A Few Thoughts on the Stories We Don’t Know

Earlier today, I watched the heartbreaking video that real-life Supergirl Melissa Benoist posted on social media, detailing her history with intimate partner violence and her long journey to getting out. First things first: all the love and admiration to Melissa Benoist for being brave enough to speak up about her experiences and use her platform to promote awareness about domestic abuse. I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to compose those thoughts, read them out loud, and upload them for everyone to see. Like so many have, in truth for ages but much more visibly in the MeToo/TimesUp era, Benoist made herself incredibly vulnerable in order to 1) bring truth to light, 2) help others struggling in silence, and 3) reclaim power from someone who tried to take it from her. Truly, a hero onscreen and off.

Seeing that video and following some of the news/responses from it helped me coalesce some thoughts I’ve been ruminating on periodically for basically the last two years. When the Harvey Weinstein story broke and the floodgates opened in Hollywood and other industries, a lot of attention understandably was focused on the abusers who carried out this despicable behavior, sometimes for decades, and the systems that helped cover for and enable them time and again.

But rightly, thankfully, a lot of attention has been on the survivors as well – many of them women, but not all of them (much respect to Anthony Rapp, Terry Crews, Brendan Frasier, and other men who’ve come forward.) As celebrities have opened up and shared their stories, they’ve help create a space in which more voiceless victims in less high-profile positions can be heard. I’m so thankful to all of them for having the courage to share such personal details of their lives and help make it okay for others to speak up as well.

One recurring thought I’ve had these last couple years is about all that goes on in secret that we’re not privy to. For the sake of this blog post, I’ll focus on the pop culture side, but it applies to any space in which people are touched by harassment or violence. Despite “casting couch” jokes as old as movies themselves, I (naively) never thought much about these things really happening until I started reading about Harvey Weinstein, Louis CK, Matt Lauer, and all the others. But since I have, my mind has repeatedly turned to so many “whatever happened to her?” stories, performers on an exciting rise who suddenly just seemed to drop off the radar for no clearcut reason. I now know of powerful abusers like Weinstein who blacklisted actresses who tried to fight back, and I continually wonder how many talented, passionate people left their industries because of harassment or abuse. This is a selfish way to frame it, and obviously the safety and well-being of the survivors in question is of foremost importance, but I do ask how many incredible performances we’ll never see or songs we’ll never hear because singular talents left their dream careers, realizing their respective industries would rather protect predators than support the victims?

Benoist’s story brings to mind another thought I’ve had, about those who do remain on our screens or in our playlists, and all that they go through that we don’t know about. I think of Gwyneth Paltrow being harassed at a time when she was one of the most famous actresses in Hollywood. I think of Eliza Dushku, who was abused on set as a child, being hyper-objectified as the “sexy bad girl” Slayer on Buffy. And I think of watching seasons 4 and 5 of Glee, with a large contingent of fans dragging Benoist for playing “Mary Sue” Marley.

Because these are faces we see on TVs and billboards and these are people we dissect on social media, we have a sense that we know them, that their lives in part belong to us. But there’s so much happening in celebrities’ lives beyond what we see, some of which we may not learn until years later, some of which we may never know. When people online groan that Paltrow is overrated, or sexualize Dushku, or vilify Benoist for getting divorced, we don’t know what else might be behind the face they present to us. I know that I for one am going to try harder to be mindful of that now, and try to conjure up a little grace before I speak.

Book-Movie Comparison: A Single Man

And here’s one more post about A Single Man, as long as I still have the book fresh in my memory. This is an instance where I saw the movie prior to reading the book, and even though it takes some major liberties, I do continue to love the film – I love both for what they are, what each brings individually (spoilers for the book and the film, which aren’t always the same thing!)

I’ve mentioned before what I regard as the film’s greatest asset: its use of color to create a visual depiction of George’s depression and grief after the loss of Jim. I love the way most of the film is shot in a washed-out sepia tone, only letting the colors shine fully for 1) flashbacks to George’s life with Jim and 2) the fleeting moments in the present where George makes a brief connection with someone that cuts through the fog of his melancholy. I put it up there with Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “Carrion Comfort” as masterfully, genuinely capturing the sheer weariness of depression.

Which pairs masterfully with the opening sequence of the book, in which George wakes and gradually “becomes.” The book’s art is in its words while the film’s strongest poignancy is visual, but both are equally effective at painting a picture of what George is experiencing.

