Tick Take Three

I just blasted through the entire second half of the first season of the new Amazon series The Tick—6 half-hour episodes—in a single night.  It really is that good.

While the Tick is ostensibly a superhero (based on a comic created in 1986 by Ben Edlund), it’s really quite different from other superhero properties.  Sure, a lot of superheroes, such as Batman and Spider-Man, have shown up in various movies and televsion shows, with radically different takes on the characters.  But in the Tick’s case, it’s less like, say, Conan, where many different authors and filmmakers have different visions for the iconic character.  It’s more like Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where every version is a manifestation of the weird brain of its creator, and yet they’re all different.  And, somehow, all lovable.

The first series based on The Tick (1994 – 1997) was an animated one, and it had a lot to recommend it.  It was insanely surreal (for instance, their version of Aquaman was Sewer Urchin, who lived in the sewers, had a sea urchin helmet, and talked like Rain Man), had wonderfully consistent continuity (e.g. when evil villain Chairface attempts to carve his name into the moon with a giant laser, he is stopped by the Tick and Arthur, but forever after that episode, every time you see the moon on-screen, it has “CHA” on it), and was just plain fun ... if you were into superheroes.  It was true to its roots in that it was primarily a spoof of standard superhero stories, and it was excellent at being that, but admittedly was not much beyond it.

The second series (2001) was live-action, and its primary claim to fame was the casting of Patrick Warburton, who is an actual actor who looks like he was drawn by Ben Edlund and brought to life in a mad scientist’s lab.  You may have seen Warburton on screen now and then (most receently as the titular Lemony Snicket in the Netflix version of A Series of Unfortunate Events), but mostly you will know him from the many thousands of cartoons and videogames he has done voice work for (e.g. Family Guy, The Emperor’s New Groove, Tak and the Power of Juju, Skylanders, etc ad infinitum), because his voice is large and booming and perfect for the Tick.  There will never be any actor better suited to play this character, both visually and aurally.  But, aside from that, the 2001 series did just about everything else wrong.  The comedy was too broad and campy: it almost seemed like the writers thought they were Eric Idle, elbowing me in the side and saying the words “wink wink” to me through the TV screen.  Simple example: the 1994 series’ version of Batman was Die Fledermaus, which is the name of a famous German opera and is German for “the bat.”  In the 2001 series, he’s a Latino gentleman named “Batmanuel.”  And that should tell you everything you need to know about the level of humor right there.

This new series (technically 2016, since that’s when the pilot came out) is quite a different take.  Peter Serafinowicz is still no Patrick Warburton, but he is a remarkably talented fellow, and manages to capture the essential weirdness of the Tick quite nicely.  But perhaps the greatest twist in this version is that, in many ways, the Tick is a secondary character in the show that bears his name.  This, for the first time, is really Arthur’s story.  The mild-mannered accountant who becomes an accidental superhero but refuses to adopt a nom de guerre now has a dark (and terribly interesting) backstory, and a sister, who is neither a superhero, nor a prop to be captured by villains and thus require rescuing.  (I think part of the success of superhero stories in the modern age is that they’re finally discovering that the non-superhero “support” characters are far more important to the stories than they’re usually given credit for.)  Oh, it’s still wonderfully silly and surreal—it couldn’t be The Tick otherwise—but there is real pain and loss here.  Like Bruce Wayne, Arthur has to witness the death of a parent at a very young age at the hands of a criminal, but he responds not by becoming Batman, but rather by entering a world of therapy, nervous breakdowns, and paranoid conspiracy theories.  Which, if you think about it, is a much more likely reaction to that sort of trauma than growing up to put on a costume and fight crime.

Anyway, this new version of The Tick is wonderful, and weird, and well worth watching.  You’ll appreciate it even more if you dig superheroes, as I do, but even outside of that demographic I think it has something to offer.  Check it out.

A Worthy Successor?

