“The Wind in the Willows’’ by Kenneth Grahame, narrated by Michael Hordern (Audible)
This is another truly marvelous audiobook for younger children. There are many versions but none better than that read by the late British stage and film actor Hordern, who voiced the character of Badger in the 1980s film and television series. This is a completely perfect reading, delightful in the very way that the book is delightful and a wonderful way to while away the time.
While away the time? Why is it that books for children are so often positioned as great time-wasters?
A PIG ON a trampoline goes flying toward the screen, his sizable rear end smashing against the glass. A sloth doing yoga ties himself up in knots, leaving his face, as he laments, perilously close to his butt. A cute bunny unexpectedly poops and shakes his tail at the camera.
Moviegoers tuned into this summer’s film slate are well familiar with these animals’ backsides, which arise triumphantly at the ends of ads for the animated films “Angry Birds,” “Ice Age: Collision Course,” and “Secret Life of Pets,” respectively. What’s going on here is rather subtle. OK, not the jokes. And not the alignment between form and content evident in so many tails appearing at the tail end of ads. No, what’s subtle is the message all these butt jokes communicate: These movies are for boys.
Yesterday I attended the Cambridge premier of Roger Ross Williams’ remarkable documentary Life, Animated. The film tells the story of Owen Suskind’s jailbreak–that’s pretty much how his father Ron Suskind puts it when he describes the challenges faced by two parents of getting their son back after his diagnosis of autism.
Life, Animated compresses the arduous journey into under two hours, as we watch poignant home movies from the BD era (before the diagnosis) with the rough-and-tumble play of father and son, witness the efforts to find the right schools and counselors, learn about the transformative moment when Owen repeats a version of “It’s just your voice” from the Disney films he has been watching, and then see Owen come back to his family through the words and emotions he has learned from watching Disney films.
It’s a film that ends up animating us, rewiring our brains and rearranging our senses. And it lets us look inside the minds of others in compelling ways–suddenly we see what they see, feel what they feel as we discover how the symbolic helps us navigate reality. The genius of including an animation of Owen Suskind’s own story about sidekicks gives the film a self-reflexive quality that mirrors the documentary and meditates on it yet also has its own emotive power. Suddenly we see the links with Disney’s Peter Pan and its lost boys, Pinocchio and a father’s desire to animate a boy carved from wood, Beauty and the Beast and the transformative power of love and compassion.
In the Q and A after the film, Owen and his parents were on stage in what I can only describe as an incandescent moment. It felt as if they had all just emerged from the screen to enter real life and remind us that what happens in art can often be more real than what we experience in life. It’s what Paul Ricoeur refers to as “ontological vehemence”–that moment when what is happening in your head is larger than life and twice as natural.
“Who in the world gets to decide what is a meaningful life?” Cornelia Suskind said at one point (I’m paraphrasing), quoting her husband. We are homo significans and what we do, almost as a reflex, is construct meaning, compulsively and carefully. And sometimes we create meanings, often through art, that change us in dramatic ways. Neil Gaiman famously told us what to do when life throws us a curveball: “Make good art.” (Below an excerpt from his Commencement Speech at the University of the Arts.) Owen is doing that. His parents are doing that. Roger Ross Williams is doing that.
In some ways, Owen’s story is a story of stories. It corrals not just Disney films, but also all of the stories behind the standardized Disney versions of “Cinderella,” “Beauty and the Beast,” “The Little Mermaid,” and so on. It’s all the narratives that made the Suskinds who they are today, and that includes the myths of Prometheus and Pygmalion, figures who worked their magic by breathing life into their creations.
