Collegiate Monsters in Perspective

I tried to think up a punny “monstrous” title for this post, but smarter minds than mine have been thinking up slogans and, ah, “scarily” catchy titles for this type of thing for years. Ever since Monsters, Inc. came out way back in the cave man ages in 2001, in fact. And now every spooky stone and hair-raising hook has already been turned over and turned cliché. So forget that.

Anyway, the point is Monsters University, which I just had the pleasure of seeing earlier today. Though it isn’t Pixar’s all-time masterpiece by any means, it’s definitely an impressive piece of Disney’s classic movie magic.

For a little perspective, I’d like to also take a quick look at a couple other recent films. Namely, Man of Steel and World War Z. Am I trying to compare the latest Disney-Pixar family feature with a superhero movie and a zombie-apocalypse flick? No. Talk about comparing apples and oranges. But audience reaction levels are significant to a certain extent, no matter what the genre difference. And these three films spell something interesting when set beside one another.

For sake of parallelism, I’ll use three sources for each movie: Rotten Tomatoes, IMDb, and the tweeted opinions of my friend JC. Whom I totally did not ask for permission to quote in this post. So sorry, JC—your tweets fell too perfectly into my topic to resist. (@jsncrwfrd on Twitter; give him a follow.)

Man of Steel came out first, hitting the big screen just over a week ago on June 14. Rotten Tomatoes, ever the harsh viewpoint, scored it an official 56% on the tomatometer but acknowledged an 82% audience approval. IMDb was more favorable, rating the film at an impressive 8.0/10. JC was on the favorable side too, tweeting, “Man of Steel was really good! Solid acting, great soundtrack, great story. Loved how they told it. I give it an A. #NothingAfterCredits”

The next week, World War Z opened. The tomatometer was gentler on this Brad Pitt blockbuster, scoring it at 67%, with audience satisfaction reaching 86%. This time, IMDb was less pleased, although it still rated the film a respectable 7.4/10. JC was less pleased as well. “#WorldWarZ: to me, it wasn’t a Zombie movie,” he tweeted. “More of an outbreak/disaster movie. Pitt was good. Story eh… Zombies were lame. Grade: C/C-”

That same date, Monsters University premiered. Rotten Tomatoes rated it a generous 77% with 89% audience satisfaction, and IMDb seconded the complimentary opinion with a hefty 7.8/10. JC’s tweet read, “Monsters University was awesome! Great film! I laughed so much. Well written and the short b4 was good too. No ‘Paperman’ though. Grade: A!”

Now this is where it gets interesting. To some extent, the above sources conflict over which of the two PG-13 action films is the more appealing. But the opinions are unanimously favorable, and even in general most favorable, about Monsters University.

Which is rated G.

That blows my mind.

It’s got to be one seriously good movie that can hold its own and get the attention of so many moviegoers without any mass destruction, without any sassy red-headed journalists, without any zombies, without any Brad Pitt. Without even an MPAA rating as mildly intense as PG. A movie that has to rely strictly on the chance of tapping into the inner child of each person who sits in the theater, on the fun of unlocking the joy of youthful imagination, no matter what the age of the audience member.

I guess what I’m trying to do is offer a salute to Robert L. Baird, Dan Gerson, and Dan Scanlon, who wrote the screenplay for this highly-anticipated prequel to Monsters, Inc., and again to Dan Scanlon for directing it. Because this is a job well done.

I mean, I love adventure films, action films, superhero films, disaster films. And I’m definitely looking forward to the ones still to come out this year. But every once in a while, it’s refreshing to have a Tangled, a Wreck-It Ralph, or a Monsters University. A chance to laugh and eat popcorn and candy and toss away the deadlines and the drama and remember what it was like to be a kid. (Or for some of us in cases like this one, what it was like to be the brand new kid on a university campus.)

After all, as somebody really smart (and also completely fictional) once said, “There’s no point in being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes.”

Also, shout out to JC for doing those 140-characters-or-less movie reviews. Please keep them coming!

