In Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic story of Jekyll and Hyde, Dr. Jekyll develops a drug which gives birth to Mr. Hyde, who immediately engages in all manner of nefarious activity including a murder. At first, Mr. Hyde only appears when Dr. Jekyll takes the drug. Gradually, however, Mr. Hyde is able to appear without aid of the drug. Jekyll is less and less in control, and it becomes Jekyll who can only appear with the aid of the drug, rather than the other way around. Supplies of the drug run out and Jekyll and loses all hope of regaining control of himself. He is completely destroyed by Hyde.The similarities with Norman Osborn of Spiderman are striking. When a pentagon official informs Osborn, the CEO of major defense contractor Oscorp, that Oscorp is losing an important contract, Osborn recklessly injects himself with an experimental performance enhancing drug to prove its viability and retain government funding. The unproven drug unleashes an evil persona within him which comes to dominate Osborn and embark on a campaign of revenge against Oscorp’s rivals.

The struggle between these two personas – the old Osborn and the new, evil twin – is wonderfully dramatized as Osborn, looking in a mirror, grapples with the malicious goblin. This scene, by the way, is a superb bit of acting. Defoe’s face switches instantly between the two characters and is utterly convincing. The mirror to which Osborn speaks, of course, symbolizes self-reflection. Who is Osborn? Who is this new person inside of him?

Jekyll and Osborn suffer largely the same fate (with an important difference discussed later). They are both more or less enslaved in their own bodies by the evil persona they have awakened within themselves. Jekyll and Osborn provide a disguise for their evil twins. Hyde retreats behind Jekyll’s respectability as the police investigation closes in on him. Indeed, the name “Hyde” is probably meaningful. Evil often hides in unsuspected places. In a similar way, the Green Goblin retreats behind the face of Norman Osborn.

It is often thought that the story of Jekyll and Hyde is an allegory of good and evil. That is not quite accurate. It is an allegory of humanity and evil. While Mr. Hyde is described as “pure evil,” it does not follow that Dr. Jekyll is pure good. Quite to the contrary, Jekyll bemoans the fact that his is the same man that he always was; “Although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair (109).”

In the tradition of allegory, Hyde is not so much an individual as he is a dramatization of an abstraction. That is why his face is never described. Stevenson wisely avoided endowing him with facial features and revealed only the most generic physical traits. Evil, in a certain sense, is faceless. It is no one, and yet everyone. Hyde is instead identified by what he does and the feeling that he gives others. One character giving testimony to a policeman about Hyde says, “[a feeling] went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence…but a man has his feelings and I give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!” (87).

The Green Goblin is something a little different. He does not represent the abstraction of evil in general. Rather, he is an evil man; he is not abstract or universal, but individual. He is Norman Osborn, as Norman Osborn would be were he completely void of any goodness. Osborn doesn’t struggle against an abstract evil when he speaks with the Green Goblin; he struggles literally against himself.

While Jekyll cannot communicate with Hyde and is not directly aware of what Hyde does when he is in control, Osborn knows exactly what the Green Goblin is doing. Like a feeble conscience, Osborn tries to convince the Green Goblin not to destroy Peter Parker, for example. Any remaining compassion, goodness or restraint is derided as weak and the goblin maintains his dominance.

At the moment of death however, the old Osborn re-emerges and begs Peter not to let his son, Harry, know what he has done. That Osborn has the last word – literally – suggests that redemption from evil is always a possibility. His request of Peter can be taken in several ways. He may wish to preserve his own legacy. He may wish to spare his son the pain and humiliation of knowing what his father was. He may also wish to protect Harry from the fate that he suffered. Of course, all of these things could be at play, but it seems that the anguish on Osborn’s face is not primarily caused by his mortal wound, but by remorse for what he had done. At the moment of his death, the relationship with his son emerges as the most important thing in his life, and his request of Peter seems therefore to be grounded in a desire to protect his son.

This is a much more optimistic view of humanity than the one presented by Jekyll and Hyde. Stevenson, it should be noted, grew up in a strict Calvinist household, and though he was later critical of those beliefs, it is nevertheless easy to see their influence in his writing. Calvinists believe that humanity is so corrupted after the fall, that left to our own devices our will and our reason are no longer strong enough to recognize evil for what it is or to resist it even if we do recognize it. Jekyll is the allegorical dramatization of that belief. Specifically, Jekyll is an image of Adam, whose quest for forbidden knowledge brought evil and death into the world. Jekyll too searched for forbidden knowledge pertaining to good and evil in the creation of his drug. The evil of his own making destroyed him utterly and he has no hope for redemption.

It is worth noting in conclusion that the narrative contexts in which these characters appear is vastly different. The story of Jekyll and Hyde focuses entirely on those two characters. It is plainly allegorical and as such, readers are intended to identify with Jekyll. Where the character of Jekyll darkly suggests that humanity has doomed itself to destruction, Osborn represents one of two alternatives. These alternatives are dramatized when the Green Goblin tempts Spiderman to join him. Spiderman faces a choice which he, like everyone else, has already faced and will face again and again: to act in his own self interest or to act in the interest of other; to act for good or for evil. Rather than forcing empathy with Osborn (as Stevenson forces empathy with Jekyll), the narrative structure of Spiderman optimistically focuses the audience’s attention on the hero, whose character denies the inevitability of evil portrayed by Jekyll and Osborn and instead asserts the dignity of human nature and its ability to resist evil.

The most important element of an action sequence is that it advance the plot or contribute to a character’s development in a significant way. Indeed, in a well crafted film, every scene should have a purpose relating to the story as a whole, and a fight scene is no exception. If movie action doesn’t serve the narrative arc of the story, then the scene is ultimately unsuccessful.Aside from training scenes, which show a characters development, there should also be a real sense of danger in fights. If the protagonist is fighting someone obviously even stronger, the danger and suspense are only increased to good effect. One characteristic of heros’ is their perseverance and courage in the face of extreme danger. If the protagonist is stronger, the victory feels unsatisfying and somewhat hollow. There is nothing terribly heroic in defeating an inferior opponent. In other words, the villain has to be worthy of the hero.

