Nov. 29, 2014
Heller: These two are never going to be “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” because that’s not who they are. Both Jane and Lisbon are private, self-contained, protective people. So it’s a love story – but it’s not a very conventional love story. It’s a love story that is consonant with the relationship they’ve had, which is the interesting thing about it. When we started, it was very much… brother/sister is the wrong way to describe it, but it’s that kind of familial affection that over time has turned into something more. That, to a degree, makes the romance harder for both characters to negotiate because they’re not fiery, passionate, crazy people. They’re people who need to work their way towards seeing how this will play out in the future. It’s a very sort of Jane Austen type of romance – the good ones in Jane Austen. The ones you devoutly wish to be consummated [are] between two people who have known each other for years, and you can see that they’re made for each other – not in a fiery, kind of crazy way. But just in a human, gentle, correct way.
I have not written yet about The Kiss that made history in the season 6 finale. It was masterfully done, the most moving kiss I have ever seen on TV. It set the stage for season 7 which begins tomorrow night. I've been trying to dodge the spoilers because I want to see how their relationship unfolds. I like it that Heller considers it a good Jane Austen romance--Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy, or perhaps Emma and Knightley or even Anne and Captain Wentworth in Persuasion, who have to overcome obstacles created by misunderstanding and miscommunication. I think it's interesting that Heller uses "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" as a study in contrasts. George and Martha actively hate each other and I don't recall a single word of tenderness between them. What Heller is referring to, of course, is that while George and Martha are people of openly violent and verbal emotions, Jane and Lisbon are not. But it's not a good analogy. He should have used Cathy and Heathcliff in "Wuthering Heights" because these two characters are violently, openly and verbally (and implied physically) in love, in the gothic, Romantic-era fictional sense. "Wuthering Heights" was written in a different literary era than "Pride and Prejudice": 1830s English literature was dramatically different from the literature of only two decades earlier. The Romantic era had begun, the same age in music that gave us Beethoven and Chopin.
Jane Austen's work, written during the Napoleonic or Empire era of 1800-1820, was roughly contemporary with Mozart and shares the elegant restraint of passion that characterizes his music (with certain notable exceptions in his late works like the Requiem, Don Giovanni, the Symphony in G minor and the Piano Concerto in D minor, and it should be noted that these works were written in the dawn of the Romantic era in Western music, which had its early beginnings in the late 18th century) These categorizations of Western art into periods has never been an exact science. But when I watch Jane and Lisbon's romance unfold, I am immediately reminded of Jane Austen and not of Emily or Charlotte Brontë.
Jane and Lisbon have known each other for over a dozen years in the context of working together and as partners in Jane's quest to destroy Red John. During this time, Jane, a broken man, still loves his wife, whom he lost along with his beloved daughter when RJ murdered them. He still hasn't removed his wedding ring 13 years later, and 3 years after he finds and strangles RJ. (There are no murders in Jane Austen; Patrick Jane turns briefly into Heathcliff in this scene--though one could argue that in his obsessive revenge he has been Heathcliff all along) Even from his first encounter with Lisbon when, fresh from the mental hospital, he asks her if he can see the Red John case files, it is obvious that he makes a strong connection with her. "Love at first sight" is perhaps too strong a term, but there is something, apart from her stunning physical beauty, that resonates with him. The perceptive and insightful con man sees right away that she is intelligent, compassionate, kind, and brave, and he knows that she will help him. (He is to discover that she is not only intelligent but quick-witted and sarcastic, not only compassionate and kind but loving and forgiving, not only brave but heroic.) At first, she explains that it is against CBI policy to allow victims to look at files, but she soon relents. One of the first things she does is minister to his wound when he instigates an agent to punch him in the nose. She is indignant with the agent for assaulting a crime victim. It's the first time of many that she will defend and nurse him. The stage is set for romance six seasons before it actually happens.
[in "Emma," the two main characters have known one another since Emma was a child, with Knightley being 10-20 years older and in almost a father's, certainly a brother's, role. Their love is platonic until they discover it isn't. This is the closest parallel of "The Mentalist" to Jane Austen.]
The nature of the Jane/Lisbon relationship is what is so Austen-like. The passion is there--deeply so--but hidden under a mask of propriety. There is even denial at work until the denial can no longer prevail ("In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.'' Darcy) The situation in which Lisbon is on the brink of marrying a man she does not love to escape the man she loves could have been written by Austen herself. Both Jane and Lisbon have conned themselves into believing that they will be happier this way until events take a dramatic turn that reveals their love for each other.