I’m currently listening to the third book in the Iron Druid Chronicles via audiobook.  While checking out what Wikipedia had to say about the book, I ran across this quote:

In their review of Hammered, SFFWorld said that “Hearne and Atticus could be the logical heir to Butcher and Dresden.”

Now, I’ve talked before about my enthusiasm for the Dresden Files (twice, even).  So obviously I’m keen to evaluate anything that might live up to that standard.  Does the Iron Druid fit the bill?  Well, the short answer is, it’s in the same vein, and it shows some promise, but (at least so far) it’s still a significant step behind.

First of all, of course, one must ask if Butcher and Dresden need an heir: the series is still ongoing.  I’m not exactly desperate for something to fill a void, seeing as the void doesn’t yet exist.  And secondly, we have to recognize that Dresden is pretty much the top of that game.  Something can fail to meet the excellence set by Butcher and still be pretty damn good.  It’s somewhat like comparing (say) Artemis Fowl to Harry Potter.  There’s no doubt that Colfer has written a damn fine set of books, and they’re interesting, engaging, and immersive.  I highly recommend them.  But, as good as Rowling’s masterpiece?  Let’s be reasonable here.

It’s also instructive to compare and contrast.  Dresden is classic urban fantasy, meaning that it’s like the best supernatural fantasy combined with the best detective noir.  The Iron Druid takes a small sidestep; it’s still urban fantasy, surely (although Tempe Arizona is never going to be mistaken for a major modern metropolis), but Atticus owes nothing to Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe.  While there are definite callbacks to Butcher, I actually see more similiarties to Gaiman—American Gods in particular.  And, since that’s Gaiman’s masterwork, that’s a pretty high compliment.  And, while there’s a strong comparison to be made, it isn’t just a cheesy rip-off either.  It’s an interesting take on the concept, exploring different avenues than Gaiman did.  (Although, to be fair, that’s a particularly large neighborhood, so Hearne and Gaiman and several other authors besides could all wander around in there for a few odd decades without needing to do more than cross each other’s paths occasionally.)

Iron Druid retains the general shape of urban fantasy—the vampires and werewolves are present, but slightly backgrounded, and the other legends and monsters are focused on for variety—but by mining the mythological vein that Gaiman struck with Gods (and, to a lesser extent, Anansi Boys), Hearne opens his story to epic quests such as those of Ulysses, Gilgamesh, or Bran.  The latter of whom is the most relevant, of course, since Celtic mythology is the source of the druids in the first place.  So it’s going in a slightly different direction than Dresden.

Additionally, Atticus is a very different man than Harry.  Atticus is over 2,000 years old, first of all, which puts him in a whole different category of wisdom and experience.  He remains surprisingly relatable (and modern) for all that, which sometimes works to the disadvantage of the story, as it can make him harder to swallow than Harry, who’s just an ordinary joe who happens to have some magical powers.  Atticus has very different goals than Harry as well, hiding from supernaturals as well as mortals, whereas Harry practices his magic openly.  And when Atticus goes into full-on diplomacy mode, mainly to deal with beings more powerful than himself, you definitely feel that Harry would be hard-pressed to match it.

On the other hand, both have a homebody streak, and seem constantly surprised and a bit annoyed that trouble keeps finding them, sort of reminiscent of Dante’s cry of “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”  And both have more than a dash of what I described previously as “insouciance,” although dictionary.com uses a definition that doesn’t capture all that I mean when I use the term.  What I mean is an irreverance—almost to the point of being ridiculous—in the face of serious, even life-threatening, situations.  Last time I talked about it, I specifically drew a parallel to Shawn from Psych (who completely removes the “almost” from that definition); if Shawn is at one end of a spectrum of what I’m calling “insouciance” and Harry is in the middle, Atticus is on the far side of Harry ... but not by that much.  So there are certainly parallels in characterization as well as genre.