The film is less effective at recreating other aspects of George’s emotions, chiefly his annoyance at society and his anger at homophobia. However, it doesn’t fail to do so. Rather, it doesn’t really try to do so. The movie’s version of George is a different animal, unflappably cool and stiff-upper-lip about 90% of the time, and Colin Firth plays that version to a tee. It makes me ache to see him quietly going about his day, with no one recognizing how heartbroken he is. Part of this, I think, is just an intentional choice on the part of Tom Ford and co., but I imagine part of it is that George doesn’t express nearly as much of his anger and annoyance out loud. It’s all in the narration, his inner thoughts about his neighbors and fellow professors and front steps in San Francisco. It’s always tough to fully bring out a character in an adaptation who, on the page, is so internal. In that way, maybe it’s better that the film veers off and does its own thing, making its own clear choices instead of failing to measure up to the book’s.

While the film doesn’t mix in as much humor as the book does, it still pulls it in in small ways. Firth’s staid delivery makes for a nice deadpan on the mescaline story, and I enjoy the imagined visual of Grant and his family in their fallout shelter while Grant drones on about using different contractors so no one guesses what you’re building (that’s probably the moment in which the film best captures George’s wryer aspect.)

I will say, though, that after I read the book, it did bother me that the movie uses the connective tissue of George planning to commit suicide at the end of the day. I understand the urge to give the day some added weight right at the beginning, because the book is really just “a day in the life” for the most part. But suicide? It makes me sad that the 2009 film hits the “tragic gay” aspect harder than the 1964 novel. In the book, George is grieving and aimless, but he keeps going. This is one day, and he plans to do it again tomorrow. He isn’t building up to killing himself. Even though the film uses the device well and shows us a lot about their version of George through his actions leading up to it, I wish it made different decisions in that area.

Favorite Characters: Henry Tilney (Northanger Abbey)

Truth be told, one of the big hints that Northanger Abbey was Jane Austen’s first novel is the simple fact that Mr. Tilney might be a little too great.  He doesn’t have the same complexity as, say, a Mr. Darcy or Capt. Wentworth, isn’t as flawed around the edges.  As Austen developed further as a writer, she made her heroines and heroes messier and more human.  Mr. Tilney isn’t perfect, but I get the sense that he’s probably as close as one can get to young Austen’s idea of perfect.  That doesn’t leave a whole lot to delve into, but it does make for one supremely enjoyable, hugely likeable character.

In terms of Northanger Abbey and Catherine, our heroine, Mr. Tilney is likely the potential love interest best suited to both her desires and her needs.  Like her, he appreciates a good yarn, but he introduces her to more “refined” interests as well, such as landscapes and drawing.  He has enough mystery about him to appeal to her dramatic side, what with the old Gothic manor house he lives in and the furtive talk surrounding his mother’s death, and he’s all too happy to play to her fancies.  At the same time, though, he’s kind, understanding, and – above all – safe.  Open, artless Catherine could stand to get herself into a lot of trouble in Bath because she believes the best of everyone, even when they don’t deserve it.  But while the Thorpes know just how to work her, Mr. Tilney never veers further from earnestness than taking part in some playful teasing.

Beyond that, the man himself is simply a delight.  He nods at conventions but only to laugh at how stiff and unnatural they are, he’s sophisticated but not snobbish, and his talent for irony is right up there with Elizabeth Bennet’s.  He has a quick tongue and a nimble wit, both of which he employs almost constantly.  The impression he gives is immediately one of a man who is intelligent, good-natured, and entertaining.  I can just picture many a young, clever Regency-era woman eating up a guy like that.

However, it’s important to note that he isn’t actually the Regency-era ideal.  Although he’s from a wealthy family, he’s a second son and makes his living as a clergyman (this latter fact does further recommend him to both Catherine and Austen, though – both women had clergymen in their families that they loved dearly.)  It’s also specifically stated in the book that he’s “not quite handsome,” although “very near it.”  I like that, that he’s not some dreamboat, and that it’s his charisma, manner, and humor that draws Catherine in more so than his looks (the casting of J.J. Feild, pictured above, in the 2007 Masterpiece version goes in a different direction.)

A last, crucial piece of the puzzle is this:  Mr. Tilney is a great brother to his sister Eleanor.  This is important to Catherine, who’s incredibly close to her own brother, and good brothers are highly valued in Austen’s work in general – when Mr. Crawford is trying to woo Fanny in Mansfield Park, he quickly sees that the surest way to her heart is through kindness to her brother William, and who doesn’t love Mr. Darcy’s regard for Georgiana?  As Catherine gets to know both Mr. Tilney and Eleanor, she’s continually charmed by them as a set and admires Mr. Tilney all the more for his affection toward his sister.

Yep.  He’s far from the best, more interesting character Austen ever wrote, but I dare anyone not to like him.