Also Austen-like is the threat of a rival, Lisbon's Pike and to a lesser degree Jane's Lorelei. In each case, jealousy and heartache are aroused and immediately hidden with varying degrees of success. The viewer is not fooled for a second when Lisbon attempts to establish boundaries with Jane after he has kissed Lorelei to get information from her ("I'm not your girlfriend! I'm an officer of the law!") Or when she tells Jane that he is too emotionally involved with Lorelei to see that she is playing him. There is no longer any doubt that she loves Jane when we see the scene in the church where she has gone to pray for Jane after he has been gone for six months without contacting her despite her "hundreds" of phone calls. She isn't making any attempt to hide her hurt, but thinks that because she's calling him a son of a bitch it means that she doesn't love him, and that's the message he'll get. And oddly (for a skilled reader of people) he does seem to get that message. He apologizes, but he isn't truly shamed the way he is at the beginning of season 6 when they're on the plane together and she expresses her contempt for his selfishness and his control and manipulation of her. By this time, he is aware that he's in love with her and her words cut him to the heart. In both of them, their carefully constructed façades are beginning to crack until they finally crumble in the season 6 finale.
Jane Austen novels always end with a wedding, so it would be in keeping if Jane and Lisbon get married at the end of this final season. Of course Heller gets asked this question hundreds of times and he's not giving anything away. But if any two people were ready to take on marriage, it's these two. After all of their trials for so many years, what could possibly lie ahead that could be worse? Simon Baker says that the focus will be on conflicts between what each of them wants to do with his/her life. Lisbon defines herself by her career, but Jane never wanted to be in law enforcement and still doesn't know what he wants to be when he grows up, since he's through with being a con artist. Can they reconcile this? It might mean they can't work together anymore, but why would that interfere with their relationship? It might actually be better for it. I'm not without hopes that Jane leaves the FBI after discharging his obligation (or maybe a sympathetic Abbott will set him free) Then he could do something else and she could be free to keep being an FBI agent without having to worry about keeping their relationship a secret. Though I suspect that the secret is already an open one and at some point she's going to throw caution to the winds. In any event, I don't foresee any obstacles to their getting married except this one: can they trust each other not to hurt each other? They've hurt each other profoundly in the past, which is one reason why they are so tentative now. I honestly can't believe that any rivals will enter the story now. That time is past. Either they will end up together or each will be alone permanently. There is no other possible partner for either of them. It would be tragic if the series ended with their breakup after everything they have been through. Though it's unlikely that this scenario will take place, Heller has a very dark side and there's no knowing how it will inevitably express itself this season. Just watch his new show "Gotham" and you see how dark he can be.
"The Mentalist," for all its clever repartée, humorous, cute and touching moments, is at heart a dark and tormented story. Not only Jane's story, but Lisbon's as well. For here is a woman who, although her personal tragedy was arguably less traumatic than Jane's, is 1) without any close friends except Jane 2) shut down emotionally 3) driven by her work and rarely has any fun 4) unbearably lonely and at the same time terrified to get close to other people--she has never had a successful romantic relationship at almost 40 years old. Both Jane and Lisbon have some remarkably similar character traits, the main difference between them being Lisbon's ability to forgive,wider compassion, and belief that the law is usually just--Jane is unashamedly a law unto himself. They also have dissimilar traits that complement each other: Jane is mischievous and fun-loving even in the midst of his despair, while Lisbon "hates surprises" and is reluctant to let herself have fun. Lisbon is the closest thing Jane has to a moral compass, even though he disregards her orders and advice; he knows she's right even when he won't admit it to himself. But he also counters her often rigid adherence to police procedure in the name of doing the right thing. She forgives him time after time no matter how much he hurts her, demonstrating the one quality he lacks: mercy. He is darkness, she is light. He needs her light and she needs to partake of some of his devilish darkness.
I am so looking forward to the season 7 premiere tomorrow night. I know I won't see what I want to see the most: a glimpse of them in bed together, perhaps the morning after, sleepily waking up and kissing in a gentle but passionate manner--I don't need to see over the top, I've got fanfiction for that. I just want to see Eliza and Darcy when they wake up together. Is that too much to ask? However, I know what Heller's going for, and I know he won't stint on the romantic and tender moments. Whatever it is, it will be well worth seeing.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Friday, November 7, 2014
A latter-day Victorian/Edwardian
That's me.