And in overall story arc: in the first two Iron Druid books, just as in the first two (or so) Dresden Files books, there’s nothing much serious going on.  Just a typical sort of “monster-of-the-week” type plot.  Then, in the third book (pretty much the same time as in Dresden), things are starting to get more serious and world-shaking quest-y.  Although I have to say that the Iron Druid books feel more “fluffy” than the Dresden Files, and thus far I’m having a hard time taking the serious as seriously.  But perhaps that will improve if I stick with it.

I will give Hearne one leg-up over Butcher, though: as awesomely cool as Mouse is, Atticus’ Irish wolfhound Oberon is an amazing character.  Maybe it’s just the way Luke Daniels reads him in the audiobook versions, but I suspect Hearne’s writing deserves most of the credit.  Although I can’t recall if it’s specifically stated in the books, Oberon is most likely older and more experienced than a normal dog, and Atticus has taught him to speak English.  As a result, Oberon has a unique voice, a bizarre combination of canine wisdom and doggie innocence.  One moment he’s making insightful comments on the nature of mortality; the next, he’s begging for sausages.  Here’s a typical quote—in response to Atticus’ query about which movie Oberon would like to watch while he’s gone:

I think The Boondock Saints, because the Irish guys win.  Plus the cat ends badly.  It affirms my worldview and I feel validated.

So Oberon is damned entertaining whenever he shows up, and maybe even just a bit more fun than the conversations Harry has with Bob the skull.  But I would say that’s the only area where Atticus can edge out Harry, and even then it’s not by much.

Still, that doesn’t mean there isn’t some value to the Iron Druid Chronicles.  If you’ve caught up on all your Dresden and you’re looking for something else to fill some time, you could do far worse than this.  Particularly if you’re looking for an audiobook series—Luke Daniels is a great reader and does a fantastic job with bringing the books to life.  My only complaint is that they’re pretty short compared to a lot of the audiobooks I listen to, so I blast through them much too fast.  But they’re enjoyable, and I’m glad I discovered them.

The Newsroom: Hit, or Retread?

There are 3 people I always trust to create a good television series: Joss Whedon, Alan Ball, and Aaron Sorkin.  These are people known in the entertainment biz as “show runners”: they create the shows, they write many (but never all) of the episodes, they may direct here and there, they almost certainly produce a bit ... essentially, they’re the creative driving force of the series.  Basically, any time any of the three of these gentlemen put out a show, I’m going to want to give it a shot.  (Well, at least two of them: sorry, Joss, but until you learn to stop letting Fox pick up your shows, I’m in a wait-and-see mode for you.  Experience is a harsh teacher.)

What these three people have in common is something that other show runners share too (names that immediately spring to mind are JMS of Babylon 5, Jenji Kohan of Weeds, Kurt Sutter of Sons of Anarchy, and Murphy and Falchuk of American Horror Story— no, we will not be using the “G” word here), but these three guys are at the top of that heap.  Others have what they have, just not as much of it.  And what that is can be distilled into two big things: characters and dialogue.

It’s often been said that you need characters that your audience will care about.  This is not that hard, actually (although it’s shocking how often writers don’t bother, considering how relatively easy it is compared to, say, convincing a network producer to buy your pitch).  But it’s just a subset of what you really need: characters that are interesting.  You need characters that, be they heroes, villains, or just innocent bystanders, are unpredictable without being insane, outrageous without being alien, and sympathetic without being maudlin.  When they show up on the screen, people watching need to go “oooh, I can’t wait to see what they’re going to do next!”  Or hear what they’re going say next, which brings us neatly to the next point, which is ...

