About my „fictional worlds“

Apparently I have suddenly come to an end with these interminable chapters about my reading experience. At least I think that I have covered everything essential, and it will only become repetitive. (Well, I’ll see if I am right …)

The reason I am here again is that I quite suddenly came up with an idea what to “do” with my fictional worlds. Quite an obvious idea, by the way, but I don’t think I realized until now how much material I have collected over the past years and months. Meaning how many fictional worlds I have “acquired” and lived in, most of them still “active” so that I kind of live in them simultaneously. And what I am going to do is to make an inventory of them, to have them “out on the table” before me so as to be able to compare them. And I am very curious about what will “fall out”.

To do this, the first requirement is to come up with a minimal definition of what I mean by a “fictional world”. Like all of these really important concepts, I was using the idea of fictional worlds for a long time without putting a term on them – probably even before “The Lord of the Rings”, maybe even before the “Sagas of the Icelanders”. But I first became fully aware of their importance, I think, when I returned to Shakespeare – now about two and a half years ago. And I think it was then that the term popped up because I realized that I was IN NEED OF something like a fictional world, and I picked this one deliberately as something that might answer this need. And I realized that I had hit gold by the way I was instantly drawn into it, and by the experience of how much I wanted to stay there. And then, at some point, I came to ask that question:

WHY DO I WANT TO BE IN THIS WORLD?

And it appears to me that this is in fact the question that has brought me where I am now, and which might be perfect for starting on a minimal definition. It will probably be an “interactive” definition, as the question itself is an interactive question which is at the same time about a fictional world and about myself. And I just had the opportunity to repeat that question in an “aggravated” version, watching “Hannibal”. Rediscovering Shakespeare I was just wondering, probably when I read “The Taming of the Shrew”, why I loved to be in a world where I didn’t like a single person, or group of people, or found them remotely “attractive”. That is, where I was so clearly an outsider, and where my favourites were the most horrible of people, like Richard III or Queen Margaret. And, I think, almost at the same time, John Cleese playing Petrucchio showed me a way towards an answer because of the empathy he showed for this character, who might be one of the least pleasant people Shakespeare ever invented. But John Cleese persisted to UNDERSTAND him – which wasn’t so hard, I suspect, because they might have one or two things in common … (In a way, the same thing happened to me with Katherine – when I compared her to myself AFTER having discovered what a true horror she is!) But he showed me the human content at the bottom of the nightmare. And, what I always fall for, played him as somebody determined to “make his way” in the best possible world … I might have realized then that feeling empathy isn’t the same thing as liking somebody – or rather that liking somebody, in a fictional context, is probably overrated. As I have always been aware that the “good guys” usually are the least interesting for me, so often those I like least. Like most of the “bad guys”, by the way, because just playing “bad” is equally boring. What I like are the “shady” characters, basically the ones with an interesting predicament to their lives, those that have a lot going on with them which is challenging for an author to describe or for an actor to play. (So, basically, characters that are NOT BORING and commonplace.) But, even though liking fictional characters can be crucial for how I proceed in a certain fictional world, it is obviously not a requirement for being interested in this world and for connecting with it. And in fact I should have known for a long time that I rather like fictional worlds where I find nothing to “like”. At least since the “Spooks” which I had then watched completely (apart from the tenth series which wasn’t out on dvd yet) probably more than two times. And in this series there is exactly one character I really liked: Malcolm Wynn-Jones. As I said, I don’t usually like the characters that “everybody” likes, like Adam and Fiona Carter, or Ruth Evershed. Which doesn’t mean that I dislike them. Like or dislike just don’t really matter in this kind of “environment”. And my favourite spook is probably Ros Myers – which might be kind of an equivalent of Queen Margaret?

So, my almost universal dislike for the characters of “Hannibal” wouldn’t have inhibited me from enjoying the series. It might “work” differently, maybe even better, if you like the characters you are supposed to like, as Will Graham or Jack Crawford. And, not to forget, there are two “serious” love-stories, and it might work better if you “get off” on one of them. But, knowing what kind of world it was before I discovered them, I was already cautious. “Taking a side” emotionally, by personally preferring some people to others or engaging in a love-story, makes you vulnerable and exposes you to the world of “absolute evil” (courtesy of Claudia!) instead of enabling you to play with it. But of course the question remains why anybody would want to “be” in this world who is not a cannibal, or dangerous psychopath, or otherwise involved with the absolute evil that reigns supreme. Nonetheless, I got into the habit of watching this before I go to sleep because it makes me happy. Whereas, for example, the world of “The Office”, which I have explored just now extensively during a few sick days, worked on me as a mild “depressant” which I could only watch during daytime. It’s supposed to be comedy, and it is genius, but, even though it is often hilarious, it is never REALLY funny.