I just finished reading The Portrait of a Lady for the third time--I read it every few years because it is one of my favorite James novels, written when he was young and had not yet developed the complicated and inscrutable style he became famous for, in which every sentence was a lengthy challenge, as often as not a maze. Even in Portrait his sentences sometimes become paragraphs in the Proustian manner (speaking of Proust: James was every bit as keen and perceptive an observer of the nineteenth century upper classes.)
I kept wanting to get a hilighter and yellow over great sentences which kept popping up on almost every page. But then it would defeat the purpose, and I didn't want to deface my book. The prose is quite simply brilliant, as is the story itself. Isabel Archer is the world's most exasperating heroine, and I won't say why so as not to spoil the story for anyone who has not yet read it. It is the kind of book that begs to be read often--something new is invariably discovered each time one reads it.
I have long been aware that I was raised as though I were a girl of the nineteenth century upper classes, in particular the British and American classes that Henry James knew so intimately.
Let me explain.
I'm talking about accomplishments. And the accomplishments of a young lady, in particular.
To wit: French, Italian, drawing, playing the piano, singing, dancing, and needlework. With the addition of some things usually only taught to boys, such as literature and Latin. Not mathematics or science, only because my father was not well versed in these, but philosophy and logic In all of these subjects (save needlework, which my mother taught me) my father was my tutor. I don't know what he expected me to become with all of this careful molding. The wife of an erudite man, no doubt, like Gilbert Osmond. Or perhaps Mr. Darcy. However, like Isabel Archer, I lacked one thing: a fortune. (That is, she lacked a fortune until her cousin Ralph made her an heiress and unintentionally caused the beginning of her suffering.) These days, fortunes are not to be had in this manner. My well-to-do grandparents had no grandiose ideas of marrying me off to a lord, or the American equivalent, if there is one. The money I inherited from my grandfather was appropriated by my father, who spent it all mostly in gambling. My millionaire aunt and uncle are still alive, and I certainly don't expect to be remembered in their will. As to my inheritance on my father's death, well, let's just say that it falls well short of a fortune. I'm not poor, but I will most likely not be able to retire. My situation is very drearily twenty-first century and barely middle class. The upper classes are beyond my reach unless I married an elderly hedge fund manager or scion of industry. I'm sure the idle rich (as in living off the interest of their capital without having to get their hands dirty doing an actual job) exist in this country, and undoubtedly in England, but I don't move in the right circles to meet them.
What a pity. When I would so enjoy being one of them.
The older I get, the less I want to work. I know exactly how I'd spend my time if I didn't have to work--I have my music, my art, my languages (hey, those accomplishments!) gardening, decorating, remodeling my house or possibly moving to Europe into a larger, brighter, sunnier house. Castles in the air. Unless my investments pay off big time, or if I somehow get Lady Gaga to hire me as her accompanist, I'll be teaching at Berklee ten years from now. If I'm still alive. Statistically, I will be.
If I were a rich character in a nineteenth century novel, I'd be a lady of leisure who only received guests one night a week. I'd be surrounded by artwork and large bouquets of fresh flowers, with a cadre of servants right down to a lady's maid to dress my hair. Since I'd accomplished my mission of marrying well, I might or might not continue practicing the piano, drawing, and doing needlepoint, but if I didn't, that would be fine because I would no longer need accomplishments. I might be very bored indeed with "society," and not at all interested in the latest Paris fashions, though I would be expected to be "fashionable." I'd like to think I'd be as accomplished a pianist as Madame Merle. I'd have all the time I needed to practice, after all. No excuses because the servants would be doing the housework and errands. I'd have a gardener for all the heavy lifting, so I would be able to just do the garden work that I like.
And reading...hours of reading! No internet or phones.
[To be continued...or not.]
I just finished reading The Portrait of a Lady for the third time--I read it every few years because it is one of my favorite James novels, written when he was young and had not yet developed the complicated and inscrutable style he became famous for, in which every sentence was a lengthy challenge, as often as not a maze. Even in Portrait his sentences sometimes become paragraphs in the Proustian manner (speaking of Proust: James was every bit as keen and perceptive an observer of the nineteenth century upper classes.)
I kept wanting to get a hilighter and yellow over great sentences which kept popping up on almost every page. But then it would defeat the purpose, and I didn't want to deface my book. The prose is quite simply brilliant, as is the story itself. Isabel Archer is the world's most exasperating heroine, and I won't say why so as not to spoil the story for anyone who has not yet read it. It is the kind of book that begs to be read often--something new is invariably discovered each time one reads it.