I recently translated Walter Benjamin’s “The Storyteller” and was struck by this passage about stories as akin to chiseled artifacts, objects that acquire their beauty through layering, and Life, Animated is a perfect example of “the layering of a variety of retellings”:
Paul Valéry tells us about perfect objects in nature, flawless pearls, full-bodied, mature wines, and truly complex creatures. He describes them as the “exquisite products of a long chain of causes that resemble each other.” The cumulative effect of such causes has temporal limits only when perfection has been attained. “Nature’s patient way of working,” Valéry continues, “was once a model for humans. Miniatures, ivory carvings crafted to the point of perfection, stones perfectly polished and engraved, lacquered objects or paintings in which thin, transparent layers are put on top of each other—all of these products of sustained effort required sacrifice and have rapidly vanished. The day and age is long gone in which time does not matter, Today people no longer work on anything that does not allow shortcuts.” Today we are witnessing the evolution of the short story, which is no longer connected to oral traditions and no longer allows for the gradual accumulation of thin, transparent sheets that capture the most accurate picture of how a perfect story emerges from the layering of a variety of retellings. * * *
Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.
Make good art.
I’m serious. Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it’s all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn’t matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.
Well, actually more like Disney. Think of the allegory of aging in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Remember how the Wicked Queen drinks her chemical cocktail and transforms before our eyes from a charismatic beauty into a hunchbacked hag? “My hands!” she shrieks as they turn gnarly while her fingernails grow into claws. “My voice!” she cries with a terrifying cackle. “To whiten my hair, a scream of fright,” she had intoned, and even her underground ravens recoil in fear when they see the “disguise.”
Here’s Spencer Kornhaber of The Atlantic on the “red woman” in Game of Thrones:
Melisandre always seemed to harbor a secret, and now we know it’s that she, like someone in a Catfish episode or like many witches of centuries-old folklore, is secretly saggy. Only Thrones could pull off precisely this kind of fun, meta twist. After the show has spent so long jamming spears through handsome young prince heads in order to prove that it’s not reliant on fairy-tale tropes, it can occasionally shock simply by serving up some of the oldest magic tricks in the storybooks. What are we watching, after all, if not what the thoroughly demented Brothers’ Grimm might create on an HBO budget?
The female body turned grotesque with age: only something like that can compete with the blood and gore ritually served up by Game of Thrones.
I’m reminded of an incident in another cultural zone–not the fairy-tale world but a dystopic novel. In 1984, Winston writes in his diary about a memory that has been “tormenting” him.
It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. What he had suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the woman was OLD. The paint was plastered so thick on her face that it looked as though it might crack like a cardboard mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, revealing nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no teeth at all.
He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting:
When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty years old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same.
He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had written it down at last, but it made no difference. The therapy had not worked. The urge to shout filthy words at the top of his voice was as strong as ever.
Cougar culture may have changed the number (70 is the new 50), but the crone continues to embody our anxieties about aging, and there is nothing more frightening that the sight of her withered breasts and sagging flesh.
Killing the Dames(a related piece I wrote about a year ago after watching Vee Parker run down in Orange is the New Black)
These days, we are still following the advice of the French playwright Victorine Sardou to torture the woman, just as we have never stopped heeding the words of Edgar Allan Poe about the death of a beautiful woman as the most “poetical topic in the world.” Sometimes these young women are victims of ritual murder, as in “True Detective.” Sometimes they appear as narcotized teens at the mercy of drug lords. Often we see them in a basement, bound and gagged, struggling against their kidnappers.
Now a new casualty seems to be joining up with these victims: the middle-aged, matronly types, whose messy, repulsive deaths challenge us to wonder what has changed in the moral calculus of cinematic productions. The second season of “Orange Is the New Black” on Netflix ends with Vee Parker, sprawled on the road, her vacant eyes staring out at us. “Always so rude, that one,” intones Rosa, an inmate on the lam who is herself terminally ill. After slamming her van into Vee, Rosa leaves the corpse on the road, with barely a glance into the rear-view mirror. As “Don’t Fear the Reaper” plays on the radio, Rosa morphs back into a stunningly beautiful young woman, embracing adventure on the wide-open highway. Rosa’s victim is a grotesquely exaggerated form of the “bad mother,” an archetype that haunts fairy tales as stepmother, ogre, or witch. A drug dealer who preys on orphans and recruits them to “connect” on inner-city streets, Vee is a woman whose nurturing gestures mask behavior that is deceptive, exploitative, and cruel.