All three of these guys have been accused of writing “stylized” dialogue, which is just a fancy way to say what interviewers have been saying to all of them for years: real people don’t talk like that (the most recent example I’m aware of being Colbert to Sorkin).  And here’s something else they all have in common: none of them ever appear bothered by that observation.  As far as they’re concerned, it’s okay to have characters speaking dialogue that isn’t strictly realistic.  And it’s okay by me too.  After all, who else put flowery, stylized langugage into the mouths of their characters?  How about William Shakespeare?  Oh, sure, you say: that’s just Elizebethan English.  But do you seriously believe that anyone ever talked in iambic pentameter all day long? using all those evocative metaphors, many of which Shakespeare actually invented for the purpose?  No, of course not.  Shakespeare wasn’t so much pushing the envelope as blowing through it and coming out the other side on fire.

These guys don’t push it as far as Shakespeare, of course, but the point is that that these guys aren’t trying to have their characters talk like real people talk.  Rather, this is the way real people wish they talked.  This is the way real people fantasize that they talk, when applying their 20-20 hindsight.  The way they dream of talking, in the conversations in their heads.  It’s actually much cooler than the way real people talk.  And, because these guys are masters, it doesn’t seem jarring or draw attention to itself the way it would in the hands of a lesser writer.  It just flows, carrying the viewer along for the ride.

Most people know Aaron Sorkin as the West Wing guy.  Indeed, in the Colbert interview I reference above, it was the only other of his shows to be mentioned (although they mentioned a few of his movies).  But I never actually watched The West Wing.  I was introduced to Sorkin via Sports Night.

Now, you must understand: I don’t watch sports.  I hate sports, in fact.  When a friend of mine said, “you have to watch this show,” I said, “why would I watch this show? I hate sports.”  This led to the following bizarre exchange:

It’s not about sports.

What do you mean, it’s not about sports?  It’s got “sports” right there in the name.

It’s about a sports show.

I don’t watch sports shows either.  Why would I watch shows that tell me about sports?  I hate sports.

Well, it’s not really about sports shows either.  It’s a show about a show, and the show that it’s about just happens to be a sports show.  But it’s not about sports.

Uhhh ... yeah, right.  Whatever.

But I gave it a shot, and I got hooked.  I watched every episode I could, and I watched it all over again in repeats.  This was easy, because, like so many shows, its life was cut tragically short.  Sorkin wrapped it up as best he could in the time he had, but there’s no getting around the fact that, when you watch the entire run (much like watching Firefly, or Carnivàle), you can’t help but feel that the world missed out on something magical due to the amazing (and apparently infinite) stupidity of network executives.  Ah, well ... wouldn’t be the first time.  Nor the last, I suspect.

Just recently, I got the complete series of Sports Night on DVD and rewatched the entire thing, beginning to end.  It really is quite worthwhile, and I highly recommend it.  But the point is, it wasn’t 10 years of time for fading memories we’re talking about here, but rather less than two.  Easily fresh enough in my mind to cause a bit of déjà vu when I saw Aaron Sorkin’s new show, which premiered less than a month ago.

The Newsroom, in fact, is more than a little reminiscent of Sports Night.  It’s almost creepy in fact ... Will is Casey and Mackenzie is Dana, Jim is Jeremy and Maggie is Natalie, Charlie is Isaac.  Sloan may not be Dan yet, but that’s probably only because she hasn’t had enough airtime yet.  She’ll get there, I’m thinking.  Hell, even the “ancillary” characters (I hate to call them that because I’m sure at least some of them would find it insulting) line up to a certain extent: it’s hard not to see Neal, Kendra, and Gary as reincarnations of Kim, Eliot, and Chris, and, when you look at Don, don’t you get a little echo of Sally? even if he’s going after Natalie and not Casey?  No, wait: that should be Maggie and not Will.

It’s a very strong parallel, is my point.

Now, on the one hand, that’s okay.  I can sympathize with recycling characters that you feel like didn’t get to hit their full potential— I do it all the time in my own fiction.  And, hey: they were very cool characters the first time around, so it’s not like I’m sad to see them back or anything.  It’s just ... weird.  It’s a different show, about a different kind of show (and still one I don’t watch, as it happens), with different characters ... and yet it’s all the same.  It’s like going in to work one day and finding all your co-workers have been replaced by pod-people or something.  And then, when they don’t act exactly like their Sports Night avatars would (’cause, you know, they’re actually different characters), that jars you.  But when they do act exactly like that that’s weird too.  So I dunno.

