The Turn of the Screw (Theatre in the Black 2019)

The Turn of the Screw was one of the first tales by Henry James I read. Unlike Daisy Miller (which I found to be subpar, and which turned my wife off of Henry James completely), James’ atmospheric and influential ghost story caught my imagination. Later writers, such as Shirley Jackson, would cite The Turn of the Screw as a significant influence in their own writing. In particular, the ambiguity as to whether the apparitions are real, or if they are all in the head of the protagonist, has inspired practically a whole genre. 

You can read my thoughts on The Turn of the Screw (and other novellas and short stories) here.  

Bakersfield is blessed with a vibrant local arts scene. In the last few years in particular, there have been a number of outstanding theater productions by several different groups. The newest group is Theatre in the Black, which focuses on darker works, typically with very small casts, and unusual venues. 

This particular version of The Turn of the Screw was Jeffrey Hatcher’s adaptation for a cast of two. The unnamed protagonist, a young governess, was performed by Caroline Fox. All of the other roles were handled by Bryan Maddern. These included the narrator (brother of the governess), the aristocratic uncle who hires her, the housekeeper, and the young boy. 

The script itself is fairly stripped down, but Theatre in the Black took it a few steps further toward minimalism. The performance was at The Guild House, a historic home transformed into a restaurant and event location. (I have played a few weddings there back in the day.) It certainly looks the part of the old mansion, although it is more Edwardian than Victorian. The larger room, essentially a living room, was used as the location. Roughly 25 chairs set at tables held the audience, and a small area in front of an elegant fireplace served as the stage. The only lighting was the candles and dim lights at the tables and on the walls and so on. One could consider it just a bit brighter than candlelight. There were no special effects. Not even sound effects. There were no costume changes. Everything was done by voice and body language. The apparitions were manifested only in the way the actors reacted to them. 

The play adheres pretty faithfully to the story. Like the original, key details are doled out slowly and incompletely. There are a few minor differences. (The one that came to mind is that the daughter eventually speaks in the original, but not in the play - because she exists only in the mind - no actor portrays her.) James never truly finished the narrative, but instead left it at a tragic point. We never do find out what happened to the other characters, and things are never actually explained. Which is exactly what James intended. 

One difference that was particularly noticeable was in the interpretation of the governess’ actions as connected with her repressed sexuality. This is nothing new, of course. I think it was in the 1930s that this theory was first set forth. The thing of it is, James’ writing is, if anything, about as unsexual as possible. Thinking back on the books of his I have read, it is kind of notable, actually, how he can write so well about emotional entanglement, and yet seem so sexless. There is some evidence that James himself was asexual. He never appears to have had a romantic relationship, although he was quite social and had friends. So, when I read The Turn of the Screw, I didn’t really see it as sexual - although romantic was at least possible. On the other hand, there is an argument to be made in favor of the sexual connection. In Hatcher’s version, the ties to sexuality are obvious - and they work pretty well. 

This was a thoroughly enjoyable production. Both actors were outstanding and compelling. The timing was spot on throughout. The setting enhanced the experience, and everything felt intimate. 

 Caroline Fox and Bryan Maddern

TitB publicity photo

I should also mention the “opening act.” Immediately prior to the play, Rikk Cheshire, performing as Edgar Alan Poe, read “The Raven.” I am always in favor of hearing poetry performed aloud - there is too little of that in our all too prosaic world. Cheshire captured the cadence, and brought the poem to life. I particularly appreciated the fairly deadpan “Nevermore.” In my view, Poe intended that the single word contrast with the increasingly fevered and desperate agony of the grieving man. 

This was my first time seeing a Theatre in Black production, but I think I may have to see some more. The production was of excellent quality, with a strong focus on artistic values. 

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club, which reads a classic horror book every October. We also dress up based on a theme from the book, our hosts decorated their house to the nines, and we have a good time. 

One of the things I enjoy about this club is that I end up reading interesting books that I never would have discovered on my own. While I do have a couple of other Shirley Jackson books on my list, I had, believe it or not, never read anything by Shirley Jackson. Not even “The Lottery,” which it seems is part of the standard literature curriculum. Speaking of that short story, my wife insisted that I read it before our meeting, so that I would know what everyone else was referencing. 

The Haunting of Hill House is the quintessential haunted house story, with so many recognizable tropes: the house that seems to have a mind of its own, a dark family backstory, a spooky housekeeper, places of unnatural cold, thumpings and bangings in the night, and so on. It wasn’t the first of its kind. That place of honor likely belongs to Edgar Alan Poe’s story, “The Fall of the House of Usher,” which also told of a house with a bad personality. The gothic story existed long before that, of course. In the European tradition, it was usually a castle, not an old Victorian-style house, that was haunted. Tales of apparitions and monsters date back millennia. But it was Poe who brought them together into the recognizable American form. (For those counting, Poe also originated the detective story, with “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”)

While Shirley Jackson’s novel cannot be considered groundbreaking, it is widely acknowledged as one of the finest of the genre. I have to agree with that sentiment. The writing is outstanding, and Jackson does so much with so little. The atmosphere, the suspense, the psychological terror - these predominate despite very little of the book having anything out of the ordinary. The apparitions, such as they are, are brief, and often left to the imagination. For example, the two women discover some sort of a ghostly picnic while out walking. But it is never described, and the reader never learns just what they saw or why it was frightening. 