Postscript: After reading the above post and reacting very graciously to being quoted without prior notice, JC alerted me to the further interesting fact that, according to Entertainment Weekly, with a 4,004-theater $82 million in earnings, MU swept first place at the box office this weekend, followed by—you guessed it—World War Z ($66 million) and then Man of Steel ($41.2 million). Of course, we can’t judge Man of Steel too harshly since this is its second weekend in theaters, while the other two are just now showing up to the party with a bang. But hey, this weekend Monsters University came in $16 million ahead of the closest contestant. Big surprise, right? 

CURSE THE FANDOMS: a blog of woe

BLAST THE FANDOMS, I texted my best friend earlier today. BLAST THEM.

Here I sit at my desk in near-despair. In fandom hell, as it were. Spoiler-code forbids my revealing the source of my woe. But what does it matter which event in what storyline is the matter now; the point is that the show has wrapped and in the end the hero has broken my heart in the very act of saving it. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it most definitely won’t be the last.

Heartbreak: occupational hazard of geekism. We’ve all been here.

But Doctor, she was The Girl Who Waited…I don’t understand…

Hold on, Lady Sybil! Breathe!

Rue…not Rue...

DON’T DO IT, SHERLOCK!

One of the people I (and many others) hold in highest esteem in the realm of storytelling, and specifically writing, is one Steven Moffat, who writes shows that rhyme with, uh, Bloctor Who and Derlock. Sometimes I think I should write him something. You know, fan mail or whatever. But then I realize what it would look like:

Dear Mr. Moffat,

Thanks for ripping my heart out of my chest and stomping on it in front of me before shoving it back in upside down and dumping salt into the wound. Hope someday I can make people hate me as much as I hate you.

Thanks,

A Fan.

It’s such a weird thing. It is such a weird thing. Because I keep coming back for more. And the fact that he is able to write so enthrallingly that I grow attached to his characters and physically grieve over them is the very reason I respect his writing so much. And it’s why I never stop wanting more.

I think George R. R. Martin, author of the Game of Thrones books, caught the essence of the matter when he said, “I try to make readers feel they’ve lived the events of the book. Just as you grieve if a friend is killed, you should grieve if a fictional character is killed. You should care. If somebody dies and you just go get more popcorn, it’s a superficial experience, isn’t it?”

And that’s the thing: these writers that we love-hate so dearly are so excellent at their craft, and so cunning with their storytelling, that they are able to draw us in past a superficial fictional experience into a life-altering encounter with characters who might as well be real. That’s dang good writing.

Of course, it’s not all sad; it’s not all about the heroes dying or the traitors revealing themselves and shaking our confidence in everything we love. There’s so much to love about these parallel universes and other worlds, so much to laugh at and quote and remember and treasure.

Is the fictional world worth the heartbreak?

Psh.

Yes.

And hundreds of thousands of fans all over the world are backing me on that, as they hungrily wait for the next installment of their show or series or whatever to come out. Where does Katniss go from here? Who will the eleventh Doctor regenerate into? I’m not even going to bring up Thorin’s future. But the point is that I’m not the only one who’s stuck here mourning at a transition. And I’m not the only one willing to pay further for the experience with a broken heart.

So dear Mr. Moffat, please don’t stop. I really do hope that someday I can create stories so powerful that when something bad happens in the fictional world I’ve created, my readers will care enough to grieve too.

For now, I’ll limp through the pain knowing that I’m not alone. I’ll rage at my fandoms, but I know I’d never want to give them up just because they hurt. They do hurt.

But they’re worth it.

Dwarvelogue

For anyone who got chills the first time hearing the Misty Mountains song, for anyone who loves the dwarves of The Hobbit, for anyone who’s tired of saying “that one dwarf with the beard,” or for anyone who’s bored and happened on this post by mistake, I present this Dwarvelogue, a guide to the dwarves of Thorin & Company.

