Unresolved

As the quarter ends, I thought I'd do a blog entry looking back over the semester. It's been strange. We've read lots of novels, and only one or two of them seems really "normal." We wrote many response papers, panel presented, and made open genre projects. I wrote my annual Fight Club comparison blog entry.

I guess I don't really have a lot to say to wrap things up neatly, so I'll do like half of one of my typical obscure-comparison-entries. Recently we've been reading Song of Solomon in class. We've finally reached the point in the story where we really see Milkman begin his quest—he hasn't grown up or had any sort of real trial until this point in the book, unlike everyone else we meet. His quest for gold seems to be more than greed, but a symbolic escape from the prison we see trapping him earlier. That's why I see some connections between The Shawshank Redemption and Song of Solomon. I don't intend to spoil anything, but the movie was originally supposed to end "unresolved," as opposed to the ending the movie actually has. I'd like to end this entry, my blog, and the course with the original ending of the movie, which I think should strike a chord with many of you:

I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

—Red, The Shawshank Redemption

Milkman's Day Off

On Cameron's house:
The place is like a museum. It's very beautiful and very cold, and you're not allowed to touch anything.
—Ferris, Ferris Bueller's Day Off


On Cameron's father's Ferrari:
Ferris, he never drives it! He just rubs it with a diaper!
—Cameron, Ferris Bueller's Day Off

Milkman has a strange childhood. In addition to repressed memories, we see that he lives a life without much fun due to his domineering father, and he yearns for a break from the controlled life he lives. This isn't far from a story we see in the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off (as usual, SPOILER ALERT). Cameron is Ferris Bueller's best friend, and we see that, due to his controlling parents, he doesn't have much fun outside of his friendship with Ferris, and he works himself to the point of being frequently sick.

Both stories have a similar theme. Due to their restrictive lives, they both seek out fun in some way. Milkman yearns for flight and is obsessed with anything that can do so. He also describes feeling trapped by both parents during his ride in the Packard where he is forced to ride sitting between his parents facing backwards. Cameron, laying in bed sick sings, "when Cameron was in Egypt's land... let my Cameron go!" early in the movie. We can see that he too feels trapped and wants to escape in some way. They both go about this in similar ways.

First, they have a friend that gives them a glimpse of what freedom they seek. Milkman has Guitar, an older boy from a totally different world than Milkman's familiar with. Guitar is poor and well liked in the neighborhood, as opposed to Milkman who is rich and hated because of his father. Cameron has Ferris. Ferris is fun, outgoing, and liked by everyone—the school secretary even points out that everyone loves him and "they think he's a righteous dude." While Ferris isn't poor, we can see that Cameron is well-to-do by his family's house, and his father's car.

Second, their friend helps give them a glimpse of what they're missing. Guitar brings Milkman to Pilate's to the first time, who is described as being a breath of fresh air—she's the antithesis of everything that stifles him: his family's money, his controlling father, etc. Pilate is poor, but she doesn't seem to mind, and her house is chaotic and messy. She's not controlling though she's authoritative.

Ferris takes Cameron on an adventure. They skip school, and go to a fancy restaurant, an art gallery, a Cubs game, and a parade all in one day. Ferris specifically defies Cameron's father (who doesn't like Ferris; he and Mr. Rooney, Ferris' principal, seem to be the only ones to hate him) and takes the Ferrari that he never drives.

Which brings us to another similarity. Macon (who also hates Guitar and Pilate—another connection!) has a Packard that he only drives once a week in these ceremonial drives that he doesn't enjoy. He drives the car, but people make fun of him because he doesn't drive the car. He just putts along town at twenty miles an hour, making a show of his wealth, and a show that the people laugh at him for. It's no surprise that both Cameron and Milkman can't stand this type of a life.

Both Milkman and Cameron stand up to their fathers as well. After Macon beats Ruth, Milkman's Mother, Milkman springs into action and attacks his father and threatens him. Cameron accidentally wrecks his dad's Ferrari, and Ferris blames himself (it's partly his fault) and offers to take the heat from Cameron's father, but Cameron says that he wants to stand up to his father for once. 

Now that we see the connection between the stories, what does this tell us about Ferris Bueller if we know what happens to Milkman. Will Cameron just drift back into old habits? Will he become a child as he grows up, trying to get at the childhood he couldn't have before he was taught how? Will he start to become his father, despite it being the thing he hates more than anything? Perhaps happy endings aren't always endings after all. 

Citizen Dead

While reading Song of Solomon, many weird thoughts kept coming back to me, which is appropriate; it's a weird book. One thing that stood out was a connection between the film Citizen Kane and the book, with Macon Dead II as the Kane-esque figure to the novel. I will begin by saying that this is a massive SPOILER ALERT for those who haven't seen Citizen Kane. It's worth it to see the movie, and if you plan on watching it, you shouldn't read this entry. Anyway. We begin the book seeing Macon Dead II as a slumlord. We see only this side to him, at the start—an unsympathetic, cruel man, who is abusive to his wife, and cold to his whole family.  In Citizen Kane, we begin the movie seeing the extraordinarily wealthy newspaper publisher, Charles Foster Kane, die, uttering one word: "Rosebud." No one is too upset at his death. Like Macon Dead II, he was a wealthy man who was feared, and had some power, but wasn't loved. A reporter sets out to discover what "Rosebud" meant, as the death of such a prominent figure is big news, and from there we meet people who were associated with him, and hear stories of his life this way. 