While the body count in HBO’s “The Leftovers” is unusually high, we witness only a few disappearances in a series based on the premise that 2% of the world’s population mysteriously vanishes, with no messy corpses left behind. By contrast, the show turns up close and personal for the deaths of two members of the Guilty Remnant, a spooky cult group whose members wear white and ostentatiously smoke in pairs while stalking people they do not like (meaning almost everyone who tries to get on with their lives in the picturesque Mapleton).
Gladys, middle-aged, bespectacled, and overweight, is the first to die in a protracted stoning scene that begins episode five. The camera lingers on her bloodied features as one rock after another batters her face and smashes her skull while she pleads with her captors.
“Kevin, you can’t kill me,” Patti, the heavyset, matronly leader of the Guilty Remnant, tells Mapleton’s beleaguered police chief. Picking up a piece of broken glass, she calls out Kevin’s name and plunges the shard into her neck, cutting her throat in an act designed to demonstrate the senselessness of life. The massive blood-soaked body dressed in white at the end of episode eight builds an arc back to Gladys and her stoning, with both scenes offering up spectacles that point us to the womb as much as to the tomb.
The punishment of dames, domestic and demonic, is nothing new. For years, Disney Studios capitalized on the excesses of fairy-tale villains, staging the death of heartless dowagers (in Snow White and the SevenDwarfs, the wicked queen plunges headlong from a cliff) and monstrous monarchs (in The Little Mermaid, Ursula is impaled by the mast of a ship). But its resurgence on screen in adult entertainments is nothing short of astonishing at a time when the headlines report the beheadings of male journalists, news websites routinely offer slide shows displaying the corpses of men and boys in combat zones, and stories featuring wounded warriors dominate magazine culture.
Our on-screen entertainments rarely replay real-life anxieties. Instead they haunt us in ways that are often errant and unpredictable. In a culture that has renounced the ideal of beauty, the beautiful dead woman of Edgar Allan Poe’s fantasies may now have moved into middle age. Instead of languorous sleeping beauties, we are faced with the grotesquely mutilated corpses of aging women. Once upon a time, grandmother had to perish in older versions of “Little Red Riding Hood” for successive generations to survive and flourish—granny’s blood and flesh are consumed by the girl before she escapes from the wolf. Now our freshly imagined warrior women may need some blood sacrifices beyond the immediate targets of their revenge.
Three Rivers Community College to host Booker T. DeVaughn Lecture
Three Rivers Community College’s Booker T. DeVaughn Lecture Series will host “Wired For Weirdness: How Fairy Tales Work Their Magic,” a guest lecture by professor Maria Tatar, at noon April 20 in the college’s multipurpose room, 574 New London Turnpike, Norwic
Posted Apr. 18, 2016 at 6:00 PM
Three Rivers Community College’s Booker T. DeVaughn Lecture Series will host “Wired For Weirdness: How Fairy Tales Work Their Magic,” a guest lecture by professor Maria Tatar, at noon April 20 in the college’s multipurpose room, 574 New London Turnpike, Norwich.
The free talk will focus on the origins of fairy tales in oral storytelling cultures. It will address cultural repetition compulsion when it comes to “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Beauty and the Beast” and “Sleeping Beauty.”
Tatar is the John L. Loeb professor of Germanic languages and literatures at Harvard University.
The event is sponsored by the Three Rivers College Foundation and Dime Bank.
For Classic Fairy Tales, the Norton Critical Edition that I compiled some years ago, I included James Thurber’s “The Little Girl and the Wolf” in the unit on “Little Red Riding Hood.” Last year, I was invited to entertain the sons and daughters of an administrative unit at Harvard on “Take Your Kids to Work Day.” The plan was to act out different versions of “Little Red Riding Hood.” I considered Thurber’s version and then stopped short at the part where the girl whips out a gun, realizing that the parents present would not be amused. Times change, and what drew big laughs from the students in my classes 20 years ago no longer seemed so funny:
ONE AFTERNOON a big wolf waited in a dark forest for a little girl to come along carrying a basket of food to her grandmother. Finally a little girl did come along and she was carrying a basket of food. “Are you carrying that basket to your grandmother?” asked the wolf. The little girl said yes, she was. So the wolf asked her where her grandmother lived and the little girl told him and he disappeared into the wood.