I’ve used pictures from the films, but I’ll touch briefly on both the characters’ original presentations in the book and variations on and interpretations of them in the films. By way of disclaimer, I love both the book and the movies. In other words, I dabble in both the purist circle of students who revel in elven languages and spend hours studying the history of Middle-earth and may or may not throw temper tantrums every time Peter Jackson varies from the text, and the cult-following circle who own extended-edition DVDs and stay up all night watching interviews with the actors and stand in lines for midnight premiers dressed up as Gandalf. Anyway do put on the tea and get comfortable, because it seems dwarves are better talked about, or read about, or thought about, over a cup of hot Earl Grey.

Without further ado, a Dwarvelogue.

Fili

Kili

Youngest first. Fili and Kili are a solid fifty years younger than any of the other dwarves, and that fact combined with their sharp eyesight usually gets them assigned errands and small jobs that no one else wants to do. They also happen to be Thorin’s nephews. For the record, as far as the films go, Fili’s the one with the ash-blonde hair, while Kili’s the brunette. Highly confusing sometimes.

Oin

With Oin, we come to the first of the dwarves with little material distinguishing him from the others in the company. In his defense, though, like each of the others he came when Thorin called and is now prepared to fight with him to the end. He also contributes to their lucky number fourteen, which Gandalf helps them fulfill by adding Bilbo to their numbers in the beginning of the story.

Gloin

Gloin starts off in the book (not so much in the movies) with a rather nasty attitude toward Bilbo. He’s got some harsh things to say, including the famous line, “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” which is given to Thorin in the film. Gloin ends up by default warming up to Bilbo later, though.

Dwalin

Dwalin’s another who tends to be just one of the mix in the book, but actor Graham McTavish interprets him in the films in light of a brilliant backstory. McTavish reads into the text that Dwalin and Thorin grew up together, sparred together, talked together in their young dwarvish days. Therefore, he’s intensely loyal to the Thorin, his childhood friend and the one he believes ought to reign as King under the Mountain.

Balin

Balin’s the oldest besides Thorin, if you can believe it, and he’s a scrapper. Canonically he’s the company’s permanent look-out man, which I believe is because he tends to think quickly on his feet in high-pressure situations. He’s curious and persistent in his questions, and more than once he figures things out more quickly than the rest. He’s the one, for instance, to figure out the scheme Bilbo is trying to explain to them for escaping from the giant spiders who are about to kill them, or to snatch a retreating boat in time for the dwarves to flee across the perilous enchanted river in Mirkwood. He’s also got a special soft spot for Bilbo and is the only one to offer him help in first exploring the secret passage into Smaug’s lair or to encourage the hobbit after the frightening interview with the dragon. We’ll have to see how the films do with his development in the future, since none of these instances have had a movie-appearance yet.

Bifur

Bifur’s textually mostly just one of the company. In the movies, though, whenever he talks he spouts off in a comedic accent so heavy you can’t understand a word he’s saying. James Nesbitt, who plays Bofur, says that Bifur never speaks understandably “because he’s got an axe in his head.” Bifur’s actor William Kircher describes him as “slightly deranged,” largely due to the piece of Orc-axe that is indeed stuck in his head, and explains that he’s only able to speak in ancient Dwarvish. An interesting take on the character, since Tolkien’s original Bifur speaks perfectly intelligibly and without any language difference. He’s also cousin to Bofur and Bombur.

Bofur

Bofur is Bifur’s cousin and Bombur’s brother. Since he’s not textually overly fond of Bilbo, it’s interesting that he’s one of the dwarves in the movie to have a specific connection with the hobbit. James Nesbitt, who plays him in the movie, describes him as “a bit of a clown” and “one of the first to get close to Bilbo.”

Bombur

In the movies, Bombur is something like a quieter, ginger Santa Claus plus weapons. And he’d rather be eating than fighting. Or talking. Or doing anything else, for that matter. In the book he’s a good deal crankier, especially because he’s always shuffled to last on everything and makes a point to complain about it.