Another key similarity between Macon Dead in Song of Solomon and Citizen Kane is that, though they are cruel now, we see they weren't always this way. We see Kane when he's younger, impoverished, but innocent and more or less happy. One day, the world's third largest gold mine is discovered on his parents' property, and they sell it for a huge sum of money. Kane is sent off to school, and we see him take control of his share of the money as an idealist young man. However, from this point on, he slowly becomes more and more power hungry, and less happy and idealist. Similarly, we see Macon Dead in the novel, described as taking care of Pilate when he was young. And while he didn't have entirely romantic intentions marrying Ruth, he certainly seemed more optimistic about their future together. Macon is confident that his property is the reason for his success when asking Doctor Foster for Ruth's hand in marriage. He, too, feels some sort of need (not a want so much as a necessity) to have power and money, and begins a similar spiral into becoming exactly the person he feared. In both cases, we see a similar implied motive for their remarkably similar actions: they both were raised in poverty, and their property—their home—was taken from them in childhood.

Before going further, I want to point out a sort of stylistic parallel to the two stories. Both Song of Solomon and Citizen Kane feature a similar plot device. We hear part of the story, and keep uncovering more and more of the story bit-by-bit as hints are dropped here and there, but it's not ever until later on that we know the whole story. In Citizen Kane we hear stories from one person close to Kane's perspective (or as close as anyone could, or wanted to get to him), but we never know the entirety of what happens until the end. A similar thing goes on in Song of Solomon—we are teased with sentences like the one in Chapter 4, which describes Hagar searching for Milkman Dead, but it's just a teaser, a one-off reference to a story we'll see unfold later. The same is going on with the conflict between Pilate and Macon: we know they were close, and aren't now, but we don't know how they got there. 

Another sad but important theme in both stories is the alienation of spouses in a once-sort-of-happy marriage. We all know about Macon falling out of love with Ruth, and the bitterness, lovelessness, and verbal and physical abuse that their marriage, though not perfect, once lacked. Kane has a first marriage, which seems happy, but falls apart as he continues to gain power. He ends up having an affair, which breaks up his first marriage. This second marriage too seems almost happy, but after his talentless wife's failed career as an opera star encouraged by Kane, he becomes complacent, and used to her. He just begins buying her whatever she wants (he can afford it), but not doing anything with her, and she becomes bored, and leaves him.

At this point, both Macon and Kane have amassed lots of beautiful things that just sit there. Macon has his "hearse," a beautiful Packard that he drives, but doesn't enjoy driving, and never has fun with. Kane has Xanadu, his massive mansion with priceless art and other possessions that just collect dust, since he never enjoys the wealth. I think of Ferris Bueller's Day Off (sneak peak to my next blog post), in which Ferris describes Cameron's house as being "like a museum. It's very beautiful and very cold, and you're not allowed to touch anything." Also, Cameron says about his dad, who owns a Ferrari: "he never drives it! He just rubs it with a diaper!" While funny, these quotes do seem appropriate descriptions of both Macon Dead's and Charles Foster Kane's view of their possessions. 

I guess for any of you who ignored my spoiler warning up above, I still won't ruin the very end of the movie. It is fitting though, with the overlapping themes in the book and movie. I'm not sure if seeing Macon Dead II in a similar light to Charles Foster Kane makes him more sympathetic, but it does make him more complicated, and it shows he's not necessarily evil for evil's sake.

P.S. I just wanted to point out the connection between Charles Foster Kane and Doctor Foster, who is Ruth's mother and Macon's father in law, making Ruth "Ruth Foster Dead." Judging by all the similarities between the two stories, and the fact that Citizen Kane came out ~50 years prior and was recognized as a classic before the release of Song of Solomon, I wonder if this is a sort of wink and a nod to Citizen Kane, especially in a novel with such unique, significant, and descriptive names. 

The Man Who Wasn't There, The Stranger, and Amorality

Last week I went to The Man Who Wasn't There at the movie night Thursday. It was a very interesting movie. It's not necessarily a straight-up adaptation of The Stranger, but, having read The Stranger, you can definitely notice connections to the book while watching the movie. The Coen brothers definitely play with existentialism, while still adding lots of absurdity into the mix. For example, Ed, the main character, is a barber, and at one point he says something to the affect of, "Have you ever just thought about hair? It just keeps coming, and then we cut it," to his fellow barber, who just looks at him strangely. All of this is said in a very Meursault-esque monotone.

I'll try to avoid spoilers here, but the main murder in the movie is justified, though it is largely caused by events that Ed did have some play in. Someone else is accused of the murder, and Ed gets away scot-free. Later, however, just after a violent car accident, Ed is accused of a murder he didn't commit, and gets convicted after he has to switch lawyers because he can't keep paying his previous lawyer. The new lawyer pleads guilty (despite Ed having nothing to do with the murder) and Ed is given the electric chair, despite his lawyer's belief he will get away with a shorter sentence if he pleads guilty (this is eerily reminiscent of The Stranger). In prison, let's just say we see Ed accept his fate, and he is executed in front of a row of strangers scowling at Ed.