The Matrix provides excellent examples of these principles at play. It did everything right. It is a wonderfully constructed movie engaging the audience on many levels. Importantly, the fight scenes not only fit into the story, they advanced critical elements of the story. Trinity’s fight scene opens the movie in a marvelously effective way. As she effortlessly executes impossible jumps and kicks to get away from the six police officers sent to arrest her, we are left breathlessly wondering, “what is going on? How can she do that?” When the Agents enter the scene, the mystery deepens. If the woman who easily defeated six heavily armed policemen is scared of these suits, then who are they? Finally, as she disappears into a phone, we are completely captivated by the mystery of what it all means.

By the time the serious action begins in the movie’s third act, the mysteries of Trinity’s opening fight scene have been revealed in the second act’s exposition. Flowing from that exposition, Morpheus takes Neo to the oracle in hopes of determining whether he is The One or not. The group is ambushed by agents on their way back (with the help of the informant alluded to at the beginning of the movie), setting up a series of action sequences that necessarily flow from each other in a simple story line: They are ambushed, Morpheus is captured, Neo and Trinity return to rescue him (with some extra action thrown in to deal with the traitor). It is a simple, effective and clear narrative. We understand the characters’ goal (to rescue Morpheus) and we understand the necessity of confrontation in order to reach that goal. The story cannot be told without the fights.

Each action scene also provides critical character development. From the requisite training montage, in which Neo learns how to fight like Trinity and Morpheus, through to the climactic showdown with Agent Smith, each action sequence deepens Neo’s understanding of his own power and ability until he recognizes and embraces his calling. Indeed, it is only through fighting agent Smith that Neo becomes who he is destined to be. From the first time he moves like the agents, dodging bullets, to fighting Smith hand-to-hand, and finally to manipulating the matrix at will, each new ability is discovered in life-threatening desperation.

It is also that desperation of fighting a seemingly indestructible enemy which makes these scenes so thrilling. Neo fights agent Smith and actually beats him in the subway station. Smith is run over by a train. The victory is short-lived, however, as new agent Smith simply walks off the train (having taken over a new body). We realize that no matter how many times Neo “kills” agent Smith, he will always come back. A heart-pounding chase scene ensues, with Neo trying to get to an exit and agent Smith jumping from person to person, appearing around every street corner, always a half-step ahead.  In the face of such an adversary, Neo takes the final step in his development and learns to manipulate the matrix.

Contrast this to the sequel, Matrix Reloaded. The fights are just as stunningly choreographed and, if anything, use even better special effects. The problem is that Neo has become invincible when he is in the matrix. Though Agent Smith reappears with new powers himself, the first encounter between these two early in the movie reveals that Neo is still the stronger of the two. What the movie lacks in a villain of sufficient quality to be worthy of Neo, it tries to make up for in quantity, with an utterly ridiculous scene in which Neo fights hundreds of Smith clones.

The worst scene in the movie features Neo fighting a troupe of henchmen. After stopping their bullets in mid-air as he did at the end of the first movie, they engage in hand-to-hand combat. Neo obviously faces no real danger; at one point he blocks the edge of an ax with his bare hand.  It lends an absurdity to the scene that reveals it to be an interruption in the story rather than a necessary element of it. Why does he even bother to fight them? Why not just walk through their ineffective blows and get to where he needs to go? It is completely unnecessary.

Meanwhile, Trinity and Morpheus flee the evil twins and wind up in a car chase. Looking for an exit from the matrix, Morpheus tells them in an grave voice to take the freeway. “You told me the freeway was suicide,” protests Trinity. “Let us hope I was wrong,” replies Morpheus, ominously. A protracted car chase / fight scene ensues, but it suffers from the same lack of purpose as the previous one with Neo. At any time throughout both movies, an exit from the matrix has never been more than several blocks away. Most of the time, the characters are on foot. They usually make it anyway. Now, we are asked to believe that the nearest exit requires a long drive down the freeway. We are further to understand that there is no other route to get to the exit.

By this point, it is clear that the plot has been placed at the service of action scenes and not the other way around. Inconsistencies and incredulous scenarios plague the movie in general and render the fight scenes more tedious than exciting. As a final example, consider the scene when Neo seeks the oracle. A strangely glowing guard attacks him. After an even fight, sparring back and forth, the guard stops explaining that he needed to make sure it was Neo and that you never know someone until you fight them. Neo, Trinity, Morpheus and many other people have all spoken with the oracle before and they have never had to fight past a guard. The oracle seems to know Neo better than he knows himself. If so, doesn’t she know who he is without having someone fight him? The scene is never explained and serves no purpose whatsoever in advancing the story.

Though the fight scenes are admittedly stunningly shot, they are unsatisfactory because they do not flow necessarily from the prior action, nor is it clear that fighting is the only way for them to accomplish what they set out to do. In some instances the movie seems to break its own rules. Because they are not important to the story line or they fit into the story in such a disjointed and unconvincing way, the fight scenes in Matrix Reloaded ultimately impede the narration rather than advancing it.

So strong is the connection between Mr. Stevens and the house that is comes to symbolize him just as much, if not more, than Lord Darlington. The office of butler was evidently a high and respected one. He oversaw all the practical matters of running the household, including hiring, firing and supervising the rest of the servant staff. As such, he was acquainted with the smallest details of the house, as seen when he corrected his staff about the placement of decorative objects in the various rooms, or when he is seen training a younger servant in the exact arrangement of a dinner service. His connection with the house is emphasized more as we see him move in and out of the servant passageways, at one point startling his master with his sudden appearance. He knows the house intimately, and as its manager, the house cannot but reflect some of the butlers character.

