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e_julianaA friend linked to this essay on another board: A New Sith, or Revenge of the Hope: Reconsidering Star Wars IV in the light of I-III, © Keith Martin 2005
The opening sentence reads:
He then goes on to discuss the very real possibility that Chewbacca was also a top field agent for the Rebellion, and that there are layers upon layers of interaction that we haven't seen before. The scariest thing is that this isn't a cracked-out theory at all - it's completely supported by the movies I have seen. I know Lucas had absolutely no intent to make R2 & Chewie master spies, but it seems that he has anyway (looks like theasspulls prequels were good for something).
Unfortunately, the essay has had the effect of forcing me to put Revenge of the Sith at the top of my Netflix queue, just so I can see precisely what he's talking about. Remind me to stock up on Fernet before I attack that one.
However, the essay has also had the effect of making me think about characters and they will often take on a life of their own, either as the author is trying to put them to the page or as the public observes and assimilates them. I've heard my writerly friends complain about particularly lively characters, and I've had the experience of trying to direct a character that is refusing the interpretation I've put on it. (I've also had the experience of an actor refusing my interpretation, but I've hidden those bodies well.) Even the greatest English playwright had that problem, for as John Dryden said, "Shakespeare showed the best of his skill in his Mercutio; and he said himself, that he was forced to kill him in the third act, to prevent being killed by him." Mercutio does fairly leap off the page, swaggering and heckling. I can think of two other Shakespearian characters that are akin to riding the tiger - Falstaff and Richard III.
It's one thing to love an actor in a role - it's a very different thing to purely love the character, and to watch that character take life on its own.
What is that? Why does that happen? I'm seriously asking for your takes here, y'all.
The opening sentence reads:
"If we accept all the Star Wars films as the same canon, then a lot that happens in the original films has to be reinterpreted in the light of the prequels. As we now know, the rebel Alliance was founded by Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Bail Organa. What can readily be deduced is that their first recruit, who soon became their top field agent, was R2-D2."
He then goes on to discuss the very real possibility that Chewbacca was also a top field agent for the Rebellion, and that there are layers upon layers of interaction that we haven't seen before. The scariest thing is that this isn't a cracked-out theory at all - it's completely supported by the movies I have seen. I know Lucas had absolutely no intent to make R2 & Chewie master spies, but it seems that he has anyway (looks like the
Unfortunately, the essay has had the effect of forcing me to put Revenge of the Sith at the top of my Netflix queue, just so I can see precisely what he's talking about. Remind me to stock up on Fernet before I attack that one.
However, the essay has also had the effect of making me think about characters and they will often take on a life of their own, either as the author is trying to put them to the page or as the public observes and assimilates them. I've heard my writerly friends complain about particularly lively characters, and I've had the experience of trying to direct a character that is refusing the interpretation I've put on it. (I've also had the experience of an actor refusing my interpretation, but I've hidden those bodies well.) Even the greatest English playwright had that problem, for as John Dryden said, "Shakespeare showed the best of his skill in his Mercutio; and he said himself, that he was forced to kill him in the third act, to prevent being killed by him." Mercutio does fairly leap off the page, swaggering and heckling. I can think of two other Shakespearian characters that are akin to riding the tiger - Falstaff and Richard III.
It's one thing to love an actor in a role - it's a very different thing to purely love the character, and to watch that character take life on its own.
What is that? Why does that happen? I'm seriously asking for your takes here, y'all.
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-12 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 08:33 pm (UTC)However, the visuals were verra pretty and nice. I liked those.
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Date: 2007-01-12 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-12 01:15 am (UTC)Part of it, for me, is that channeling experience into a book, unless I'm actually trying to recreate myself as a character, means a plethora of history and attributes pouring out, that don't all fit any one character. So they distribute, and that does a Peter Gabriel sometimes: shocks the monkey.
There's also a non-control issue. I know there are writers with ironclad rules: Character A is very manipulative. Character B is a dancer. There will be no deviation from the rules. Me, WRITER!
But I don't go there, because I can't write that way. If a character begings evolving down a path entirely tangential from whaI envisioned, so be it.
It happened in the Kinkaids, with Mac. I started out with a warmer-hearted version of Mick Jagger and ended up with an astonishing human being, and that change in him also forced me to write JP a different look.
So those particular moments, I find, affect not merely the character in question, but everyone around them.
Anyway.
But Patrick Ormand is still an asshole.