The four main characters are Dr. Montague, the researcher who organizes the expedition to Hill House; Luke, the heir to the house; Theo, an artist invited because of her supposed experience of the supernatural as a child; and Eleanor, invited for the same reason, but with a more traumatic history. Eleanor is a spinster who lives with her sister and family, but is treated like a servant and never given her own space. Eleanor spent her adult life caring for her invalid mother, and now feels guilty for her mom’s death. The four arrive at Hill House determined to document their experiences. However, Eleanor becomes more involved, and feels that the house itself has called her to remain there. 

One of the reasons that the book works so well is that Jackson seems to be writing from experience, as it were. The events do not shock her but seem like something that was expected, normal (for hauntings at least), and mostly unremarkable. Her characters may find them disturbing, but their emotions are set down with the same nonchalance. In some ways, this emotional distance allows Jackson to add layers of psychological depth. 

Another technique which Jackson uses to full advantage is withholding information and doling it out gradually throughout the book. We know a little of Eleanor, but most of her background emerges gradually as the plot progresses - she reveals things in her conversations with other characters. And, in some cases, we learn things about Eleanor when other characters repeat things Eleanor apparently told them earlier. For this reason, the psychological connection between the house and Eleanor’s trauma doesn’t emerge until late in the book. She is still trying to find her mother, so to speak, and the house plays on that. 

There are a few lines worth mentioning. First is from the opening paragraph - and is repeated in the closing paragraph as well. 

Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years, and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone. 

I think this ranks in the list of best opening (and closing) lines to a book. It is certainly memorable, sets the tone, and sums up the feeling of the book at the end. 

There is also an interesting exchange between the characters early on, when they find that it is difficult to navigate the house, which appears to have been set up kind of like an onion, with layers of rooms, many of which do not have windows to the outside, and connect in unexpected directions. 

“Why did they mix themselves up so?” Theodora asked. “Why so many little odd rooms?” 

“Maybe they liked to hide from each other,” Luke said. 

Later, Montague is talking about the house, and the distinction between being “haunted” and being “sick.” The focus, in the doctor’s mind, is less on spirits, and more on the house itself. But he also notes that there are rational theories that have become popular as well. 

“What else would you call Hill House?” Luke demanded.

“Well--disturbed, perhaps. Leprous. Sick. Any of the popular euphemisms for insanity; a deranged house is a pretty conceit. There are popular theories, however, which discount the eerie, the mysterious; there are people who will tell you that the disturbances I am calling ‘psychic’ are actually the result of subterranean waters, or electric currents, or hallucinations caused by polluted air; atmospheric pressure, sun spots, earth tremors all have their advocates among the skeptical. People,” the doctor said sadly, “are always so anxious to get things out into the open where they can put a name to them, even a meaningless name, so long as it has something of a scientific ring.” 

This is rather true. Just like people from my Fundie background tend to want to assign “spiritual” explanations to everything, skeptics often insist on finding (pseudo)scientific ways of describing experiences they can’t explain. Seeing a demon behind every door isn’t that different from grasping at a rational explanation for an unexplainable experience. (I’m not going to get into it in this blog post, but there are stories I have heard from family and friends across the religious to atheist spectrum that are quite interesting - as are the attempts at explanation. And no, I am not at all prepared to offer an explanation myself.) 

In connection with this idea, one of the most puzzling yet fascinating sections in the book comes when the doctor’s wife suddenly shows up. She is a big believer in the paranormal, but...isn’t successful at experiencing it. In fact, she is the one person in the party who never experiences the manifestations. She never hears the banging, or sees the apparitions, and she can’t even feel the cold spots. There is certainly a bit of irony there. 

In addition to these themes, Jackson utilizes an obsessive repetition of a few phrases in Eleanor’s head. The most common is “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” At the time, I thought this was familiar, but couldn’t place it. After our club meeting, I looked it up, and discovered that it was from Twelfth Night, Shakespeare’s bizarre comedy. Namely, it is a song sung by the jester. Here is the entire song: 

The Clown, singing

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?  

O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming  

That can sing both high and low;  

Trip no further, pretty sweeting,  

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—          

Every wise man’s son doth know.  

  

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;  

Present mirth hath present laughter;  

What’s to come is still unsure:  

In delay there lies no plenty,—          

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,  

Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

It is a pretty normal carpe diem poem, honestly. But I guess it makes for an interesting contrast with Eleanor, who has done the opposite, letting her youth decay and never asserting herself. Until she comes to Hill House. 

