Snarky Heroines: a symptom of an ancient delusion thought only a modern trend

 I've been eyeing the new Persuasion movie with both curiosity and dread, fearing it would be to Jane Austen what the new Star Wars trilogy is to the old cannon: complete and utter destruction, sadly even the worst of the old books (and there were some decidedly awful ones) was far better than any of the new movies.  I have nothing against spunky, snarky heroines per se, which now seems to be the requirement for any modern remake of an old classic.  Snarky heroines are not a new trend, as some might think, certainly Jane Austen herself employed them and the Bard seems undoubtedly fond of them, but my beef comes in making a classic character something other than what she is, a complete opposite to what the character is written to be.  I was unhappy with a snarky, sassy, selfish Elizabeth Bennet portrayed by Kiera Knightley, the character is witty, lively, and vibrant, but she isn't unkind, impolite, uncharitable, or rude, even when enduring the horrible advances of the odious Mr. Collins (who was rather more creepy than not in that particular variation).  Then there's the Fanny Price in one of the more recent Mansfield Park movies who is far more bold and intrepid than the simpering little mouse of Austen's imagining, but the actress does an excellent job making her kind, usually gentle, and only secretly possessed of a witty streak to rival Austen herself, of which only Edmund and the audience are aware.  Of the two, I rather like the portrayal of Fanny (minding one of the narrator of Northanger Abbey) but rather despise that of the unfortunate Miss Bennet.  I can believe Fanny secretly lively and witty far better than Elizabeth so openly rude to her mother.

But of all characters to make snarky, Anne Elliot should never be on that list!  You might as well make Jane Bennet snarky!  Why make a movie about a character that is nothing like the character you wish to portray?  Miss Crawford or the Merry Wives of Windsor would be far more worth your time.  Fanny refused to act in the play but you have no trouble thinking Anne Elliot would?  Fanny has all of Anne's morals but none of her spunk, however quiet and unseen by the rest of the world.  Fanny runs off weeping while Anne goes on placidly on the outside about her duty while wretched within.  Fanny couldn't be bullied into participating but Anne is going to yield without a thought?  Why not choose another story, if you want a snarky wino as the heroine rather than ruin one of the most complex and estimable characters of classic literature?  I have no problem with snarky Austen heroines, the recent Emma and Love and Friendship are superb examples, but Emma and Lady Susan are snarky characters, Anne Elliot is not therefore the snarky, intoxicated lead of the new Persuasion cannot be our dear Miss Anne.  Maybe Mrs. Clay got her desired promotion in society after all?  Or perhaps Mrs. Smith actually does have a role in the movie, just with the wrong name?

There are plenty of snarky characters in classic literature and even the Bible (hello Jonah and Job!), to say nothing of recent books or even an original script, to choose from.  Slapping an Austen title on a movie does not a classic make.  But all detractors of the movie are going to be called racist or something worse, because apparently in our woke world, you can only have one opinion about the flotsam and jetsam turned out by our media overlords for our very particular entertainment and delight, no matter how bad it is, if it has a diverse cast, you'd better love it or else.  Star Wars fans who don't like the new movies or spinoffs have already been thus accused, as have Lord of the Rings fanatics who think Amazon's new rendition looks doubtful, just wait Austen lovers, our turn too has come.  Which is rather ironic because this is exactly the sort of thing Austen, Tolkien, and Lucas (those great cultural geniuses) were writing against!  Austen's satire, Tolkien's beauty, and Lucas's sense of daring fun were all aimed against the institutionalized drudgery that holds creativity and human flourishing captive, shaping it into a hideous, unnatural thing, a mere means to an end wherein nobody is happy.  Now the media giants have got hold of our little rebellious flirtations and diversions and have remade them in their own image and we MUST like it or we are innately bad not their product, but the very reason we such things is that it is anything but cookie-cutter propaganda vomited from an entertainment charnel house, mass produced vitriol with a classic label.

We like such things because they are rebelling against the tyranny of the Empire, Mordor, and polite Society, whatever its guise in our current age; they are the little boy telling a stupefied world that the Emperor truly doesn't have any clothes, a voice crying in the wilderness 'make straight the paths of the Lord.'  We are strangely drawn to this wild-haired social outcast in his camel hair apron who dines upon locusts and honey and calls the religious leaders of the day such terrible things.  Are we going to accept this modern day phariseeism like the pablum it is, like good little children whom their parents expect to eat broccoli and kale without complaint, never more to touch a cookie?  Or will we ignore the media giants and their pet critics who cannot fathom that someone's opinion might be different from their own, that a work of art is not excellent just because it is woke or diverse or because some elite says it is?  Will we continue to fling the pablum back in our dread 'mother's' face and demand real food, quality entertainment, determined that art means something, as does reality itself, or will we go quietly into the cloudy and endless night of dull, tedious, insipid media, cowed by big media's name calling and imperious manners?  Will Amazon's billion dollar baby flop because they've strayed so far from Tolkien's vision that no one can recognize it and the would-be fans turn away in droves or will it succeed because they stayed true to the vision (no matter how terrifying the previews) and delighted a whole new generation or will it succeed because we accept it because we must (no matter how bad) for fear of being thought racist or worse?  Will we allow big media to remake our own souls in their image even as they have reimagined poor Anne's?  