The film opens with a montage of James Stevens going about his duties in an empty, once-grand house. It is sparsely furnished and seems even more sparsely inhabited. As he looks at the walls, we see them as they once were, as he remembers them. Paintings, lavish furnishings, and other servants fade into the scene, only to fade out again as he returns from his reminiscence back to the stark present. These flashbacks to grander times establish a tone of regret and loss. From the very first scenes, we see the contrast between the bright, colorful and flourishing aristocratic world and the present one, in which that way of life seems no longer tenable.

Framed by this foreboding sense of loss and regret, one pivot about which the action of the movie revolves is Lord Darlington’s political intrigues.(1 )Darlington explains that it is not right to kick a man when he is down and that is what Europe did to Germany after the first war. To amend for that injustice, Darlington is sympathetic to Germany and uses his influence to advance German interests in Britain.

A “peace conference” is hosted by Darlington and attended primarily by German sympathizers. An American congressman by the name of Jack Lewis also attends the event. At the final dinner, he becomes exasperated and makes a speech: “You are, all of you, amateurs. And international affairs should never be run by gentlemen amateurs. Do you have any idea of what sort of place the world is becoming all around you? The days when you could just act out of your noble instincts, are over. Europe has become the arena of realpolitik, the politics of reality. If you like: real politics. What you need is not gentlemen politicians, but real ones.”

Lewis clearly identifies the sentimentality of those such as Lord Darlington and warns of its inability to effectively deal with the issues facing the world at the time. It is a sentimentality, however, that can only find full expression in the setting of a house such as this. It is not hard work and making difficult decisions in which these attendees are interested. A parliament would be the proper setting for that. Rather, the house is a place of magnanimity, where the kind of disagreements and arguments that must necessarily arise in a conference of “real politicians” would be considered by gentlemanly propriety to be distasteful and uncivil. We see, for example, that the evenings are spent in socializing and entertainment indistinguishable from the large dinner parties of the time. This is the kind of aristocratic entertainment which could only be done in a house.

If the house symbolizes the aristocratic way of life, then its purchase by Jack Lewis at the end of the film completely fulfills the ideas he had expressed in his speech. The time of the gentleman politician, and indeed, the time of the aristocracy in general, is over. The house is no longer home to a lordly gentleman with armies of servants at his disposal. It is now occupied by an American with quite a different world-view. The clash of cultures is gently illustrated as Lewis suggests to Stevens that the kitchen acquire an electric pop-up toaster. Stevens replies that it has always been tradition for the cook to prepare the toast in a particular way. Lewis is guided here by expediency and practical conclusions. Stevens on the other hand takes his bearings from tradition and history.

It cannot go unnoticed that Lewis is actively restoring the house to its former magnificence. He buys back artwork and furnishings which originally belonged to the house and he is cleaning and restoring the grand rooms which have fallen into disuse and neglect. Despite the heavy themes of regret and loss that run through the movie, this nevertheless strikes and unmistakably hopeful chord that something of that former way of life is worth preserving. One thinks that as long as houses such as this one still stand (2), the idea of the noble gentleman will never completely fade away.

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1. The other pivot is relationship between James Stevens and Mary Kenton, the housekeeper. Their love for each other, conveyed entirely through glances and possibly casual interactions is tragically never acknowledged because of Stevens’ single-minded dedication to his position, but that is the subject of another article.

2. It should be noted that in reality, the house in Remains of the Day is actually a compilation of several houses. One was used for the exterior, and several others were used to compose the interior. See the Making of documentary on the DVD release.

One of the most egregious changes from the book occurs in the character of Faramir. Tolkien deliberately contrasts him with his brash older brother, Boromir who was destroyed by the rings temptation. Faramir, on the other hand, resists the ring. His noble character echoes that of the great kings of Gondor, from whom he is distantly and indirectly descended. His character exemplifies the wisdom and nobility of character which is so strong a theme in the story.

His rejection of the ring involved not only resisting the extraordinary personal temptation to power which destroyed Boromir and his father, Denathor. It was also, as we learn later, an explicit act of treason. His father, Lord Denathor, the Steward of Gondor, had ordered him to bring the ring to Gondor if he could.

This example of steadfast courage and wisdom is almost completely undercut in the movie. The following FAQ was listed on the IMDB page for Tale of Two Towers:

Q: Why is Faramir so different from the book, and why does he take Frodo, Sam and Gollum to Osgiliath?

A: Several reasons. First of all, with no Shelob in this film, Frodo and Sam’s journey needed a different climax. Secondly, in the book, Faramir is able to easily resist the lure of the Ring. The filmmakers felt this would contradict their central premise, that no one can resist the Ring. The filmmakers realized that the encounter with Faramir, the only human they encounter in their journey, was the only opportunity they had to make the Ring a major issue in the middle film.

What is most troubling in this explanation is their central premise, “that no one can resist the Ring.” Note that this is the filmmakers premise – not Tolkien’s. The ring represents power and corruption, pure evil. To say that it cannot be resisted is to have a view of humanity quite different from that portrayed by Tolkien. Humanity is weak, divided, and often confused to be sure, but there is still nobility. If the filmmakers’ premise is true and no one can reject evil, symbolized by the ring, then humanity has also lost its freedom and any possibility for goodness.

Fortunately, the filmmakers’ premise is not true. It cannot be true or else the whole story falls apart. At key moments, Aragorn, Galadriel, Galdalf and Elrond all explicitly refuse the ring. Bilbo is able to give up the ring (though he is unaware of its true nature) and Frodo offers to give it away several times. Sam become the ring bearer for a time and freely gives it back to Frodo. All of these are essential plot developments. If none of them could refuse the ring, the story would have been much shorter and had a much different ending! Further, though they were never offered the ring, the other members of the Fellowship, Gimli, Legolas, Merry and Pippin, must have felt some of the same temptation that destroyed Boromir, and yet they resisted it.

In that list of characters, however, there are only two men – Aragorn and Gandalf. The rest are elves, dwarves and hobbits. Further, Aragorn is partially descended from the elves, and Gandalf is a rather mysterious wizard who seems as much elven as man. Indeed, we learn at the end of the books that he the bearer of one of three elvish rings of power, and he leaves middle earth with the elves.

