A Merry Spirit

 I just wrote a ginormous little article over at my 'mommy blog' about laughing at the tragic irony of the narcissists in my life, and today I ran across this article about charitably using humor against foolish or evil ideals.  I'm a huge fan of G.K. Chesterton, Jane Austen, and the Babylon Bee/Not the Bee, as all of them have true wit, expose folly, and never use humor to attack or personally harm another living soul, rather they ridicule the runaway ideas of their day and encourage people to take a second look at the nonsense they are espousing.  I vaguely remembered a couple Proverbs about just that and thanks to the interweb, I can magically provide them: 15:13 and 17:22, but they can be summarize with a merry heart heals while a broken spirit shrivels.  I can't undo the wounds of the past, I can only laugh at the behavior and ideas of those inflicting them, that they take a less central part in my soul and history, allowing me to move on and heal rather than dwelling upon them ad infinitum.  Too many of those who are highly outspoken about their particular crusade, on whichever end of the spectrum, will not be reasoned with, will hear nothing a heretic will say, but perhaps they might be willing to laugh at themselves, if so there is hope, if not, I fear their cause and soul are doomed.

The Book of Jonah is one such example.  We all know it as a children's tale about a guy who gets eaten by a large aquatic organism.  But have you actually read it?  It is a wonderful example of satire warning against our presumptions about God's character and actions, modern day Trumpian Prophets would do well to take heed!  The Bible isn't a dry, repetitive book of impossible children's tales, rather it is as chockfull of one-liners, zingers, and pointed humor as Hamlet or Pride and Prejudice.  Job, Esther, and Proverbs all have their humorous or ironic parts to say nothing of scenes like David acting the madman, Mary Magdalene mistaking the newly risen Jesus for the gardener, Rhoda leaving Peter standing at the door while everybody else is praying for his release from prison, and angels asking the mystified disciples why they are standing there staring at the sky.  It is a very human book or rather The Human Book written specifically for our good and edification and dare I say amusement?

Many of our modern zealots (for whatever cause) have lost their sense of humor and thus their purpose, the Bible has not, neither should the church.  Humor and mirth are as much a part of life and your soul as sorrow and sin, and woe to the man or nation who forgets how to laugh, grieve or repent or believes himself above such paltry concerns.  Wit can be a powerful healing tool, but like any weapon or tool, it can also be used to inflict great harm, enjoy with caution! 

Big Story and the Death of an Artform

 American media is always abuzz about 'Big' whatever be it pharmacy, business, oil or whatever the trendy cause of the day, I'd also like to add media and medicine to that, but obviously that won't play well in our 'democratic' media outlets so I'll refrain and talk only about 'Big Story.'  Story is an art as old as language, as young as childhood, as immortal as life and it too has been coopted into a multi-trillion dollar corporate enterprise.  While 'indie e-books' are certainly thriving and YouTube has its niche successes, the overall popular and successful 'stories' of our day are all produced by big business and/or big media and they back each other up as necessary to continue the farce that they actually produce great tales people flock to see, rather than offering tasteless pablum we eat only because we've been starved of all other options.

I first discovered I was racist when it took me over a year to admit that I didn't like Star Wars VII.  I went, as a good and faithful acolyte, to the altar with the rest of the faithful, paid my tithe, and hoped to enjoy the show.  I had read all the books (now banned and non-canonical) and had even sort of liked the prequels and was hopeful for the next addition to the tale.  Visually it was lovely but the plot and characters left me flat, sort of like leftover room temperature soda but with no sugar or caffeine to ease the misery.  I left stunned, not at how great it was, but at how great it wasn't, but unable to admit, even to myself, that in that moment I had become a heretic.  Then the next one came out and I hoped it would make up for things and maybe absolve my heresy, but it was even worse and no, I haven't seen number nine.  And yes, it is because I am racist that I didn't like either new movie.