So, maybe the right question in my case might not be why I wanted to be in this world, but: As I really want to be in this world – WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? A question I did ask myself but was probably not really interested in. Though I am certain that there is something, that it is no unwarranted question … Even though I am rather convinced that cannibals, psychopaths, or even hardcore horror fans are not a considerable part of the audience of this series. I even doubt that the latter category gets much of a kick out of it. Maybe I am a cynic – which I think I am not because cynicism bores me – or like to see other people suffer? This is harder to disprove, though I have found no evidence as yet for it in real life. But it is probably true that I don’t care much about other people suffering, especially if I don’t know them … And, in this respect, the series is not so “different” because they take great care not to show us people suffering who we don’t loathe anyway, or don’t really know. So, the sadist in me, if she is there, wouldn’t have found much to get off on. Anyway, she didn’t show her face, as I am quite sure that I didn’t enjoy any of these scenes were people are in agony, not even really horrible people. Though I am certainly guilty of not caring that much. Which might reflect badly on me but probably enabled me to follow Hannibal’s instructions on “participating”. If I know myself, and know what I want, I steer the course. Other people must fend for themselves. (Maybe one important instruction for living “successfully” in a fictional world: If you want to be free you have to follow the rules …?) So, answering the key question by finding into which category of pervert I fall hasn’t been successful so far. Though I am sure there is one. Maybe intellectual arrogance. I’d stick to that. But I know that I don’t know what exactly I am doing, or what “Hannibal” does with me, and, in this case, might not really want to, for fear that I might enjoy it less. I just know that I enjoy the way I am READING this. And that it is such a DIFFERENT experience.

But, before getting deeper into the “why”, and after I have already mentioned a few of them – the world of Shakespeare, Tolkien’s “Middle-earth”, the world of the “Spooks”, “The Office”, and “Hannibal” – it is time to ask what I really mean by a “fictional world”. Obviously it is not a work of fiction but something “above” this. Something that may come into being when a reader interacts with a text, respectively a text interacts with a reader. (The latter being the less obvious part of the process which I am desperately interested in but, by definition, will never get close to. Though it can never be forgotten, describing a reading process, as the most “immediate” and striking part of it. But, though I can ask what I get out of a text, I can never ask the text what it wants with me.) And, less obvious but maybe more important, and certainly highly contestable: in my experience, not every work of fiction, not every single book, or film, not even every tv series, contains - or develops into - a fictional world.

To explain the latter I will give two examples. The first is the crime series “Tatort” on German tv - which is one of the better series, with different “branches” neither of which had the potential to develop into a fictional world until now, and I don’t think they would if I watched them regularly. And I don’t think either that "Tatort" does this for other people. I can’t know that, but there is a big different to a “weekly soap” like “Lindenstraße” – or probably “Eastenders” or “Coronation Street” - that certainly contains a whole fictional world for many people which they have inhabited for years, even decades. And although “Tatort” exists even longer and has of course a big audience, it has never “created” a world like this – where people are “inside”. I don’t think this is even intended. As probably in most cases, the pretense of a “real world” is quite enough.

My second example is “Game of Thrones” where the interaction between me and the series failed completely. Whereas concerning “Tatort” not only I but probably ANYBODY who doesn’t dislike crime stories is an adequate reader. In this case no fictional world was created because I didn’t find anything in it that connected with me. Not a single conflict, or personal predicament that appeared interesting and new to me, and the characters felt all flat and artificial though there were good actors, at least for some of them. The world itself appeared equally flat and “ready-made”. I thought: this is just another “gamer’s series” I am not interested in – for want of a better term. “Fantasy” is much too broad a category. But, as I know that there are lots of intelligent people who like the series, I know I must be wrong about this. That there must be a world I CANNOT SEE. (Very likely, like in the case of “Middle-Earth”, the world is in the books, and the screen version makes little sense without them. But, although I always use the word “read”, even as a provocation, I think, I am currently not much of a “reader”. I usually watch the film (series), and then eventually buy the book.) But, of course, the one thing I can never be wrong about are my own feelings watching it. So, that is a fictional world I will never get to see. Not even as a fictional world I don’t like – which is something that can happen, and which is usually an example of a very strong interaction with the text. In my case something which I remember mainly from reading books as a teenager, like “Krabat” (by Ottfried Preussler) – a true horror story which I think I only finished because I needed to know how it would end. To be able to get rid of that world.

And, as I have proved an incurable realist, I am certain that there must be something “in the text” as well as in me which can create a fictional world. I might not be able to see it – respectively “feel” it. Because I have recently found out that I am not the kind of realist that believes in what I can see – or what might be able to knock me on the head and kill me – but that I believe in what I can feel. THE EVIDENCE OF A FICTIONAL WORLD IS THE WAY I FEEL ABOUT IT. The only part of my experience where I can never be wrong. And the strange events about “The Crucible” – where I could remember precisely what I had FELT watching the film twenty years ago, whereas I couldn’t remember but one or two other things about the film – is probably my best proof that I cannot be wrong about this, in case there were strong feelings. And if they were “twisted” then not by recalling them inaccurately, but already at the moment I had them because I didn’t want (or dare) to have them. And if I didn’t have them at the same time I was watching the film, I had them immediately afterwards, becoming aware of what I had seen. So, they were in any case immediate, genuine feelings, the only ones I was able to have at the time.

So, the reason that any fictional world I care about is widely different from any other one, constitutes a different “set” of feelings and experiences, must be that behind this first level lies a second level of structure which creates the first one. And which, in a “realistic” universe, must also be different in every single instance of a fictional world. And this structure is of course created by the individual text, or texts, that constitute the world - AND the act of reading at the other end.

So, that’s probably enough of the boring stuff. To finish, I’ll make an inventory of “my” current - or recent - fictional worlds. I might forget one or two which can be added later, but the most important ones are certainly there. They are my main “corpus” for investigating fictional worlds. And the first thing I want to do with it is to find out WHY - and maybe IF - they are fictional worlds, in order to get  a better, more comprehensive definition of what a fictional world is for me.