Recently, I've encountered a nonfiction author, Robert Greene, who's written books on power, seduction, war, fearlessness, and becoming a master in one's field. His books are certainly interesting, as he is a keen observer of social dynamics, even if you don't use them as a how-to guide. However, in writing on these topics, he has a complete lack of moral judgment of others. That is, when he writes historical accounts of strategies of war at play, for example, he will not judge these people (at least in his writing) based on moral characteristics, or what side they were on, but on how well they followed good practices and strategies of war. He also doesn't favor certain people: he'll write on Confederate battles and Union battles in the same chapter, praising or condemning them both for using good or poor strategy. He just puts the information out there; his books could be (and are, as they are very popular in certain circles) used for good or evil, but he just tells you, "if you want power, here's how to get it. This is what powerful people know." This last part seems very similar to Meursault in The Stranger, which we see in his attitudes to Raymond's poor behavior, where he says, "I didn't have any reason not to help him, and he was going to send the letter anyway. I just wrote a better letter in his name."

However, his writing style, as a result of this complete lack of moral judgment, has a very unsettling feel to it. On some level, we expect moral judgment of others, and seeing someone praise Mao for his military strategy, even (or perhaps especially) if he doesn't comment on other things Mao's done, is very strange to say the least. His pointing out all the nasty things others have done, and will do, to get what they want, and phrasing it in a way that says "if you want xxxx, you'd do this too," even if he explicitly says several times in every book that they can be uses purely as information into how xxxx works, and how to protect yourself against it, is very strange to say the least, if not slightly frightening. Perhaps this is part of why the jury sees Meursault as so frightening in The Stranger. He too has a very amoral (though not necessarily immoral) aspect to him that frightens us. Morality is so central to our society that the lack of moral judgment is at the very least alien to us.

I've also started watching Breaking Bad lately (no spoilers anyone!), and had similar observations. Walt keeps making decisions that on some level we understand (also like the scene where Meursault kills the Arab in The Stranger), yet if we distance ourselves from the action, we think, "what is going on?" We definitely know on some level that something's wrong, but at the same time, a part of us understands where he's coming from.

In the end, I'm just left with more questions than where I began. To what extent can we judge others? To what extent can we judge others? What should we put a premium on: actions or results? That is, if someone does something that we'd call "good," in a really slimy way, are they better than someone who does something we'd call "bad," in a way that follows all the rules? Is there something wrong with not judging others? How responsible are we if we don't condemn someone for doing something "wrong?"

Assorted Thoughts Caused by The Stranger

As the title indicates, this blog entry will be less organized than my typical one. That's okay. That's what the blogs are for, and that's the nature of The Stranger. It's interesting that despite being one of the less surreal novels that we've dealt with in both content and style, it's made me the least sure of myself. At least with Kafka, I knew how to feel about most of it, and I had relatively straightforward thoughts. With The Stranger, I find myself having these kind of thoughts (NSFW language on the link), that Louis C.K. calls "of course, but maybe..." thoughts. The Stranger doesn't make them seem that weird until we think about them though. "Of course killing's wrong. But maybe, it's okay in Meursault's case?"

Another interesting feature of the second half of the book is that Meursault doesn't really seem normal emotionally until the trial, where his life is scrutinized by the court. I thought in the first part that he did seem psychopathic in his complete lack of empathy, judgment of himself or others, or morality, as far as we can tell at that point. These are traits of psychopaths—it doesn't mean he's a danger to society, it just means he's abnormal emotionally to a pretty severe extent, as we can see with his helping Raymond, etc. It doesn't mean he's violent; there's a surprisingly high number of CEOs who are categorized as psychopaths, and have not killed anyone or any such behavior. Meursault is charismatic and interesting because of his lack of emotion and judgment of others. We're captivated by his behavior such as laying in bed smoking "for a few hours" and his strange response to his mother's death. Yet at the end of the novel, we see him showing more emotion. In the last chapter he begins by again being distant but mentioning (though not really conveying) his extreme sadness and joy as he thinks about whether his appeal will go through or not. His breakdown with the chaplain at the end as well is an extreme indicator of his rather repressed emotion.

Some thoughts on the trial: It's strange how Meursault is tried not really on the basis of his murder but on his response to his mother's death. I wouldn't agree if the court had him executed for his murder of the Arab,—I'm strongly against the death penalty—but I could understand. I can't understand their trying him solely on his not mourning his mother's death, and not mentioning the killing of the Arab except to decide that because he didn't properly show emotion for the death of his mother, he must have premeditated the crime. The prosecution also claims he's guilty of murdering his mother for sending her to a state funded home when he was no longer financially able to support her? Meursault was right. His lawyer was not as good as the other lawyer. He seems like he's trying to fit Meursault in a box he doesn't fit in, especially in his particular case, "well, he loved his mother, and he had friends." As the judge points out after Meursault's claim the murder was an accident, at least that's a defense. His lawyer should have been contesting the facts about the premeditation of the murder, and challenging statements by the other lawyer. Claiming that the defendant is guilty of murdering his mother is not proper court practice anywhere, as far as I can tell, especially since it is blatant hyperbole for emotional effect. His lawyer didn't even really seem to listen to Meursault's case details. It seems almost like he has premade defenses based on the situation, and he said, "oh, let me get the muder defense out again." Even if he's not the one responsible for Meursault's sentence, he certainly doesn't help things any—he's assured Meursault will get a few years in prison followed by service, and instead he gets an execution.