I have long been aware that I was raised as though I were a girl of the nineteenth century upper classes, in particular the British and American classes that Henry James knew so intimately.
Let me explain.
I'm talking about accomplishments. And the accomplishments of a young lady, in particular.
To wit: French, Italian, drawing, playing the piano, singing, dancing, and needlework. With the addition of some things usually only taught to boys, such as literature and Latin. Not mathematics or science, only because my father was not well versed in these, but philosophy and logic In all of these subjects (save needlework, which my mother taught me) my father was my tutor. I don't know what he expected me to become with all of this careful molding. The wife of an erudite man, no doubt, like Gilbert Osmond. Or perhaps Mr. Darcy. However, like Isabel Archer, I lacked one thing: a fortune. (That is, she lacked a fortune until her cousin Ralph made her an heiress and unintentionally caused the beginning of her suffering.) These days, fortunes are not to be had in this manner. My well-to-do grandparents had no grandiose ideas of marrying me off to a lord, or the American equivalent, if there is one. The money I inherited from my grandfather was appropriated by my father, who spent it all mostly in gambling. My millionaire aunt and uncle are still alive, and I certainly don't expect to be remembered in their will. As to my inheritance on my father's death, well, let's just say that it falls well short of a fortune. I'm not poor, but I will most likely not be able to retire. My situation is very drearily twenty-first century and barely middle class. The upper classes are beyond my reach unless I married an elderly hedge fund manager or scion of industry. I'm sure the idle rich (as in living off the interest of their capital without having to get their hands dirty doing an actual job) exist in this country, and undoubtedly in England, but I don't move in the right circles to meet them.
What a pity. When I would so enjoy being one of them.
The older I get, the less I want to work. I know exactly how I'd spend my time if I didn't have to work--I have my music, my art, my languages (hey, those accomplishments!) gardening, decorating, remodeling my house or possibly moving to Europe into a larger, brighter, sunnier house. Castles in the air. Unless my investments pay off big time, or if I somehow get Lady Gaga to hire me as her accompanist, I'll be teaching at Berklee ten years from now. If I'm still alive. Statistically, I will be.
If I were a rich character in a nineteenth century novel, I'd be a lady of leisure who only received guests one night a week. I'd be surrounded by artwork and large bouquets of fresh flowers, with a cadre of servants right down to a lady's maid to dress my hair. Since I'd accomplished my mission of marrying well, I might or might not continue practicing the piano, drawing, and doing needlepoint, but if I didn't, that would be fine because I would no longer need accomplishments. I might be very bored indeed with "society," and not at all interested in the latest Paris fashions, though I would be expected to be "fashionable." I'd like to think I'd be as accomplished a pianist as Madame Merle. I'd have all the time I needed to practice, after all. No excuses because the servants would be doing the housework and errands. I'd have a gardener for all the heavy lifting, so I would be able to just do the garden work that I like.
And reading...hours of reading! No internet or phones.
[To be continued...or not.]
Ruminations on the gas buggy
I haven't posted on this blog in a very long time, because no one reads it. But that's not really a good excuse not to post.
In December 2013, after my last disgruntled post, my father's house, which continues to appear in my dreams, was finally sold. Hallelujah. For a whopping $180,000. At least we didn't have to resort to calling one of those "we buy ugly houses" numbers. The money was duly divided between my brother and me, and what was left of my half not spent on pricey house repairs was deposited in my savings and invested with Fidelity. I finally bit the bullet and made a huge down payment on...
a Prius!
Yes, my fifteen year old Honda Civic, which still runs beautifully with 147,000 miles on it, has rusted out as all New England vehicles eventually do. My mechanic informed me that within six months my car would be unsafe to drive. This sent me into a tizzy, because naturally I didn't want to wait for that dire eventuality. So...what car to buy? For years now, I have been fantasizing about a Prius, which, while pricey, is at least in the range of the possible, unlike a Porsche or Ferrari. I soon found that a new one was out of the question, so I researched the prices of used ones online. I decided that no way was I dealing with a used car salesman. Instead, I asked Pat Regan, my mechanic, who buys a few used cars and sells them from his service station, to find me a used Prius, no older than 2010.