My inventory of fictional worlds:

The world of the “Sagas of the Icelanders” (Anonymous, mostly 12^th and 13^th century prose versions of tales told about real people living in Iceland mainly during the 9^th and 10^th century)

The world of Shakespeare

Tolkiens “Middle-earth”

“Vanity Fair” (William Makepeace Thackerey)

The “Making of England” series ( = series of historic novels about the time of Alfred the Great of Wessex and the “creation” of England, by Bernard Cornwell)

The “serial” worlds of:

“House of Cards”

“The Spooks”

“The Office”

and “Hannibal”

And the fantasy world of “Suwa”, created by my eight-year-old nephew Noah. As this is the only world which is unpublished I can only refer to it by publishing it. Which I will do by editing one of the six episodes which he has “read” to me until now, and which I have typed on my netbook¸ per month. At least this is the plan so far. I would be very surprised if I’d stick to it …

Another footnote on „Hannibal“ about “anticipation”, and one final thing about „The Crucible”

Investigating the phenomenon of participation, I realized that there was an important part of it which I called “anticipation” that I hadn’t examined yet. And I realize that I know very little about it though I have dealt with it before. But I have never felt its power like that, the way it probably drew me into the series and the perverse world displayed in it which I would otherwise have avoided. I remember part of the process distinctly in this case, and I described it at the beginning of my first blog on “Hannibal”. The obvious part is that it has to do with past experience. When I discovered that Richard Armitage was in this series I became interested right away, of course, but, just for a few minutes probably, I thought that, this time, it might be best to resist the temptation to watch it. Well, MAYBE for a few minutes because I knew I’d never be able to resist it. But I felt that I should. First of all because I usually try to avoid watching films I wouldn’t watch if there wasn’t an actor, or actors, I find interesting playing in this film. Sometimes it happens though, and I usually regret it. That is because I resent being bored and “dulled” much more than is reasonable. The way I was looking at things not so long ago, I would have considered it to be stupid to always expect I might find something to match the last great experience, or even something better. Especially after something like this last “period” of reading that started with “Romeo and Juliet” which I thought I wouldn’t like as much as the “histories” and “Macbeth” but which became instantly one of my favourite plays because there is, in my opinion, some of the greatest and most “poetic” writing in it Shakespeare ever did. And the dynamics of creating entropy and chaos – and making “tragedy” arise quite naturally - is unmatched in my experience so far. The next highlight was to watch the Baz Luhrman film with Leonardo DiCaprio, again one of these totally special experiences because it has probably never before happened that what he “saw” in this play was so exactly what I myself saw in it – although expressed in a totally unexpected way. Which is great, of course. After that I used my short holiday to finally read “Vanity Fair”: 800 pages in about two weeks, something I haven’t done … probably since “The Lord of the Rings” which was … almost exactly fifteen years ago. And I wasn’t bored by a single line of this book. I remember that I laughed out loud about three times during the first 30 pages being on the train. (Embarassing, but I enjoyed the feeling immensely being surrounded by all these “ordinary” people, thinking about their dinner, and their weekend, and probably Bundesliga, laughing myself stupid about something somebody had written almost 300 years ago, and which appeared to me a hundred percent more “real” than all that surrounding dullness.) And then the crowning experience of watching the BBC series of “Vanity Fair” (with Natasha Little as Becky Sharp). Which is definitely in the same category as “Middlemarch” – where I couldn’t believe that it was possible to “put” such an epic book “completely” into a short series. They just left out all the boring stuff, whereas in “Vanity Fair” there is no boring stuff. And it felt in fact as if they had “put in” everything because they got the important stuff so right. I should have thought there couldn’t be anything that would match this delight – as “Vanity Fair”, like “Middlemarch”, is one of the very few books that takes its reader completely seriously – confirming my theory that there is nothing more serious than great humour - and I really enjoyed that. But my delight in watching “Hannibal” was even keener, more momentous and compelling. And is still going on as I am watching it again and BEGIN to understand what it might be about. And I think that all the great reading BEFORE somehow added to the pleasure and made me more susceptible for experiencing something great. Which might be a totally unspecific but nonetheless important part of anticipating. Of course I discovered quite soon some very good reasons for enjoying the series which I described earlier. But I think the main reason why it went so well was that there was so much anticipation at work, EXPECTATIONS I couldn’t help having, and that WEREN’T DISAPPOINTED but SURPASSED.

Being disappointed was of course my main fear. I can easily survive being bored, or even disgusted, though it might be disagreeable. But, in some cases, I cannot avoid taking being disappointed personally. I know that this is stupid but I cannot help it. I remember how much I hated seeing Michael Fassbender play Mr. Rochester as if he was bored with this character after having been extremely pleased with him in “Hunger”, “Fish Tank”, “Inglorious Bastards”, and “A Dangerous Method”. Though he has had ample opportunity afterwards to make up for it with “Shame”, “Slow West”, and “Frank”( where I noticed for the first time what an amazing voice he has because you don’t see his face most of the time). But, though he was definitely back in my good graces with “Steve Jobs”, this “taint” stayed with him, and I resist the impulse to watch every film he is in. (I still think that it was probably a good idea not to see him as a mad slave-holder.)

