Goddesses and Doormats

I'm in the middle of re-reading this now, as I periodically do all of Austens novels every couple of years. Thought? Commentary?

I'm really aiming at a discussion of the text, but just to get things started, some thoughts on the recent S&S adaptation that was re-aired on PBS Masterpiece Classics last month:

Willoughby is my biggest problem with this adaptation. All in all, I do think this version is quite good. On a par with P&P -- since it is the same screenwriter, after all -- but, I know it's a sacrilege to say so, I'm very far from thinking Andrew Davies' vision of P&P is perfect. But that's for ANOTHER discussion topic.

I think the greatest virtues of this version are the casting of Elinor and its overall length, which gives more room to do the story justice. Unfortunately, the failings of the characterization of Willoughby almost undo the near perfection that is embodied by almost every other character: Elinor, Marianne, Mrs. Dashwood and Colonel Brandon, specifically.

This is not ALL the fault of casting, but let's be honest: Dominic Cooper is, sorry to say, a pathetic excuse for Willoughby. Greg Wise is by all means the most perfect execution of John Willoughby ever committed to film. BUT, let the blame lie where it belongs. Why in God's name Andrew Davies decided it would be a good idea to foreshadow so much of Willoughby's wickedness so early in the plot I will never understand, and leads me to wonder whether he really READ Jane Austen's words, and IF he did whether he undersood them. The whole POINT is that we, the readers, the viewers, are supposed to fall in love with Willoughby as Marianne is falling in love with him. We're supposed to buy his line of BS right along with Marianne and Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood and everyone else (except Brandon). In fact, Brandon is the ONLY one JA allows to speak a word against Willoughby before the ultimate revelation of his dastardliness--which btw comes by way of Brandon LATER ON.

That scene where Brandon takes him aside and asks him what his intentions are toward Marianne (as if he's her father!) is totally absurd and unnecessary! JA certainly thought so since SHE never wrote it! And Dominic Cooper's reactions in that whole scene make him completely unlikeable from that moment on. We are suspicious of Willoughby so early that by the time Brandon's revelation of his true character comes, it's anticlimactic! Seriously? Seriously. Does Andrew Davies really think his take is better than Jane Austen's? It's hubris! It's like rewriting Shakespeare!

All right, let's get a real discussion going here:

Mine has to be Willoughby. Jane Austen describes his physical attractiveness in the warmest terms she has ever used for any man: "uncommonly handsome"; "manly beauty and more than common gracefulness." He's physically active; he's a rider and a shooter. He's a take charge kind of man; he's a doer; AND he reads. And he does seem to be genuinely capable of feeling, which is what makes the most dangerous kind of bad boy because he's believable, but his finer qualities are not strong enough to overcome his weaknesses and by the time you figure it out, it's all over. Your heart is gone!

P.S. Dominic Cooper in the most recent adaption of Sense and Sensibility (screenplay by Andrew Davies, who did the 1995 P&P) is a totally anemic Willoughby. The best portrayal so far, hands down, has been Greg Wise in the Ang Lee feature film from 1995 (with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet). He absolutely captured the essence of Willoughby and made you believe in him right along side Marianne.

This is not going to be a popular opinion. So I apologize now if this offends anyone.  It isn't intended to.  This is just my opinion.

I decided to read The Alchemist at Judy and Ethylene’s urging one fall when I was visiting Judy in Boston, and Ethylene had come up from New York for the day to hang out with us and go to dinner.  I was a little obstinate about my reluctance when they both joined in the book’s praise, and I don’t really know why except that I had a vague idea of its somewhat banal message.  I’m always very wary of any book that multitudes of people claim “changed their lives.”  Plus, since I don’t read Portuguese, I can only read the English translation, and it’s difficult to assess a writer’s skill with words when you don’t read in his language.  The translator’s style is simple with the intent of being profound, like Hemingway telling a fairy story.  It’s very beautiful and cryptic and moving, which is what makes me distrust the merit of its writing.  It’s the kind of story that leaves enough room for anyone – anyone – to read too much into its meaning, apply it to his own life, and justify his choices.  Certainly it contains certain universal truths, which everyone thinks they understand, but if everyone really did, why are there so many people who are clinically depressed?

The Alchemist appeals to the romanticism in every human being, but most people do not live their lives this way.  Everyone who reads The Alchemist wants to believe he is Santiago, and maybe he is.  Maybe that’s the problem – or at least my problem.  Santiago starts out following his quest for his Personal Legend and he is distracted by obstacles and worldly ambition and desires of the flesh.  Ultimately I think most people are better able than I am at convincing themselves they have arrived at their Personal Legend in order to distract themselves from the truth that what they really want is something else but they’ve been too busy telling themselves they don’t really want that thing so they don’t have to deal with the disappointment of not getting it.  Why else do people make up platitudes about “forbidden fruit?”  Why should any fruit be forbidden?

Religious people make up excuses to comfort themselves for why God doesn’t answer their prayers.  That He won’t give us what we “can’t handle” or “He will give us what we need not necessarily what we want” but that runs entirely counter to the idea of “free will” that Christians always preach.

