Don Quixote Notes (End of Part 2)

It is evident that Part 2 was written with a more complex and refined structure than Part 1. There are no chunks of excursions into other people's stories for chapters at a time. This is in response to literary criticism against Part 1, as Cervantes acknowledges in the text. Instead, other characters' stories are much reduced and, when they occur, are woven into the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Meanwhile, the main characters are given more complexity and nuance -- less crazy shit from Don Quixote and more display of Sancho's "simple" wisdom, including lifting some old fables of wise judges and anecdotes into a collage of original and uncredited materials. 

Once upon a time I lost someone's respect by voicing my dislike for Hamlet. Now I could probably lose some more by admitting that Don Quixote is one of the most annoying characters I've read. Not that the character himself is poorly written, mind you, but rather there is quite a bit of truth in him. He reminds me of quite a few well-educated men I have met in real life, blathering on about lofty ideals and profound philosophies and "the perfect woman" while entirely detached from real people. Throughout the novel, I kept wondering how many weak and downtrodden people were actually saved or helped by Don Quixote. There is the shepherd boy, who harbors no gratitude for the more severe beating from his master after the knight's intervention. And about his gallantry ... I made a note in Chapter 63, "As much as Don Quixote loves Sancho as a friend and cannot do without him, he has no qualms with making him flog himself for a woman who doesn't exist." What a great friend! Also in at least two places, Sancho and a duenna, respectively, get beaten up by someone in front of Don Quixote, and Don Quixote's reaction is either to run away as fast as he can or hide under the bedcover shivering like a coward. 

From these details, we can infer Cervantes' opinion of his title character. Therefore, I have to wonder about readers who sincerely praise Don Quixote's "idealism" -- Do they genuinely identify with him or have they read only the Cliff's Notes of the novel? 

The depiction of Sancho, on contrast, is full of subtle admiration and affection. I am not ashamed to admit that I identify with many of his qualities, especially his get-rich-quick schemes and flexible understanding of "loyalty." The relationship between Don Quixote and Sancho is not nearly as simple as either friendship or master-servant, which is one of the most interesting aspects of the novel. In Chapter 60 is a fun paragraph that illustrates the relative martial skills between the two men in no uncertain terms:

Sancho Panza got to his feet, rushed at his master in a fury, and tripped him so that he fell to the ground and lay there faceup; Sancho placed his right knee on his chest, and with his hands he held down his master's hands ...

Another interesting aspect, perhaps not entirely intentional, is the interlude about a converted Moor who is forced into exile by the king's immigration policies. Behind the fairy tale in the novel, we see trails of tear and blood of thousands of families being mass deported from their homes or killed. Some things never change. 

Overall, Don Quixote is amusing and highly readable, and I am glad I have read it, but would I go back to read it again in the limited time left of my life? No, thanks. 

Life and Death as Tropes: Drive My Car

 

I don't need to dwell on the many wonderful qualities of this 2021 movie, except that the single most effective choice made by the director (Ryusuke Hamaguchi) was to cast a deaf actor as Sonia in Uncle Vanya, the play within the movie. It is absolutely ingenious and perfect. I don't know how other people feel about the extensive enactment of "Uncle Vanya" and use of its lines to suggest the characters' state of mind throughout the movie. For me, who recently read the play and watched 2 other movies based on it, the power of Chekhov is immense. It is unmistakable that Hamaguchi feels the same way. 

Nevertheless, I want to touch on a particular aspect of the movie that is unsatisfactory to me. Spoilers abound below.

After watching "Drive My Car," I went and read the original short story by Haruki Murakami and a couple of other stories in the same collection, Men Without Women, that contributed minor elements to the movie. I have not read any of Murakami's novels, but one cannot escape his cultural influences. I read his “Barn Burning" after watching Lee Chang-Dong's adaptation, the 2018 movie "Burning", which left little impression (unlike the movie). None of his short stories resonated with me (quite the opposite of Chekhov). 

One of the things that has bothered me from the start about Murakami's works is his (ab)use of deaths, often in female characters and sometimes suicide, as a crutch in service of the male character's emotional state. There is a similar phenomenon in English-language popular culture that, by now, has been well established, ie, female characters die in order to bring about the spiritual growth or maturity of the (male) hero. Fundamentally, I think Murakami's tendency is not that different, but it might seem a little different to western critics because of the pervasive sense of melancholy in Japanese arts and culture. Death evokes a kind of beauteous sentimentality about the fleeting nature of life and all good things. That in itself is fine, but excessive use with a callousness can trivialize death as a dramatic device and obliterate its meaning.