So, the most important danger for me regarding “Hannibal” was not to be bored or put off by the series as such but to be disappointed with Richard Armitage because the serial killer story might turn out to be disappointing. Which I half expected because I find “the usual kind” of horror and serial killer stories boring and predictable. And, though I should know better in his case, I don’t take it completely seriously what actors say about their motivation for accepting a part or applying for it. He said that he wanted to work with Brian Fuller, and that he watched the series and liked it EVEN THOUGH it was horror. I should have known then that I would like it as well, or at least would not find it completely stupid and horrible – and I think I did. I know by now that we like the same things - definitely since I watched the “specials” on the tenth series of the “Spooks”. Because then the team made a synopsis of their ten greatest moments from the series (which I have watched completely), and they picked almost exclusively the bits I had hated. For a moment I wondered what was wrong with me that I had enjoyed it so much and then thought about what I had liked. And, apart from frequent “guest appearances” of such totally special actors as Simon Russel Beale or Brian Protheroe, two of my three favourite bits had been exactly the two things Richard Armitage mentioned in his interview on the ninth series as his personal highlights: the part about Conny James (most incredible acting by Gemma Jones!), and the episode where “the grid” is taken over completely by terrorists, and where everybody has to “act” all the time while finding ways of working together when regular communication has become impossible – which is, I think, in fact the culminating point of the whole series. After that it “declines” because they are overdoing it, and you feel as if you are constantly hit on the head with a hammer. – And this is by no means the only proof that there was no reason for mistrust on my part. For example, we apparently share a favourite series: “House of Cards”.

I am well aware that this is probably a rather ridiculous - maybe embarrassing?, maybe irrational? - part of anticipating. Which I tried to describe truthfully because it is a tremendously important part nonetheless. Maybe the most ridiculous thing about it is how I PERSIST to mistrust. Which makes me think that mistrust must be quite important for how I “anticipate”. (So, probably at least not irrational?) And it isn’t just a matter of reading fiction but of real life as well. Because being disappointed is a tremendously important part of growing up, and I know that it doesn’t reflect well on me how little I have accepted it. How careful I am not to be disappointed where it really matters. Having expectations is of course the central part of anticipating, but the most dangerous part as well for a reading-process because they cannot only be disappointed but might spoil your taste for  WHAT REALLY HAPPENS, on the screen as much as in real life. Though I don’t have the least idea how I am doing this, when it comes to fiction, I try to avoid having expectations AND to have them at the same time. And I probably do that in real life as well, which is more ominous. But watching the fourth episode of “Hannibal (3)” I suddenly understood that the bit about us living in the best possible world is no truism. It was when I first understood Will Graham, because when you have understood this – that living in the best possible world isn’t just our fate but something we HAVE TO ACHIEVE – you really understand that he is trying to do “the right thing”, given the perverse world he lives in. And suddenly he becomes a much more interesting character, and his story makes sense to watch – not as a stupid kind of pathological case study but as something that might regard me. Because he decides, and is trying to live, “where” HIS best chance of happiness is. Under completely perverse circumstances, which is probably what makes it interesting to watch. - So, we decide for ourselves if we live in the best possible world. Which would be impossible without having expectations and being able to BELIEVE in them. But, somehow, I think that it would be impossible as well without the ability to MISTRUST them. So, where there is really something at stake, mistrust is implicit.

I tried to get this as clear as I could, but maybe it is still bollocks … ? Be this as it may, I remember having been extremely relieved to have come up with a SOUND reason for wanting to see “Hannibal” when I realized that I was looking forward to seeing Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter. I knew this at least wouldn’t be disappointing, ANTICIPATING from what I had seen of him so far. In Richard Armitage’s case this was different because even he himself did certainly not anticipate playing a serial killer in a horror series – which was in fact something he thought he would probably avoid. So, there are two different kinds of expectations – specific and non-specific - both of them important for how my reading will play out. And which work quite differently, I suppose, maybe the non-specific ones being more important because, unlike in real life, when I read I love it to be surprised. But the specific ones might usually decide if I’ll “risk” it. And there are two different kinds of mistrust as well, mistrusting the “text” and mistrusting myself, respectively my motives for reading it. And I suspect that both kinds are tremendously important, somehow, for seeing the TRUTH about myself AND about the “best possible world”. Without this grain of mistrust, I think, I would have to read “with my eyes closed” and might miss my only chance of “getting it right”, that is, of reading as if I lived in the best possible world?

So, this isn’t very satisfying so far, as I tried to describe the phenomenon of anticipation as far as I could – and without leaving out the things you don’t talk about. But I haven’t really understood how it works. So I might as well add a little chapter about “The Crucible” that has been sitting at the back of my mind for some time. Not very satisfying either because there is no way I can see the production again. So I obviously “closed” my reading-process - which was still kind of going on for about a year after I had seen it. But I suppose I wanted to provide myself with an explanation why I liked the production so much and probably experienced the keenest delight I ever felt immediately after having seen something – followed by three days of feeling like shit. The delight I can explain “rationally”, I think, because it was very close to what I felt just now, reading “Vanity Fair”. It is about a completely successful and satisfying reading-process. Where there is nothing left to wish for. Reading it I felt in fact as if I had read and understood EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE of the book – which is not only impossible, considering the 800 pages, but untrue, as I remember having read too fast sometimes to grasp everything and encountered sentences, even whole paragraphs, I found too complex and difficult to analyze. But it FELT like that – and this was, I realize now, because I always knew WHAT TO FEEL when I read it. This was as well the reason I didn’t need to watch the series twice – which I did nonetheless because I loved it so much, but it was a bit disappointing because my experience was so complete the first time that I wasn’t able to see MORE than that. And I think it might even be good that I cannot watch “The Crucible” again because it will never again be as good as when I first saw it. And the explanation is probably the same as in the case of “Vanity Fair”. I understood COMPLETELY – on an intellectual and on an emotional level – what was going on. And I think this was the first time this ever happened - or at least that I became conscious of it - which accounts for the singular delight and sense of achievement I felt immediately afterwards, and which I probably felt already watching it. And – amazing! – I might have just found a very simple explanation for the three bad days afterwards, because I realized then that this was over FOR GOOD. I was of course really interested in what Richard Armitage had to say about playing John Proctor, but MY OWN READING was over, and I would never “be” like this again. (Which was a bit premature, but how was I supposed to know?) I was probably just desolate that I would NEVER FEEL THE SAME WAY again.