If that last sentence makes sense to you, please indulge in binging either The Babylon Bee or Jane Austen immediately, for your own sake as well as those that must put up with you!  The latest travesty to strike is obviously Amazon's Lord of the Rings spin-off.  I hardly survived the Hobbit in triplicate so I'm not planning on seeing how someone could make Tolkien even worse, but what really gets my goat is that nobody is allowed to not like it or else they are racist.  I don't care if they have black elves or pink hobbits or winged cats, and yes, there are some of Peter Jackson's elves that might qualify as transgender, but I really don't care, I care about the quality of the tale, the believability of the characters, the cohesiveness of the plot, not the diversity quotients required by modern film execs.  The whole venture was panned by Tolkien fans immediately and Amazon and its flying monkey media friends immediately labeled the whole kit and caboodle racist without even listening to their concerns.  Are there some racist weirdos out there, certainly, but painting everyone with that brush because they don't like your show seems a little egregious to me, but what do I know, I'm racist as anybody!

How does Big Story plan to keep people interested in paying money to see or read stuff if they must lie, manipulate, and coerce them into 'liking' it?  This is why it took me a year to admit I didn't like the new Star Wars!  Turning out pretty but pointless spinoffs, remakes, sequels, and prequels of a onetime hit and ruining favorite 'brands' just to momentarily attract new eyes seems like longterm suicide to me and then ignoring your would-be audience when they offer suggestions on how to actually improve the experience and insulting them in process is even worse.  I'm still hoarding my old Star Wars books and occasionally rereading them, even if I'm now a heretic; the same with Tolkien.  But then I'm racist, why should that surprise anyone?  I especially love the criticism bestowed on pretty much everybody that they are homophobic if they didn't go see the new gay romcom on opening night!  I don't like heterosexual romcoms, why one earth would I go see one of any sort, but what do you expect of a racist?

Bullying me into paying you money to see pointless drivel really isn't my idea of entertainment and I'm guessing won't breed longterm success, hence the success of indie content producers and alternative media outlets.  Netflix is already starting to crumble, take heed Disney, Amazon, and everybody else that thinks we're all just mindless sheep willing to huddle in a corner and pretend the danger will just go away, there are enough rascally goats in the mix that the whole herd may just bolt in a direction you hadn't anticipated.  It is not racist to call a story out for being lame, pedantic, boring, uncreative, preachy, incomprehensible, or whatever the case may be.  Refusing to see something because it has a diverse cast is one thing; refusing to see something that is poorly written, acted, produced or whatever is not.  And what are you going to do when actual racism rears its head if you cry wolf so often in defense of everything else?

Story thrives when it is free, uncoerced, isn't overtly pushing a certain agenda but still has a point, where it grapples with immortal truths, where the characters are real people with all their flaws and beauties, where magic and wonder and mystery can exist, where surprises can happen.  If it is merely a matter of taste or fashion or money or political trends or enforced or imitation, the result will fall flat on its face, no matter how the gods over at Big Story spin the fallout.  The only thing worse than writing a bad story is blaming the poor quality on the listeners, who will then never listen to you again.  You can spend your billions to produce eye catching splendors but my worn paperback is by far more satisfying on every other level because at heart a good story is really human which is the race we all share, the tale in which we are all enmeshed, and if you forget that, you'll never tell a truly good tale!

The Uses of Diversity: 1920

 I was replenishing my G.K. Chesterton collection off project Gutenberg, as iBooks seems to forget previous volumes after a while or perhaps it was an incident peculiar to my device, but I came across another volume of his essays of which I was previously unaware, title in the title of this post.  I'm only halfway through, but rather enjoying it, if mostly baffled and highly amused, as ever I am reading his works, but it really strikes me that he is both prophet and clown and his writing is strangely cognizant of an age he would never live to see, but then that is probably unsurprising as he writes about Man, the human condition and heart, even if clothing some of his suppositions in the color and fashion of his day, which is why his metaphors and analogies often elude me, a hundred years later and in a different empire entirely, if not the timeless meaning of his words.  While the political, literary, and historical references he uses means little to me, his eternal truths echo down through the ages as clear as ever they have for they echo the words of the Word Himself.  And no matter your time or place or culture, those are Truths and Realities with which we must wrestle, not against spirits or powers or principalities but rather against the human heart, wild, unfettered, untamed, like a wolf at the door, ready to rend at will rather than a trusty dog on the hearth rug, courageous, unflappable, and true.