The other issue I have with The Newsroom is that it has a much harder row to hoe than Sports Night did.  I imagine it’s a lot more like West Wing in this regard, although I wouldn’t know, since I still haven’t watched that (although I probably should).  See, Sports Night had the distinct advantage of being a comedy.  Oh, sure, it had its dramatic moments (as any good comedy will), but that doesn’t change the fact that, at its heart, it was a funny show that could surprise you by being touching and sweet and sometimes even suspenseful.  Newsroom, on the other hand, is the other way around.  It’s a serious drama, discussing weighty issues of the recent past and theoretically (hopefully) making you think ... and, every once in a while, they throw in something funny.  So far, I have to say it’s not working that well for me.  Somehow I find it easier to shift from a casual, amusing tone to a serious one, than to go from “whoa, that’s some deep shit” to “oh ho, she accidentally emailed the whole office.”  I have to believe this will get better (’cause I have faith in Sorkin’s ability to ride that line), but so far it’s a tough act to buy.  Maybe Sloan will be a good character for this (heaven knows Olivia Munn can be funny as hell, as she’s proven with her Daily Show work).  I’m in wait-and-see mode on this aspect as well.

But there’s no doubt that the three shows I’ve seen so far (episode #4 is on tonight) are pretty compelling stuff, proof that Sorkin has still got game.  Some may complain that his preaching about the loss of integrity in today’s news shows is heavy-handed, but I happen to agree with him, so maybe I’m prone to overlook that.  (It reminds me, actually, of the remarks George Clooney made in the special features of the Good Night, and Good Luck DVD.  Perhaps Clooney and Sorkin are drinking buddies or something.)  The characters are interesting, and the dialogue is hyper-real, and the show within the show is, so far, far more interesting than I would find any real-world example of a news show to be, I’m quite sure.  So far, I’m enjoying The Newsroom, despite a few niggling doubts.

So what’s the answer to the provocative question posed by the title of this week’s blog post?  Well, you may recall that I’m a big believer in paradox: the answer is both, of course.



Of course, if I wanted to prove I was a real Sports-Night-nerd, I would have phrased the title question as “Quo Vadis?”  I resisted the urge.

The Great Red Dragon

Sometimes I get a wild hair to reread something I’ve read before.  Generally I take myself up on this proposition.  A few nights ago, as I was going to bed, I had a sudden desire to reread Hannibal.  Dunno why; something about the way Harris describes the inner workings of Lecter’s brain is just cool.

But of course if I want to reread Hannibal, first I need to reread Silence of the Lambs.  And, if I want to reread Silence of the Lambs, I need to reread Red Dragon.

I never read Red Dragon until after I’d read Silence of the Lambs, and I never read Silence of the Lambs until after I’d watched Jonathan Demme’s excellent adaptation of it.  Typically, I find movie versions of full-length novels to be inadequate (unless the novel is crap, in which case the movie can be superior), but both movie and book in this case are top notch.  The acting in the movies is one of the high points: the ever-dependable Sir Anthony Hopkins is the quintessential Lecter, of course, and I don’t even mind the change in casting for Starling.  I just think of Jodie Foster as the young, hopeful Clarice, and Julianne Moore as the older, jaded Clarice.  Works out well.

Of course, Red Dragon is a bit lesser known (both the book and the movie), but there’s a lot to be said for both.  On the cinematic side, Ed Norton is certainly always dependable, and Harvey Keitel makes a smidge better Crawford than Scott Glenn.  But honestly, it’s the supporting cast that makes the movie for me: I can’t read about Freddy Lounds without seeing Philip Seymour Hoffman in my head, and Reba will always be Emily Watson to me.  (Interestingly, there is a much earlier take on Red Dragon called Manhunter, but it doesn’t work nearly as well, despite the fun of watching a pre-CSI William Petersen as Will Graham.  I mean, I like Brian Cox, but Hannibal Lecter, he ain’t.)

