Character Theft
Ages ago I was asked what I think about character theft, which some of you know is a lot like asking a botanist what she thinks about chlorophyll. Which is to say: the answer you’re likely to get will be long, rambling, and of interest only to other botanists, who are already convinced of the beauty of chlorophyll and eager to discuss its intricacies in a level of detail that will cause most people to assume expressions more glazed than a Krispy Kreme donut.
So, to answer the question briefly: I [heart] character theft. The rest of this post will be devoted to explaining why I [heart] character theft, possibly in more detail than you care to read. You have been warned. But for those who want to escape into a corner with me where we can whisper cattily about all the other people at this reception who aren’t talking about anything half so cool as what we are.
Let’s assume the basic form of character theft is allusion. For example, in Terry Pratchett’s Witches Abroad, while, erm, three witches are traveling, well, abroad, they come across an unusual character:
Above the noise of the river and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling they could all hear, now, the steady slosh-slosh of another creature heading toward them.
“Someone’s following us!” hissed Magrat.
Two pale glows appeared at the edge of the lamplight. Eventually they turned out to be the eyes of a small gray creature, vaguely froglike, paddling toward them on a log.
It reached the boat. Long clammy fingers grabbed the side, and a lugubrious face rose level with Nanny Ogg’s.
“‘ullo,” it said. “It’sss my birthday.”
All three of them stared at it for a while. Then Granny Weatherwax picked up an oar and hit it firmly over the head. There was a splash, and a distant cursing.
“Horrible little bugger,” said Granny, as they rowed on. “Looked like a troublemaker to me.”
“Yeah,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s the slimy ones you have to watch out for.”
“I wonder what he wanted?” said Magrat.
The humor in Pratchett’s books is often built on the way he handles allusions—the iconic or archetypal stories and characters he picks out and, so to speak, smacks on the head. Here it’s Tolkien’s Gollum; in Pyramids he confounds the Sphinx. In one of the early Rincewind tales he rakes a claw across Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series. The humor works because the reader knows how the story is supposed to go, but Pratchett takes it somewhere else.
While Pratchett has invented his own original characters, a large part of his success is his ability to steal and subvert the characters of others. It’s the subversion that makes it ok—he is not writing a story in which Gollum is stolen whole-cloth from Tolkien, or McCaffrey’s Pern is acting as the only framework for his novel.
But that’s the nature of allusion, anyway: the theft is always brief, whether the alluded text is subverted or simply inserted into the new text. I don’t think anyone really has a problem with the idea of allusion. It’s generally a compliment to the original author—or at least an acknowledgment that what the original author has done is well-known enough that it needs no further explanation and can, instead, help to explain or expand other peoples’ ideas.
I just wanted to take a look at allusion so I could type out the Pratchett quote. Honestly.
The character theft I was actually asked to pontificate on is the more extended type—specifically, when an author creates an entire book around someone else’s character. Here, still, I have no problems… assuming the theft is subversive.
If someone were to sit down and write Harry Potter Seven in a serious and considered manner—that is, if they were trying to create an actual conclusion to the series—and they were not J.K. Rowling, I would… actually, I wouldn’t have to do anything, because her fandom would have torn them to pieces already, assuming her lawyers didn’t get there first. Stealing a character and attempting to pass it off as the original character, without alteration—without subversion, in some form—doesn’t work. There’s no originality in it, no presence of the thieving author, no acknowledgment of why the original character is being stolen (aside, I would assume, from the obvious profit motive).
If you steal a character with the intent to subvert, and through that subversion to say something about life, the universe, the original author or original author’s “meaning,” and everything else—by all means, go for it. Let me help. There’s not enough of that type of theft in the world.
For example, what I know about Gone with the Wind: Rhett Butler is involved, although I don’t know if he’s a character or an actor, and the last (or most famous?) line in the movie is “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Coincidentally, that’s exactly how I feel about Gone with the Wind. I don’t hate it, but I certainly don’t want to know more about it, see the movie, or read the book. And no, you don’t need to tell me more, because I really, really don’t give a damn.
But—and here’s the thing—it’s an iconic text. If you pressed me enough, I could probably cough up more details. Scarlet O’Hara. Civil War. Etc. If someone told me the storyline (don’t!), I’d probably nod and say “I knew that.” Then I’d yawn and forget it again. The point, though, is that even the most disinterested person on the planet still knows the gist of it. Probably. If I thought about it hard enough. Which I’m not going to do.
This is why Alice Randall can get away with writing The Wind Done Gone, which I haven’t read either. I would guess it is either a parody or satire of Gone with the Wind, and/or it tells Gone with the Wind from the perspective of different characters. I would hedge a guess and say… but why hedge?