Strange bedfellows upon the narrow way

 So what do Larry the Cucumber in Veggitales Sampson's Hairbrush, Indiana Jones from the Last Crusade, and Becky Sharpe from Vanity Fair, a nearly 200 year old, ten thousand page book, have in common (besides being works of imaginitive fiction)?  They are all rather misguided in their search for the meaning of life, yes I know it is commonly held to be 42, but that is also a work of fantastical imagination, but then so is our own reality so I guess that argument won't hold water, but as that is a completely separate blog post, let's stay on target and not go chasing down rabbit trails, no matter how charming!  I've recently been reading the latter while my husband thought the family should watch the classic Indie flick the other day, which triggered memories of the former, thus this mutant hybrid blog post was born, very much like my college English/history class that had us comparing the travails of Rosie the cow from Giants in the Earth to some other minor character in Hamlet or the Odyssey, as you can see, I am well worthy of a BS degree and capable of writing such delightful travesties of prose.

Larry is after Sampson's Hairbrush, thinking it will give the bearer amazing strength, Indie is after the Grail in theory to keep it out of evil hands but probably because it would be a huge archeological find to say nothing of the rumors of eternal life, and Miss Becky thinks pomp and circumstance are the very stuff of life.  All are deluded into thinking some specific thing or goal or achievement will make them happy, pretty much like the rest of us, none of them knowing how close is the Answer, we merely have to reach out and take hold of it.  It isn't the cup of Christ or the brush of Sampson or the adulation of the rich and powerful that give us meaning, hope, strength, and truly eternal life, it is the Author of this tale we call reality, not some cheap gimmick from within our own story.  Our own adventures, strength, luck, charms, and efforts will avail nothing and those who strive after it in their own way reap their own destruction and misery.  The moral of each tale is to grasp at the Thing itself, take the narrow gate and walk upon that scant but faithful trail by which a humble Pilgrim might bypass Vanity Fair and come to Glory Himself, nothing else will avail if you truly wish for peace, hope, comfort, and meaning.

A timely tale, because some things never change!

 I just finished reading Dicken's "A Tale of Two Cities."  I read it a decade or so ago and thought it an excellent book, and upon perusing it anew, must thoroughly agree with my previous self.  I know modern humanity thinks itself the epitome of virtue and wisdom, so much more enlightened than all that came before, but in reading a book over a hundred years old, I find that humanity hasn't changed at all, much as an even more ancient book proclaims that it won't.  Our tools and toys and notions and fads may change, but the human heart never does, save by divine intervention.  I've often wondered what the two cities are, much as many Tolkien fans wonder about the two towers.  The simple answer would be London and Paris, but this is not a simple book, instead I wonder if it is not the City of Man and the City of God.  While we do not have the social and cultural chaos that enlivened the French Revolution, we certainly have the moral chaos in our so-called enlightened modern lives, in both extreme right and left thinking, and like those bloody revolutionaries of Dicken's tale, very few seem to realize that one can indeed be a real, thinking human person without falling off either extreme end of the spectrum, for both place their hope in the City of Man, this broken, wretched world, and think that somehow their antics can make it a paradise, when in fact we're only going from one sort of deplorable to another, much as the Revolution was just as bad as the abuses of the monarchy and aristocracy it replaced.

What is the answer then?  It isn't more rampant individualism, more 'rights,' more 'woke,' it isn't in the courts or the president or any governmental body or in more of anything of the hash of a banquet we've been imbibing non-stop since at least the 1970s, rather it is the complete opposite.  Our only hope is in reason, virtue, truth, self control and discipline, humility and sacrifice, instead of making our own happiness the ultimate goal, and the goal of our government and culture and relationships, a goal we will never achieve thereby, rather we must seek the good, the right, the true, that which is the foundation of reality and the human soul, we must seek outside ourselves, look to the good of others, and be willing to serve rather than being served.  Instead we throw a cultural temper tantrum, uprooting the very reality we inhabit, denying and mutilating it to fit our transitory and theoretical needs and demanding everyone do likewise.  Like the naked emperor in the old tale, is there even one little peasant child who can boldly proclaim the truth to an entirely deceived world?  We can't overcome evil with more evil or selfishness, rather we can overcome it with good, with real love, and therein and only thereby, will we ever truly be happy.  Only by losing our lives can we find them, only in giving it up, can we gain the whole world! 