There is undoubtedly more to say about the book. We had an interesting discussion, as usual (it’s a great club with thoughtful people), and I am glad to have read The Haunting of Hill House. I will definitely read the other Shirley Jackson books on my list. 

***

Just for fun, here is the list of books that our book club has read. At least the ones I have read too. Most of these were read for the club, but a few were ones I read previously - those posts pre-date the club discussion - and some I read afterward, because I missed the discussion. 

There There by Tommy Orange

Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Be Frank With Me by Julia Claiborne Johnson

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Educated by Tara Westover

Stiff by Mary Roach

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne

Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Artemis by Andy Weir

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov 

The Radium Girls by Kate Moore

The Best of Gene Wolfe

Source of book: Borrowed from my brother

Books have always been a huge part of my life. My parents read stuff to us - crazy advanced stuff - from our elementary school years. As in, we ranged from ages five through nine when my mom read us David Copperfield. Then The Scarlet Letter. We had bookshelves in every room, and saved our money for more. 

All this to say that my brother and I both have extensive collections as adults, and read voraciously in our spare time. Our tastes overlap a lot, but there are some differences. While I have read some science fiction (and still do from time to time), he has been a huge fan since his teens. I have a bit of Asimov and Bradbury and a few others in my collection, but he has literally hundreds of books in that genre. His taste is (other than Clive Cussler) rather good, so if he recommends or lends me a book, I know it will be worthwhile. 

Prior to reading this book, I was not particularly familiar with Gene Wolfe. Which, I suppose, shows that my knowledge of modern SciFi is rudimentary at best. He is, it turns out, considered one of the best of all time - and indeed, one of the best modern American authors in any genre. He recently passed at the age of 87, leaving behind a large number of books. 

The Best of Gene Wolfe is a 2010 collection of short stories. I started it back in January, but finally made it through the nearly 500 pages of smallish print. It is a long book, containing 32 stories, several of which are really novellas, not short stories. In addition to the length, there is the fact that Wolfe’s writing is dense, full of allusions (some of which required research for me), and often filled with puzzles to be solved. Depending on your perspective, this is either great fun, or a bit annoying. I can’t decide myself. 

A bit about Wolfe. He was a devout Catholic, and this definitely shows in his writing. In many cases, specifics of Catholic theology and ethics are apparent, and the biblical allusions are everywhere. I wouldn’t say he is preachy, though. More that if you came to his writing without a solid foundation in the bible and in historical Catholic/Christian ethics, you might miss some important things and come away even more puzzled. 

Some of this is due to the fact that he loved to use unreliable narrators. What they say cannot always (or often) be taken for truth - or even their truth in some cases. This is both good and bad, in my view. Wolfe tells interesting stories, and the narrators are important to the effect. But sometimes, if you can’t believe anyone or anything, it is difficult to figure out the point. 

Wolfe didn’t start out as an author. He got his degree in engineering, and worked as an industrial engineer for years. His most known contribution to that field was contributing work on the design of the machine which makes Pringles potato chips. This background is evident in his writing as well, both in the places where machines are described (his accuracy and detail is admirable) and in the stories which touch on corporate bureaucracy. 

The stories themselves are “Science Fiction” in genre, but that is an oversimplification. Some even seem to me to be Magical Realism or even just regular realistic short stories. A number seem particularly concerned with post-colonialism, owing a debt to Conrad and Michener among others. There is a lot of variety, and Wolfe writes well in all of them. 

There are a few standouts that I thought I would mention. There is a trio of stories related to each other in the titles and themes (although not in the characters or even worlds those characters inhabit.) The collection kicks off with “The Island of Doctor Death and Other Stories,” a rather dark twist on the Walter Mitty idea. A boy survives an abusive and drug-saturated household by withdrawing into a fantasy world, which owes a lot to The Island of Doctor Moreau. Next in the “series” is “The Death of Dr. Island,” which takes a rather different look at abuse. Two young mental patients are essentially tortured by a sentient “island” in an attempt to cure a third patient. It is a rather horrifying story, honestly, but it sticks with you - which is probably the point. The third in the series, “Death of the Island Doctor,” is likewise completely different from the others. An ancient professor teaches a last class - on islands - and tries to pass on his love for them to a pair of students. The connections are loose, but definitely there. I loved a line in the third story. 

And there came a time, not in fall, but rather in that dreary tag end of summer when it is ninety degrees on the sidewalk and the stores have Halloween cards and the first subtly threatening Christmas ornaments are on display... 

Ah yes, Christmas Creep - when August heat combines with the first appearance of the Christmas Industrial Complex. 

Another notable was “The Fifth Head of Cerberus,” which is somewhere between a story and a novella in length, looks at cloning, among other issues. It shares the idea of a robot schoolmaster with a number of other stories - I think Wolfe was fascinated by the idea. This story was one of those that required a good bit of work to puzzle out and understand just what was happening. 