Consider, instead, John Gardnar’s Grendal, which I have read. He takes the Old English poem Beowulf and retells the story from the point of view of the much-maligned monster. In doing so, he’s making a point about how history is written and the often single-sided nature of stories, which fail to consider how the maligned and evil characters might have felt about everything going on. More recently, Stan Nicholls did something similar in his Orcs books, although I personally think he went too far on the humanizing side of the equation, to the point where it is easy to forget he’s writing about orcs. You lose the effectiveness of your subversion when the bad guys appear too much like the good guys.
To return to the point: Gardnar takes the Beowulf story fairly whole-cloth, sticking pretty closely to the events in the poem (if I recall correctly; it’s been years since I read this). Nicholls doesn’t steal plot so much, but there’s no question he’s stealing the orc character from fantasy’s bag of tricks—most obviously, but not exclusively, from Tolkien. But the intent isn’t to mirror an existing character so much as it is to subvert it and suggest there may be another, previously unconsidered, facet to the story. The authors are questioning what readers know about the characters, the characters’ worlds, the original authors, the readers’ own worlds and views, and so on. The theft is subversive and uses the original text not so much as a framework but more as a foil.
The same, I would argue, is true of Gregory McGuire’s fairy tale books, including Wicked. He’s doing more than “stealing” known fairy tales: he’s rewriting in a way that questions what we know and understand about those tales.
There’s a difference between this and, say, historical fiction, I think. In most historical fiction, the authors are taking people and events that existed and attempting to bring them to life in a way that is fairly true to the actual facts. It’s a fleshing out of what we already know. But in the sort of theft I’m talking about here, the key is subversion—what we know is challenged. And the part that makes it seem like theft is the way the text gets changed; it can feel and appear to be a trampling over the creativity of the original author, who worked so hard to create the characters and story lines that others are blithely twisting about any way they like.
Put that way, character theft is really a horrible thing.
But the other half of this theft is the nature of the characters that are being stolen. They are iconographic. What I know about Gone with the Wind takes less than three sentences to write, but the point is I know it without ever having read the book or seen the movie or actively engaged in any conversation that might have lead to more details being stored in my head. Gone with the Wind has become, in short, something much greater than a single text written by a single author. It’s entered the public imagination and grown. The same with Beowulf and Grendal, although their public is, perhaps, smaller than that of GWTW.
There’s a point, I think, where story lines and characters reach this iconographic or archetypal or mythological status. There’s a point where we accept that a certain character means a certain thing, to such an extent that I could trite a story and refer to one of my characters as a “Wicked Witch of the West” and most people would get what that meant, even if they’d never seen or read The Wizard of Oz.
That’s the point where I think character theft is actually useful, so long as it’s subversive. We need to rethink the archetypal and iconographic characters in our world. We need to ask if they are still relevant and why. We need to wonder if the story can be considered from another point of view and how that view might look. We need to shift away from a complacent understanding of how things are, and subverting known characters is an excellent way to do so.
What I’m saying, in a roundabout way, is that I’m all for character theft when it is used in a revisionist fashion. It’s a tool: a way of holding up a mirror to what we know and seeing what we can still learn.
Author Intention
Let’s get metaphorical for a minute.
You are standing on a cliff. Across a deep abyss there is another cliff, with an Author on it. The deep abyss, we’ll say, is “Author Intention.” Say it with me, now: We Can Never Know An Author’s Intention. It’s a gorge that just can’t be crossed.
On the other hand, we have the Author’s book, which, metaphorically speaking, is a bridge between us.
Is it really so impossible to believe that the author’s book could tell us something about what the author was up to, wanted—dare I say it?—intended?
Sure, it’s an imperfect bridge. Writers don’t always realize the significance of what they’re doing, and readers can come up with interpretations for themes the writer didn’t consciously write.
But, if we assume a good author, with good control over the language in which they are writing, and a good reader/critic, able to analyze and consider the nuances of the language… can’t we believe that some ideas can cross that bridge from author to reader?
Sure, the author might be trying to build a bridge that would allow a car to travel and the reader might end up on a motorcycle, but that’s not the end of the world. That’s the inevitable problem of individual connotations and experiences that can’t be controlled by any author or reader, no matter how hard we try.
It just irks me to listen to people talk about “the book says this” and “the text says that.” Sure. Let’s take a bridge and examine its pylons and never, ever, ever mention why the bridge is there. The fact of pylons is enough, eh? Let’s just be happy we have a bridge, and stop wondering why someone would bother to build it in the first place.