Perhaps the trial represents what's in all of us. On the one side, we could be Meursault, and we could kill someone, just because we have a gun. On the other hand, we could be trying people based solely on our own ideals, and condemning them for different; we're just waiting for the chance. When someone who challenges our sense of meaning comes along, it really affects us. We don't want our lives to be meaningless. Just as the chaplain had this reaction to Meursault, we can see him have this reaction to the chaplain in the last chapter. We're willing to kill someone not for killing a man, but because he challenged our ideals and conventions.

Fight Club and The Sun Also Rises

First, I will say, I've avoided spoilers as much as possible, so hopefully I won't ruin either story if you haven't read it, but obviously you'll get more out of this entry if you've seen/read both. Second, I admit, Fight Club and The Sun Also Rises are very different. In terms of voice, setting, and characters, that is (and to be clear when I'm writing here, I refer to both the movie and the book, so I'll specify which when there's a point where they differ). At the same time, the themes, and many of the dynamics between the characters are very similar. First off, the way the Narrator and Jake interact with other characters is very similar. There's lots of action that goes on between other characters, and while we experience the books (and movie) through their inner voice and therefore get a view of how they see the world, when there are other characters, they do most of the talking, where Jake or the Narrator will add a few words here and there. We see very much through the eyes of the respective protagonists, and as narrators, they do a lot of talking to us, but this is mainly to convey thought. Our protagonists aren't very chatty in person.

Another small characteristic that both Jake and the Narrator share is that they are both insomniacs, to some degree. In the Sun Also Rises, we see Jake in Paris, unable to sleep late at night, miserable in a hotel. It's implied this is not an uncommon event. In Fight Club we see the Narrator suffering from debilitating insomnia early on, and much of the early part of the story focuses on this, and later it becomes a plot device.

Broader than stylistically, themes of the two stories are very similar. We see rather distinctly in both Fight Club and The Sun Also Rises a story which seems to say "wouldn't it be better without women, where men could just do manly things with other guys?" In fact, both stories either heavily suggest it, or outright say this. In the passage where Jake and Bill go off fishing in The Sun Also Rises, Jake, who we've seen miserable and suffering from insomnia back in Paris with Brett, says "it felt good to be warm and in bed." This is one of the few "happy" (if you can call it that) endings to a chapter in the book. He and Bill are also happy fishing during their days without Brett. The chaos of the end of the novel doesn't occur until they get back to Pamplona with Mike, Brett, and Cohn.

Similarly, Fight Club rather explicitly conveys this message. The Narrator, to combat his insomnia, has taken to going to support groups for diseases he does not have, and crying during "partner therapy" one-on-one sessions. Unless he cries, he can't sleep. Soon another "faker," Marla, comes to the same support groups, and he can no longer cry. He thinks, "this was my vacation... and she ruined everything." Like in The Sun Also Rises, every time Marla (one of the only women in the entire story) comes into the mix, bad things happen. At another time in the story, Tyler Durden and the Narrator are talking, and the topic of marriage comes up, and Tyler says, "we're a generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is really the answer we need." The fishing trip in this case is replaced by "fight club," where men sign up for fights against each other as a sort of therapy. And it works, for a while, anyway.

Another common trait of both stories is how comfortable the protagonists and their closest friend are with their affection for each other. At one point in The Sun Also Rises, Bill says to Jake, "listen, you're a hell of a good guy, and I'm fonder of you than anyone on earth. I couldn't tell you that in New York." Though Jake doesn't explicitly say it to Bill, we can reasonably see that he feels about the same way. In Fight Club (the novel), the Narrator even explicitly says "I want Tyler." In both Fight Club and The Sun Also Rises, we see very deep conversations between the protagonist and their male friend. Bill and Jake talk about Brett with more candor than we see anywhere else. Bill and Jake also discuss his injury, and Bill seems to be the only one aside from Brett who knows about Jake's injury. The Narrator and Tyler both spend a good deal of time talking about their fathers, marriage, and other such topics. And frankly, I must point out, for both stories, the protagonist and their friend are rather comfortable with nudity—Bill and Jake talk as Bill puts on his underwear, and in the film, the Narrator and Tyler talk while Tyler is taking a bath.

There is also a deep underlying theme of emasculation in both stories. Jake's is obvious—he was essentially neutered during the war, and most of the story focuses on this. The Narrator's is a lot more subtle. He feels emasculated, not by injury, but by society. One of the best ways we see this is one of his support groups. the support group we see first, and the only one we go that far into, is one for testicular cancer survivors: "Remaining Men Together." We could probably see Jake fit in with this group, off in the corner, being "tough." The Narrator seems to feel he has a right to be there, at least more than the other groups, though we learn it's not his favorite group. This is addressed directly when at one point Marla and the Narrator divide support groups, and the Narrator says, "Okay, good, fine. Testicular cancer should be no contest, I think," to which Marla replies, "Well, technically, I have more of a right to be there than you. You still have your balls." Fight Club largely focuses on this theme of emasculation, with quotes from the Narrator such as, "the people I know who used to sit in the bathroom with pornography, now they sit in the bathroom with their IKEA catalogs," while Tyler says things such as, "Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

Lastly, I'd like to point out that both Bill and Tyler fill the same role in the respective main character's lives and the story. Bill and Jake banter endlessly, and Bill gives Jake lessons in irony, which Jake picks up, while he plays the straight man, setting Bill up for a joke here or there. Tyler has a similar relationship, but it's more as a prophet figure, which again, the Narrator picks up on, but plays straight man, setting Tyler up to see what he'll say. Both Bill and Tyler are extremely charismatic, and close to the protagonist. They fill both a friendship and idol role in the lives of the main character. And that's why they're so close. This seems to be the ideal of life in some ways for both Hemingway and Palahniuk, or at least the one that they convey in their stories.