The flip side is another convention in Japanese popular culture, based on my limited exposure: the trope of life affirmation. I have lost count of Japanese movies and TV series in which characters tell each other or themselves with a loud declaration: "I/you/we must go on living!!!" (At least 3 exclamation marks!) Implied in the declaration is that living takes too much effort and death is the default position. 

Putting aside the rightness or wrongness of this philosophy --- who am I to judge? --- I am merely pointing out that death and "pushing oneself to keep on living" are two tropes in Japanese popular culture. I don't know how the average Japanese people in real life feel about it, as I don't know any Japanese person in real life. Maybe they don't give a fuck and enjoy life just fine. 

Coming back to "Drive My Car," the theme is the difficulty for people to connect with each other, even between couples in love or parents and children. The main character is haunted by his inability to talk to his wife about her having sex with other men; now it's too late to understand because she died suddenly. The driver is haunted by her guilt over the death of her abusive mother. The two lonely people, damaged by the death of their loved ones, connect with each other in the little red Saab. The climactic scene, when the main character expresses his regret for his avoidance of talking to his straying wife when she was alive, did not have the expected effect on me. Instead, for me, it was a moment like, "Isn't it ironic, don't you think? A little too ironic..." 

The main character had repressed his feelings about his wife's infidelity and maintained the pretense of a happy marriage, because of his fear of the confrontation with his wife and possible dissolution of their marriage. That part is obvious. So then, isn't it convenient that she is dead? Her sudden and random death is, symbolically, his (the author's) wish fulfillment. Her death removes the threat of being exposed to an intolerable reality --- that she is a real person with her own thoughts, feelings, desires, and intentions, which may not align with his. Maybe she doesn't love him any more. Maybe she prefers other men to him. Maybe she will leave him.

One could extend this argument to the movie itself. After observing these two characters gently and compassionately for over 2 hours, it successfully avoids the hard stuff: a painful self-discovery, both of the main character's insecurity about his manhood and of the driver's hatred for her mother and her desire for separation. Also avoided is the characters' aggression toward the people they love. Their anger and resentment alongside love and attachment. Their fear of rejection and abandonment.  All the difficult and terrifying honesty is swept under the rug of a rote declaration, "We must go on living!" The end.

The truths in life must be avoided at all cost (eg, love exists alongside hate, we all have aggression, attachment cannot be permanent, we are not the center of the universe). In comparison, death is an easy escape from painful confrontations. Hence we can see how these tropes are so irresistible to dramatists. That is why we all need to go back and read Chekhov again.

Don Quixote Notes (Pt. 2, Ch. 30)

 The second part begins with an extremely modern premise: The adventures of Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza have been published and become an international bestseller. Don Quixote's dream of worldwide fame has come true. How very meta. It is surprising that such a device has not been widely adopted in the past few hundred years --- For example, having Harry Potter and friends be swarmed by paparazzi in London or letting Bridget Jones enjoy her celebrity in the sequel, or making Clark Kent's parents go on TV to explain the origin of Superman and sell his baby clothes as souvenirs. 

Don Quixote's early adventures in Part 2 are much more pleasant than those in Part 1. He magically defeats the neighbor who pretends to be a similar knight errant and challenges him to single combat. He is hosted by a wealthy gentleman farmer. He gets to use his combat skills (again!) in a disrupted wedding, while Sancho gorges on the wedding feast. 

In addition to the new victories and fame and fortune, Don Quixote has a hallucinatory experience in the cave of Montesinos. At this point, the novel further blurs the line between dream and reality. The text frequently suggests that Don Quixote is aware of his self-deception and his choice of fantasy over reality, perhaps because in the fantasy he is the world's bravest and purest knight errant. However, given the new fame he gained in the "real world" (both in the novel and in Cervantes' world, which is sort of our world), his fantasy is not so far from reality. 

Sancho, meanwhile, gains surprising insight into Don Quixote's madness through his own power of deduction. If Don Quixote is convinced that the peasant girl is Lady Dulcinea of Toboso of his dream, a claim that Sancho just made up, then nothing else he believes is true. As Sancho can verify one of Don Quixote's beliefs as fantasy, it stands to argue that all of his believes are --- except the reward of governorship to an insula promised to Sancho himself. In other words, Sancho is smart enough to see through the delusions of Don Quixote, except when it comes to the hopes of riches for himself. Hmm, where have I seen that behavior before ... ?

