#going back to my less sappy literary critique

[flying-fangirls]

Arthur's Story

Okay so now that Part 46 is out and we got that moment of John explaining what Arthur's train story meant to him, I kinda want to talk about this particular allusion myself. Arthur's retelling is mostly pretty close to the original, but I am going to get into interpretation/implementation stuff. So if you want to read the original story for full context, it's "Solitude" by Ben Ames Williams!

To start bluntly: I do not like the Lilly comparison /nm

I'm not saying it's wrong per se, but I do believe it's a fairly weak conclusion that misses out on a lot of other potential.

Let's back up.

Alright, so if you go and read it, you'll quickly see that the original short story, "Solitude," is ridiculously well-aligned with the tone and mood of Malevolent. There are ideas of cosmic insignificance, perseverance and despair, questioning morality and "goodness," and helping others in dark times. (it does have some of the weird hallmarks of early 1900s white dude writing, but otherwise I actually quite like this story! it's got nice vibes and pretty words)

Where It Falls Short

Now, an allusion is a reference within a story to an outside piece of information, and its entire purpose is to add new depth. A good allusion considers the full context of whatever it's referencing, and uses that context to its advantage. It challenges the audience to work through that outside context and uncover some new perspective(s) on characters, themes, and/or plot— something they otherwise had not seen or considered before.

The thing is, when Part 46 applies the "Solitude" allusion to Lilly specifically, there's nothing new gained whatsoever. What does John tell us during this moment?

Lilly took care of him, showed him his first glimpse of humanity, and gave him a name— all good stuff! But also all old stuff, these details have all been said in the show before, some more than once. Since we know that the main point of an allusion is to bring something new to the table, then this implementation fails on that point because all it's done is simply rehash previously established perspectives on Lilly.

Not only does this take on the allusion fall short, the show's interpretation also limits our ability to understand it. This isn't a moment where the podcast shows us new information and lets us draw our own conclusions. This is a moment where John stands in for the podcast's voice, and he tells us what it considers the "right" interpretation. Even if we had formed our own interpretation about this allusion, the show has now essentially told us that those interpretations are "wrong" (which isn't an antagonistic move on the show's part, by the way! just the message it's unconsciously implying)

I agree that John's connection between the story and his experience with Lilly in Part 46 is a genuinely sweet moment! But unfortunately, because it neglects to take a new path, it's also a predictable moment that loses its strength among all the other sweet Lilly moments. And that takes away any chance for the allusion to impact the audience in a unique way, wasting its full potential.

Where It Misses Out

(now here comes the English major moment when I tell you why I'm right and you're not /j)

Alright, again, the Lilly comparison isn't wrong. I think it's totally legitimate to see this story about a woman helping an injured and lonely man, and think of Lilly! But personally, when I heard Arthur's retelling, I never once considered Lilly until the show told me to (12 episodes later). When I listened to Part 29 and the first half of the story, I admittedly was totally lost and dug through those lines over and over to find a meaning. And the only real interpretation that naturally came to me was a parallel to Arthur and John's journey. A man lost in a terrifying world, at the whims of forces much stronger than him, who has lost all of his loved ones to death or abandonment? Yeah, that's literally just Arthur and John.

And the conclusion in Part 39 only seemed to support that interpretation more— Moll abandons her entire life to follow Mat into the cold and dark, John and Arthur both (literally and figuratively) throw their lives away to help the other through the dark. We can even swap who's who here— either Arthur or John could be Mat struggling to survive as a "good" person, and either one could be Moll extending a hand to that person.

There's also a particular line that John says in Part 46 that feels completely out of place with the interpretation the show tells us:

He implies that Lilly did the same as Moll and shut out everything around them. But when Lilly takes care of John in the hospital, his development there isn't that she "drove out the world." Lilly brought the world closer to John, not further away— she helped him expand his focus outward, not close it off.

However, this line does fit extremely well with John and Arthur's dynamic! How often have we heard about these two's edges blurring, about their minds and emotions and internal selves blending together? How many times have these two expressed a love so codependent that it rejects everything outside of themselves? Heck, John's major emotional plot in s4 revolved around the desire to shut out the outside world and isolate himself together with Arthur.

Just like how Moll's arrival drove out the world for Mat, the arrival of John into Arthur's life certainly drove out the rest of the world, pulling him away from his job, home, and friends. Likewise, the arrival of Arthur into John's life most definitely drove out the rest of the world, removing him from the legacy of the King and literal world of the Dreamlands.