Edit: Kai raised an interesting point that I hadn't noticed at first, and I won't claim his own work for my own, so just read it below.

One thing I realized that I neglected to mention initially is the major pro-pastoral theme in both stories. In The Sun Also Rises, we see Jake happy only on the fishing trip with Bill—a very back-to-nature setting. He is not happy either in Paris or Pamplona, which are the cities he mostly spends time in in the novel. In Fight Club, there is very much an anti-capitalist, anti-corporate, anti-consumerist theme, and much of what the Narrator and Tyler try to do amount to a "getting back to nature" ideal. I'll leave you with this telling quote from Tyler:

In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.

Mrs. Dalloway and The Breakfast Club

The other day, I wrote on The Hours, which had obvious ties to Mrs. Dalloway. But, The Hours isn't the only film that has similarities to Mrs. Dalloway. In fact, though it is seemingly incredibly different from Mrs. Dalloway, The Breakfast Club has many similarities to the novel.

First, there's a similar theme to both books. In The Hours story of Virginia Woolf writing Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia mentions that she aims to tell the story of a woman's life in one day, which the novel certainly comes close to. In the book, there are several scenes where we see how people perceive Clarissa, while she shows Clarissa is very different than people's perceptions of her, and leaves us to decide whether this is a good or bad thing. The Breakfast Club tells a similar story: five teenagers judged by their outward appearances rather than who they truly are. Throughout the movie we learn that they're not just "a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal" as the movie claims. There's a reason they got that way, and that's what the whole movie explores, much like in Mrs. Dalloway. Be it parents who are incredibly strict, abusive, or ignore their child, there's a definite reason for the way each of the teens turned out, and through their arguments, heartfelt discussions, their "crimes," and even just the way they fidget when they're bored, we get a definite sense of how they followed the path they did. And much like in Mrs. Dalloway, they don't necessarily seem to regret the path they chose, but they do seem to be bothered by the fact that their options are so limited.

Much as with the way Virginia Woolf depicts the characters by showing their side of the story in Mrs. Dalloway and making almost every character likable in some sense as a result, in The Breakfast Club we see the same sort of thing. At first all the teens can't stand each other, much less being stuck in detention together, but through a common enemy (the principal) and after many arguments, they start to at least understand the others' points of view, even if they don't embrace it themselves. They even become some sort of friends by the end of the day.

At the end of the day, though we feel a lot has happened throughout Mrs. Dalloway, nothing really changes, and we are left with a sort of unresolved ending as Peter sees Clarissa as the book ends. In the same way, the end of The Breakfast Club still has a sense of incompleteness. Yes, the characters come to understand each other, and Bender ends up with Claire while Andrew ends up with Allison (who also gets a makeover), we can tell that the not much has changed. Bender still has two months of detention to work off. The characters, as we can tell, aren't just going to ditch their friends and hang out together, and in fact, they agree the popular among them would likely not even greet the others if they see each other in the hall. The characters haven't really changed; they won't stand up to their parents or teachers or peers any more or less than they already had. The end definitely shows this, as Claire uses her charm to get Brian to do the essay for all of them "since he's the smartest." We get the impression this is neither the first nor last time she'll use this technique. And Brian still ends up alone, writing the essay.

The essay is a final point of absurdity—as the teens say in the movie "Dear Mr. Vernon, we accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong. But we think you're crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain... and an athlete... and a basket case... a princess... and a criminal.... Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club." It certainly is crazy. It takes Virginia Woolf an entire book to describe Clarissa, and they're expected to describe themselves in 1000 words? The Breakfast Club aren't the only ones who would think that that is crazy.

The Hours

I'm not quite sure what to think of The Hours, the movie we watched in class the past week. Its interpretation of Mrs. Dalloway throughout three time periods was certainly interesting. The music was superb, and certainly helped to make the time transitions easy to understand. That is something that most films struggle with, and the confusion makes having multiple storylines and times impractical, if not damning for the movie—fortunately, The Hours managed to avoid this. The visuals were also well done—the hotel scene where water starts filling the room comes to mind. Aesthetically, the movie was very well done.

