Many storytelling aficionados will tell you that there is only one type of story that can be told, and that's one that revolves around conflict. An often heroic protagonist sets out on a quest to achieve a worthwhile goal, finds him or herself up against lots of obstacles and barriers along the way, finally achieves said goal, and in the end becomes richer from the experience. But as long as there have been stories, somewhere in the margins of popularity there has always existed a curiosity an interest with the opposite side of the story; what about the person setting the obstacles? Who really is this villain with their own devilish agenda?
Since arriving on screens in 2013, House Of Cards has not only revolutionised entertainment viewing with it's online presence and brought a new level of quality to the televisual medium - it has also served up one of the greatest televisual villains ever brought to the screen. Kevin Spacey's portrayal of the ruthless Machiavellian politician Frank Underwood has landed the character as an exceptionally reputation of the most memorable and questionable protagonists, a power-hungry man who will spare almost no cost in his acquisition of power. The obvious problem on the surface here, of course, is one the availability of relation; a viewers primary demand in consuming a piece of film or television is usually a request for the ability to sympathise and associate with the protagonist whose story they follow. But when it comes to House Of Cards, Frank's goals, and the means by which he seeks to accomplish them, are largely questionable and for the most part deplorable. So what is it that makes Frank so appealing?
When we first meet Frank his position as power-hungry as quickly made apparent; in the first two minutes he addresses the audience, stating that he has 'no patience for useless things,' before unhesitatingly strangling a wounded animal. From his rejection from the position of Secretary of State in the first episode he is established as an underdog in the world that he resides; while the title of House Majority Whip in the White House certainly isn't something to be disregarded, in the grand scope of Washington's political backdrop it is still a fair reach from his goal of the presidency and this could be where the viewers sympathy resides. We like to see an underdog seeking ascension. However, it could be something with deeper association than this. Frank's motivation for such a series of actions is one of revenge - he feels betrayed because he has been lied to and a promise denied from him, and viewer association could very easily lie here. In such an case, many people would feel a need for revenge, but few would act on it. Because of this, House Of Cards becomes a deliciously watchable show due to the pleasure of seeing acts of revenge and indulgence carried out.
Of course, with his place as a villain, one of the primary things to consider with regards to his character is development. In typical fiction, villains are the unshakable, the unchangeable and the unmoveable in their evil attributes, because that's the requirement for the existence of conflict. With an absence of a bad guy there's no conflict, and without conflict there's no story, which is why the bad guy must remain unchanged. But what about Frank's place as the villainous protagonist? In the true nature of the villain, he doesn't necessarily develop in the same fashion as an heroic protagonist, and this raises some interesting points with regards to traditional literary exposition and what takes the place of character development. Frank doesn't grow characteristically richer from the experience; he has one thing on his mind, and that's the acquisition of power. Instead of development we are presented with reactions and revelations. How does Frank react to discovering that he has to pin a medal onto the chest of the man who raped his wife decades ago? The answer would have been a fit of inexorable rage and violent political scandal had Clare not prevented him from doing anything. What does this reveal? It reinforces the fact of his loyalty towards Clare, as well as revealing that he is willing to throw away reputation and success in order to purge the dark side of his protective nature towards his wife. In Frank's world there is little development; only the Machiavellian state of mind that he possesses (or possesses him) and the way it makes him react, feeding us the steady reveal of the character.
Of course, to find villainous a wealth of memorable villainous protagonists, one needs to look no further than Shakespeare's bibliography. In particular, Othello's primary 'antagonist', Iago, reigns true as one of the most memorable villains in Shakespeare's work, not simply for his motiveless actions, but because of his primacy within the play; many critical discussions of Othello are very much based around the argument that Othello should have in fact been titled Iago due to the villains central nature within the plot. In this sense, it would appear that the prevalence of a villainous protagonist is one that has existed not only recently but for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Even today the concept of the villain as protagonist is one that can be throughout contemporary television. Only last year did Vince Gilligan's masterwork Breaking bad come to a spectacularly conclusive ending, closing the tale of mild-manner teacher turned drug-lord Walter White, portrayed by none other than Bryan Cranston. In contrast to Frank, though, character development is indeed a prevalent aspect of Breaking Bad, if not the shows central factor; Walter White's steady transition to the egotistical full-form of Heisenberg will unquestionably go down as one of the most ingenious executions of character development on television, as the well-intentioned heroic protagonist turned into a destructive pseudo-monster before the viewerships' eyes.
The questions that arise from the intertwined topics of the protagonistic villain and the inclusion of character development are extensive and depthful. Frank's place as a protagonist with absolutely no intention of developing is as captivating to observe as is a protagonist who experiences well-executed development, but it appears that, for now, the villain hell-bent on making it to the top and maintaining his place there is unlikely to change his ways anytime soon.
Saturday, 15 March 2014
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Outsider to the Outsiders: Was Charles Bukowski Really a Beat Writer?
To the Beats he was an outsider. To the rest of society he was a freak. But regardless of the number of insults and derision's that can thrown his way, there's one thing that can't be denied when it comes to Charles Bukowski: he was the real deal. Born in Germany and raised in Los Angeles to parents that he grew to rightfully loathe, Bukowksi relied on only himself for the duration of his life. The story of his life is one that is both hilarious and tragic, largely documented in his poetry and collected works. He wasn't one of the young and prolific; he finally took up writing full-time at the age of 49, starting and completing his first novel in less than a month. Before his death at the age of 73, brought on by a lifetime of drinking and smoking, he had published six novels and over sixty collections of poetry. These figures alone are unquestionably impressive.