It is interesting to note that in Chesterton's day they had all sorts of fads, fettishes, and fashions just as we have today, and apparently so has it been since civilization began and will be until something better comes along to replace it.  I wish he were still around today to write a jolly retort to the untenable quirks of our day or perhaps Miss Austen might be inclined to write a novel thereupon?  But perhaps it is better that they are not, for it seems we have forgotten, or are afraid, to laugh, most especially at our own foibles.  There was a day when a man in woman's clothing was a joke, now this sort of person seriously demands a routine medical examination of anatomy they don't possess by a neutral-faced medical practitioner who daren't tell the emperor he's naked, and a man at that!  I used to joke about being in such a predicament professionally, never imaging there would be a day when sane and licensed physicians would be ordered by ethics boards and lawyers to give prostate exams to those possessed of XX chromosomes but nary a hint of a prostate!

I thought the realm of animal medicine would be safe from such insanity, I used to think transgenderism would never gain a credible foothold in the public purview, oops!, and now I do not doubt the 'otherkin' will soon be equally legitimate, but where does that leave the medical community, human and not?  Human physicians are not licensed or trained to treat animals; veterinarians are not licensed or trained to treat people.  Human physicians have had to treat biological males as if they possessed XX chromosomes, do you really think there won't come a day when a man who thinks himself a dog will not demand to be treated by a vet or that the dog-man will sue a human physician for trying to treat him as if he were a human patient?  I really want to submit this conundrum to the powers that be in the veterinary community, who are gladly embracing all the other tenets of wokism.  What is my moral, ethical, medical, and professional responsibility here?  They won't tell a man he isn't a woman, can I tell him he isn't a dog?

Will I lose my license for treating a biological human or will I get sued for not treating him?  Our profession is based on the physical reality of the world around us but we want to be trendy and not hurt anybody's feelings but it only causes chaos!  Cancer has no trouble interrupting someone's vapid reality and oncologists don't usually pretend it isn't there because obviously that would be everyone's preference; you can't pretend not to have cancer and make it a reality any more than a man can be a woman or a dog just because he thinks he should be and forcing physicians and everybody else to sing the same refrain doesn't make it any more of a reality: the emperor is still naked even if everybody but one little boy pretends otherwise.  Do I vaccinate him for canine distemper and leave him vulnerable to measles and tetanus or am I allowed to say he should see a doctor who specializes in his biological species?  Where do you draw the line?  We jumped off that slippery slope and nobody seems to want to answer the tough questions that are cropping up because of it, we just pretend the cancer isn't there and villainize anybody who says differently while it wreaks havoc as we play pretend.  O Chesterton where art thou?

The Muppets Doing Dickens, an apt metaphor for modern life: a holiday review

 The "holidays" are coming, whichever you happen to celebrate, at least as far as retailers are concerned. You barely have time to buy your pencils in July and sip your pumpkin spice latte thing the first week of August while avoiding the gallery of horrors that is the Halloween display the week after before the Christmas stuff comes out the same morning you put your kids on the school bus for the first day.  But Christmas bugs people, it really makes them sad or annoyed or they actually hate it.  And that is important.  Why?  Because it is a window into reality!  Dig deep into that bitterness or pain or anger and discover why.  It will hurt, like digging out a splinter in your foot, but it will put you on the road to healing, not just your Christmas loathing but your whole wounded person.  Marx once quipped that religion was the opium of the masses, but I disagree, rather I know it is pop culture and mass consumerism, including social media, who promise happiness if only you buy, think, or say the right stuff, but even their most successful prophets and priests are unhappy, but too distracted to notice.  So take hold of that biting pang at Christmas (or Mother's Day or whatever), and like an aching tooth or an upset stomach, look deeper into the symptom it is, find the root of the problem and deal with it, instead of putting a bandaid on it and hoping it goes away, it won't.