Faramir stood as the single example of a “normal” man who had the strength of character to resist the ring when it was within his power to take it. To change his character so completely undercuts the one of the central themes of the story, which is strength and nobility in the face of overwhelming adversity. Faramir is no longer a contrast to Boromir. They are more similar than not. In losing that contrast, the range of human possibility depicted in the film is consequently constrained.

It is a rich film, adapted from the novel of the same name by Somerset Maugham. (1) Like any great story, there could be any number of ways to approach it. One of the more obvious avenues is through place and travel. As Kitty, the main protagonist, moves from London to Shanghai and finally to a remote Chinese village, she is stripped of the social conventions and artifice through which she had previously related to the world, and is forced to negotiate a new and more authentic understanding of herself and her relations to others.

The story opens with a hopeless Kitty being carried (literally) away from Shanghai to the remote, Chinese interior. As though illustrating the memories on which she must be brooding, a series of flashbacks intermittently cut with stunningly shot scenes of Kitty and her husband Walter’s journey through the country side, tell the story of Kitty’s movement through the first two places: London and Shanghai.

Kitty is an eligible, but discontented, young society woman. Her very first scene in London follows her drifting through a party of the high London society with a bored, if not disgusted, look on her face. As two older women catch her eye, she effortlessly beams a radiant smile at them and exchanges a pleasantry in passing, only to return to her discontented look the instant her face is turned away. She is thus introduced as creature of society, able to affect a proper tone and manner at will, and to veil her inner self from others – and, one thinks, from herself as well.

But London, the capital of the British Empire and the very definition of “civilization,” is oppressive to Kitty. Her overbearing mother presses her to marry. After overhearing her mother complaining about Kitty’s irresponsibility, she accepts an offer of marriage from Walter Fane, a shy government employed scientist stationed in Shanghai and specializing in infectious diseases, for the sole purpose of relocating as far away from London and her mother as possible.

Though she attempts to escape the social expectations of society in London, she finds that the colony of British ambassadors and civil servants in Shanghai is little better. Perhaps it is worse, for though she seemed to scorn London, at the same time she prides herself that this “Shanghai set” wouldn’t be worthy of dining at her mother’s house back in London.

Finding no joy with Walter, who shows no interest in entertainment but is completely absorbed in his work, she begins an affair with Charlie Townsend, a witty civil servant. The dashing Charlie seems perfectly suited to Kitty, possessing a social grace and ease which is completely lacking in Walter. Indeed, men like Charlie must have been plentiful in London, but one must surmise that being isolated in Shanghai among an inferior set made him much more attractive to Kitty.

She betrays an inconsistent, and ultimately self-centered, character. She would flaunt social moors (by having an affair), but immediately fall back on social conventions as a safety net when her infidelity is uncovered. She appeals to Walter for a quiet divorce, “as a gentleman would do.” It is here that society fails her utterly or traps her completely, depending on the point of view. Charlie Townsend will not scandalize himself to marry her, and Walter will not be the “gentleman” and give her a quiet divorce. Instead, out of anger and spite, he accepts a position in a remote village to fight a cholera outbreak and gives her the choice of accompanying him, or a very public and humiliating divorce. Evidently fearing scandal more than cholera, she joins Walter.

Kitty and Walter both are broken and hopeless on their arrival to the village. Both march to the village knowing they will not likely return: Walter is driven by vengeance and anger, Kitty by hopeless misery. Their evidently suicidal intent is underscored by their mutual refusal to be inoculated against the disease (though it is an imperfect precaution in the first place, the film points out.) Their cold relations toward each other are played out in silent, icy stares and in one scene they engage in a deadly brinksmanship over dinner – daring to eat uncooked vegatables and thereby risking cholera.

In the village they must face each other – and face themselves – naked, as it were, stripped of the veils and masks which so often obscure true thoughts, feelings and character.

As Walter, probably to avoid Kitty, immerses himself in his work, he becomes more personally invested in it. What began as a cruel way to punish his unfaithful wife becomes a noble endeavor to save the poor of the village from further suffering. We see his increasing care for the people. The ultimate recognition of his sincerity is the respect he gains from Colonel Yu, a Chinese military officer sympathetic to the revolution and skeptical of foreigners. “I didn’t come to China with a gun,” says Walter. “I came with a microscope.” “I believe you,” replies Yu.

However noble he has become in his work, Walter still is cold to Kitty. She is isolated from the village in the house they share. It is not until she herself enters the village, largely out of desperate frustration and boredom, and associates herself with a Catholic orphanage run by a small convent that she, too, is slowly drawn beyond her own suffering and into compassion for others. She also becomes aware of Walter’s good reputation. She sees him anew, and not through the lens of the society from which they came, but through the eyes of those he is helping. His reserve, lack of social grace, and disinterestedness in light entertainment, so vexing to her in Shanghai, become unimportant next to the compassion and good will he has for the villagers.

Thus begins a second courtship, this one initiated by Kitty. This time, the relationship that she seeks is not socially calculated – as the first one was. It is not an escape from something oppressive, but rather a sincere respect for her husband that draws her toward him now. Walter rebuffs her overtures, however, until he becomes aware that she, too, has entered the village. In one scene, Walter is surprised to find his wife assisting the orphanage, and his eyes linger on her as though piecing a puzzle together. Or as though he finally sees her with fresh eyes, free from the social masks and calculations.

It is important to note, however, that it is not just that they each gain a fresh vision of each other, seeing and appreciating characteristics that were present in them all along. It is also – and this is important – that there is something new to be seen in each of them. Their experiences in the village shape them in ways which is impossible to imagine had they remained in the city. Polite society tries very hard not to deal with the unpleasantness of suffering and death. Civilized society hides these things away and tends to acknowledge them only in the abstract. But in the village, cholera is impossible to avoid. Suffering and death are ubiquitous. The tragedy of Walter’s death so soon after their new-found love dramatizes how greatly changed these characters are. Walter accepts Kitty as his nurse – something that would have been inconceivable to him just several months before – and Kitty sees him through to the end of his suffering.