Dori

Dori’s actually the strongest dwarf of the company. Interesting, since in the first movie, at least, he’s a posh chap who offers Gandalf tea in Bilbo’s hobbit-hole. But textually he’s a “decent fellow” who actually saves Bilbo’s life in the heart of the Misty Mountains by hoisting the hobbit up to his shoulders and carrying him away from pursuing goblins. That’s not as gutsy as what he does shortly afterwards, though: when the company flees up into the trees away from the goblins and Wargs, Bilbo gets left on the ground, running around the bases of the trees in fright, not tall enough to get into any of them. Dori is man enough to climb all the way down from his safe perch to the ground and let Bilbo climb up onto his shoulders, standing there long enough for Bilbo to jump up into the tree even when the Wargs are approaching. He barely escapes the demon-wolves’ fangs as they snap at his feet when he finally gets to leap back up after Bilbo.

Nori

Nori is on Bilbo’s team when it comes to believing in large and frequent meals, and that’s about the only specific Tolkien gives. Nori’s actor Jed Brophy, though, goes on to interpret him as “a little bit of a kleptomaniac.” All through the filming process, Brophy’s Nori was slyly pocketing anything unclaimed that he took a fancy to. I haven’t gotten to revisit the first film since I learned so, but now I’d like to go back and watch what ends up in his pockets while he minds his own business in the backgrounds of shots. On a more serious level, he and fellow Dori and Ori actors play the characters as half-brothers, with the same mother but all different fathers. Their relationship isn’t delineated in the book, though.

Ori

Ori, mostly just one of the company in the book, is altogether an odd little fellow in the movies. In the first film installment, his character seems best summed up by one of his earliest lines: “Excuse me—I don’t mean to interrupt—but what should I do with my plate?” He stands up at Bilbo’s table to declare his warlike lust for vengeance on the dragon Smaug, but then he balks at eating salad in Rivendell.

Thorin

And Thorin Oakenshield. Official leader of the company and rightful King under the Mountain. Canonically he’s one of the last four dwarves to arrive at Bilbo’s home, all of them falling in onto the hobbit’s floor—quite a different character introduction from his fashionably late, ominously serious, long-brunette-locks-blowing-in-the-night-wind arrival in the first movie. Don’t get me wrong; I love movie-Thorin. Pretty difficult not to like a Thorin played by Richard Armitage with his throaty northern-English accent and luscious silver-streaked dark hair. But he’s definitely a variation from book-Thorin. Book-Thorin is older and less ruggedly handsome; more pompous, less darkly mysterious; more haughty and long-winded, less brusque and reserved. In fact, in the book Thorin remains a more or less flat character, and though brave and dedicated not especially noble or inspiring, until the Battle of the Five Armies near the end of the story. And then some serious character development does happen, but that’s spoiler material if you don’t know how it all ends. Suffice to say Armitage’s heroic Thorin is definitely not unfounded. I’m in favor of his interpretation, in fact.

In Tolkien’s words, “There it is: dwarves are not heroes, but calculating folk with a great idea of the value of money; some are tricky and treacherous and pretty bad lots; some are not, but are decent enough people like Thorin and Company, if you don’t expect too much.” And since Tolkien is basically an all-time master of understatement, by that less-than-favorable estimation we may infer what quickly proves true as the story unfolds: that dwarves can indeed be heroes and do have the capacity to be lionhearted at their core, though it may take the desolation of Smaug to demonstrate it. Both to us and also to them.

Four cups of Earl Grey were consumed in the writing of this post.

Makeup and Other Stuff to Do with Evil Enchantresses

I’d tell you what she’s doing, but then I’d have to kill you.

Actually, that’s a lie. (And besides, I’m rather tired of killing people.) This is a bit of concept art I’ve done for the faerie-tale I’m working on. And since it’s just concept art, it’s not an actual illustration and therefore gives away just about nothing.

Which means that I can tell you what she’s doing: holding a spindle. Basically every person who has seen this has asked what on earth she’s holding. I would be irritated—except that I actually had to look up what a spindle looked like myself before I sketched this picture. Which is highly embarrassing, since a spindle has been a pivotal symbol in my story for years now.

In any case, she’s the wicked witch, the bad guy of my story, and below are some detail shots:

From a technical standpoint, I uplit her face a bit. Not completely, because I got impatient and didn’t want to spend more hours blocking out all of her face, her shoulder, her arm, and her hand. But I did add a hint of uplighting, with those shadows on her cheeks, her nose, the curve of her shoulder, and so on, in attempt to add a touch of wildness, even a trace of a nightmare.