A few weeks went by as I prayed to my Higher Power to send me my Prius. I wanted the gunmetal gray one but I said I'd settle for any other color. My prayers were heard and answered! My Prius, which I have named "Fairy," is a light silver color and looks quite elegant. As the cashier at Regan's told me, silver doesn't show dirt or scratches as much as a dark color. Another plus! The car, which had one owner, is in admirable condition, with "only" 47,900 miles--this is considered low mileage for a Prius. 2010s are selling for as much as mine with 60, 70, even 80K. And the service manual goes all the way up to 120K. And it's not just optimism. Apparently they just keep going and going, virtually trouble-free. Everyone I've spoken to loves their Prius.
My main reason for buying a Prius (at $16,000 and some change, about $10,000 less than a new one would cost me) is of course the environment. If I keep this car for 120K plus miles, I will be releasing a lot less crap into our suffering atmosphere. Although, as my friend Nelson pointed out, there is still the problem of disposing of the battery: if it ends up in a landfill, it will leach toxic chemicals into the groundwater. I'm hoping that by that time someone will discover how to render theses chemicals harmless.
What I wasn't prepared for was the virtually silent ride the Prius delivers. Smooth. It's not a hot rod, and it doesn't accelerate 0-60 like a Maserati, but hell, it's sleek and beautiful, and it's cool. There aren't as many as you'd imagine on the streets of Newton, being an uncool place. The word is that California is full of them. Proof positive of coolness. For Californians, the Prius is the VW beetle of the 2000's. More evidence that the West Coast is where I really belong.
Other advantages of the Prius are easy loading of equipment due to the hatchback, which creates a higher ceiling inside the car. And the low gas mileage--50 mpg on the highway, the most economical hybrid around. Gas prices are now falling precipitously, and the irony is not lost on me. Oh well, it'll cost me even less to drive my new (used) car.
In December 2013, after my last disgruntled post, my father's house, which continues to appear in my dreams, was finally sold. Hallelujah. For a whopping $180,000. At least we didn't have to resort to calling one of those "we buy ugly houses" numbers. The money was duly divided between my brother and me, and what was left of my half not spent on pricey house repairs was deposited in my savings and invested with Fidelity. I finally bit the bullet and made a huge down payment on...
a Prius!
Yes, my fifteen year old Honda Civic, which still runs beautifully with 147,000 miles on it, has rusted out as all New England vehicles eventually do. My mechanic informed me that within six months my car would be unsafe to drive. This sent me into a tizzy, because naturally I didn't want to wait for that dire eventuality. So...what car to buy? For years now, I have been fantasizing about a Prius, which, while pricey, is at least in the range of the possible, unlike a Porsche or Ferrari. I soon found that a new one was out of the question, so I researched the prices of used ones online. I decided that no way was I dealing with a used car salesman. Instead, I asked Pat Regan, my mechanic, who buys a few used cars and sells them from his service station, to find me a used Prius, no older than 2010.
A few weeks went by as I prayed to my Higher Power to send me my Prius. I wanted the gunmetal gray one but I said I'd settle for any other color. My prayers were heard and answered! My Prius, which I have named "Fairy," is a light silver color and looks quite elegant. As the cashier at Regan's told me, silver doesn't show dirt or scratches as much as a dark color. Another plus! The car, which had one owner, is in admirable condition, with "only" 47,900 miles--this is considered low mileage for a Prius. 2010s are selling for as much as mine with 60, 70, even 80K. And the service manual goes all the way up to 120K. And it's not just optimism. Apparently they just keep going and going, virtually trouble-free. Everyone I've spoken to loves their Prius.
My main reason for buying a Prius (at $16,000 and some change, about $10,000 less than a new one would cost me) is of course the environment. If I keep this car for 120K plus miles, I will be releasing a lot less crap into our suffering atmosphere. Although, as my friend Nelson pointed out, there is still the problem of disposing of the battery: if it ends up in a landfill, it will leach toxic chemicals into the groundwater. I'm hoping that by that time someone will discover how to render theses chemicals harmless.
What I wasn't prepared for was the virtually silent ride the Prius delivers. Smooth. It's not a hot rod, and it doesn't accelerate 0-60 like a Maserati, but hell, it's sleek and beautiful, and it's cool. There aren't as many as you'd imagine on the streets of Newton, being an uncool place. The word is that California is full of them. Proof positive of coolness. For Californians, the Prius is the VW beetle of the 2000's. More evidence that the West Coast is where I really belong.
Other advantages of the Prius are easy loading of equipment due to the hatchback, which creates a higher ceiling inside the car. And the low gas mileage--50 mpg on the highway, the most economical hybrid around. Gas prices are now falling precipitously, and the irony is not lost on me. Oh well, it'll cost me even less to drive my new (used) car.
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