The last scene of the film takes place some seven or eight years later. Kitty happens to run into Charlie, her old lover from Shanghai. She declines his overture with such finality and firmness that there can be no doubt of her completely changed character. The lessons learned apart from the city and society can and must be brought back into the city to achieve an integrated life. While this last scene may appear to some as something of an awkward appendage at the end of the movie, it illustrates the necessary return to society and the possibility of living an authentic life within society.

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1. The title of the novel comes from a sonnet by Percy Shelley:

“The painted Veil”
Percy Shelley

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread, — behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it — he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas ! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

The first half of the film tracing the events taking Kitty from the high society of London to a remote, cholera-stricken village in China contains only minor changes from the book. Her marriage to Walter, move to China, her affair with Charlie Townsend and Walter’s discovery of it and the terrible choice Walter gives Kitty to accompany him to the village or face a scandalous divorce are all very similar. Not surprisingly, the book offers more detail, but the movie admirably portrays the details of the book. (1)

Probably the most significant departure from the book is the film’s portrayal of a tender romance between Kitty and Walter as they gain new respect for each other in the difficult conditions of the epidemic. (2)

The love that Kitty finds in the movie is both the cause of her transformation and its ultimate expression. She gains a second chance to love and be loved by her husband. It changes her, re-orders her existence. By the end of the movie, we see her content, independent, and happy with her son. The extent of her change is illustrated by her firm refusal of Charlie’s advances in the last scene.

The book presents a more tortured road for Kitty. She never loves Walter and reflects that she never could. Nevertheless, she ceases to despise him. More than anything else, she pities him. And Walter, for his part, is never able to forgive Kitty or himself, and he dies in a state of spiritual anguish. Kitty is sent for only at the very end of Walter’s suffering, and against Walter’s wish – quite a difference from Kitty’s tender nursing of Walter in the movie.

While the film doesn’t focus much on Kitty’s understanding of her own act of infidelity, it is the cause of much rumination for her in the book. As her heart begins to open and she gains a spiritual perspective on life, she thinks that it is ugly and base, but inconsequential. She compares it to a faux pas at a party, hardly something to repent of, but also something not to be repeated.

However, her conversion is not complete. Back in Hong Kong, on her way back to England, she yields against her better judgment to Charlie’s advances one last time. (For his part, Charlie is far more despicable in the book. He refuses to respect Kitty’s repeated requests to leave her along and forces himself on her.) This time, Kitty is wracked with shame and remorse at her act. Not, it must be noted, out of some loyalty to her dead husband, but out of a sense that her behaviour is base and animistic. That is, it is not an expression of love, but of lust only. Thus she has completely moved from condoning her own infidelity at the beginning of the novel, through thinking it ugly but inconsequential, to understanding it as a degradation of the noble spirit she has discovered inside of her.

The book reserves her complete transformation for a touching scene with her father at the very end. He was treated by his wife and daughters as a mere source of income, whose opinions and preferences were never taken into account. On Kitty’s return to London, she begs him to giver her a second chance to have a loving relationship with him.

in both book and movie, it is the capacity to love that ultimately changes her character. Maughm suggests that this capacity to enter a relationship with another person and to place that person’s welfare above one’s own also something of a mark of good character. Though the film portrays Kitty’s new capacity to love authentically in relationship with her husband, whereas the book portrays it in relationship to her father, the film nevertheless conveys the same point. Because of this, the changes described above do no great violence to the story or to Kitty’s character.

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1. For instance, the book mentions many times that Walter is utterly devoted to Kitty and goes out of his way to please her. One charming detail of the movie that portrays this dynamic occurs when Walter first brings his bride to China. Kitty, visibly unimpressed with the apartment, questions disappointedly “no piano?” Several scenes later, with no explicit mention, a piano is seen in the apartment.

2. See the essay titled “Place and Travel in The Painted Veil” for more analysis of this relationship, as well as for further analysis of Kitty’s character in the film.

Manon of the Spring is a tragedy in the truest understanding of the genre. It unfolds with a relentlessness usually witnessed in plots by Shakespeare or Sophocles. This tragedy, however, is set in a deeply Catholic culture. As Cesar’s tragedy becomes the catalyst for his return to faith, the film turns the the tragic genre upside down, reflecting Christian belief in the supremacy of hope and life over despair and death.

To bring out the ways in which Manon of the Spring fits into the tragic genre, it is helpful to view it in light of Aristotle’s Poetics, which gives a precise account of characteristics of tragedy. Now clearly the film is not a Greek tragedy simply speaking. It is a movie, not a play, and it lacks the characteristic chorus of the ancient tragedies as well as their elevated poetic language. These differences notwithstanding, however, the story fits solidly into the genre by way of what Aristotle himself considers the most important considerations: plot and character.

Aristotle calls plot the “life and soul” of tragedy (1). It is the single most important element of tragedy. A tragedy deficient in all other respects yet possessing a good plot is much to be preferred to one excelling in all other respects yet lacking in plot.

There are several elements of a tragic plot. Peripeteia (reversal of intention) occurs when a character produces an effect opposite to that which he intended and anagnorisis (scene of recognition) “is a change from ignorance to knowledge producing love or hate between persons.” (2) The best plots, according to Aristotle, are complex ones incorporating peripeteia and anagnorisis within a chain of cause and effect leading ultimately to the catastrophe (change of fortune).

These elements are all readily recognized in Manon of the Spring. Cesar’s deepest desire is the continuation of the Soubeyran family name, who have been an important and wealthy family in the region for generations. He believes that Jean’s death and subsequent purchase of the farm from Jean’s widow will enable his nephew Ugolin to finally settle down, get married and have children (reversal of intention). It is years after the fact that Cesar learns that Jean was actually his own son (scene of recognition). In fact, Aristotle even explicitly mentions the killing of a family member while ignorant of the relationship only to find out after the fact as a good tragic plot (3).