My brother particularly mentioned “Forlesen” as notable, and I have to agree. It contains its own version of horror - existential horror. By reducing a life as a cog in corporate meaninglessness and as a provider for a rarely-seen family, it taps into that fear that has haunted humanity ever since we evolved self awareness: that our lives might indeed just be meaningless. There is a particularly great line at the end, when the protagonist is about to experience death. He is being fitted for his coffin, in essence. 

“Now have you decided about the explainer?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Didn’t you read your orientation? Everyone’s entitled to an Explainer - in whatever form he chooses - at the end of his life. He-”

“It seems to me,” Forlesen interrupted, “that it would be more useful at the beginning.”

“---may be a novelist, aged loremaster, National Hero, warlock, or actor.”

“None of those sounds quite right for me,” Forlesen said.

“Or a theologian, philosopher, priest, or doctor.”

“I don’t think I like those either.”

“Well, that’s the end of the menu as far as I know…”

And then, there is the ending.

“I want to know if it’s meant anything,” Forelsen said. “If what I suffered - if it’s been worth it.”

“No,” the little man said. “Yes. No. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Maybe.”

Well, damn.  

On the more positive side, I should mention the very brief “Westwind.” In his comment after the story, Wolfe notes that he realized years after he wrote it that The Man Who Was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton was kind of like a longer version of the story. (Not exactly, but there are definite similarities.) Wolfe was a huge Chesterton fan, apparently, and considered that an influence on his writing. I agree. While Wolfe is an order of magnitude darker than Chesterton, the same use of paradox and unorthodox thinking shows through. And also, a general good-naturedness that pervades Chesterton’s works. The darkness of subject matter can’t hide that about Wolfe. 

Speaking of dark, some of the stories are really more horror than SciFi. One of those is “And When They Appear,” which combines a crumbling society with a christmas gone wrong. Or, “The Tree is my Hat,” which is a bit of a supernatural horror story. 

If I had to pick a favorite, though, it might be “Bed and Breakfast,” about an incident in such an establishment just outside the gates of Hell. I liked the ambiguity about who is human and who is demon, who is living, and who is dead, and the mystery about just who the narrator is. (Assuming you can believe anything he says.) I snickered at this line, about the demons who stay at the lodging. 

“I see.” She picked up another piece of chicken. “Nice demons.”

“Not really. But the old man tells me that they usually overpay and are, well, businesslike in their dealings. Those are the best things about evil. It generally has ready money, and doesn’t expect to be trusted.” 

So, there were definitely a lot of things I enjoyed about the stories. The writing quality is high, and the ideas often intriguing. There were a few sour notes, however. 

Probably the most annoying was that Wolfe is a bit retrograde on gender. The stories were written from 1970 to 1999 - not exactly a pre-feminist era. And yet, he indulges in lazy gender stereotypes on occasion. Perhaps worse, the stories are all very male-centric. I do not recall a single female protagonist - the women are foils for the men, rather than equal participants. I realize this is an endemic problem in SciFi, notwithstanding the accomplishments of luminaries such as Ursula Le Guin (who praised Wolfe, for what that is worth.) Still, I was surprised to see that the stories were as modern as they were - I honestly expected something more like the 1950s given the way they were written. 

My second complaint is less serious, and is a matter of taste. While I don’t mind having to pay attention while reading, some of the puzzles were a bit too involved and obtuse for me. I am thinking in particular of “Seven American Nights,” wherein a Middle Eastern man visits a post-collapse United States. The premise was great. The first few chapters (it is novella length) were fascinating and drew me in. But then, after all the setup, it fizzled out into an ending that answered nothing, and left the questions unanswered. I tried to look back and find the clues, but didn’t really figure it out. I then used the power of the internet. Fortunately, Wolfe has a huge fan base who loves to discuss the stories, and I did find a thread on this one. The best I can be sure of is that Wolfe intended that the original narrator be replaced by a machine trying to throw the person (in the framing story) off the track of what really happened. This makes sense in light of a few clues, and also in the “mistakes” the machine makes. So far, so good. But Wolfe’s fans can’t agree on when this occurred, and even less on what the “real” story actually is. The more I read the discussion, the less confident I felt about any of the theories. And, I also realized that there were even more loose ends that I hadn’t noticed. Things that were (I presume) intended to be clues, but were so unclear that there were a dozen theories about why they were there, or what they meant. My beef with all of this is that the story started out so good and compelling and then...fizzle. A puzzle that made sense only to Wolfe, and remains opaque to everyone else. 

There were a few stories like this, and, depending on how good they were to start, I either tried to figure them out or didn’t bother. 

All that said, I still found the book enjoyable, and several of the stories are ones that will stick in my head. Wolfe’s writing qualifies as literary fiction, not mere genre fiction. Whether or not you like SciFi for its own sake, these stories will appeal for their literary merit, their thoughtful exploration of universal ideas, and for their creativity. 

Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This was this month’s selection for our “Literary Lush” book club. Every October, we pick a spooky book, and dress up for the occasion. (My wife made me a scrabble board shirt…)

This is one of those classic horror books that I hadn’t read. Actually, I haven’t read any Ira Levin - his other major work was The Stepford Wives, which has certainly become part of our cultural background. 

The basic plot is fairly simple. Young couple moves to new apartment in an old building with a history of tragic events. They become friends with an eccentric older couple on the same floor. The wife becomes pregnant under odd circumstances, has a painful and difficult pregnancy, and ends up giving birth to the Devil’s spawn.

For me, the most interesting part of the book was the way that, until the very end, there are multiple explanations for the events that do not involve the supernatural, and these explanations are actually more plausible.

It is apparent, for example, that Rosemary’s husband, Guy, is a self-centered jerk. As the book goes on, his behavior definitely veers into abuse and control. I am not sure how this would have played in 1967, but it seems pretty creepy now.

Added to that is the fact that Rosemary seems to be going somewhat crazy throughout the pregnancy. In fact, if it weren’t for Guy’s suspicious actions, it would be hard to come to any other conclusion. Well, that and the fact that nobody takes her pain seriously. My wife the nurse, however, pointed out that even now, women’s pain is all too often dismissed with a pat on the head as what they used to call “hysteria” - insanity from the uterus. (A friend suggested we need to use “testerical” for guys acting nutty. I like it.)

The book itself had some odd quirks. For example, an inordinate amount of time was spent on things like the layout of the rooms, the process of selecting furniture, and a certain closet. I assumed that these would, in some way, play a part in the story. Except they didn’t. There was never really any explanation in the second half of the book.

Another weird thing was the character of Terry, who briefly appears, then is killed off. One assumes that she was the original choice for the Devil Baby, but either kills herself or is killed. Again, practically no explanation later in the book, which seemed odd. Maybe I am just used to authors who don’t mention details that aren’t important to the story. Kind of like Chekhov and his guns - you know if one appears, it will be fired.

One final detail led me to a bit of a rabbit trail, which I figure I will inflict on you as well. “Tannis Root” plays a big role in the plot. It is the stinky core of a charm which is initially worn by Terry, then by Rosemary. As I suspected, it doesn’t actually exist in reality, but does have a symbolic meaning. The association of the city of Tanis, Egypt, which does exist, has long been associated with the Devil and demons in general. This association dates back a long time, to the 2nd Century CE and the works of Justin Martyr. In developing a fairly detailed system of demonology, Martyr cites both the iconic story of the Fall of Lucifer in Isaiah (which is a fairly obvious appropriation and reuse of the root story that also became the Greco-Roman myth of Phaethon) and other passages in Isaiah which purport to tell of evil rulers in Tanis. Thus, Martyr builds the idea that the fallen angels congregate in Tanis. This whole edifice depends on a mistranslation of the Hebrew text in the Septuagint. You can read a rather long explanation here if you like. But essentially, you have a story of earthly rulers taking on divine titles (hubris, yes?) and suffer a catastrophic fall (nemesis), which is then made into proof of the idea of rebellious angels, then a mistranslation placing them in Tanis, and then the use of Tanis as a shorthand for demonic activity. From there, you can look at a long history of the Tanis/Satan connection in literature and theological writing. The final connection here is the “tanna” plant, another fictional plant used in early mummy movies. It isn’t clear if this was expressly a reference to Tanis or not, but the similarity certainly could (and did) lead to a conflation of the Tanis/Devil connection and the Tanna/Devils Weed idea. So there you have it.

This was a fairly light read, which is kind of the idea for Spooky Lush - something even the less serious book nuts in our club can enjoy, and one which gives a good theme for food and costumes. Given that the book - and even more so the movie - are part of our culture, it is a good thing that I read it. I should probably do the same for The Stepford Wives one of these days.

***

For those who care to follow along, here are the books that I have read for our club. Camping and music schedules have made me miss a number of months, although my wife has attended more - she started first as well, before talking me into going. It’s been a blast.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

Artemis by Andy Weir

All the Birds in the Sky by Charlie Jane Anders

Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn

One of the best things about the club is reading books that probably would never have come to my attention otherwise.

***

By popular demand: the Scrabble Board costume.

 

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

My kids love the Neil Gaiman we have listened to previously. Which is to say, my kids love creepy stories, and have a high tolerance for horror. Here are our previous Gaiman selections:

Coraline

Good Omens (with Terry Pratchett)

The Graveyard Book

M is for Magic

Odd And The Frost Giants

One thing I should mention at the outset about Neverwhere, is that, unlike the others, Neverwhere isn’t really a kids book. (Arguably, Good Omens isn’t either. But that book is less terrifying and more humorous, because Terry Pratchett…) That means that it contains some pretty scary and violent moments - little kids will probably have an issue here. And also a fair share of garden-variety vulgarity and profanity. Your approach to this sort of stuff with your kids may vary from mine. (For what it is worth, I am bothered much more by racial slurs, which you find readily in older literature - including children’s literature - than by crass references to bodily functions, extremely hot punishment, and how you get there.) There are also some non-graphic sexual references (the main character is definitely having sex with his fiancee.)