It only took me two days to finish reading The Alchemist and it was just what I thought it would be.  It told everything and nothing, but I can’t say whether it truly possesses any literary merit.  It’s a good story.  A fable.  It should be told to children with beautiful illustrations.  But it isn’t the sort of story that calls forth any truths for me.  It doesn’t tell of the human experience.  The experience.  It uses vagaries, cryptic words to leave reader a whole lot of room to fill in the gaps, which is fine, but doesn’t impress me.  Some people don’t think you can describe an experience for someone else but I think there is music and art and science in the way a writer puts words together, and they can make a reader say, “yes, I know what that feels like.”  That’s what I strive for in my writing.  This book didn’t really do that for me, but once or twice and always in connection with the boy’s interaction with a girl, first the merchant’s daughter, then Fatima.  But the rest of it, the searching for treasure, the Personal Legend, the language of “the World,” it had no depth for me because it had no specificity.  It’s like those fortune teller – con-artists – who tell you something so broad and open-ended it could apply to anyone but if you’re desperate enough to believe it’s about you, you’ll believe it.

I prefer work that has the courage to alienate some people in an effort to reach certain others rather than trying to be everything to everyone as if we’re all the same.  Yes, we’re all connected – I do believe that – but it doesn’t mean we all have to read the same books.

What is the best beer on planet Earth? 
Submitted by Remmy Van Hornie.

I'm not an expert but I don't think there is an answer to this. This is like asking what is your favorite food. Nope sorry. Can't do it. It depends on my mood. It always depends on my mood -- or what's on sale at Whole Foods or Gelson's...

I could maybe do a top ten, in no particular order:

Bison (yeah, Berkeley baby!)

Newcastle

Stella

Chimay

Pacifico

Saporo

Fat Tire

Red Stripe

Bohemia

Negra Modelo

There's an old knitter's superstition that you're not supposed to knit for a boyfriend, only a husband, or it will end the relationship.  She was never quite sure whether she did it in defiance of superstition or to tempt fate.  She had thought at two and a half years, "what more is he waiting to learn about me? If he's not jumping up and down to marry me now, when everything is still young and beautiful and alive, will he ever?"  At four years, she had grown impatient enough to make her frustration known. At six years, she knew she had been right at two and a half years, "If he didn't want to marry me then, he never will. More time to get to know each other is just more time to come up with more reasons why I'm not the one for him."  But she couldn't give him an ultimatum.  She knew that to do that she would have to be able to walk away and she didn't know if she could do that as long as she still loved him.  So if the superstition is true, then maybe if I knit him something it will force things to a head.

The scarf was 100% crème-colored cashmere. She designed the scarf herself from a basic King Charles brocade, a 12-stitch repeating diamond pattern, with a 9-stitch wide, seed stitch border on either side, echoing the seed stitch of the diamond brocades. Looking at it now, she was quite pleased with her product. Her design sense was always exquisite, and the elements she chose reflected excellent taste. Still, she questioned her decision to place a 2-stitch stockinette gutter between the main brocade panel and the outer border, as it caused two natural folds along the length of the scarf where the borders started. But the two-by-two ribbed edges were perfect.

It had taken 14 balls on number 6 needles, over $300 worth of yarn, and 6 months of her life to finish, and she had raced to get it done on Christmas eve to give to him as a present. He had known, of course, that she was making it the whole time. It wasn’t meant to be a surprise. She had consulted him on the pattern and width and length he wanted, as well as the color and weight of the yarn. When it was finished, he loved it. He took it with him whenever he traveled in the winter and proudly displayed its label to anyone who commented on the scarf. “My girlfriend made it for me,” he would say. He really did love it, didn’t he? I suppose that’s some evidence, anyway, that he loved me once too.

They hadn’t spoken in over three months, after fighting over his not making time to let her take him out for his birthday. They had been broken up for over a year after all. He didn’t owe her his birthday anymore. At least, that was the way he saw it.  She ranted and screamed and hung up the phone and hadn’t spoken to him since. But she started to fear that something would happen to the scarf. He had always been absented minded. What if he lost it, left it in an airport, on a plane, in a rental car in some Podunk town in middle America somewhere? Or worse. What if he left it lying around for some new girlfriend to discover and accidentally destroy out of jealousy or insecurity. She had to get it back.

When she called to ask him, she did so very frankly and practically, without any drama. He was surprisingly gracious and understanding.

“I don’t mean it to be petty. It’s just that I spent a lot of money and time and work on that scarf and it means a lot to me. It meant something to me to give it to you, but now you don’t love me anymore, so why would you want to keep it?”

“Ok,” he said slowly. He sounded a little hurt but not too badly. He made a joke, “I’m sure I can get it back from the girl I gave it to…” and waited for her to supply the punchline.

She smiled out of relief, “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I would never do that.”

“Oh really?”

“Of course not. It’s too special.”

“Thanks.”

So maybe he did love her once.

He absent-mindedly quoted Picasso, “Women are either goddesses or doormats.”

Except that every woman might be a goddess to one man and a doormat to another, she thought. Why is it, we only desire the ones who perceive us as doormats? Or is it that desiring them transforms us, in their eyes, into doormats?  She supposed there are women in the world who only want to be perceived as goddesses, to be the one desired. But there's a liberty, a release at last in being able to desire instead of always being the desired. The unflinching pose of a goddess can be very exhausting. Still, the world certainly does love a bronze statue.

She had said, I love you. She had said, I love you and I want to be with you.

He quoted Picasso, and she wasn’t sure which kind of woman he was implying she was.  She knew only that he was trying to extricate himself.