Making Light

Oh, to be in a cabin on a mountainside surrounded by woods, staring out at the morning whilst sipping my coffee…

I’m as close to that as I can be in Kansas, sitting instead in front of a computer writing as I take my daily dose of caffeine. At least there are mountains painted on my mug.

A thought, err musing, crossed my mind this morning as I laid in bed snoozing since I had the leisure for once. It’s something I’ve puzzled over for quite a while now. I know before I kvetched about the lack of romance in these YA fictions being published today. However, even then I knew a lack of romance wasn’t the problem. It was something more, deeper and intuited. Then it struck me—wonder.

There’s no wonder in fiction today.

Now, I realise that’s a bit of a harsh criticism for all fiction currently being published, but wouldn’t you agree? Having read The Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Rabbit, Winne the Pooh, or anything George MacDonald—wouldn’t you argue the difference between those “classics” and the popular fiction of today’s culture and society is the stark lack of wonder within the pages? That instead of sauntering through a field of wheat or a golden wood to stumble upon adventure, today’s heroes and heroines are immediately trudging into battle or fighting against a corrupt system, etc.?

Granted, I realise in Lewis’s series the Pevensies do seem to get thrust into Narnia’s battle with the White Witch, and Bilbo does leave Bag End at the beginning of chapter two. Even though they do not merely stumble upon adventure, it comes calling, dragging them kicking and screaming into the fun, there’s still a je nais se quois about those epics which most readers—well, I—do not find in many, if any, fiction these days.

To go back, I wouldn’t even simplify it into one word, i.e. wonder, that’s missing. While, yes, there is a lack of wonder in perhaps the author but also the readers, I would further identify it as a lack of mystery or ambiguity, from which comes an overall enchantment seeping from the pages and bewitching the reader.

Let me provide a better example. Though this example will be a film, and not a book, I still find this same systemic lack within any type of entertainment. I could just as easily argue for the wonder which Spielberg, who I am completely partial to, captures with every frame in his films, a beauty which I do not find in most, if any, films being produced today.

Disney has been on a campaign to take their beloved animated films and give them a live-action update. Though Kenneth Branagh’s Cinderella, I think, was an underrated success, the adaptation of the perfection that was the Disney’s animated classic of The Beauty and the Beast did not meet audiences expectations. Even though I’m sure there are countless others who have made the same critiques about the newer, live-action version of the film, here’s why I think that is.

In the original, animated film, there were some obvious flaws, which weren’t pointed out until one person on the internet, whom I’ll assume is an adult 90s kid like myself, mentioned it on Tumblr or Reddit or whatever, which I’m sure was later picked up by BuzzFeed or someone. I read it once. I haven’t since. I don’t remember, nor care to.

A few of these flaws were that the enchantress who curses the prince states the enchanted rose will bloom until his “twenty-first year,” but then later in “Be Our Guest” Lumiere bemoans how for “ten years [they’ve] been rusting, needing so much more than dusting.” Does that then mean the prince was only ten whenever the enchantress cursed him? Then there’s the grandmotherly look of Mrs. Potts, who has a son, Chip, of about eight or nine. Why would someone at her supposed age bear a child? Then there’s the worst one of all: does Belle suffer from Stockholm Syndrome? There are a handful more, but those tend to be the more obvious flaws than the rest.

To me, as someone who adores the animated original film (and the Broadway production which no one ever seems to talk about, but hey—musical theatre nerd, here), it was blatantly obvious to me the writers who adapted the film were trying desperately to avoid those same plot holes, or flaws, and fix all of them whenever they produced a live-action version for a more modern, or woke, audience.

Instead of putting a time stamp on anything, the enchanted rose or the length of the curse’s effects, they simply omitted those lines altogether, and then changed Mrs. Pott’s age to a more appropriate appearance, even giving her a line of exasperation when LeFou wrongly assumes she’s his grandmother. Then there’s Belle’s overtly feministic agenda in her provincial village, and determined resistance to the Beast after he imprisons her. (Don’t even get me started on the town people’s memories being wiped, either.)

While I loved the hints to the Sun King, Louis XIV, and his opulent use of the Baroque (don’t fix it) and Rococo styles from that period, as well as nods to the 1946 French film Le Belle et la Bete, and though the edits to the previous film’s flaws were cleverly executed—it left me disappointed, and not just because of the singing.

In retrospect, it feels like the live-action adaptation attempted to “fix” the original, not actually adapt it into a fresh interpretation of the original fairy tale which has enchanted people for centuries.

That’s why I think Kenneth Branagh’s Cinderella succeeded where the new Beauty and the Beast failed. They didn’t try to fix anything. They merely maintained the essence of what made the original animated film so magical, but expounded the story for a more curious audience. They didn’t try to remove the magic by giving it modern explanations, such as avoiding the plausibility of the heroine only falling in love with the antihero due to Stockholm Syndrome.

Instead, what they expounded were the supporting characters, deepening the world in which Cinderella lived. They gave the Prince more characterization instead of a flat male figure who dances with the main heroine by developing his relationship with and responsibilities to his father and kingdom. They provided Lady Tremaine with a believable backstory and thus motivation.

I still adore (and usually prefer) the original animated Cinderella, but I also enjoy the new adaptation by Kenneth Branagh. That feeling doesn’t exactly extend to the live-action version of Beauty and the Beast; though, that Disney animated film is my all-time favourite. They had such potential with Beauty and the Beast, and I honestly think the filmmakers squandered it.

For me as an audience member, the difference between Kenneth Branagh’s Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast is that one left me still believing in fairy tales, that magic does exist, that dreams can come true, but the other falls flat due to its sociological, political agenda.

Furthermore, I think such wonder and enchantment can only be translated into entertainment if the filmmaker aspires and holds to a similar ideal as they story they are telling. That’s why I appreciate and adore Kenneth Branagh as a filmmaker: he’s done tremendous work to make something as heady and astute and unappealing as Shakespeare accessible and entertaining to modern audiences without sacrificing the source materials original essence. Why is that? Because he loves Shakespeare, and his admiration for the Bard oozes into his work.

Applying the same theory to books, for the reader to first be amazed with such wonder, such fascination, I would argue the author must first be enchanted to translate such magic onto the page.

Of course, I could now argue the sociological changes which have transpired, shifting our focus, our ontologies, since the era of Tolkien, Lewis, and, especially their predecessor, MacDonald. Of how in a post-world war, post-modern, post-millennial culture we have lost our sense of wonder. I won’t because this isn’t my dissertation and I’ve asserted enough arguments. However, what I will say is that those aforementioned authors had a passion and wonder for life. They saw the beauty in this world and wanted to share it. It’s in every word they ever wrote.

The only “modern” book I’ve read—and I mostly read YA/Adult fantasy so it’s not like I haven’t been trying to find such wonder in today’s popular novels—which encapsulates the beauty and fascination and enchantment reminiscent of fairy tales and Tolkien or MacDonald is Kate DiCamillo’s The Tale of Despereaux. I think her own words prove my point, for in it she wrote,

Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning…Make some light.

Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux

I think if I have ever tried to one singular goal with my writing, besides to write the stories I should like to read as Lewis also achieved, it is this: to make some light.

I often contemplate if that is why I struggle in my aspirations, why my manuscript continues to be rejected by agents and publishers alike. Is my story too inspirational? Too ambiguous? Too…what?

I still do not know the answer, but I cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, one day the words I bled on those pages will make some light in a world I fear is growing too dark.

Shabbat shalom.