The Problem with Literary Biopics

Reading the creative work of another is one of the most intimate acts two people can engage in- the author and the reader that is.  More so than even the specific details we imagine for a character in a book we read, we create a relationship with the author- and the relationships an author has with his readers varies from reader to reader.  So even if one reader has a clear idea of T.S. Eliot- the man, the author- in his head, the next reader may pick up on very different aspects of the writing and on different word choices and therefore create a very different man in his head. 

If we love someone's writing, the relationship we forge with that writer is complex and nuanced.  It is probably safe to say that you have digested more words from your favorite author than from many of the people you'll physically encounter in your life.  These relationships have been developed and made all the more complicated by time. Anyone whom you've spent that much time just listening to you're bound to feel that you know pretty well- you're bound to feel that you understand their voice.  That's precisely why it can be so shocking (horrific?) to see authors with whom you're intimate brought to the screen. 

Earlier this week, HBO premiered a new movie for which I have been awaiting anxiously, Hemingway & Gellhorn.  After getting over my initial apprehension regarding the casting choice of Clive Owen for Ernest Hemingway, I began to warm considerably to the whole idea of the film to the point of being quite impatient for its Memorial Day premiere.

But, alas, horror did indeed ensue.  Rather than the nuanced, tortured, moody, violent, interesting man I've come to know as Hemingway, there was more of a cartoon of him than anything.  This is not to say that a cartoony nature was not the filmmakers' intent; but, intent or no, this was not what I'd expected.  Yes, we got the moody down. The violence is replaced with boisterousness that seems to always end in friendly drinks. Nicole Kidman's Martha Gellhorn seems to find him sexually interesting and sure he looks like fun to be around for the most part.  But as far as the tortured goes- it is really nowhere to be found with the exception of the inevitable electroshock and subsequent suicide scenes, which frankly feel completely out of place in the narrative in this story. 

I could go on to lament the horrendous shift this film took toward forced suffering, only to rebound with a quirky Indiana Jones-goes-on-an-adventure feel at the end. It's really quite bad.  But let's stay focused on the Hemingway portrayal.  I like to imagine my Hemingway actually writing: spending a lot of time doing it, thinking about it, being immersed in it.  And despite all the lines about writing and despite all the repurposed quotations, we don't for one second see Hemingway as a man who lived and breathed the written word.  Nor Martha for that matter.  In one of the few scenes in the movie in which she's writing, she gets one sentence out before she is interrupted by an explosion outside the building.              

It's strange to say, once again, but the Hemingway of last year's Midnight in Paris was far more effective if for no other reason than being in the hands of writers and filmmakers (namely Woody Allen) who understood their purpose in portraying Hemingway and his friends- to show a heightened, humorous version fueled by a demonstrated understanding of the man's writing style.  And because Allen and Corey Stoll, the actor who portrays Papa, did such wonderful jobs making their Hemingway sound like a Hemingway novel, he actual came out more real, more Hemingway, than Owen's seemingly more serious portrayal. 

Now, obviously, I never knew Ernest Hemingway, and for all I know Clive Owen could be spot on.  But that's the thing- all any of us really know about Hemingway now is his writing.  To piece together his mismatched quotations and call it is dialogue is a far greater sin than to simply portray him generally speaking as he wrote. 

Maybe what we should be doing with our great authors after all is simply reading them and honoring their writing, not trying to make their lives into entertainment.     

Until next time,

Leena

A Novel Idea Part 4: iFrame

My Fellow Contributors,


I want to take a slight detour before I get into the structure of a frame.

This past Saturday was our one year anniversary. There are a lot of things that have changed over the course of this year. We have added more people to the original four. We have a blog, an online store, and a publishing company. We're on Facebook and Twitter. We've hosted open mics, book launches and late-night meetings fueled by caffeine.

But through all of these changes, our commitment to bringing you the best pieces of Individual Expression has not wavered. We are still a collective of human thought and insight and continue to strive to bring you the best product possible.

We seek to continue our goal of bringing people together in multiple mediums so that they may have meaningful conversations.

I want to end this by thanking all of the people that have made this possible, and for all of you who continue to read and share this magazine.

Thank you.

Now, onto Framing.

So below I have posted a photograph of what a page from my notebook looks like.



There are three key features that I would like to point out and each is marked by a different color and shape. Each color coded section refers to a different question I ask myself before I start any frame.

Who are the characters involved? What is the plot/conflict? What is the narrative voice?

By asking these questions I give myself a clear path to follow and it makes getting a few lines onto the page a little easier.

The first section, "Characters Involved" circled in green, helps not only to get you thinking about the who of a frame but allows you to group related frames quickly and easily.

The last section, "Narrative Voice" highlighted by a yellow rectangle, is important because it makes it explicit how the narrative is going to be told. In my frames I have used several narrative voices. For example Jacob's narrative is told in 1st person while Mark's narrative is told in 3rd person witness. I have also tried experimenting with narrative voices.

