Brothers is inventive because it makes its converging storylines feel like diverging storylines.
As montage becomes parallel storylines, the fiction writer should note how much its success relies on opposition. Foremost, there is simply the contrast in atmosphere between the US and Afghanistan. A more pointed example, however, comes when Captain Cahill is captured. He instructs his fellow captive to forget everything he knows. He tells him he no longer has a family as Afghanis rummage through his belongings, which include pictures of his wife and son. Meanwhile, Cahill’s wife sits on her couch watching home videos. While the husband is forgetting, the wife is remembering.
I think the use of opposition coupled with the slower rate at which the story progresses works to heighten tension—in a novel with converging storylines, it’s easy to see how progressively longer chapters might achieve the same effect. While parallel storylines is certainly not inventive in fiction or film, what is inventive (and counterintuitive) in Brothers is that the parallel storylines seem to suggest that the family will not reunite, the storylines will never converge. When they do, we’re relieved; but, we’re also eager to see how the film will resolve conflicts developed through the parallel storylines.
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