On the literary side, Will Graham is an interesting character.  He’s perhaps not as enduring as Clarice Starling, which is probably why he was replaced in the later books, but there’s a fascinating aspect to figuring out how his brain works.  There’s less Lecter, and more Crawford, than we would see later, but I’m okay with that.  Introducing Lecter as almost a background character just whets the appetite for Silence (where he’s still not the primary killer), and finally Hannibal, which is the ultimate goal.  And Crawford is an interesting character is his own right who’s fun to read; this is required background to understanding him in Silence, I’d say.  The plot is strong, the starring killer is both terrifying and strangely sympathetic, and the tension is worked up very well, which Harris would only perfect in his later works.

So I’m rereading Red Dragon.  I’m almost done with it, in fact (all Harris’ novels are quick reads).  You know what’s striking me most particularly this time around?  How really utterly old the book is.  Makes me feel old.  But mainly what I’m getting is a contrast with how much the genre has evolved since then, quite possibly because of Harris’ early efforts.

Simple example: nowhere is the phrase “serial killer” used in the book.  When Harris needs something to call Lecter, he uses “mass murderer.”  Today, we’d only use that for someone who kills multiple people at one time, or one after another on a spree.  Although the phrase was supposedly invented in the 70s, apparently it wasn’t common parlance when Red Dragon was written in 1981.

Another indication is the way in which Graham is treated.  Remember: Graham is not a psychiatrist or psychologist ... he has no formal training at all, because there are no profilers, no concept of profiling as a way to approach criminals.  The only time “profiling” is mentioned in the book, in fact, is in reference to profiling the victims.¹  The type of behavior we’re used to seeing on shows like Criminal Minds was still something strange and fascinating: the way people look at Graham, the way they stare at him, or fidget uncomfortably in his presence, reveals that what Graham is doing is completely outside their experience.  Even Crawford seems in awe of him, and perhaps a little unnerved by him.

It’s also interesting to me that this is the earliest book I can think of where we find out who the killer is very early.  Most crime novels that I’m familiar with from the 70s and before are classic whodunits— the point is to figure out who committed the crime.  But Red Dragon follows what is now almost more commonplace these days: we know who the killer is from the beginning (or very early on at least), and the tension in the novel comes from flashing back and forth between killer and detective, as they circle ever closer to each other.  I suppose this would be what Wikipedia calls an “inverted detective story”, and it claims numerous instances before 1981, but it seems to me these were the exceptions: Agatha Christie’s novels were all whodunits, and even going back to Sherlock Holmes and Poe’s Dupin, the audience didn’t know the killer before the end.  And some of the examples that Wikipedia cites (such as Dial M for Murder) are vastly different from the style of Harris’ novels.  Can we credit (or blame) Red Dragon (and, ultimately, Silence of the Lambs) for the invention of the profiler-vs-serial-killer story that we’ve now seen again and again: Copycat and Se7en and The Bone Collector, Criminal Minds and Touching Evil and Dexter, Kiss the Girls and The Blue Nowhere and The Alienist.  And those are just the ones I actually liked ... according to Serial Murderers and their Victims, films depicting serial killers jumped from 23 in the 80s to over 150 in the 90s, and over 270 in the 00s.  And that’s not even considering what I’m sure is a similar rise in books and TV series.  Was Red Dragon an early model for this new subgenre?

There are some other fun anachronisms that I don’t remember standing out so starkly the last time I read it.  There’s a reference to attendence being up at drive-ins.²  A character refers to Hispanics as “chicanos.”³  Firemen wear asbestos suits.⁴  And I can only assume that the term “guest star” wasn’t in as common use as it is today, because Dolarhyde’s reference to guest stars reads as rather disorienting now.⁵  But that’s going to be tough to avoid with any contemporary setting.  The march of technology inevitably makes many plot devices irrelevant (see, e.g., TV Tropes’ discussion on cell phones).  But these are pretty minor; overall, Red Dragon holds up remarkably well for being written in the cusp between 70s and 80s.