Christmas has always haunted me, its beauty, its mystery, its hope and peace, and even its innate sorrow.  No, not Santa or Frosty or the Muppets or Mickey doing Dickens, but rather a shivering little trio of poverty stricken, outcast humans huddling around a feed trough in the dark of night, one newly born, their only visitors a bunch of raggedy shepherds, perhaps even more socially unacceptable than the terrified parents.  That is the real Christmas, not the snowflake encrusted windows, treacly songs about Home and Chestnuts or snarky songs about hooking up, astonishing banquets and sweet treats, and everywhere lights and candles and being surrounded by a perfectly behaved array of choice family and friends.  That stuff is nice, but it isn't any more real than Dickens's famed novel being acted by every animated character known to man.  But we are all supposed to believe it is how things are supposed to be.  Only the gospels, and many a forgotten hymn based thereupon, get it right, only the Gospels ring true to the real human condition.  Modern commercialism and celebrity preach that all you need is the right pill or diet or ideas or clothes or whatever and your life will be great, but it isn't, for anybody, but they don't care and you shouldn't either, just keep following and spending blindly along soldier, don't you dare notice your aching feet and that vast empty darkness that is supposed to be your heart.

But the gospels get it, the Christ didn't rise from His manger bed to become 'King of the Jews' or to become a triumphant warrior king over the Romans as the impatient Hebrew children insisted, rather he lived a quiet, unassuming life before spending about three years ministering to the poor, women, children, slaves, the outcasts and disabled.  The talking heads of the day were appalled and sent Him to the cross, the hideous death that coined the term excruciating.  Now comes Easter, with its fluffy bunnies and colored eggs, happy children in bright clothes, forgetting how dark was the night in the shadow of Golgotha, how unfathomable the despair of that Saturday, the confusion and fear come Sunday morning when no body was found in the tomb.  The Messiah was dead and so was God, or so thought His friends and followers and the leaders alike, but they were as wrong as Nietzesche.  For God had not conquered the mere political powers of the day, rather He had conquered death itself, sin had found its remedy, and man his hope.  No more was man doomed to die in darkness, but rather the Light itself had come and conquered, and His Church has outlived Rome and all the powers of Hell since thrown against it.

The gospel is messy, sad, ugly, hard, confusing, beautiful, joyous, offensive and foolish (of its own admission!) but it is real, whereas all our smarmy holidays are not.  No other religion, worldview, government, philosophy, or creed has yielded anything close that speaks truly to the mess that is the human condition, no matter what age or land or culture you inhabit, and also offers a solution thereto.  It spoke as plainly to the slaves of Rome as it does to the billionaires of our day, but the slaves at least were wise enough to listen and respond, whereas the rich man insists ever on saving himself, gilding life with his vast means but still finding himself discontent and not knowing why.  Dig into that ache, dig into the pain, dig into the wound, and there find the root of the problem and let the Great Physician attend to it.