A new voice I am experimenting with is for William's narrative. I call it 1st person witness testimony (I'm sure there's some fancy literary term for this, but I'm a Law Student so please humor me). In this narrative voice there is no dialogue. Everything we get is from one person's mouth and by that fact hearsay. But what will make this narrative voice work will be the frames before this one. If I put frames before this that make William seem sympathetic then you will be more inclined to believe what he says. If I have a frame before this one where he is cheating on his wife, then you are less inclined to believe him.

The most important part of the Frame outline by far is the Plot/Conflict section underlined in red. This section helps me avoid writing meaningless details in the body of the frame which only serve to distract from the dialogue and narrative. This section also helps me to keep the pacing of the frame quick.

One additional benefit of writing out the Plot/Conflict before hand is that if I have to step away from my writing I already have a summary or rather an abstract of what the frame is going to be doing so I can quickly pick it up.

It' s important though to remember that just because you have outlined it in your Plot/Conflict section doesn't mean you have to follow it strictly in the body of the frame. The Plot/Conflict section is more of a guide to follow and is meant to help you. It should not be treated as though written in stone.

Remember, inconsistencies in your Frames are fine, and I would argue that they are preferable. These nuances and slight variations allow you to explore multiple ripples in the time/space fabric of your ever evolving world. These wrinkles will be ironed out in subsequent drafts so don't slow down your writing by trying to solve everything now.

Well, that's it for this week. Next time I am going to be finishing the second part of Framing and discussing how your Frames should work within their respective local narrative as well as the over-arching narrative.

Until next time,

As always

Undoubtedly Yours,

Bermuda the Man

Dolce et Decorum Est: An Examination of the Physical and Poetic Landscape of War Poetry from World War I to The War on Terror

I've been reading a lot of war poetry lately -- well, I guess it's more accurate to say I've been getting ready to read a lot of war poetry lately. In my graduate poetry class, we're discussing poetry of witness or poetry of trauma. This is an interesting course, and we've read some pretty outstanding texts thus far. One of the texts, Bomber County by Daniel Swift, brought up something that has been making me think about modern war poetry as well as poetry in general.

In Bomber County, Swift repeatedly mentions that many poets and critics -- these people range from Dylan Thomas to Wilfred Owen -- claimed that there was no place in World War II for poets. At first, I was skeptical, and I thought that they were just blinded by their proximity to trauma; however, as Swift claims in the first chapter -- the chapter I focused on -- World War II differed greatly from World War I. This, of course, seems like an obvious thing to say, but the truth of the matter is a bit more complicated than one might initially think.

Swift goes into great detail about the differences in landscape, both physical and poetic, between both World Wars. The methodology behind the systematization of battle tactics dictated the ways in which soldiers fought, but these differences also extended past the battlefield. In the Great War, trench warfare was the main mode of combat. This horrendous strategy spawned infamous literary gems we all know. Dolce et Decorum Est might be the most famous poem inspired by the atrocities of World War I. Poetry aside, we all know about the glamour and valor of dying in the mud on the Western Front -- an action which is said to be truly brave and beautiful. The Western Front, it seems, essentially created the poetry of World War I.

There was nothing like this in World War II, though. Trench warfare was usurped by bombings and U-Boat battles. The Luftwaffe was expelling thousands of pounds of bombs onto London daily. Airmen fought, killed, and died over foreign territory, and their bodies littered the middle European countryside. The landscape changed.

Technology, to a large extent, changed the makeup of warfare, and, thus, changed everything about the way nations approached winning the wars. The battlefield was no longer like the one from World War II. Civilians became more and more involved in the war – people were indirectly slaughtered as a result of night after night after night of carpet bombing over the city of London. This, in effect, changed the way that humans – not just soldiers; not just civilians – perceived war. This change in perception changed the way that people approached writing poetry about war.

This is interesting, in that World War II’s physical landscape – a landscape that included ground forces, air forces, and civilians – dragged new people into the poetic conversation. Prior to World War II, the war poetry produced in Britain was derivative of mainly soldiers; however, when civilians were introduced, first-hand, to the reality of war, civilians were given license, so to speak, to talk about war in meaningful and poetic ways.

Before I delve too deeply into that time period, though, I need to stop before passing the point of no return; so, to make my point clear, I’ll say what I want to say: as the physical landscape of war changes, the poetic landscape of the people involved changes as well. Different players come into the picture, and, thus, create different forms of poetry as a result of different experiences of war. This, however, is rather problematic when looked at in a modern context.

War, largely, is something that the common American knows nothing about. Sure, someone may know someone or have someone in their family who is involved in the military; however, the average American is disconnected from the reality of war. Nations can be annihilated at the push of a button, and military leaders and dictators – people who might have been, at one point, considered untouchable – can be killed by drone planes powered by impossibly complex technology.

So, what is there to say about war poetry in a modern context? Do any of us have a good enough understanding of war to write about it in a meaningful manner? Perhaps we cannot write about war directly. Maybe we instead have to focus in on the disconnect from war, and thereby explore the themes that are inherent in this disconnection. What are your thoughts on the subject matter? Will there be any Wilfred Owens of the infamous “War on Terror?” Let me know what you think.

J