And I became aware only recently that I had a theory as well WHY this reading-process was so singularly successful and enjoyable. Of course, what I enjoyed FIRST OF ALL was that Richard Armitage was so good – better than I could have imagined. And this drew me into the play – as in the case of “Vanity Fair” the writing is so good that you kind of “anticipate” the content as being great without knowing much about it yet. I suppose it is the emotional content that usually draws me in so fast that I have a FEELING of understanding everything. But only if it is not just expressed strongly, but in a way that it appears to me original and true, and not commonplace.  And this is, I think, where the first level of complexity set in. And complexity is probably even the most important thing to have this sense of ACHIEVEMENT reading something because it gives me the satisfaction that I perceive the text to be complex AND that I understand it. So, I had this experience of something not commonplace that I very much wanted to read.

And it became very soon even more interesting because I suddenly remembered having watched the film about 20 years ago. It was in this first scene between John Proctor and Abigail Williams which I realized I had been expecting. This was the only scene I really remembered from the film because of a single sentence which had obviously gone “under my skin” twenty years ago, and remained there. But when the scene came, the sentence wasn’t there. I am rather sure it was there though, just not the way I remembered it, the focus was elsewhere. And from this moment, I think, I got definitely interested in the story as well and started to compare WHAT I HAD FELT watching the film – because apart from this single sentence and the memory of Winona Ryder playing Abigail I had no clear recollection of the film, only of MY FEELINGS watching it – and this was one of the most interesting reading-experiences I ever had. I was fascinated that what I felt watching the stage production was so DIFFERENT.  And even though I remembered so little about the film I clearly perceived how much more “right” the stage production was because there was much less commonplace and cliché. But the main reason for the difference was probably that I was so much more right myself, more able to understand what this REALLY was about. My best example is the character of Elizabeth Proctor about whom I knew exactly how I had felt watching the film, and I was so pleased that I had been SO WRONG. And this might have been because they had it wrong in the film, but, at the same time, there is no way I would have understood this character twenty years ago. And this was basically a rewarding experience, although a bit painful as well, in this case.

This was already rather complex – and “participating” – reading. But I think what happened – for actors as well as for the audience – could only happen because the play as such is so well-written and complex. Strong acting requires strong writing, and it is not only that Arthur Miller “knew” so exactly what he was writing about. The continuing success of this play – which obviously “works” for a 21^st century audience without any apparent “modernizations” – is probably due to its complexity. Not only on a metaphorical level – where there is this dramatic pattern of the “crucible” which can be used to “experience” the witch-hunt from the seventeenth century as well as the political harassment of the McCarthy era, and probably other phenomena of this kind going on in the 21^st century. But I think even more because within this “political” framework there is room for two other story lines, either of which would make a proper play. Though, of course, neither of these plays would be half as good as when all three story-lines work together. One of them is the purest instance of a “Greek tragedy”: the part about John Proctor whose “aberration” brings about the catastrophe. The other a timeless drama about a relationship, and about “true” love being put to the test. (Which is the point about – I exaggerate! – making Elizabeth Proctor a heroine, not a nuisance!) And the way I was able to read ALL THREE story lines at once was probably why I enjoyed watching it so much.

The one I followed least, though, was the most obvious one about the witch-hunt. And I think this wasn’t coincidence or only due to where MY focus was. I think it was inherent in the production that the “inner” stories came out stronger. They certainly tried to make all three parts come out as strong as possible, but the part about the “crucible” was probably more impressive in the film. (Though, having seen it in the cinema, I might underestimate the immediacy of the stage experience. And I didn’t smell the incense!) There were certainly good features in the stage production to make it impressive, but, at some point, I think, the director and the way the production develops “decide” which story line will “take the lead”. And they really had it right about Elizabeth Proctor – which is crucial for the relationship drama to work. (Probably because the director was a woman?) But the way Richard Armitage played John Proctor, and the way he went full length with the tragedy (which, I think, is what he called “opera”) it was his performance that carried the whole production. And, in this case, this wasn’t at all a bad thing. Though it might have been, if the rest of the production had lacked the potential to “climb” to the same level. Isolated from its context the strongest truths will come out as commonplace or even pathetic.