The podcast tries to push its Lilly interpretation into a mold that it simply does not fit. And in doing so, it completely misses the perfect connection between Moll/Mat and John/Arthur that already exists. "Solitude" offers a naturally perfect bridge between its story and Malevolent's, but Part 46 steers us away from that bridge and straight into the river where we're left without any strong understanding or impact.

Where It Could Go

Not only does a Jarthur interpretation of Arthur's story connect the allusion to the podcast well, it also gives us a new perspective to think about Jarthur with (again, the most important part of a good allusion).

Earlier I said that Arthur's retelling of "Solitude" mostly followed the story, and that's because he leaves out one key detail: Moll had spent most of her life trapped as the victim of abusive men who forced her to neglect herself and care for people who didn't care for her back. (Admittedly, I think it's weird the show ignored this specific detail, but most allusions do intentionally require outside work on the audience's part, so for now I'll hesitantly just say that was Guthrie's aim.)

If we consider this backstory in our interpretation, we can find a really fascinating view of Jarthur's dynamic. Both Arthur and John could be Mat: a man who has seriously harmed others before and is now left broken and lost in a dangerous world. Then we can have John as Moll: trapped by the King and the Dark World and Arthur's body, powerless to take control of his own self, forced to neglect his identity/values for others' wants. And we can have Arthur as Moll: stuck in relationships/lifestyles that restrict him, autonomy stolen by social expectations and eldritch beings with far more power than him. Both of them as Moll: escaping a past of abuse, but nevertheless still finding yourself in a position of supporting men at the cost of your individuality.

A Jarthur interpretation frames Arthur and John's pasts in a concept of abuse and neglect, which is not usually (if at all) how the podcast presents their backstories. It also forces us to reconsider the full scope of their dynamic with each other. Normally the show presents Jarthur as a messy, yet overwhelmingly restorative and supportive relationship. However, when we place Jarthur into the context of Moll, we are forced to stop and acknowledge how their dynamic still harms them both: They're codependent to a self-destructive degree, protective enough to harm anyone else who gets close, so closely connected that they lose a part of who they are for the other's sake. Neither one of them exist as a wholly independent individual anymore, both of them losing pieces of their minds, emotions, and bodies to accommodate for the other's needs.

While s4-5 John and Arthur are clearly at a point in their relationship where they openly express their love and gratitude to the other for "saving" them, this allusion presents us with a perspective on their situation without the rose-colored glasses. We have the opportunity to recontextualize their dynamic and remember just how much Arthur and John have lost for the sake of each other, no matter how loving and compassionate that sacrifice might be in their eyes.

Where I Conclude the Ramble

From the moment Arthur first told this story in Part 29, its ambiguous inclusion captivated my little overthinking brain. It was incredibly fascinating to mull over Arthur's words and John's reaction, and then to dig deeper into this obscure story outside of the podcast and uncover answers!

Which is why I think I'm so disappointed with the final answer that Part 46 told us. If anyone else has looked into "Solitude" outside of the podcast before, they likely saw the same well of potential depth to work with that Harlan Guthrie clearly also found. Yet, for some reason, the podcast offers a conclusion that barely scrapes the surface of that well.

Instead of giving us new depth to the story, a Lilly interpretation really just brings up more questions for us. Did Lilly neglect herself in some way when she took care of John? Was Lilly the victim of abuse at some point in her past? What parts of Lilly's past led her to this point? There's so much more information that we need for this layered allusion to make sense, but we never get that information, so all we're left with is a weak conclusion and wasted potential.

On the other hand, a Jarthur interpretation does answer questions for us, and it adds depth to our previous understandings of their dynamic. We better understand how John and Arthur's bad decisions lead them to their darkest moments, how lost and afraid they both felt at the start of the podcast, how they found relief and protection in the other. And we consider new possibilities of how John and Arthur's past circumstances abused them, how they were trapped in cycles that stole their autonomy, how they still cannot escape these cycles and keep throwing their lives away for others.

Part 46 told us a single interpretation to have for the train story, but there is no reason we can not (nor should not) look for other interpretations— especially when the story itself shows us evidence that points to a different answer.

(final disclaimer: I absolutely do not intend any of this as any sort of attack! this is just general literary critique to try and explain why I'm a little annoyed at a single line lol)

[brightbeautifulthings]

The Princess Bride by William Goldman

"'You seem a decent fellow,' Inigo said. 'I hate to kill you.' 'You seem a decent fellow,' answered the man in black. 'I hate to die.'"