Now comes the tough part—the plot. The plot was okay. The modern adaptation of Mrs. Dalloway was interesting in how it was done: it didn't do a straight 1-1 adaptation of Mrs. Dalloway, several characters were tweaked, and the film emphasized the darkness of the book. Virginia Woolf's story was interesting to see for biographical information, even if it did sort of glorify Virginia Woolf to almost a parody of the tortured artist, in a way akin to Mark Zuckerberg's glorified cruelness in The Social Network as he hacks out code, abandons his friends, and provokes people while saying smart-ass things at breakneck pace throughout the film, where in real life he was kind of a dick without the cleverness and coolness the film gives him. Virginia doesn't seem exaggerated as Mark did, but there's a subtle itch I can't scratch whenever I see her onscreen. I feel like it was more the writers than anything; Nicole Kidman did a great job in the film. In fact, I feel that that's why I was able to tolerate it; her performance made the exaggerated writing seem almost natural. Lastly we have Laura's story. This I felt was the most inventive adaptation of the novel throughout the movie. The modern adaptation in New York felt a little flat, plus I already knew the story. Virginia Woolf's story was more interesting, but as I mentioned, something felt just a tiny bit off. Laura's story was the story that the modern retelling should have been. It truly seemed to capture the essence of the story, with more depth than any of the other stories. Laura, like Mrs. Dalloway, doesn't necessarily hate any part of her life, but feels she's trapped more than anything. I don't get the impression that she even dislikes her husband, it just seems like she feels she doesn't fit in her current life. This is where Mrs. Dalloway differs from the movie, since Clarissa seems to be happy in her life, but notices she's at the point where she doesn't have any options any more. Laura is clearly depressed, possibly because she doesn't feel she's good enough at the role of housewife to be a part of that lifestyle—she can't even bake a cake and it devastates her.

In class, it was brought up that Richard's suicide was surprising, along with his relation to Laura. Unfortunately, I've seen Fight Club too many times, watched too many Alfred Hitchcock movies, read too much Dan Brown and Chuck Palahniuk, and played too many video games to the point where I can see a twist coming miles away. This movie was no different. I appreciate the foreshadowing in movies—it shows that the writers and director didn't just watch The Sixth Sense and decide that their movie needs a twist like that without support—however, since there was foreshadowing in The Hours, I knew where a lot of it was going. When Virginia says "the poet must die," it was obvious Richard would kill himself. We are supposed to think of Septimus in the novel, but it has an obvious double meaning in the movie, as there has already been so much talk of death by Clarissa and Richard that, given Richard's role as a poet, his death would be no surprise. So when Clarissa walks in Richard's apartment to pill-bottles everywhere, it's no surprise what will follow. Similarly, as to Richard's identity as the same Richard in Laura's story, I had already noted the fact that they had the same name, though I put it off as deep involvement in the Mrs. Dalloway theme at the time. But when there was the second scene of Richard banging on the window after his mother's decision not to commit suicide, I instantly knew—not in a way I should know, by evidence to back this up, but by knowledge of themes, tropes, and cliches of twists in film, fiction, etc. The wedding picture of his mother in Richard's apartment shortly thereafter is just bonus—a confirmation of that which I already knew.

So how does this leave the film? I don't know how to feel about the movie. Perhaps this is what they were aiming for, since Mrs. Dalloway didn't end telling me how to feel, and rather left things unresolved, where I could draw my own conclusions based on everyone's perceptions of Clarissa, including her own. However, I sense that even if the film were intending me to have a sense of not knowing what to think, this is not the way they intended to achieve it. It feels like they scored a hole in one on the wrong hole. The twists I felt were unnecessary, and there could have been a better way to connect the stories, and finish Laura's story. In addition, the entire modern interpretation felt flat. I suppose it was due to the limited time, but I felt little connection to the modern Clarissa, Sally, Richard, etc. Think about it—it took Virginia Woolf over 200 pages to tell the story of Clarissa, Peter, Richard, Septimus, Rezia, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Kilman, which still seems to only get a glimpse into the life of anyone other than Clarissa and maybe Peter. This movie, in two hours tried to tell all of Mrs. Dalloway essentially three times. It was ambitious; it was too ambitious.

Septimus and Depression

Now, normally I'm highly critical of people's habit of diagnosing illnesses (especially mental ilnesses) in characters in literature, however Septimus is a special case. It is very clear from the text that he has some form of PTSD (though they didn't call it that at the time) as can be seen from his reactions to the war, with his past haunting him in the present. As seen by his suicidal thoughts and general sadness and paranoia, I don't think it's much of a stretch to say that Septimus suffers from depression (in fact one of the doctors even says such, although in a dismissive way). One of the topics that's come up a lot lately has to do with is how the doctors do not seem to treat Septimus seriously. He is repeatedly told things such as to play football, play tennis, play golf, and that "we all get depressed sometimes."

It's pretty clear that the above advice isn't really helpful. And yes, the medical community at the time had little knowledge of what shell shock truly was, and how debilitating it could be. It is truly tragic that there was an idea at the time that the soldiers suffering from shell shock were "weak" and should "man up," so to speak, or worse were cowards (a capital offense). Blaming the victim is never the way to go about treating people. Can you imagine if when you went in to the doctor with a broken arm, you were told that you were weak, and to "rub some dirt in it?" This is an entirely counterproductive practice, which is so perfectly illustrated by Septimus being driven to suicide when Holmes wouldn't leave him alone? 

But, as sad were that time was, is it really that much better today? Being depressed is still stigmatized today, in an era where the medical community knows that it is a mental illness and not some weakness of character. This isn't helped by the fact that people say things like "last night my brother stole the last cookie and I got so depressed," when truly they were sad or disappointed, but not depressed. As a result people think "I get sad sometimes, but I get over it, I don't just dwell on it."