What Neverwhere is, however, is Gaiman’s first real novel (he started with graphic novels), which he based on a TV series he also wrote. The characters are the same, but the story is expanded. It is more or less in the horror genre, and certainly shows all the typical themes that Gaiman continues to work with. Realism with a supernatural element (not exactly magical realism, but a close cousin), lonely and isolated characters, a hidden world hiding in plain sight alongside the “real” one, and a generally Gothic and macabre vibe.

In an opening that O Henry would approve, young businessman Richard Mayhew is running late to a dinner with his fiancee and her famous boss, when a girl appears on the sidewalk, bleeding badly, and asking for help - and that the police not be called. To the horror and disapproval of his fiancee - and against his better judgment - he takes the girl, who calls herself “Door,” back to his apartment. Soon after, two rather Victorian gentlemen gangster sorts calling themselves Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar show up, and attempt to shake him down for the girl. And then things start to get really weird really fast.

First, Richard must summon a mysterious figure, the Marquis de Carabas, who takes Door with him as they both vanish. Then, Richard discovers that he apparently no longer exists. Nobody remembers him, and his flat is being rented to strangers. He has to find his way to “London Underground” to find Door and try to get his life back. Once there, he finds he is caught up in running from a plot to murder Door (having dispatched her family already), which appears to involve very powerful and mysterious forces. Richard, the Marquis, Door, and a badass female bodyguard, Hunter, set out on the quest for the truth and safety.

This being Gaiman, naturally, assassins figure prominently. And nobody is quite who they seem. Along the way, there are a bunch of memorable, fascinating characters that inhabit an equally imaginative world. Gaiman also combines, as usual, suspenseful plotting with good characterization (within the confines of the genre), and solid writing. There is plenty of social satire as well. The Western financial world gets skewered, as do upwardly mobile sorts who grasp at wealth and prestige. London Underground consists of all the people who fall between the cracks, and Gaiman makes them sympathetic and human - if thoroughly rough and tumble. Richard’s experience is that of falling through the cracks – becoming invisible to society. It happens to him – and could happen to us – more easily than we think.

This book is also a confirmation of the axiom that Neil Gaiman should always narrate his own audiobooks. His smooth and slightly sinister voice fits his writing perfectly.

As I noted above, unless you have kids like mine, probably be cautious. The violence is pretty nasty, the language might be an issue, and it is a scary book. On the other hand, for teens who like terror, Gaiman’s writing is above average, and his books have a certain moral heft to them which transcends the genres he writes in. We have really enjoyed them over the last few years. 

 Illustration by Chris Riddell. Richard and the Marquis

 Croup and Vandemar.

The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells

Source of book: I own this.

Boy, it has been ages since I read any H. G. Wells! Back in my youth, I read some short stories, plus the classic Science Fiction works The Time Machine and The War of the Worlds. More recently - but still over a decade ago - I read The Outline of History, which is a fascinating (if a bit dated) work. Apparently, Wells wrote a lot of books after these, but most remain obscure.

Wells can be frustrating to read sometimes, because he has great ideas which he doesn’t always flesh out as well as one might like. (At least those of us who are fine with books being long and detailed.) The Island of Doctor Moreau is a particularly good example of that fault. Although it was published after The Time Machine, this book was actually written first of Wells’ novels. He called it a “youthful exercise in blasphemy,” and it certainly shows signs of being a juvenile work. Even The Time Machine shows a growing maturity, and The War of the Worlds, probably his best work, is in a different class altogether when it comes to writing skill. 

I read this book because a local book club chose it for October. My wife has attended some meetings, and I had intended to go to the one featuring The Master and Margarita, but a vehicle repair job went late, and, well, I didn’t.

This book, like the other best known books by Wells, are notable because they contained ideas which have fascinated us ever since. Time travel is a staple of Science Fiction. But Wells wrote the first real time travel novel. Alien invasions? That was Wells too. Invisibility? Yep. Horrible scientific experiments involving animals? That would be Doctor Moreau.

Wells’ influence extends further, however. C. S. Lewis references him often in his works, and appears to be attempting to refute him in a number of passages. (Wells was disenchanted with religion, and, along with George Bernard Shaw, was often on the opposite side from Lewis and G. K. Chesterton.) Wells also was instrumental in making evolution a staple or the Science Fiction genre. So there is a lot that we take for granted in literature that can be traced to Wells’ ideas and writings.

The plot of Moreau should be familiar enough, even to those who have not read the book. A traveler is rescued from a shipwreck, only to find himself stuck on a island in the Pacific with a mad scientist and his assistant. Doctor Moreau experiments in vivisection, combining animals in an attempt to create human/animal hybrids. (It does not appear he is using humans, however. He may be using his own human blood in transfusions. This is one area where it would have been nice if Wells had been a bit more descriptive.) These beings he creates are sentient and can talk, although they do not rise to the level of human ability. Furthermore, Moreau notes that they tend to revert to their animal ways unless constantly trained.