And on that nightmarish vein, I shrank her pupils to very tiny points of blackness in very light eyes. That’s because years ago, for a play my dad was in, he wore white contacts. I mean, contacts that whited out his entire eyes except for his pupils. The results were the scariest two eyes I have ever seen in my life. (My dad was playing somebody frightening, to say the least. And he did a fantastic job.) Anyways, though I haven’t ever actually used all-white eyes like that, since then I’ve kept it in mind that small dark pupils, plus as much light/white space as possible, tend to look wilder than darker eyes with bigger pupils (which, in turn, tend to look softer).

Technically, as far as the story goes, the bad girl in my drawing isn’t exactly wearing makeup, but as a sometimes-partly-kind-of-cosmetic-artist, I did specifically pay attention to the makeup she’s wearing, especially around her eyes. As you can see above, she’s wearing thick eyeliner sweeping out in “wings” at the corners of her eyes. That I did first, afterwards moving into the medium-tint “eyeshadow” covering her upper eyelids and then the dark-tint “eyeshadow” in the creases of her eyelids. Finally, I went back with a darker pencil and added her eyelashes with mascara in mind. She’s also wearing very dark “lipstick.”

And final note, I just used pencils I found scrounging around the house. Actually I convinced my nine-year-old brother to let me use one of his pencils because I couldn’t find mine. But that’s another embarrassing situation.

Anyway, that’s a little discussion on my personal wicked witch.

*insert villainous laugh here*

in defense of fiction

Sometimes my friends tell me they can’t see the point of fiction. I understand. Like, freaking out obsessing over made-up stories. Feeling like a piece of your heart has been forever crushed when a pet character dies. Getting ticked off when someone disses your favorite author. Sometimes it gets a little odd, to say the least.

But while I’d say fiction in general is a cause worthy of a massive vindication put forth by minds far greater than mine, at least I can offer a few words in its defense. (Maybe in many years when I grow up I’ll write a dissertation a little more suited to the topic.)

As Sir Francis Bacon said, “Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible.” Good fiction functions as both a window offering a view of the world and a mirror showing us (sometimes unnerving) images of ourselves. In other words, it shows us truth more clearly than we could otherwise see. Case in point. I hate that in Narnia-speak, I’m a Susan. Easily distracted by superficiality, quickly intoxicated with cheap pleasures, all too eager to turn from childlike faith and truth. I’d love to say I’m a Lucy or even an Edmund (traitor turned hero—love the character arc), but I’m not. I’m a Susan trying to be a Lucy, and that’s a scary thing. But it’s also the truth, and it’s something I wouldn’t know as clearly about myself, and therefore wouldn’t have had as fair a shot at changing, if I hadn’t gotten to know a fictional talking lion. That’s the mirror-side of fiction. If this were a balanced paper, I’d also include an example of the window-side of fiction. But this isn’t a paper. It’s a blog post, and I’m running out of room. Anyway, back to the point of fiction showing truth—“After all,” J.R.R. Tolkien said, “I believe that legends and myths are largely made of ‘truth,’ and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear.”

 In further defense of fiction, imagination (fiction’s brainchild, even while fiction itself is also the brainchild of imagination) is arguably the life force of the world. Albert Einstein said, “Knowledge isn’t important; imagination is.” If the genius who developed the theory of relativity can bank everything on imagination over knowledge without shame, so can I. Even Napoleon Bonaparte—not exactly a name that comes quickly to mind at the mention of imagination—said, “Imagination rules the world.” What fosters imagination? Fiction. And then imagination goes on to foster more fiction, and then fiction fosters more imagination, and then you’ve got this whole messy chicken-egg situation and it’s not really clear which came first. But you can’t have one without the other.