The second most important element of tragedy is character. Tragedies should deal with important or noble people. The Soubeyran family, as the oldest and wealthiest in the region, certainly fits that criteria.

However, as to the character’s fall, Aristotle says that it’s best if this is done not through some fault or vice, but rather through ignorance. A character who unknowingly brings misfortune upon himself is more tragic than one who receives deserved punishment. Here the film introduces a new element to Aristotle’s understanding of tragedy, for Cesar is clearly responsible to some extent his own misfortune. It is true that Cesar was not directly responsible for Jean’s death. Cesar’s objective involved pushing Jean off his land (bad enough), but not actually killing him (much worse). It was Jean’s own foolishness which directly resulted in his death. Running into a half-finished well sill completely obscured by dust and smoke just seconds after detonating dynamite is not a brilliant maneuver. Still, Jean was only digging the well because Cesar and Ugolin had stopped up the spring and refused to rent him their mule. Taking advantage of Jean’s grieving widow by underpaying her for the farm only adds to his guilt. The final scene of Jean de Florette shows a young Manon watching Cesar and Ugolin unplug the well and the injustice of the situation is palpable.

It is this moral strain through which the movie reinterprets the tragic genre from how it was understood by Aristotle. For him, tragedy was not a moral tale. Indeed, as stated above, tragedies deal with good characters who come to misfortune through no fault of their own, but only through ignorance. The feelings aroused by classic tragedy are pity, for undeserved misfortune, and fear, that some similar misfortune may strike at anyone (4).

The feelings aroused by Cesar’s suffering in Manon of the Spring are perhaps slightly more complex. As Delphi relates to Cesar the content of a letter written by Florette to Cesar many years ago, in which she told him of her pregnancy, which letter was lost and never read by Cesar, the full depth of his tragedy is revealed. There is no doubt that on a certain level his misfortune is just punishment for his treatment of Jean. But on another level, Cesar is certainly not culpable for the lost letter. In a significant sense he is ignorant of the ramifications of his actions, both in the distant past at having assumed Florette to be unfaithful to him, and in the recent past regarding the episode with Jean.

Cesar’s ignorance resulting from the lost letter provides ample ground for the traditionally cathartic emotion of pity. We pity him more for the lost opportunity to marry Florette and for the sudden realization that his life was needlessly empty and lonely. Our compassion for his other level of suffering, having driven his son and heir of the Soubeyran fortune to death, is tinged with a sense of justice. And it is this recognition that his suffering was to a large degree brought upon himself through his own misdeeds which gives the other cathartic emotion of fear new meaning. More than fearing an inscrutable fate, we fear the consequences of our own misdeeds. Within its Catholic context, then, the film portrays the tragedy of sin and its consequences through the generations.

If the tragic genre has, to this point, been reinterpreted as a moral story, Cesar’s return to faith at the close of the film reinterprets it yet again in light of Christian belief. Aristotle says that the last critical plot element of tragedy is a scene of suffering. Oedipus, for example, gouges out his eyes upon learning of his fate. Here, we see Cesar suffering to such an extent he knows he will die. This scene of suffering, however, is also a scene of redemption. In these final scenes, the film portrays the Christian belief that in suffering is found hope. As Christ claimed victory at the very moment of what appeared to be utter defeat, rising from the dead, so has Cesar found comfort and redemption at the moment of his greatest suffering.

In reinterpreting the genre of tragedy, this film becomes a statement about human suffering and tragedy in general. In light of faith, tragedy is not as tragic as it first appears. The ancient Greeks had no Christian concept of a paradisaical afterlife. For them, the hereafter was a bleak and dismal existence. A ruined life, therefore, snuffed out all hope for happiness. From a Christian perspective, however, there is nothing in this life which cannot find redemption in the next. Far from the dreadful finality feared by the ancient Greeks, suffering and tragedy represent not a terrible end, but, for the faithful Christian, an opportunity for grace.

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A note on the notes:
Aristotle’s writings are generally referenced by Bekker numbers – provided here in parentheses. The numbers correspond to Prussian Academy of Sciences edition of Aristotle’s complete works. They indicate the page (first group of digits), column (a or b), and line number (last group of digits) of the reference in question.
1. Poetics, chapter 6 (1450a39).
2. Poetics, chapter 11 (1465a22-32)
3. Poetics, chapter 14 (1454a2-5)
4. Poetics, chapter 9, (1465a1-6)

The Lives of Others follows a playwright, Georg Dreyman, and his actress girlfriend, Christa-Maria Sieland, as they struggle through life in the authoritarian state of 1984 East Berlin. The government maintains tight control of artistic activity, blacklisting or otherwise silencing artists who are critical of the political system.Dreyman’s plays are sympathetic to communism and he is generally liked or tolerated by those in power. When even he comes under full surveillance, however, he achieves in his life what the censors will not allow him to achieve on the stage; he touches the soul of an audience he doesn’t even know he has, and opens that soul to possibilities it had never before conceived.

Hauptmann Gerd Wiesler is the stazi (secrete police) official tasked with spying on Dreyman and Christa-Maria. As the movie unfolds, Wiesler’s naive idealism and belief in the communist project is challenged on the one hand witnessing the blatant corruption and hypocrisy of powerful party officials, and on other hand by a growing sympathy with the targets of his surveillance.

His sympathy for them develops and deepens over the course of the movie just as our own does. Indeed, as Wiesler listens to the lives of Dreyman and Sieland, the entire movie unfolds as a “play within a play,” allowing the film to explore the connections between art and life in a more explicit way than would otherwise be possible.