If I’m writing, it’s for a reason, not just to build a pretty little bridge that we can all admire and then store teapots on. I’m quite happy for you to mistake my four-lane superhighway for a wooden bike bridge so long as there are wheels involved, if you see what I mean. And if you decide to drive a semi-truck over my railroad trestle, well, as long as we don’t all crash and burn in a fiery explosion, that’s ok too.
Reader-response theorists can’t argue that “some readings are better than others” and then turn around and deny that the reason some readings are better than others is that the author wrote the text in such a way as to suggest (to alert readers) that ‘this’ meaning is true.
Well, they can argue that, because they do, but I don’t have to like them for it.
They’re called “authors.” They wrote that text you’re reading for a reason. I’m not saying we’re ever going to be 100% certain what that reason was—I do realize how impossible that is—but I am saying it would be nice, once in a while, to acknowledge that authors do exist and they are trying to communicate something.
It’s a Wonderful Gag
Some Guy; He’s probably important, like the main character or something, but I’ll be damned if I know because It’s a Wonderful Life is one of those movies you never really watch:
I’ll… I’ll… I’ll get you the moon. I’ll lasso it and I’ll get you the moon.
Mary, whose name we know because it’s in every other line:
I’ll take it. And then what?
That Guy:
Then you can swallow it.
Bwah ha ha!
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Heh. Ha ha.
Snicker.
Snerk.
“Swallow it.”
Hee hee hee *snort* heeeee ha!
Sorry. Don’t know what came over me there.
I’m sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with the cider I’m drinking.
“You can swallow it.”
Snorfle. Phhhheh heh heh.
Where Peter Jackson Went Wrong
I am, as you know, a Lord of the Rings nut. Not as bad as some, true, but still a bit obsessed. All in all, I was really happy with the way Peter Jackson handled the film adaptation. There were bound to be parts cut out and plot changed to allow the trilogy to work as a mass-market film, especially if they wanted to keep the audience eager for three separate movies. I’m sure Jackson would be thrilled to know I approve. Not.
Even so… he left out the scene I was most looking forward to seeing, and that breaks my heart. The opportunity for a bunch of hunky men with big swords to hang around together? We all know how I feel about the hunk-with-sword demographic. I was drooling at the thought.
The scene, if you’re wondering, is the one where Aragorn reveals himself to Sauron via the palantir. It goes something like this:
Sauron [on his palantir]: Saruman? Hello? Saruman?
Computer Voice:Hello, you’ve reached the campaign offices for Aragorn For King. If you know the extension of the party you are trying to reach, dial it now. If you are an enemy wishing to schedule a war, please press or say “one.” If you are an ally wishing to pledge men or supplies for war, please press or say “two.” To speak with an operator, press or say “zero.” To reach Aragorn himself, press or say “three.” If you are an innocent party caught in the middle of Aragorn’s campaign and are seeking reparation for lives or goods lost, please contact your insurance agent.
Sauron: What? Saruman? Saruman, what are you doing? Is this a joke?
Computer Voice: I’m sorry, but your response was not recognized. If you are an enemy…
Sauron: Three, all right? Three!
Aragorn: Yo!
Sauron: Who are you, where did you come from, and what have you done with Saruman?
Aragorn: I’m no one important. Just the rightful heir of Gondor and all that. Hey—want to save us all the trouble and just surrender?
Sauron: Uh… no?
Aragorn: Pity.
And in the background, a bunch of men hanging around with swords waiting for Aragorn to get off the phone and get back to fighting. Ah, good times.
Instead of that lovely scene, Jackson added in the entirely inexplicable “This is Not Faramir” scene. This is the one at the end of The Two Towers where Faramir discovers Frodo has the Ring:
Faramir: Hm. I’ve got thirty fighting men at my beck and call and two kiddie-like things holding on to the Ring of Power. My Daddy didn’t love me enough as a child, and now’s my chance to win his love by sending him as a gift. That works so well when families divorce, after all. Frodo and Sam, pack your bags—we’re going to Gondor!
Frodo: Cut? Hello? Can someone call Peter Jackson up and ask him if he knows aliens have rewritten the script?
Jackson: No, this is right. It’ll all make sense in a minute. Don’t worry; I haven’t betrayed Faramir’s character.
Audience: inaudible but threatening mumbling
Frodo: Right. Faramir, now that we’re in Osgiliath, I have to say: I don’t like this idea any better.
Sam: Hey everyone with ears in a twenty mile radius! Frodo has the One Ring!
Faramir: [Insane grin on his face] And I’m giving it to Daddy!