Finally, fiction is walking in the footsteps of the greatest Storyteller, an attempt at thinking his thoughts after him. In fact, storytelling—the act of creating, loving, believing in, mourning over worlds—is mimicking at its finest. We are living, I believe, what Tolkien called “the greatest Fairy Story,” and the stories we write and read and watch and love are all echoes of the truth. I can’t say it as beautifully as Tolkien did:

We have come from God, and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of the true light, the eternal truth that is with God. Indeed only by myth-making, only by becoming ‘sub-creator’ and inventing stories, can Man aspire to the state of perfection that he knew before the Fall. Our myths may be misguided, but they steer however shakily towards the true harbour, while materialistic ‘progress’ leads only to a yawning abyss and the Iron Crown of the power of evil.

So when Katniss volunteers herself in Prim’s place, I’ll let myself cry because I see more clearly my relationship with my own little sister, and what I want it to be. I see sacrifice at its grittiest, love in the darkest place. When Bilbo mans up and plunges into his worst nightmare—an adventure—I’ll let myself take heart because though I’m not nearly as brave as I’d like to think, in this I see that I can be courageous too. There’s hope for hobbits-in-disguise like me; maybe I can dare to hope that I might save someone’s life. When Jane stands up to Rochester, I’ll let myself be inspired because I see a reflection of the woman I wish I were and want to be.

And when Percy Jackson uncaps Riptide, I’ll uncap my own “lethal ballpoint pen,” which in my case most often equals rattling words into a word processor. I’ll do my best to stand, albeit shakily, on the shoulders of giants and reach as high as I can for the stars. And by that, I mean I’ll write my own fictions too. But that’s getting into a whole different topic, and this post is already too long.

So yeah. Stories, books, heroes, villains, fandoms, coffee and stuff. Fiction. 

I murdered my grandmother this morning.

FDR was sick to death of formalities. Life as the thirty-second President of the United States could be intense, but it could also be simply annoying. Take those insanely long receiving lines he had to endure at the White House. Hundreds of people, big dogs from all over the world, lined up to shake his hand. Meeting the President of the United States.

And nobody ever listened to what he said.

Formalities, formalities, formalities. Of the hundreds of people waiting to meet him, the President was sure not one person actually heard the few words he spoke during each greeting. Like I said, the poor guy was sick of it.

Until, however, he came up with a genius plan. At one of the formal White House events involving a long and tedious receiving line, President Roosevelt decided to change up his receiving approach. He’d still shake each person’s hand and smile politely, but instead of his typical hello-yes-welcome comment, he’d very courteously say each time, “I murdered my grandmother this morning.” I mean, that’s one way to find out if somebody’s listening or not.

I can just see his face as he thought it all over.

Well, the event began. FDR started shaking hands and calmly telling the visiting ambassadors he’d murdered his grandmother that morning. And just as he’d suspected, his guests replied, “Thank you. Well done, Mr. President. God bless you, sir.”

At last, near the end of the line, the ambassador from Bolivia approached. Upon hearing the President’s comment, the ambassador leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sure she had it coming to her.”

It’s just an urban legend, but I love it. You can Google the story and decide for yourself if you think it’s true or not; I’ve done a bit of research and haven’t found a way to either prove or disprove it. All I know is FDR had some serious spunk, and I don’t doubt that if he thought of it, he’d have done it. (I’m sitting at my desk to write this, but I’m tempted to give him a posthumous standing ovation for the story above.)

Either way, I opened this blog with that particular narrative because I think I see a parallel here somewhere, even though I can’t quite figure out where it is exactly. I’m launching one more blog out into the universe. Everybody’s got a blog. Is anybody listening?

Well, for what it’s worth, I murdered my grandmother this morning.

And that’s about it for now, except to clarify that this isn’t a properly new blog. It’s actually an old blog that I’m re-launching, and posts below are from when this was a non-fiction class blog assignment. In some cases, it’s as if a different Randi wrote them. For the record.

And last note, what to expect from this blog now that it’s launched again: basically geekism in the extreme. Writing discoveries, probably; snippets of practice fiction; perhaps book reviews; fangirl reactions to events in various parallel universes, the like.

That’s all for now. Cheers!

No grandmothers were harmed in the making of this blog post.