But beware, the Gospel itself has not escaped the saccharine gilding of the age, beware any gospel that comes to you preaching prosperity and plenty, unalloyed peace and happiness in exchange for a little faith and financial remuneration.  We are told quite clearly that daily we must take up our cross, die to self, and that in this world we will have trouble.  He won't be used as a means to an end, He didn't die to get you a nice car or a dream job or to heal your diabetes; rather He calls His people to be slaves and servants, to one another and the disbelieving world, to conquer sin and eternal death, and that He has done, no matter our physical or emotional condition, that too will one day be redeemed, but not yet, not yet.  As the Jews at His first coming, who demanded a conquering king to overthrow the Romans, so too do we demand a vengeful God who will overthrow our political enemies and establish his kingdom upon our most deeply held ideas, with ourselves at the helm, but again we are blind, as blind as the zealots of the first century.  He is coming, but His kingdom will overthrow all human institutions and ideals and He will reign supreme, and if we can't handle that, will we then cry for His blood or overthrow as the disappointed political aspirants of old, and to as little avail?  Or shall we be good and faithful servants, as humble and patient as our true Master, abiding by His words, rather than forcing our own into His mouth, and found faithful when He comes?  

A modern tale with classic flavor

 I haven't accomplished the impossible, but it almost happened.  I'm still looking for a favorite living author, who may or may not be British, but someone who can capture my imagination without grossly offending my very Austenian sensibilities and keep things humorous, light, and very-non-Steinbeck no matter how grim or serious the tale or the topic.  I've been reading the 'Odd Thomas' series by Dean Koontz, though I did a bit of reading about the series before I delved into it; I also have not read the entire series.  I plunged through the three first books and then the last, as that's what my library had available and apparently you don't have to read the previous books to understand or enjoy the later ones.  I'm not sure I'll read the others, aside for the 4 week waitlist, I'm not intrigued by or addicted to these books like I have been to other series: needing to stay up well past bedtime to finish one more chapter, or half the next book!  They also tend to keep me up at night, not in fright or wondering what happens, but rather my writerly brain is convinced it has to finish the tale and my brain won't shut off, sort of like taking caffeine after 2pm, I never had that problem two decades ago but alas I am getting old!

Overall, these are pretty good books, the writing is excellent, his vocabulary is wonderful (darkle?!), the humor is perfect, the supporting characters are charming, the mythos is intriguing, and the third book wrestled with the Laws of Thermodynamics, a personal geek-dream come true, and an excellent use of metaphor.  These are not light and fluffy books, there is violence and death, and the rancid heart of men (and worse) is not merely hinted at, but they don't delight in darkness, revel in sordid glory, nor despair thereat, rather, they fight against it and make timely wisecracks along the way.  Sex, language, and graphic descriptions of violence are fairly modest, most especially by modern standards.  The 'great topics and mysteries' of life and everything beyond it are hinted at, probed at, mused upon, mulled over without being preachy, making them far more interesting that your average thriller.  These are not overtly Christian books, though there are some Catholic undertones and cosmology, perhaps I might describe them as 'That Hideous Strength' for the secular crowd: such topics as eternity, the origins and intricacies of life, the nature of evil, death, the meaning of life, good versus evil, heaven and hell, redemption, free will and other such things are hinted at or mused upon, something to get you started, whet your appetite, but nothing preachy but much to intrigue.

So besides for writerly insomnia, why aren't these my new favorites, a modern C.S. Lewis perhaps?  Why can I rest easily not finishing the series?  Most of this will be personal taste and opinion, for the average reader, especially one without any deeply held and researched philosophical tastes, there is much to intrigue, but for me, I feel like I'm reading Tolkien light.  This exploration of the deeper things in and beyond life give these books a worldview and depth little rivaled by many other modern tales, making them seem deep, almost mystical, at times, but compared to other overtly Christian and/or classic works, it leaves me feeling underfed, as if I went to a party expecting dinner only to realize the bowl of peanuts on the end table was the entirety of the food options.  It makes you thirsty but there's nothing to drink, no spring of living water to slake my thirst, you sip and want to drink deeply but there's a hole in your cup.  As a means of inspiring spiritual/philosophical intrigue in an otherwise oblivious readership, it is marvelous, but to someone who is well acquainted with the Well itself, it isn't much more than a shot in a communion cup, as I said, this is a personal issue and has nothing to do with the quality of the work itself.