Eventually, disaster comes. An animal escapes, Moreau is killed, and things go downhill from there.

One of the central ideas in this book - one which has become engrained in our culture - is the Litany of the Law. Moreau teaches the beast-men a series of commandments, the dos and don’ts of the world he has created. One of the creatures, the “Sayer of the Law” leads the animals in daily recitation of the Law, ending each commandment with “Are we not men?” (Note the reference borrowed by Devo.) That this Litany is strikingly similar to both cultural taboos and religion is not an accident. I believe this is why the idea has stuck around in our minds. It is a bit too familiar. This also ties in with the end of the book - more about that later. Violation of the Law leads to a return to “The House of Pain” for further vivisection.

The moral choices Moreau has made, and his justifications for them, are quite chilling. Moreau sees anything as morally possible and acceptable if it serves scientific curiosity, and brushes off the narrator, Pendrick’s objections. A couple of lines particularly stood out here. Moreau claims that the intellect is fluid (something we know now isn’t true - animals lack the necessary brain structure for human thought) and that the only difference between us and animals is education.

Very much indeed of what we call moral education, he said, is such an artificial modification and perversion of instinct; pugnacity is trained into courageous self-sacrifice, and suppressed sexuality into religious emotion.

Remember, this is Moreau speaking, not H. G. Wells. (This is a common confusion - one I think is intentional. It is too easy to assign a lack of ethics to atheists, and rarely accurate.)

Also interesting is this one, after Pendrick argues that it is unethical to inflict pain, unless there is at least some good likely to come out of it.

“For it is just this question of pain which parts us. So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick; so long as your own pains drive you; so long as pain underlies your propositions about sin, - so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less obscurely what an animal feels.”

This one really struck me, because I heard an echo of something I was told a couple of years ago. Pretty much along the lines of “Don’t let your compassion drive your ethics.” Moreau complains that we let our view of what is sin be driven by our desire to avoid pain and avoid inflicting it on others. Too confining, clearly. We have to be free to hurt others (particularly the vulnerable) or we have an “animalistic” view of sin.

Anyone see the problem here?

In case anyone wondered, it wasn’t an atheist who said this. Far from it. And the reason it was said was to attempt to prevent people like me from questioning certain religious rules that were and are causing great pain and damage to others. Oh, and we see this in politics right now too. Who cares about the Dreamers? The law is what matters. Kick them all out - more for us. Refugees? Likewise. Kick the poor and disabled off healthcare? Of course. Don’t let your compassion drive your ethics. Ignore the pain of others.

Well, I guess I am an old fashioned, backwards sort who still believes in the Golden Rule. But you won’t find that in Evangelicalism much these days - politics trump compassion. (Pun intended.)

That leads to another observation. Moreau initially likes his creatures. But then, as animalistic traits creep back in, he loathes them, and turns them out. He doesn’t see a human soul there, only the soul of an animal. I think this too is true. In order to be as cruel and uncompassionate as we humans can be, we have to dehumanize the “other.” This is my observation. If you grant others a human soul, you cannot excise your compassion and ignore their pain. It is only through systematic dehumanization of the “other” that this can be done.

The end of the book is interesting. Pendrick escapes the island on a boat that washes ashore, but he is unable to live among society again. The problem is that he imagines that all humans are on the verge of reverting to beasts, and every sign of human degradation and vice seems to him to be the beginning of the process.

Wells isn’t that far off, unfortunately. I think this one is all too true. When we consider how a civilized nation nearly destroyed the world - and murdered countless millions - just in the past century; it isn’t a stretch to understand that our most beastial nature is just below the surface. Stoke a fear here, add an insecurity there, find a persuasive psychopath to feed those fears and call for hate. And before you know it, you have the Holocaust. We see it now in our own country, where millions of otherwise decent people have seemingly openly embraced nativism. It has shaken me to see it, and I feel a bit like Pendrick. I had thought that we were better than that, but I worry that given a chance, we will go back to tearing each other to pieces like animals.

The Island of Doctor Moreau is a flawed book, a bit of a juvenile effort, and not always the easiest read. But it has been tremendously influential in our imaginations, and for good reason. The questions Wells raises of science and ethics, compassion, and the state of man remain relevant today, perhaps more than ever.

***

Hey, we need some of the other band that borrowed from this book:

The Woman In Black (play) by Stephen Malatratt

Just to be clear, this post is about the 1987 stage play by Stephen Malatratt, not the original 1983 book by Susan Hill, the 1989 television movie with the screenplay by Nigel Kneale, or the 2012 film starring Daniel Radcliffe. I believe the book is the source for all three, and the films are not based on the play.