While the censors would never allow Dreyman to produce a play portraying the struggles of life under the GDR (the East German government), as Weisler spies on him and Sieland, their very lives become something of a play. Rather than an dramatic imitation of life staged in a theater, it is the drama of real life into whichWiesler finds himself drawn. Experiencing the drama of Dreyman and Sieland’s real lives brings Weisler to an understanding of the suffering which the government he works for has created for its citizens.

The transformative power of art emerges as a theme throughout the movie. In one amusing scene, Dreyman searches his entire apartment for his copy of a book of poetry. The scene then cuts to Wiesler in his own apartment reading the book of poems which he had “borrowed” from Dreyman. It is clear that he reads the poetry not as Western propaganda or through a political lens, as he may have read it before. Probably for the first time in his life, he reads poetry openly, as one who is searching for something.

Later, in what represents the definitive turning point in Wiesler’s loyalties, Dreyman plays “Sonata for a Good Man,” which Jaska had given him just prior to his suicide. As Dreyman plays a kind of private requiem for his friend, tears fall from Weisler’s eyes. Dreyman rhetorically asks Seiland, “Can anyone who has heard this music, I mean really heard it, truly be a bad person?” This is perhaps the closest the film comes to articulating its central theme. Weisler truly hears the music. It is after this that Weisler begins submitting false reports to his superiors in an attempt to protect Dreyman.

If drama is in some way an imitation of life, and if drama has the power to transform people’s lives and bring them to a deeper and richer understanding of themselves and the world, then this film is a compelling reminder that the reality which drama imitates has the same power. Indeed, whatever insight or truth a playwright tries to convey through drama must first be gleaned from real life. No matter how successfully and powerfully the dramatist – or any artist for that matter – is able to distill those insights for the audience, the source of those insights must ultimately be human experience.

Dreyman’s and Sieland’s lives provide for Wiesler that kind of raw material from which an artist might work. Wiesler is able to appreciate the insights which his surveillance of these lives has given him even without an artistic interpretation, and in so doing he displays that necessary quality of a true artist; to draw inspiration from life.

Wiesler’s actions in protecting Dreyman and trying to save Sieland demonstrate the authentic nature of this inspiration. Wiesler does these things with no thought of recognition, praise, or reward. Indeed, he has no reasonable hope that his career will ever advance out of the mail-room to which he is re-assigned. He does these things rather out of the necessity of his whole being. Having glimpsed these insights, he literally cannot do otherwise than act as he does. Such is the nature of truth when it is authentically grasped.

This becomes a model for life. By orienting his life in accordance with these deep insights into the value and dignity of people and acting consistently from them, Wiesler finds a fulfillment and satisfaction that is deeper than anything his political party can offer.

It is this same conviction and authenticity which first attracts Wiesler to Dreyman and Sieland. They act authentically as best they can in the context of the oppressive East German government. Much of the tension of the movie hinges on the state preventing artists from acting as they must to be authentic to themselves. This control literally destroys two artists,Jenska and Sieland , by stifling them or forcing them to actively betray the things for which they live. Indeed, the high suicide rate in East Germany as a result of the oppression is precisely whatDreyman addresses in his essay.

The denouement of the movie reinforces these themes. Just as Dreyman and Sieland touch Weisler’s soul without even knowing it, simply through trying to live an authentic life, so Weisler touches Dreyman. Years later, as Dreyman is able to examine the records the government kept on him, he is able to “watch” Weisler just as Weisler spied on him. Dreyman is no less affected by Weisler than Weisler was by him. Dreyman draws new inspiration from life (just as Weisler learned to do). Being an artist, however, Dreyman takes that inspiration and artistically presents it for the benefit of the rest of us.

Of course, we realize that all of these things are themselves artistic imitations of life. The characters of Dreyman, Sieland and Weisler are fictional and we are just watching a movie. It is a film, however, that encourages us and challenges us to take those themes of life, art and authentic living and apply them to our own lives.

Nina, the central character in the film, just got a positive result from a pregnancy test. In her distress, she arrives late to work, for which she is fired. Jose, the chef (and brother of the owner), walks out the restaurant and the film portrays their day together.

For a movie dealing with abortion, arguably the single most politicized and contentious issue dividing the country, the film shows remarkable restraint and subtlety. While I don’t want to get into the issue of abortion per se, I will say that I greatly appreciated the fact that the film examined the issue artistically. That is, there is no sermonizing, lecturing, debating or moralizing in this movie. Rather, themes emerge through gentle conversation and imagery.

The strongest of those themes, which seems in this film to frame the issue of abortion itself, is relationships. New York is beautifully shot, but a certain undercurrent is also portrayed. People don’t or can’t connect with each other. Nina witnesses a disagreement between a store clerk and a customer which could have easily been resolved through a little empathy and calls it a “typical New York moment.” She later describes the city to a blind man, saying something along the lines of “everyone’s got something to do, not really paying attention to anyone else.” (I’m sure I got that quote wrong, but it’s along those lines.)

Indeed, everything that we discover about Nina indicates a tragic absence of authentic human relationship. Her father died when she was 12. After that, her mother devoted more time to the television than to Nina. She has no other family, and she reveals that she does not love her boyfriend. She is a woman profoundly alone in a sea of people. This loneliness seems to be a major factor in her initial decision in favor of an abortion.

Running contrary to this sense of isolation is her connection with Jose, who walks out on his job for the day simply because she needed someone to talk to and he was willing to be there for her. I get the impression this is the first time she has ever experienced this kind of selfless generosity. Jose’s family, of course, is presented as nearly paradisaical. Indeed, the first scene with his family has Nina joining Jose and his father to work in their garden – the garden imagery being a clear reference to the biblical Garden. (1) His family’s closeness and the warmth and generosity shown by his parents prompts Nina to remark on how lucky Jose is to have a family like this.

Of the imagery found in the film, food emerges as the most important. In this film, it is symbol of generosity and relationships. Jose’s brother and boss Mannie scolds Jose for preparing a fancy meal for the staff of the restaurant. During Mannie and Jose’s fight, it becomes clear that Mannie sees the staff only as employees, not as people. Jose’s nice meal for them, on the other hand, is a sign of his relationship with them. Later, Jose cooks Mannie a meal to make up from their fight, again using food to demonstrate his care for those around him.