I also had hoped for a little continuity between tales, but apparently it was a happy thing for me (and my sleep) that I could read the end as well first as last.  While the supporting cast is colorful and fun, I really didn't get all that attached to the main character and didn't have a lot of interest in the lost love, which he spends most of the series fretting over, as we don't know her very well and must take his word for it (written in first person).  The action and story also seems to be the same in each book, just with slightly different surroundings, especially in the last book which seems to spend half its time quoting the first.  I want to delve more deeply into all these concepts that are hinted at or created for the story but we only get to skim the surface and it is rather frustrating to my curiosity but perhaps necessary to the vast majority of modern readers.  I have the same problem with G.K. Chesterton, I have so many more questions after I read some of his stuff than before and there never seems to be an answer anywhere, but at least Chesterton writes from an overtly Christian perspective so I can make some educated guesses at the deeps of his mysteries but I have no idea what to make of this quasi-catholic unitarianism in Odd Thomas, but again, perhaps the average Joe can't handle getting in over his metaphysical head, so I'm left with the 'Tale of Despereaux" when I'm really hungry for Lord of the Rings, and so might Joe's curiosity be piqued rather than him tossing away the novel in despair as too tedious and confounding to be worth reading, which is my opinion of 'Ulysses.'

I also love that we don't dwell in darkness and death and despair, as too many modern works are prone to. I hated reading in school because that's all we ever read: Animal Farm, Hamlet, Steinbeck.  They are ever present in the books, but between the humor and the strangely undying hope, we never forget the stars shine still far above the shrouding fumes veiling Moria.  The other characters are as charming and fun as ever Samwise or Aragorn or Gandalf, but Odd and his lady friend are rather dull, even if he sees dead people.  Sadly (for me) it was sort of like 'The Hobbit' movies: so much undeveloped potential but mostly we run around after the main character trying not to get dizzy while people try to kill him or vice versa.  I spent four books with the kid (in the first person!) and while I love his sense of humor and big heart, I found him rather tedious when there are a dozen more interesting characters I would love to spend a few more pages with.  Nope, we'll just throw in another midnight chase scene trying to evade zombies or the mafia or aliens or whatever through a creepy hotel, the sewer, a blizzard, a terrible thunderstorm, or the dead of night...zzzzzz.

The one thing that really bugged me through the whole thing, not that it surprised me however, but it sort of throws a damper over your reading experience when you are repeatedly yelling at the poor oblivious kid that 'you don't have to, can't, earn your own redemption!'  I found it as distracting and annoying as "A Wrinkle in Time's" lumping of Jesus amongst the other great men of history rather than as something far greater, but again, perhaps that is just my personal worldview taking offense, when you consider this is a quasi-Catholic work with a definite purgatory sub theme and throw in the American mentality to 'pull yourself up by your own bootstraps' it really shouldn't surprise me.  This is not an overtly Christian novel, so of course I can't expect orthodox theology (though a Wrinkle in Time is touted as such so I do take offense there!) but in a world where the kid seems to acknowledge a Higher Power and Source of all things, including his special senses, he seems determined to think that he must somehow personally save the world and himself and by his own cunning, power, or whatever, though repeatedly salvation is sent and miracles happen that can't be otherwise explained.  If you are depending on miracles and miraculous gifts to save the day, how is it you can take any claim for what is accomplished or even believe you can accomplish it without divine help? Why does the Creator even need your help to govern or save His creation?  How can a mere creature save the world, let alone himself?  The books hit well on the idea of humility but they stumble when it comes to faith and obedience, mostly because the poor kid doesn't know what he must do to save the world/himself from one moment to the next and wisely doesn't think he is capable of doing it.  This illogicity proved a rather annoying subtext to me but perhaps you won't care or overanalyze it as I am prone to do.   But overall it was a good read and much better than anything else of modern origin I've read in the last few decades!

 

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.