The Woman In Black has been playing continuously in London since 1989, making it the second longest running play there - second only to The Mousetrap, which has been running since 1952 (!) By the way, I have seen The Mousetrap in London (back in 1999). Yes it is good. No I won’t reveal the ending.

The stage version of The Woman In Black is interesting in that it is intentionally minimalist. There are only two credited actors - more on that later. The setting is a theater, and while some props are used, most of the props are expected to be imagined by the audience, from the existence of a dog on down. There is no real “set.” Sound effects fill in the gaps. Even the way the parts are played is kind of unusual.

Let me see if I can coherently explain the framing device. Arthur Kipps is a solicitor (one of the British kinds of lawyers, for those not familiar with that system) who is trying to recover from a traumatic experience that happened to him when he was young. He seeks out the assistance of an actor (who remains unnamed) to help him “perform” the story for his friends and family, so they can understand what has happened - and so that Kipps can, he hopes, finally put his trauma to rest. The actor insists that the best way to do this is to have himself (the actor) perform the part of Kipps, while Kipps plays all the other parts in the drama. Yes, this is a bit confusing at first, but it actually works, and makes for an interesting interplay between the two.

Because of this framing device, the actor playing Kipps has to be an actor playing a non-actor acting multiple parts. Which isn’t easy. Kipps also has to develop from a rank amateur who is a terrible actor into someone who convincingly plays a whole range of characters, all while watching the other person play his own character.

At its core, however, The Woman In Black is fairly standard Gothic Horror - it uses all the proper tropes from the foggy and remote location in northeast England to the dead child to the lurid backstory. It isn’t exactly groundbreaking on plot or atmosphere, but done well, it makes for an effective play.  

Here is the basic setup: Kipps is sent by his boss to sort through the papers of a recently deceased client, the reclusive and mysterious Mrs. Alice Drablow. At the funeral, Kipps sees a mysterious woman in black - one that everyone else denies seeing. Later, while at the house out on the marsh, he sees and experiences more supernatural manifestations, which eventually lead him to the truth of the past - and a deadly threat. I won’t reveal more than that.

I saw this play in large part because my second daughter loves scary and suspenseful stuff and really wanted to see this one. I also took my eldest daughter and eldest son, as they were old enough to enjoy a scary thrill. All three loved it.

I have mentioned The Empty Space in many prior posts. It is, shall we say, a gem of our local community, and one of my favorite places to see live drama. Small size, modest budgets, but high artistic values and devoted actors and staff make for consistently excellent and imaginative productions. In this case, the acting was strong, and the staging made for great suspense and atmosphere.

The part of Mr. Kipps the person was played by Paul Sosa, who we previously saw at Cal State Bakersfield’s production of Pippin. In this play, he had a lot to do. The opening scene, where he is (very awkwardly) reading the introduction to his own drama is fantastic. You honestly could believe that Sosa cannot read a line to save his life. Of course, we know better, but he was entirely convincing at the beginning. Later, he has to cover a plethora of parts. This he does hesitantly at first, but gradually grows more and more comfortable with acting. This to me was the most impressive part of the play. To portray the development of skill and enthusiasm like that took superb control and focus throughout. Sosa has professional experience in Los Angeles, but is now teaching English at a local middle school. 

 Daniel Korth in character as Mr. Kipps, and Paul Sosa as Mr. Kipps playing "Keckwick," a local villager.

The other part was played by Daniel Korth, who I do not believe I have seen before. This was his Empty Space debut, and I do not recall seeing him anywhere else locally. Korth was apparently one of the founders of Pop Up Theater LA, so he too is a professional veteran. He also gave a compelling performance. His job required that he sell the horror and suspense despite the lack of spooky music or special effects. His voice, his body, and especially his face had to convey all that. And this while he was playing an actor playing the part of Mr. Kipps. So he switched in and out of character, so to speak. The rehearsals of the “play within the play” often went wrong when the “real” Mr. Kipps forgot lines, or fell out of character, so Korth had to go from portraying the terror of the moment right back into the actor trying to coach the non-actor. My kids commented that it must have been difficult to keep a straight face while doing all that. I agree. This is one reason I love live theater - particularly in a small venue where you can see every detail. There is something visceral about seeing good acting up close. 

 Daniel Korth and Paul Sosa

There is one other part in the play, but it is not credited. There is an actual “Woman In Black” in the play. She appears where her character should, but does not speak until the climactic scene. However, she is not “officially” a part of the play. She is not supposed to actually exist, and the fact that we, the audience have seen her is a portent of disaster for us. In the Empty Space version, they do not even credit the actor as “Vision” as she is credited in the London production. And honestly, between the makeup and the black veil, I am not sure who the actor was. Furthermore, she does not appear in the photo gallery at all, let alone with a tag. Her existence is a mystery, I suppose. Whoever she is, whether she exists or not except in our collective imagination, she played her part well.

The Woman In Black runs this Friday and Saturday, and then it is gone. If you live here in Bakersfield and need an idea for a creepy date, go see it.