The themes of relationships and family intersect with the imagery of food throughout the film, but never so clearly as the at the dinner with Jose’s family. It is first an expression of the closeness of the family itself. But it is also an expression of the family’s generosity extending beyond its bounds – embracing both Nina and the younger brother’s girlfriend. The fact that Nina is the cause of Jose and Mannie’s fight makes her warm reception into the family that much more touching.

There is more that could be said along these lines. While the film is rich in imagery and the vignettes are often touching, the film as whole is unfortunately somewhat choppy. Many scenes are shot with a shaky, hand-held camera. Perhaps this was intended to illustrate Nina’s internal turmoil, but for me it was mostly just irritating.

Beyond that, though, the portrayal of Nina and Jose’s day together somehow just doesn’t come together as a unified work of art. It strikes me as too episodic. An example is Jose’s encounter with an ex girlfriend. For the life of me, I can’t find a compelling reason to include that scene in the movie. Sure it offers a glimpse into his past life, etc., but we have already glimpsed that past.

Despite that, however, Bella is a beautiful movie. It is beautifully filmed (especially when the camera is still) and deals with beautiful themes: finding life, joy, and authentic relationships in the midst of tragedy and crisis.

The opening scenes beautifully introduce the tone of the entire film. We see three men meet up in the country side. Initially, it is reasonable assumption that these are the “good guys.” (This is a Western, after all, and though it breaks other conventions, there are still “good guys” and “bad guys.”) As this extended sequence progresses, without one line of dialog, we notice various elements of their characters which call into question what side these men are on. Their clothes are torn and dirty, they are not groomed well, and their manners are somewhat coarse. By the time we see them riding together, it is clear they have some definite purpose, and we suspect that it is a sinister one.

Throughout this scene, a lyrical ballad is played in the background. While the words of the ballad summarize the plot of the film (1), the driving percussion under the gentle melody line perfectly introduces and reinforces the suppressed tension below the surface of the film. As the movie progresses, and the tension builds, this percussion becomes more and more pronounced.

The story line is very simple: Marshal Kane arrested Frank Miller some years ago for murder. Miller was convicted and sentenced to life in prison, but has been released on parole. At the time of his conviction, Miller swore to return and get revenge on Kane. Miller is returning and the three characters seen at the beginning of the film are his possey.

Miller is coming on the noon train. Kane has roughly two hours to round up a group of decent men who will defend their town against the outlaw that once terrorized them (during a time when “a decent woman couldn’t walk down the street.”) During this lengthy second act, numerous visual motifs accentuate the drama.

The first of these motifs is a clock, obviously symbolizing time. As the movie progresses and Kane’s time is running out, clocks become more and more prominent in various scenes, until they finally take up entire scenes themselves. Sometimes, dramatic shots of a pendulum swings towards and away from the camera fill the screen.

The second is a still shot of the railroad tracks down which the noon train will be coming. It is a simple shot, but devastatingly effective. We see the rails merge in the distance and know that from that inscrutable horizon, a menace will soon approach. The stillness of the shot acts like a calm before a storm. It is not a peaceful stillness, but one full of tension, like a tightly wound string waiting to be plucked – or snapped – by the arrival of the train.

In contrast to the still shot of the tracks, the third motif is Marshal Kane pacing the streets of the town. He is always alone, and as noon draws near, he looks more and more desperate.

A fourth image that isn’t quite as pervasive as the other three but is still quite apparent is the witness chair from the courtroom. It is the very chair in which Frank Miller sat as he swore revenge on Marshal Kane. The repetition of a still shot of the chair serves both as a reminder of the threat faced by Kane, and also with its association of Miller’s oath, it adds to the sense of inevitability or fate.

As noon arrives, all of these motifs converge. The hands of the clock unite at 12, the train appears at the horizon on the tracks, and Kane is seen still alone in the town. Now the train is moving and it is Kane who is still, waiting for the inevitable confrontation. As the sound of the train whistle reverberates through the town, we see flashes, one by one, of all the people who Kane has asked for help. They are at home, in the bar, in church, in the hotel, everywhere and anywhere but with Kane.

As we see each of these characters, we are almost invited to ask ourselves which character we would be. The jealous, ambitious deputy who tries to blackmail Kane? The politician who urges Kane to flee, and thus lead Miller away from the town rather than fight him? The preacher who refuses to take a side, one way or the other? The woman who urges the men to fight? The woman who urges them not to? The man who initially agrees, but backs away when he learns that there is no one else? Or would we be in Kane’s shoes?

This scene drives home the sense that the entire film plays out like a parable. It presents a crisis in stark simplicity. That the film is shot in black and white reinforces its simple morality. Having laid out the situation, it then examines and personifies all the various ways that we might back away and avoid the challenge. So on the one hand, it is a classic movie about a man driven by honor and duty. On the other, it is an uncomfortable examination of just how rare those virtues are.

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1 The lyrics of the ballad are below. For a very interesting essay on this ballad, see http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/03/28/ballad_of_high_noon.html

Do not forsake me O my darlin’
On this our wedding day.
Do not forsake me O my darlin’
Wait, wait along.

The noonday train will bring Frank Miller.
If I’m a man I must be brave
And I must face that deadly killer
Or lie a coward, a craven coward,
Or lie a coward in my grave.

O to be torn ‘twixt love and duty!
S’posin’ I lose my fair-haired beauty!
Look at that big hand move along
Nearin’ high noon.

He made a vow while in State’s Prison,
Vow’d it would be my life or his and
I’m not afraid of death, but O,
What will I do if you leave me?

Do not forsake me O my darlin’
You made that promise when we wed.
Do not forsake me O my darlin’
Although you’re grievin’, I can’t be leavin’
Until I shoot Frank Miller dead.

Wait along, wait along
Wait along
Wait along