It was a good thing because, in my opinion, the tragedy part is the most important for how this play still “works”. Even though, as I had the opportunity to observe looking into “Macbeth”, genuine tragedy is extremely difficult for a contemporary audience to deal with. I don’t think “we” usually understand the point of it anymore. Maybe on the opera stage, but there people have the “excuse”  of the music for “not listening”. Seeing “The Crucible” I probably understood for the first time that it works though, the way it is supposed to. And I have a theory why it might have been the most important part of the experience for Arthur Miller as well. I just stumbled upon “Rammstein” using a good old German proverb in one of their songs: You have to dig really deep to get CLEAR water. (“Tiefe Brunnen muss man graben, wenn man klares Wasser will.”) Which, I think, contains a fairly good description of the process. And it doesn’t matter what you call it. I called it “Greek tragedy” because the impact made me remember what I had heard about “catharsis” at school, and probably never understood. But it must have made an impression on me that, by this kind of process, you should be able to clean yourself of all the accidental stuff, and maybe get back to what you essentially are, and what you cannot lose. Being personally involved in the McCarthy “crucible”, Arthur Miller probably knew that there was no way of staying clean. Shit would rub off on you whatever you do. Maybe even WITHOUT having done anything you perceive as “guilt”. And Richard Armitage is certainly an actor who can come extremely close to a cathartic process like this – even without being afraid of being “changed as a person”. Which might be the whole point about tragedy, and which, I suspect, was exactly what Arthur Miller needed.

Sequel on „Hannibal“: about „participation"

I should have known that I would never again write anything of what I had planned in my blog but might instead write an endless sequel on “Hannibal”. Though, in a way, I might already be “through” with it, which is of course a real pity. But I enjoy the experience of writing these things “as they come”, watching it again. I know it would have been better to watch the first and second series before taking the third up again, but I was too keen on seeing this again and checking on my first reading. And I am not quite sure if I’ll buy the first and second series though I’ll probably want to see the “beginning” of Hannibal Lecter. But I already spoiled it, as I knew I would, watching the third series first. I enjoyed watching the first episode again, more than I did before, because then I hadn’t understood ANYTHING. And for another reason which this blog will be about. But watching the second episode was a set-back because I realized that the main story, about Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, had already become stale and predictable. Which is what usually happens to series – maybe one of the reasons why they are such a good “substitute” for real life. But, as I said, I enjoyed the first episode immensely, and it provided me with one of the climactic moments of my reading-experience.

I wrote that I loathed the way people talked, but I have got used to it by now and, of course, understand a great deal more. Watching the first episode again I was rewarded for REALLY listening because the dialogue partly works “in two directions”. That is, there are DIRECT messages to the audience “hidden” in it. (At least I suppose that there are more of them, but I don’t know yet.) The moment I discovered this was when Hannibal Lecter is about to kill a young man who has found out that he is an impostor,  and his “partner” Bedelia inadvertently drops in. And only just now I realized that this scene is the culminating point of a strand of irony which was a special treat even after having been spoiled. I just finished “Vanity Fair” – for the first time! – which is 800 pages of the purest and sanest irony I ever came across, so, practically “reading in heaven”. If I still needed an answer to the question why an intelligent person with a refined taste of humour might enjoy this series I have found it.

The “strand” I am referring to starts when Hannibal meets this young man again in Florence and perceives that he is dangerous because he knows that he is not who he says he is. He invites him to his house for dinner, and they dine together with his wife – who is no more his wife than he is professor Fell but his ex-therapist who stepped into the role of Mrs. Fell. The guest remarks on her diet, and she answers that her husband is very particular about how she tastes. Which induces him to ask if it was “that kind of party”. And Hannibal Lecter answers that no, it was not THAT kind of party. The irony of his reply isn’t even visible on the surface because “the innocent” doesn’t get killed and eaten right away. It lies almost exclusively in the incomparably matter-of-fact Danish way Mads Mikkelsen says that sentence. Which cannot be honoured here, of course. But he certainly knows then that he will kill the young man and is looking forward to it. - When it finally happens Bedelia is just coming home and becomes a witness of Hannibal killing a man, probably for the first time. And he asks her if she is “just watching or PARTICIPATING?”- It wasn’t just the cute Danish accent which instantly made this word ring in my ears. (To do him justice, he doesn’t have much of a DANISH accent in this series. As Hannibal Lecter is Lithuanian he is supposed to have a strange accent of some sort, but “participating” suddenly reminded me of what he sounds like in Danish.) Right! I thought, even before I grasped his explanation of what he meant. Right! I am not just watching, I am PARTICIPATING.

His explanation of “participating” I remembered right away, and I don’t have to check on it. He didn’t mean that she should actively partake in the slaughter. But “just watching” would have been despicable in his eyes, I think, being submerged by feelings of dread, horror, sympathy maybe. (Just what “average” people would feel – and the “average” audience of course!) Whereas “participating” means to have YOUR OWN expectations about what might happen, being conscious of YOUR OWN PART (feelings, reactions, expectations …) in what is going on, and to enjoy a feeling of achievement  when these expectations are met. (You win, or loose sometimes as well, but you are DOING something.) “THAT IS PARTICIPATING.”

And that is what my blog has been about – the “bigger” half of it. I couldn’t have  described it any better – to tell the truth, I could’t possibly have described it as well as that. Which might already be the main reason why I enjoyed watching this so much. I was thrilled that I EXPRESSLY was given that freedom to decide for myself how much I would get involved. I don’t think I understand half of what happened yet, but, whatever it was, it worked, as I was never “submerged” by whatever amount of blood or beauty they “threw” at me, and, on the other hand, I never “dropped out” but invariably stayed “on the inside”. From the beginning, everything was part of an aesthetical experiment - even MY OWN FEELINGS were! In that way I can “have” them as much as I want, which is: AS FAR AS THEY GO. Without any danger of getting involved in something I shouldn’t get involved in – which means: something that would only “throw me back onto myself” and make me miserable. I have known now for some time that I know how to do this, but I am constantly trying to find the ways and means for doing it over and over again.