When the little girl opened the door of her grandmother’s house she saw that there was somebody in bed with a nightcap and nightgown on. She had approached no nearer than twenty-five feet from the bed when she saw that it was not her grandmother but the wolf, for even in a nightcap a wolf does not look any more like your grandmother than the Metro-Goldwyn lion looks like Calvin Coolidge. So the little girl took an automatic out of her basket and shot the wolf dead.
Roald Dahl must have come across Thurber’s “The Little Girl and the Wolf” before he published Revolting Rhymes:
The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
She whips a pistol from her knickers.
She aims it at the creature’s head And bang bangbang, she shoots him dead.
A few weeks later, in the wood,
I came across Miss Riding Hood.
But what a change! No cloak of red,
No silly hood upon her head.
She said, “Hello, and do please note My lovely furry wolfskin coat.”
The NRA has not appropriated Thurber or Dahl but their new fairy tales take a perverse turn, with parents and children “enjoying” gun-friendly adaptations. Below the link to the NRA stories, with the preface, followed by a link to an NPR article about the stories.
“Make it new”–that’s my mantra when it comes to fairy tales. But just because it’s new doesn’t mean that, presto!, we suddenly got the story right. All we have is one more version that gives us something to talk about.
Have you ever wondered what those same fairy tales might sound like if the hapless Red Riding Hoods, Hansels and Gretels had been taught about gun safety and how to use firearms? The author of this piece, Amelia Hamilton has—and NRA Family is proud to announce that we’ve partnered with the author to present her twist on those classic tales. We hope you and your children enjoy this first installment!
I’m looking forward to reading Helen Oyeyemi’s new collection of short stories—official publication date March 7. And I love the fact that Oyeyemi uses my favorite opening line for a fairy tale: “This happened, and it didn’t happen.” Here’s one review, along with jacket copy.
So it is in Oyeyemi’s What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours, a collection of stories in which elements of fairy tales, myths and legends, from Punchinello to Cupid and Psyche to Little Red Riding Hood and Bluebeard and Rumpelstiltskin, surface in curious forms in service of mystifying plots. As we’re told in the opening of the story “Drownings”: “This happened and it didn’t happen.”
Playful, ambitious, and exquisitely imagined, What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is cleverly built around the idea of keys, literal and metaphorical. The key to a house, the key to a heart, the key to a secret—Oyeyemi’s keys not only unlock elements of her characters’ lives, they promise further labyrinths on the other side. In “Books and Roses” one special key opens a library, a garden, and clues to at least two lovers’ fates. In “Is Your Blood as Red as This?” an unlikely key opens the heart of a student at a puppeteering school. “‘Sorry’ Doesn’t Sweeten Her Tea” involves a “house of locks,” where doors can be closed only with a key—with surprising, unobservable developments. And in “If a Book Is Locked There’s Probably a Good Reason for That Don’t You Think,” a key keeps a mystical diary locked (for good reason).
Here’s the Washington Post report on research conducted by linguists Carmen Fought and Karen Eisenhauer. I can’t help but feel that sidekicks play an important role and that the next step is to analyze the data.
In the classic three Disney princess films, women speak as much as, or more than the men. “Snow White” is about 50-50. “Cinderella” is 60-40. And in “Sleeping Beauty,” women deliver a whopping 71 percent of the dialogue. Though these were films created over 50 years ago, they give ample opportunity for women to have their voices heard.
By contrast, all of the princess movies from 1989-1999 — Disney’s “Renaissance” era — are startlingly male-dominated. Men speak 68 percent of the time in “The Little Mermaid”; 71 percent of the time in “Beauty and the Beast”; 90 percent of the time in “Aladdin”; 76 percent of the time in “Pocahontas”; and 77 percent of the time in “Mulan” (Mulan herself was counted as a woman, even when she was impersonating a man).
Part of the problem is that these newer films are mostly populated by men. Aside from the heroine, the films offer few examples of women being powerful, respected, useful or comedic.