Frodo: You could do that, I guess. But now that the Nazgul have arrived, I think I’m just going to walk over here and hand it over to them. [Walks over and attempts to give the Nazgul the Ring]
Mighty Sam: Here I come to save the daaaaay! [Tackles Frodo]
Frodo: You dirty rat!
Sam: Heroes are super-cool! Do you think we can ever be heroes?
Faramir: Oh, I get it now. See, I was confused, but now that Frodo has proven he’s barely able to control himself and will hand the One Ring over to the enemy at the drop of a hat if Sam isn’t around to get all Mighty Mouse on him, I think I’ll send you off into the wilderness after all. And you see where I’m coming from, right?
Frodo: Uh… sure. You got any food for us? By the way, your actions have caused an even deeper distrust of people to settle in my heart, cementing the wariness your brother first planted. Later on, I’m going to stop trusting even Sam. It’ll be your fault. Ok?
Faramir: Ok. I hope Daddy’s not too mad at me.
Audience: But seriously, Jackson: When is this going to start making sense?
Jackson: Don’t you get it? Faramir is growing. He’s getting a backbone! In the next movie, he’ll convince his Daddy to love him for himself and not for any gifts he might or might not have sent.
Audience: What? He didn’t have enough backbone in the book when he turned down the ring in the first place?
Jackson: You gotta admit the special effects were pretty cool though, right?
Audience: This is about having that tower collapse, isn’t it?
Jackson: Wasn’t it pretty?
Gollum: All y’all need to back off! I’m the one with the split personality around here! Quit poaching my territory!
Like I said, it’s not that I disapprove in general of the changes Jackson made, but these two decisions weakened the story for me.
The hero should always confront the enemy directly, and by mucking about with the palantir scene, Jackson takes Aragorn’s confrontation of Sauron out of the movie. The closest we get after that is Aragorn’s confrontation of the Mouth of Sauron, which is much less exciting.
I still don’t understand why Jackson felt the need to play up the sibling rivalry between Faramir and Boromir quite so much, to the point of altering what, for me, was always the touchstone of Faramir’s character: when confronted with the Ring, he turned it down without a second thought. Maybe Jackson was worried that version of Faramir would overshadow Aragorn’s conflicted turning down of the Ring, but, in that case… he now has a character that seized the Ring and then gave it up, which is still a greater act than Aragorn’s decision not to seize the Ring in the first place. You see? It makes no sense.
Sheesh.
You’d think people would ask my opinion on these things before they go making blockbuster trilogies.
Language, Brutality, Rape
Lately I keep coming across quotations focused on brutal appropriation of language:
James D. Nicholls:
The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that English is about as pure as a cribhouse whore. We don’t just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.
Terry Pratchett (Going Postal):
It was garbage, but it had been cooked by an expert. Oh, yes. You had to admire the way perfectly innocent words were mugged, ravished, stripped of all true meaning and decency and then sent to walk the gutter for Reacher Gilt, although ‘synergistically’ had probably been a whore from the start.
June Jordan:
Language is political. That’s why you and me, my Brother and Sister, that’s why we sposed to choke our natural self into the weird, lying, barbarous, unreal, white speech and writing habits that the schools lay down like holy law. Because, in other words, the powerful don’t play; they mean to keep that power, and those who are the powerless (you and me) better shape up—mimic/ape/suck—in the very image of the powerful, or the powerful will destroy you—you and our children.
Angela Carter:
He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.
I was struck (sorry, inadequate metaphorical language here) by the violence in all of the quotes—and more than that, the sexual violence. The suggestion seems to be more than “language can be used to oppress” or “people abuse language”; the potential to abuse through language is viewed as highly sexual, to the point of rape.
I wonder what it is that makes us see language in such a highly personal way. The French, for example, are keen on keeping their language “pure” from, if you like, the defilement of English. But inasmuch as we have to share ideas through language, our language is always going to be influenced by outsiders—whether we draw that line between two individuals or between two countries seems a bit irrelevant. If there were any such thing as a “pure” language, only the one person speaking it would understand it—and yet, as Derrida points out, we can “own” language once we create and claim meanings for ourselves. Maybe it’s that attachment—we spend so much effort defining words against our own experiences and ideas, with all our own past associations—that we cannot see it as something outside of ourselves. And when words are used against our will for purposes we don’t agree with, it is rape, because it’s abuse of something that is both private and personal, and, in a larger sense, it’s the abuse of whatever networks of trust we have set up with others, where we have established connections and shared connotations. All that gets broken by the appropriation of language, or by people seeking to control through language—hence the brutal metaphors being used, the references to rape.