And I don’t find it strange anymore that one of my three favourite moments so far was rather a low-key moment. It was a little speech the blind woman makes after she has escaped from the “dragon”. I don’t want to “jump ahead” now and check on it, but I remember that she kind of complains that people always take advantage of her and think they can do whatever they want with her. It is more THE WAY she says that, and, of course, the context, which makes it memorable. She is one of the people who, through no fault of their own, have no idea of what is going on. And, due to the dodged, miffed, and strangely confident way she says it, it doesn’t read as self-pity. It reads as: “I know that I am damaged and have no real value for anybody. But this is who I am. I know it, and I stick to it.” - I was strangely delighted, and, though it is impossible to translate my feelings at that moment, I’ll try: “How ignorant she is”, I thought, “and how persistently stupid – and how RIGHT!” And this was probably the moment I “dropped out” and leaned back, and watched the big slaughter at the end quite relaxed.

And I think there will be a different story like this for everybody who has taken the bait at one point and “participated”. Of course it is like this with every text, to a certain degree, but “Hannibal” is certainly the kind of fiction that actively encourages such intercourse. Not least through the character of Hannibal Lecter himself whose perception of freedom is completely uncompromising – a freedom he achieves for himself by making people fall under his spell! There will probably be an INDIVIDUAL place for everybody who liked watching it where they became “captivated”, and probably an individual place, or places, where they dropped out. And I think this is great.

Watching „Hannibal“: about cannibalism and flirting with the „absolute“

I know I am writing a lot lately – just in case anybody is reading this still – but there were a lot of “scraps” and loose ends left over from my reading which I had to deal with. There are still at least two of them, and there will probably still be more “falling out”. But there was a lot of new reading going on lately as well, and there is something obviously more pressing than everything else because I was so much surprised by it. It was how I discovered “Hannibal”. The tv series, as usual, not the books, and the reason for it is rather obvious in my case: I discovered that Richard Armitage had played the “Tooth-Fairy” in the third part of this series. I must admit that I was, to say the least, startled to come across him again as a psychotic serial killer in a horror series, and, for maybe five minutes, I thought: There is no way I am going to watch THIS! But the unpleasant feeling lasted about a quarter of an hour, then curiosity got the better of me. I might have remembered that I usually “reward” actors for surprising me. And there was another reason for looking forward to buying the third series as soon as possible after I returned from my short holiday, which was to see Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter. I had liked him immensely as Michael Kohlhaas in the film with the same title from 2013 where he left the audience in no doubt about how inhuman (and human at the same time) it is to seek justice AT ALL COSTS. But when he finally convinced me of being one of the most significant actors of our time was last year in a really kinky Danish film where he played a man who was 11 percent bull. I don’t remember the title of the film, and I won’t buy it because it was rather disgusting as such, but the way he played this I almost think he aimed precisely at the 11 percent. Of course he must be the perfect choice for playing Hannibal Lecter!

So I had certain notions regarding the series, apart from a vague expectation of being surprised, and couldn’t wait to buy it. What I certainly didn’t expect was to be entertained and thrilled by it almost from the first minute I watched it. I don’t think it took me the complete first episode to understand that this wasn’t the type of horror I loathe, which aims at torturing my nervous and “moral” system and leaving me in a queasy and disturbed state. This, until now, hasn’t happened ONCE. I could even safely eat my supper watching the second episode as I am used to. Instead they constantly surprised and elated me with beautiful images of not only, but of course as well, rather disturbing matter. And with the most incredible shots of “still life” and interiors which I probably ever saw. So, this wasn’t “about” what I thought it would be. It wasn’t about the kind of horror destined to jar my nerves and of which I could never understand why people would concern themselves with. So, it had to be the other, more intelligent kind, destined to “jar” my moral system and point out to me that my concerns about the value of human life and the immorality of killing, and my notions about love and human relationships, and so on can be questioned. And maybe it is, but this is obviously not the main objective of the series. I tolerate this kind rather better than the first one, but it gets boring very fast. And I wasn’t bored. On the contrary, I remained “thrilled” by what I saw, and the only thing that put me off was the dialogue. I didn’t like the way people talked, and I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Which was, of course, partly because I haven’t seen the first and second series. But I think not only because of this. It was the kind of talk that would never “go anywhere” – there would be no real answers to any of the questions which could be raised in this abnormal context. But you understand THAT they have to be raised. - So, it isn’t really “about” this either. Of course it is about a lot of things, but in my opinion it isn’t even a good “thriller” (or thrillers, as there are at least two stories completed in the series) because I was never really surprised or startled by anything that happened, even the great “finale” was very much what I would have expected. Suspense wasn’t a big issue either, at least not for me. But if it isn’t about all this - WHAT is it about? Because, as thrilled as I might have been by the beauty of it, this wouldn’t have lasted. Even concerning people I tend to notice the “content” before I even notice the beauty – consciously, at least. So, for me, without any relevant content there is no beauty, and there is no thrill either. And, consciously, I was still of the opinion that, for me, cannibalism was a subject even slightly more irrelevant than football. Well, I was probably wrong about this …