The 13 Lords of the Shogun

Episode 15 of the 2022 NHK taiga serials, The 13 Lords of Shogun, is quite possibly as shocking and riveting as The Red Wedding in A Song of Ice and Fire. I have often wondered about the unique political structure of historical Japan, and the complex relationship between the superiors and subordinates, such as those between the Emperor and Shogun and between the Shogun and his chief counselor. It is unlike the political system in China, in which the surest path to the height of power is to the Emperor's throne, with an entire apparatus supporting him, or the European system, in which kings must contend with both the Pope in Rome and the feudal lords. 

It is absolutely fascinating how, throughout history, people struggle for power. While in each period and circumstance, the political and cultural structures may differ vastly, the insatiable desire for power and the necessity of using other people for one's own purpose are always the same. Blood must be spilled, and money must be spent; alliances must be made and broken; friends and families must be formed and betrayed. How does one man drive others to obey his orders and do his bidding? By any means necessary. But one person's will is always insufficient, and there has to be something in it for everyone, even if that something is quite intangible and perhaps deceptive. Even if only one man's name remains on top of a page in the history book, there were many people who used each other to get to where they were. 

Written by the highly regarded Koki Mitani, the series are surprisingly clear-eyed and uncompromising (the occasional humor notwithstanding). It is not interested in making heroic myths or taking the side of whoever's point of view it's narrating from. There are no good guys or bad guys, only political and military expediency in a particular place and time. The characters do not have a hint of historical hindsight to allow them the luxury of posturing or moralizing their choices. 

It is often claimed that the Japanese society was (and perhaps still is) rigidly hierarchical and people were somehow naturally loyal or obedient. Such simplistic theories can never withstand a closer look. There is a saying in Chinese that can be roughly translated as "Rules are dead but people are alive," which means that people both rely on rules/hierarchy and violate them all the time, depending on the circumstances. Theories and reality, words and behaviors, are never exactly the same. 

A Scandal in Paris

 

Is there any filmmaker like Douglas Sirk? The point is not his subversiveness, for there are plenty of subversive artists, but rather how the viewer is never certain how he feels about the conventionality within his movies. 

On the one hand, anyone can see that he pokes fun at stale cliches. There is irony in his treatment of familiar stories and tropes. On the other hand, he seems to genuinely embrace them and relish in the familiarity. When every other artist can't wait to display their originality and emphasize how unconventional they are, Sirk seems to enjoy toying with tropes and messing with our expectations. He could not toy with tropes without first loving them and understanding them inside out. 

For example, the hero in "A Scandal in Paris", a man who calls himself Vidocq among other names (George Sanders), a life-long thief and con man who also happens to be dashing and irresistible to women, is in the end reformed by a young woman's love to become an upstanding citizen, even the police chief of Paris. Gee, how many times have we seen that story before, especially in 19th century romance novels. There is no realistic depiction of his "moral awakening" or psychological turning point. And yet, there are these little knowing jokes here and there, never calling attention to themselves, that wink and nudge at the audience, to suggest that no one should take these cliches seriously. 

The real climax of this movie is not the obligatory confrontation and fights at the end but rather the scene between Vidocq and Therese (Signe Hasso), the aristocratic woman who converts him. Presented initially as shy and naive, she represents the archetypal "good woman" who usually changes the bad boy's mind with her purity and innocence or stimulating his protective instinct (yeah, I too know the tropes inside out). Here, however, she declares that she would become a thief and a criminal for him. "If I can't get you to join me on my side, I'll have to go over to your side," she says. Sure, we could consider this yet another trope: a woman swept up by her infatuation with a bad boy and willing to abandon her social standing for him. But it's not. Her glee and enthusiasm hint at a repressed desire for thrills and rebellion. It's no more than a hint but unmistakable if you pay attention.

In another familiar but ambiguous scene, Loretta (Carole Landis), the "bad woman" in contrast to Therese (again a conventional setup that feels slightly off), betrays her poor sop of a husband in a rendezvous with Vidocq. Her husband finds her and, in a rage, threatens to commit suicide, but instead he shoots her dead. One could of course argue that her death is just a silly plot device to get Vidocq out of a jam, which it is, but it can also be interpreted as the husband's inability to express his hatred for her except through violence and murder. Funny how that is eerily realistic but hardly ever described.  