But that's not what depression is. Depression is waking up in the morning and laying in bed for hours because you don't see any purpose in living that day. Depression is not bathing or brushing your teeth because you don't feel you're worth taking care of. Depression is being sad when something good happens to you because you don't feel like you deserve it. Depression is not caring about anything that used to make you happy. People with depression are incapable of functioning normally—anything that should, or even does make people happy is tainted in some way, and often it's simultaneous happiness and sadness. Anything that shouldn't be a big deal suddenly is, and people with depression are unable to shrug off any obstacle in their path, no matter how small. 

We give lots of bad advice to people with depression; in fact most of it is downright insulting whether or not it was meant that way. We tell them "it's all in your head," "happiness is a choice," "cheer up," and "there are so many people who have it worse than you; you have no reason to be sad." Can you imagine if you were told "there are so many people who have it better than you; you have no reason to be happy?" It'd sound ridiculous, yet we think the former is reasonable while the latter is absurd. 

I'm not sure how we should resolve this, but we should be cognizant of the fact that the world of Mrs. Dalloway is not too far from ours, and we are not that much better than those in the book when it comes to mental illness. Septimus was driven to suicide by being misunderstood by those around him. What does it say about our current society then, where depression is still seen as weakness by many, and it carries an embarrassing stigma with it? What does this say about our current perception of masculinity, as Woolf parodies the masculinity in Mrs. Dalloway? 

Are The Mezzanine and Mrs. Dalloway that Different?

In class, we've largely talked about differences between The Mezzanine and Mrs. Dalloway. Comments always come out about how The Mezzanine is object-focused, while Mrs. Dalloway is people-focused. The Mezzanine is more tangential and random while Mrs. Dalloway is more structured. While these discussions go on, I usually ask myself, "are they really that different, after all?"

First, let's look at the claim that The Mezzanine is solely object-focused. While The Mezzanine definitely looks closely at the objects in our lives, and there are few characters mentioned aside from Howie, I would argue that the book looks at the way objects relate to people and memories. Take, for example, the footnote doorknobs, which goes on to talk about ties in the book. What starts out as a simple critique of the word "knob" when the device used to open the door is not knob-shaped at all, moves into a memory of his doorknobs at home. This then seems to trigger a memory of his father, who used to drape his ties over the doorknobs in his house when he was a child. Afterwards, he recalls his father's superb taste in ties, and later a proud moment when he and his father had the best two ties at a dinner party. He ends with a memory of when he and his father traded ties after his father complemented his taste in ties, and he came back later to see his tie among the others on the doorknob in his childhood home, and as Howie puts it, "it fit right in, it fit right in!"

To say that the novel doesn't focus on people at all seems absurd, when many of the most memorable footnotes in the book end with this kind of deep reflection and personal memory. Sure there are few names of people close to him in the book, but to be fair, how often do you refer to your mom and dad by their first names? It seems that Nicholson Baker is trying to convey the relationship between people and objects in the book. Just as the objects often trigger memories for Howie, much of his marvel at the objects at the book seem to be more marveling at the fact that someone was capable at putting that much thought in to something we view as so commonplace. By putting the objects on display, he also is putting the ingenuity that the people used to create them on display. He seems to be saying more than "wow, escalators are neat!", but rather saying "look at how the stairs perfectly mesh on the escalator, creating a perfect seal. Escalators seem almost magical—who spent the time to make something so perfect?"

Next, I'd like to challenge the assertion that Mrs. Dalloway is purely centered around people. Mrs. Dalloway certainly thinks of people more than Howie does, but that's not to say she's blind to the beauty of objects. She fondly looks at Bond Street saying, "Bond Street fascinated her; Bond Street early in the morning in the season; its flags flying; its shops; no splash; no glitter; one roll of tweed in the shop where her father had bought his suits for fifty years; a few pearls; salmon on the iceblock." Here Mrs. Dalloway appreciates the beauty of the area around her. Tucked in amongst the the list of things around her comes an implied fond memory as well—when she discusses the shop where her father bought his suits, it clearly has some significance to her as a result. There are too other passages where she describes London's sights and sounds and marvels at the beauty of the town. So yes, Mrs. Dalloway looks at people, but it doesn't entirely  neglect the importance of objects, and had it, the fact that she went to buy flowers for her party herself would seem unimportant and trivial.

Lastly, I would like to look at the styles of The Mezzanine and Mrs. Dalloway and argue that they have two approaches for the same goal. One can look at the style that The Mezzanine and Mrs. Dalloway each take and argue that the books are clearly dissimilar: The Mezzanine has frequent chapter breaks, footnotes, and a lively, almost random first-person voice, while Mrs. Dalloway features no chapter breaks, no footnotes, and a much lengthier third-person voice. However these books have stylistic differences largely because they are written by two different authors more than sixty years apart! Additionally, they are written about or from the perspectives of two different people. I get the impression while reading that Howie is a classic introvert. That's not to say that he's socially awkward or doesn't like people, but even if he enjoys others' company, the only way to "recharge" is through time on his own, which seems reasonable given his prolific thought-process yet brief exchanges with everyone he meets. Clarissa Dalloway, on the other hand, seems to be extroverted. That's not to say that she's rambunctious or wild (we see that she's anything but), but while she spends a lot of time thinking to herself, she defines herself by who she's with, and she seems exhausted being by herself, and energized when she gets to leave the house to buy flowers—she needs people around her to "recharge." The respective novels reflect these differences in character as well.