(And, of course, now that I have seen most of it, I am very pleased with Richard Armitage’s performance. I say “of course” but I always entertain the possibility of being disappointed, in this case because I usually find psychotic serial killers boring. Probably because I don’t understand them, and don’t want to. I don’t understand Francis Dolarhyde either, nor do I want to, but there is in fact something fascinating in the experience of watching a psychotic serial killer if it is done as well as in this case. Something that, from the point of view of the actor, must be a great challenge and really interesting to play. It is that you always somehow have to see and feel, respectively to express, the POTENTIAL which is in him. That there is something that MUST come out … It is the kind of thing where acting really gets relevant, and, I suppose, rewarding. Where it is not just duplicating real life situations. And this I have never before seen to be done so convincingly. Though my experience with serial killers is paltry, like everybody who goes to the cinema once a month, I have come across a few of them – all of which I found quite easy to forget obviously (with the exception of a rather unpleasant memory of the “original” Hannibal Lecter by Antony Hopkins). And then, in this case, there is this kind of metamorphosis from the “shy boy” - who is somehow still present “within” the bulky, threatening male - to the “great red dragon” which is extremely dynamic. And I loved the way they used the “complete” actor, not just parts, as his face, voice etc., which is not often done in this way in films. They used everything that can be made part of an artistic performance, especially his body and physical strength, and that gives him a much greater range of possibilities to express the content so convincingly. And, on the other hand, his empathy for the character as well, which is always there, in his case, I think. But you have to give an actor the opportunity to express it. So, in one word: Striking!)

I developed a theory surprisingly early on what “the whole thing” might be about, for me, based on what kinds of observations I came across watching it. And it is a theory that can never be “proved” – even less than usual - because it isn’t based on understanding but on the way metaphors work. As, if I enjoy watching this so much, there must be a reason, or at least a pretext, for concerning myself with cannibalism. Or at least for tolerating people to talk about it as if it was some kind of “human” activity without constantly thinking of them as completely insane … And I found a clue for the relevance of cannibalism even within “our” cultural practice which certainly isn’t the only one but the most obvious. It came to me because certain people in the series get so much involved with Hannibal Lecter that they take into account and persist in the thought that they might be killed and eaten by him, even in a way, may consider this to be their destiny - or maybe even the way they want to end? And that there might be some kind of communication and even a deep relationship possible with this “monster”. And this is somehow different from trying to understand how Hannibal Lecter’s mind and emotions work – if he has any. Of course he has! – but I don’t even care to think that Mads Mikkelsen really “understands” him, that is: in an emphatic sense. (Though I know next to nothing about “extreme” acting, and never will understand it anyway.) But the possibility of being eaten or being able to give up yourself to such a degree as to consider it some kind of communion … oh, great, I UNCONSCIOUSLY used this word! Because this is exactly what happened when I brought myself to consider this possibility. Being brought up as a catholic I certainly always dodged the metaphor, as, I think, probably more than 99 percent of the contemporary disciples of Jesus have done as well. But, maybe even hearing it regularly at mass, you still keep it somewhere in the back of your mind, quite overgrown by the constant talk about love, and goodness, and peace, and how everybody is your brother and sister and so on … But if my theory, which suddenly sprung up when watching “Hannibal”, about why Jesus (or his biographer) used exactly these words – that he wanted his disciples to eat his flesh and drink his blood and remember him by it – is correct he was much more of a genius than I gave him credit for. As I said: this constant talk about love doesn’t only get boring and empty very fast but is apt to delude us about how gritty his message to us really is. If he hadn’t used this metaphor – unlike in the series, noBODY actually gets eaten! – but said that he loved them all very much, and asked them to remember him, they probably would have done so until the end of their days, but that would have been it. To found a religion supposed to last 2000 years, going on 3000, you definitely need something stronger. And, for one thing, being eaten by somebody (in particular if you are still alive!) is certainly the closest contact you will ever have with them. You may be forgotten by all your loved ones, if they live long enough, but they would never forget you in a million years if they partook in that meal!

By these remarks I don’t want to pretend in any way that, understanding this, I understand the series any better. But I think I understand at least that understanding, in this context, might not just be overrated but partly defeats the purpose. Not unlike the disciples of Jesus I content myself with watching and “worshipping” – most of the time, although I had quite often some cutting remark in the back of my head, probably as a kind of rope to bring me back to sanity. And the meditative pace that is kept throughout, even when things are getting “ugly”, proves me right, I think, as to what this series might be about. Like some of “our” spiritual practice, and even more some of our literary and artistic practice, maybe especially some of the horror I don’t deign to acknowledge, it is about PLAYING WITH THE ABSOLUTE. Which, as it is absolute and we live in a relative world, we will never be able to understand anyway. But the PRACTICE kind of keeps it alive in us, as one of the most interesting possibilities we have to get “beyond” ourselves. To transcend this life in the direction of “something else”. Which is probably the motivation behind Hannibal supporting the metamorphosis of the Red Dragon, instead of helping to catch him. To see HOW FAR this will get him. - But of course I don’t have any expectations FOR ME to “get somewhere” with this. (Same as I will probably never “get anywhere” shooting my bow. I just love it, and like to practice.) Not taking it too seriously is even exactly the point of the exercise. If I had to, I’d choose the life of the blind woman who gets involved with the Red Dragon, and escapes from this relationship alive and “in one piece”, a hundred times over that of Will Graham and the privilege of dying with Hannibal Lecter. But watching “Hannibal” reminds me very pleasantly every time HOW MUCH I like to practice.