In 1946 under the stranglehold of the Hays Code, even the most nihilistic movies have to tack on a reassuring ending. No killer is allowed to go free. No adulterer could live happily ever after. And yet the way the code is carried out here is so cynical and twisted that the audience might not derive the correct moral lesson.

The world is filled with men eager to prove how clever they are, but one who is extremely clever but barely lets it show is a rarity. 

Don Quixote Notes (End of Part 1)

The first half of Don Quixote ended in a brawl, very much reminiscent of a farce in a climactic scene. In fact, there is quite a bit of drama elements in the novel. In particular, the middle part of the novel consists of several loosely connected romantic plots, and the characters of these stories all converge at the inn to resolve these love entanglements. Only one of the interloping stories, presented as a written manuscript about a love triangle in Florence, is not connected with the characters in the narrative. 

One could therefore argue that Cervantes was in fact a dramatist/playwright at heart. He probably started writing the novel because of a lack of success in playwriting and stuffed the novel with plays and stories rotting in his drawers. 

The romantic plots in Don Quixote have been largely ignored now, despite their bulk in the novel. Critics focus entirely on the scattered parts of Don Quixote's ironic adventures and failures. The trials and tribulations of Cardenio and Lucinda, Dorotea and Don Fernando, the captive and the Moorish woman, and various other happy and sad lovers are rarely mentioned, as they are so detached from Don Quixote's story. I think it's a shame. Dorotea is a very interesting and well-drawn character, even if there are some elements in her story that may feel disturbing to modern readers. She is intelligent, resourceful, courageous, and charming that reminds me of Portia in The Merchant of Venice. Given the limitation of the era and the authors, Dorotea and Portia cannot be assigned a better end than a pretty questionable marriage, which cannot be helped. 

At least in the first half of the novel, Cervantes does not have a lot of sympathy for Don Quixote. This is reflected in not only the shepherd boy's complaint but also the endless fights that he initiated with others and gets roundly pounded in consequence. The writing mixes some pretty brutal violence with laughter, which might have been a fad on stage at that time. In the more peaceful and heavily policed modern era, brawls no longer seem so hilarious, but we still like to watch simulated violence on screen, including me. 

On to the second part! 

Don Quixote Notes (through Pt. 1 Ch. 33)

At some point in the first 20-ish chapters, the author must have realized that inventing a series of fights Don Quixote gets into and loses are unsustainable, if he wants to avoid the tropes of an invincible knight errant or legendary hero. There is a reason that heroes in legends always beat whoever and whatever they combat. Legends that recorded reality must have been very short and long lost in the tide of time. 

After an absolutely hilarious episode of Don Quixote taking penance in the mountains with some X-rated jokes (can't even pass American movie censorship today), the novel takes a turn from episodic adventures of one characters to a collection of stories within a story. It seems like a cheap trick to stuff the pages when one runs out of ideas. The stories of two characters (Cardenio and Dorotea) linked by one villain are kind of clever, but the episode of "two friends in Florence" seems to be a blatant page-stuffer. 

In this segment, which I have not finished, Don Quixote recedes to the background, I guess until the author can uncover another dimension to his madness. Sancho Panza continues to provide most of the witticism in contrast to the hat of "ignorant peasant" he wears. I am particularly fascinated by the way this character is painted and all the contradictions he embodies. 

A particularly poignant point was made in the chapter where the innkeeper confesses, to the priest's exasperation, that he too takes the knight errant books as real --- just not applicable to his time. Here the author is displaying the gradient of perception in tales outside of our daily lives: from Don Quixote who believes every word of chivalry in his immediate world, to the innkeeper who believes the tales as true history, to the priest who knows the stories are made up but the grandiose anecdotes about a true war hero. Then there is Sancho, who knows reality in what he witnesses but is taken in by his master's promises of governorship and riches --- primarily because he is illiterate. One has to wonder, then, whether he would have done better or worse compared with Don Quixote or the innkeeper if he could read. 

That Cervantes was examining the questions of "what is real" and "how do I know" in 1605 suggest that fake news and its subscribers are not a modern phenomenon. Humans are not innately able to discern the truth from fiction. Truth cannot be easily attained by our brain and abilities, despite technological advances we have made. We are, by nature, a species of make-believe.