That which involves a duck and True Love

 We were at camp the other week, and got a first hand lesson in True Love and God's provision for the least of His creatures, but it wasn't a sparrow, rather it was a duckling.  One thing we love about camp is it is located near a huge lake in a forested part of the state, meaning we get a chance to see all sorts of birds we don't have at home.  Cavity nesting waterfowl are particularly common this time of year because there are all sorts of drowned out trees near a quiet marshy area.  My son is as geeky as me, loving to both photograph and watch wildlife, and we've spent many great hours doing just that in that particularly marsh.  So when he called me over, all excited to look at something, I was all curiosity at his discovery.  It was a duckling, crouched under the front tire of a parked van.  We were still in the main campground area, a good quarter mile from the nearest water and there wasn't another duck in sight, but there were dogs and kids and a cat all within easy view, to say nothing of the vehicle he had taken shelter under.

Usually the rule with wildlife, particularly young wildlife, is leave it where you found it because mom will be back shortly, but in this case, that wasn't going to happen.  Mom had obviously lost track of the little bugger, bad counters as ducks tend to be, and he was on his own, and he wasn't a boring old mallard either.  He was about half the size of a newly hatched mallard, had a pointy bill, and a crest, my guess was a hooded merganser, a cavity nester we had seen in previous years, but what were we supposed to do with the little fellow?  It was getting dark and chilly, he wasn't more than a day old, and he was completely lost and alone, he wouldn't survive the night.  It was too late in the day to call any federal or state wildlife agencies and get the name and number of a licensed wildlife rehabilitator and I wasn't about to just turn him loose in the marsh without someone to keep him warm and safe from predators.  We found a cardboard box and put a t-shirt in it, he snuggled down and went to sleep, once he was secure we went scouting in the marsh, while we saw a bufflehead and a common goldeneye with their broods, there was no sign of any mergansers.  I then checked in the camp office just to see if anyone knew any local wildlife rehabilitators and was referred to a certain pastor's wife and veterinarian who might know someone, the only problem was that was me!  I didn't bother giving the lady a call as I was pretty sure I was clueless.  We went to bed and wondered what to do with the silly little thing come morning!

All the books and movies and stories concerning such occurrences always imply that the kid should keep the orphan and have a cool pet, that wasn't an option in this case.  For one it is a violation of federal law.  And for another, a wild duckling, particularly a fish eating diving duck, just isn't going to be happy in captivity.  I already felt bad for the little guy, he was obviously frightened, confused, and unhappy, and while we were doing everything we could for him, it just wasn't enough.  I also felt bad that he might spend the rest of his life in a wildlife park or get eaten the minute they released him into the wild, never having learned anything about survival from his mother, but there didn't seem to be any other options.  We got up early and hiked out to the swamp again, hopeful we might find the mother or at least a few bugs for breakfast.  The interweb said baby hooded mergansers like live mealworms and duck tartar, though I believe the last was a typo and they meant duck starter, a grain mix formulated for young ducks, rather than gourmet raw duck!

We trekked out to the swamp, bug net in hand (I said we were geeks!).  We saw the bufflehead and the goldeneye again, there was a male gadwall and pair of blue winged teal, and then, on the far edge of a reedy inlet, we saw a female hooded merganser with eleven young ducklings, this was probably our girl!  No wonder she had lost track of one in their convoy from the nest hole to the water.  I ran back to our room to get the box while my son kept an eye on the brood.  He took off his sock and shoes, duckling in hand, and waded out through the rocks and weeds into the open water on the far side of the inlet from the hen.  The duckling was a new creature the minute he hit the water, his crest was up and he swam around peeping like the king of the lake, he was the scared, cringing pathetic little thing no longer.  We withdrew so as not to scare the female and hopefully allow the reunion to take place.  My son was really sad he couldn't keep the cute little guy, but beneath his tears, his great big heart was glowing with joy, knowing he had done what was best for his little friend.

And that's what True Love is: doing what is best for the beloved, no matter the cost to oneself.  Leaving the ninety and nine on the mountain to go in pursuit of the one lost sheep.  And when Jesus says that God is aware even of a sparrow's fall, He isn't kidding.  What are the chances that the one kid on the entire campground who can tell a loon from a cormorant happens upon the lost little guy and can help him find his way home?  Who would care about the fate of one duckling out of a dozen?  How much more is His love for each of us?