And while the voices and styles seem very different, they both seem to have a similar goal despite different approaches: to marvel at the beauty and depth of the world around us by using a style which closely simulates human thought. The Mezzanine seems more random because it tries to simulate a train of thought—one starts out on a certain topic before triggering a memory or thought that gets off the original topic. Mrs. Dalloway is so hard to distinguish from thought that many, myself included, saw it as a first person novel at first.

So do you guys agree? Are The Mezzanine and Mrs. Dalloway that different in the end? Or are they more similar? Am I just grasping at straws here, or do you see where I'm coming from? Does the fact that they're similar mean anything? Despite my lengthy claims, I feel I still have more questions than answers at the end of this. I'd be glad to hear your interpretations in the comments as well.

The Mezzanine as an Individual Experience

While reading The Mezzanine, I started to truly notice things. Baker does a fascinating job of pointing out the little things that you've always noticed, but never told anyone. The little details that he notices aren't the type of things that often come up in conversation. Perhaps they're things we wish that we talked about more, however. The comparison to Seinfeld is not a bad one, and the show's popularity may suggest an interest in the sort of little things that "no one talks about." Seinfeld is often called "the show about nothing," and there have been similar comments made about The Mezzanine by students in class. 

However, neither the book nor the TV show truly are about nothing per se, in fact, in an episode of Seinfeld they play on this—in the episode they try to pitch a sitcom (exactly like Seinfeld) and talk about how it's a "show about nothing." They naturally have difficulty selling the show which while humorous, shows that it's not about nothing, but it's about the little things. In fact this point is the biggest difference between the show and the book: Seinfeld is about exaggerating the little things for comedic effect, where The Mezzanine expresses so perfectly the ideas about the little things that it doesn't need exaggeration to be heartwarming, funny, and personal, though we know very little about Howie.

The fact that we know little about Howie is also important. It would seem that the less we know about certain aspects of his life—his job, his family, L., his political ideologies—the less personal the book would feel, and the less we would feel to "know" Howie. In fact, we hardly even know his name, except for a passing reference perhaps twice. As anyone who reads the book will notice, however, this is far from the case. In fact, as pointed out in class, it is one of the most character driven novels they, and I, have ever read. 

Why do we feel this deep knowledge, and even affection for Howie, when we hardly know his name unless we were paying close attention? This is probably for several reasons. First of all, the sorts of things we think of as important info about someone are not really that personal. Major corporations know my name, street address, etc. and send me emails, phone calls, and letters. Are they close to me? Do they truly know who I am as a person? No, which is why their letters end up in the trash, their emails in my spam folder, and their phone calls are left ignored. In fact, The Mezzanine perhaps is even suggesting these things are not that important.

Second, The Mezzanine seems to be carefully constructed so we are able to identify with Howie on a deeper level than hardly any other book. The fact that his name is unimportant, as is his job, and his girlfriend (perhaps now an ex-) gets only a single letter "L." allow us to truly place ourselves in his shoes. Should any of these factors have been stressed more, and surely we would only distance ourselves from him. Not consciously, but on some level we would compare ourselves to him, and end up distancing ourselves. He is almost a shell we can place ourselves in; who doesn't make the types of observations that he does? We may not have them written down as he does, nor have specific thoughts exactly as he does, but we almost surely recognize what he's saying once he wrote down that which heretofore could not be put in words. 

Another important reason the story works is precisely that it doesn't have the same sort of plot as a typical novel. Most novels have very plot driven stories, and they skim over details, since they are seen as unimportant. The mundane is ignored, which means novels often have rare or even exaggerated situations as the basis for the story. Once the action starts, the story begins, and similarly when the action ends, the novel does. This to some extent, forces us away from the characters in the book; while we identify to some extent, on some level we know that we have never experienced what they have. We may grow fond of characters, and see parts of ourselves in them, but we can't truly see ourselves in their shoes without trying to find ways we would have done things differently. The Mezzanine does a great job at allowing us to put ourselves in Howie's position—who can't see ourselves as Howie walking back from lunch subconsciously moving our things to one hand to be able to slap the street signs, and watching ideas about objects evolve into deeper personal reflection? 

In addition to being able to see ourselves doing what Howie does, we can also see parts of our character in Howie. He can be seen as a big kid, but he even recognizes this fact, to an extent, in the book. He mentions when he first knew he was an adult, and the differences between our expectations of adulthood as opposed to reality. This theme should be ever more present now than ever, in an age where the lines between adolescence and adulthood are very blurred. We have children that are acting like grown ups, through technology, clothing choices, parents pushing their children into college prep starting in preschool, and general increased pressure to start earlier for anything and everything. At the same time, a lot of adults have been argued to be acting like kids; there are an unprecedented number of adults staying at home after college, happily letting their parents pay for their cell phone bills, getting jobs later, married later, and splurging on "toys." Where does that leave us? That's one question Howie doesn't really have the answer to, but that uncertainty resonates better than if he had had a definitive answer. 

Overall, The Mezzanine lets us truly see ourselves in Howie's place due to deeply insightful observations, yet a comfortable ambiguity, and speaks on topics we've all thought of yet never talked about.