His works were largely autobiographical, documenting his experiences in the underbelly of Los Angeles during the time of the Beat Generation. But despite the obvious themes and topics that his writings covered, he was all the same a little late to the twenty-year long party occupied by the likes of Ginsberg, Kerouac and Burroughs, if he was even present at all. His disciples and detractors are more prominent today than they ever, and there are commentators existing on both sides of the fence; one side argues that he was a genre all on his own - whether this equates to him being on a higher level than the Beats or not - and the other argues that he was indeed one of them, despite having limited contact with any of the primary writers typically associated with the Beat Generation. So where did Bukowski really belong?
The first thing that needs to be considered is the most basic questions; what did the Beats stand for? When the likes of Kerouac, Cassidy and Ginsberg come to mind, their reported experiences follow closely behind. They refused to adhere to the distorted values of the post-war United States, throwing off traditional ideals and portraying humanity and all of it's vices with a plain and poetic honesty. From these criteria alone Bukowski can be classed amongst the Beat writers. Almost all of his work portrays a grisly and often painfully honest view of the dark side of post-war America, his autobiographical escapades commonly following themes of alcohol-wridden sickness, the strangers of the night, and downright deranged sexual encounters throughout Los Angeles.
However, for all his anti-establishmentism, one trait the Beat Movement conveyed was a sense of unity. While Kerouac and Ginsberg remained lifelong friends alongside Burroughs, one of Bukowski's most well-known and prominent traits was his self-imposed loneliness. It's evident from Ham On Rye, his largely autobiographical novel following the childhood, adolescence and early adulthood of his alter ego Henry Chinaski, that Bukowski had suffered a psychologically tormenting childhood that resulted in a serious case of lifelong misanthropy and an absolute distrust of every human but himself. Reading Ham On Rye is an evocative and heartbreaking experience to say the least and secures him as an outsider in the world.
Even the previously mentioned central characters of the Beat Generation, many of whom he may have potentially been able to relate to on some level, remained at a distance from him. Bukowski expressed little to no admiration for them, aside from the occasional member such as Neal Cassidy. Cassidy himself was one of the more rebellious of the group, a characteristic exhibited prominently in Kerouac's magnum opus On The Road, and likely the primary reason for his admiration. They bore countless similarities; a lust for drink, a working class background and a devil-may-care attitude that landed them both in hot water on countless occasions.
The conclusion to Bukowski's inclusion amongst the Beats seems to exist as a technicality; while exhibiting the typical literary and personal traits of the Beats movement, such as his rebellious nature, a distaste for the establishment and an affliction for alcohol, he remained at a distance from the primary figures of the generation, effectively an outsider to the outsiders. Online forums are rife with arguments both for and against Bukowski's inclusion as a Beat writer, slating and commending his works back and forth, and as long as people continue to read his works there can be little doubt that this argument will continue infinitely. But the fact that there is debate at all confirms one thing; good or bad, Bukowski's legend is here to stay.
His works were largely autobiographical, documenting his experiences in the underbelly of Los Angeles during the time of the Beat Generation. But despite the obvious themes and topics that his writings covered, he was all the same a little late to the twenty-year long party occupied by the likes of Ginsberg, Kerouac and Burroughs, if he was even present at all. His disciples and detractors are more prominent today than they ever, and there are commentators existing on both sides of the fence; one side argues that he was a genre all on his own - whether this equates to him being on a higher level than the Beats or not - and the other argues that he was indeed one of them, despite having limited contact with any of the primary writers typically associated with the Beat Generation. So where did Bukowski really belong?
The first thing that needs to be considered is the most basic questions; what did the Beats stand for? When the likes of Kerouac, Cassidy and Ginsberg come to mind, their reported experiences follow closely behind. They refused to adhere to the distorted values of the post-war United States, throwing off traditional ideals and portraying humanity and all of it's vices with a plain and poetic honesty. From these criteria alone Bukowski can be classed amongst the Beat writers. Almost all of his work portrays a grisly and often painfully honest view of the dark side of post-war America, his autobiographical escapades commonly following themes of alcohol-wridden sickness, the strangers of the night, and downright deranged sexual encounters throughout Los Angeles.
However, for all his anti-establishmentism, one trait the Beat Movement conveyed was a sense of unity. While Kerouac and Ginsberg remained lifelong friends alongside Burroughs, one of Bukowski's most well-known and prominent traits was his self-imposed loneliness. It's evident from Ham On Rye, his largely autobiographical novel following the childhood, adolescence and early adulthood of his alter ego Henry Chinaski, that Bukowski had suffered a psychologically tormenting childhood that resulted in a serious case of lifelong misanthropy and an absolute distrust of every human but himself. Reading Ham On Rye is an evocative and heartbreaking experience to say the least and secures him as an outsider in the world.
Even the previously mentioned central characters of the Beat Generation, many of whom he may have potentially been able to relate to on some level, remained at a distance from him. Bukowski expressed little to no admiration for them, aside from the occasional member such as Neal Cassidy. Cassidy himself was one of the more rebellious of the group, a characteristic exhibited prominently in Kerouac's magnum opus On The Road, and likely the primary reason for his admiration. They bore countless similarities; a lust for drink, a working class background and a devil-may-care attitude that landed them both in hot water on countless occasions.
The conclusion to Bukowski's inclusion amongst the Beats seems to exist as a technicality; while exhibiting the typical literary and personal traits of the Beats movement, such as his rebellious nature, a distaste for the establishment and an affliction for alcohol, he remained at a distance from the primary figures of the generation, effectively an outsider to the outsiders. Online forums are rife with arguments both for and against Bukowski's inclusion as a Beat writer, slating and commending his works back and forth, and as long as people continue to read his works there can be little doubt that this argument will continue infinitely. But the fact that there is debate at all confirms one thing; good or bad, Bukowski's legend is here to stay.
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