Year Read: 2017

Rating: 3/5

Context: I was feeling the need to brush up on some of my classic fantasy, and The Princess Bride has long been one of my favorite comedy movies. I don't know why I'm compelled to read the books for movies I already love, since it almost never ends well. Spoilers will be clearly marked.

About: When he was a child, William Goldman's father read him The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure. It isn't until he's older that William realizes how much of the novel his father edited out. As a professional novelist and screenplay writer, he decides to abridge the story and leave only the good parts: Wesley and Buttercup's romance, Prince Humperdinck's plot to kill his new bride, Inigo's quest for revenge against the six-fingered man who murdered his father, the Dread Pirate Roberts, and, of course, all the romance, adventure, and sword-fighting that goes along with it.

Thoughts: I would have enjoyed this a lot more as a straightforward novel, since at its heart, the story is a good one. I already know from the film that I love Westley, Buttercup, Inigo, and their friends, and that their adventures together are both exciting and humorous. The problem for me is that the framing narrative where William decides to abridge the novel for his son keeps intruding on the best parts of the story. Perhaps this is meant to be ironic, since William is writing a "best parts" version of The Princess Bride, and all of the dreary pages of Morgenstern's tale that he's cutting are just replaced with his intrusions. Some readers might find it funny, but irony wears on me quicker than almost any other sort of humor, and I mostly found it irritating. Stop interrupting me so I can enjoy this story.

What's worse is that I can't decide what purpose Goldman is putting this device to. I don't mind the framing story at the beginning with William and his father, or at the end where he gets to share the story with his grandson. Both those instances add an extra layer to the novel. It's everything in between that I could do without. The Princess Bride comes out of the same decade as a lot of postmodern fiction, and I can't help wondering if it's an influence because the book is steeped in the same kind of irony, meta-commentary, and purposeful interruption. A postmodern text never lets you forget that you are, in fact, reading a text, and neither does The Princess Bride.

Goldman essentially takes a classic form (the fairytale) and postmodernizes the crap out of it. It was probably very cutting edge at the time, but in my opinion, those literary strategies haven't aged well. Postmodernism is so ubiquitous in our culture now that it comes across as tired and cliche. I love many things about contemporary fiction, but one of the things I love most is its ability to tell stories straightforwardly and from the heart, without the nudge and the wink and the self-critique. I would rather have a story that's unabashedly sappy than disingenuine, and I think Westley and Buttercup's romance could easily be told that way. Somehow, it is the fairytale that has endured, not the cleverness.

The Princess Bride both suffers and benefits from its film. On the one hand, the movie succeeds in doing what few novels ever get in being so good, so well-adapted, and so true to its text that reading the novel is hardly necessary. Truly, all the best parts are in the film (for which Goldman wrote the screenplay, so it should have). On the other hand, this means that reading the novel is hardly necessary. I get little out of it (other than frustration) that the film doesn't already give me, and the only thing I would have added is the bromance between Inigo and Fezzik. It could go down in history as one of my favorite friendships ever, and it's sadly underplayed in the film. Humperdinck is also better-rounded in the book, but it matters a lot less since he's already a suitable villain. If I ever feel the need to read it again, I'm probably going to skip all the italics and just read the "best parts."

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS. TURN BACK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

My edition of the book has not one but two introductions. I always read introductions last, in part because they should have spoiler alert written all over them, but also because I don't like people telling me what to think about a book before I've formed my own opinions. So I read these introductions after I finished, hoping that they would clear some things up for me, only to have them confuse me further. Throughout the novel, Goldman acts like S. Morgenstern is a real person and Florin is a real place. In the introductions, he takes it even further by explaining that The Princess Bride is actual Florinese history, and all its characters really lived. There’s also a weird, weird Stephen King cameo.

He had me going until he took it too far with the museum of Fezzik's hand-print and whatnot. I know American education is flawed, but I was having trouble believing it's so flawed that I somehow missed the existence of this entire country. But I didn't. None of it is real, down to William's fake life in the story. This is just another layer of the novel, and the introductions are as fictitious as the rest of it (which is another very postmodern thing to do, flipping the function of a genre around on us and playing on our expectations of what an introduction is supposed to do). Goldman is a master of mind-fuckery.