This has been an enjoyable reread, and I’m looking forward to moving on to the next two books in Harris’ trilogy.⁶  The curious feeling of dislocation I get when reading it reminds me that there was a time when serial killers were fresh and interesting subjects for novelization, unlike nowadays when it’s old hat.  Of course, as I mentioned above, I actually like all those particular serial killers books and movies, despite the plot device being hackneyed at this point.  I think we owe Harris a debt for opening up a new sandbox for authors and filmmakers to play in.  I look forward to seeing what new fictional serial killers will be spawned from Hannibal Lecter’s fascinating mold.


[Update: I just finished the book this morning.  I noted there was a significant difference in the endings between the book and movie that I hadn’t remembered.  Obviously I can’t discuss this without revealing spoilers, but I would encourage anyone both reading (or rereading) and watching (or rewatching) to think carefully about those differences and what they respectively mean for the character of Graham.  I think the differences in impact are pretty big.]

__________

1 Chapter 34.

2 Chapter 32.

3 Chapter 31.

4 Chapter 50.

5 Chapter 20.

6 The prequel, Hannibal Rising, is also good, but I probably won’t reread that one this time around.

What's in a Title?

or, Feminist Manifestos in Swedish Crime Thrillers

I just finished reading the Millenium trilogy for the second time.  When you read things for the first time, you have to put a lot of energy into just understanding what’s going on.  But when you reread, you get to look beyond the basics of the plot, the character development, the setting exploration, and so forth.  That’s when you really get to think about the themes.

Now, I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with “themes” in fiction, which perhaps I’ll explore in a future post.  For now, let’s just just say that, when I’m a writer, I don’t bother trying to put themes in everything I write.  But, when I’m a reader, I can’t resist looking for those themes, even if I’m reading my own work where I know damn well there oughtn’t be any themes, ’cause I didn’t bother putting any in.  This is sort of like how, when you’re driving, you curse those ignorant pedestrians who just blithely step out in front of you, and then, once you get out of the car and start walking, you curse all the moronic motorists who don’t have the good sense to stop when you step off the curb.

So when I read I look for themes, even though as a writer I don’t really believe in them.  And I usually find them.  In the Millenium trilogy, the themes aren’t exactly subtle, but I was struck by how much the original title of the first book would have been more appropos: Men Who Hate Women.

For those who haven’t read these books, I’ll try to keep my comments spoiler-free, since spoilers aren’t necessary for the point I want to make anyway.  (Of course, if you go around clicking links in this post, then you’re on your own.)  Basically, the trilogy consists of three books: The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest.  Well, those are the English titles anyway.  It turns out that the original titles in Swedish would translate into something like Men Who Hate Women, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and The Aircastle that Was Blown Up.  Now, that last one is a bit clumsy (when translated), granted.  It’s apparently because we don’t have a great approximation of the Swedish concept of “aircastle,” although the English expression “building castles in the air” gives us a hint of what it means.  Some Wikipedia editor has suggested that a good translation might be “The Pipe Dream that Blew Up.” Still a bit clumsy, in my opinion.  All in all, “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest” isn’t a bad choice at all.

But how about “Men Who Hate Women”?  What’s wrong with that one?  Couldn’t be more clear, it seems.  And it has two major advantages over “The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo.”

The first (and less important) is that, if you were to go along with “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest,” the titles would then somewhat mirror the structure of the trilogy.  Your typical trilogy is really one big story arc that’s just been stretched out across three books.  But the Millenium trilogy is a bit different.  The characters and setting are very consistent across all three books, but, in terms of plot, the first book is really a self-contained story, while the second two books are one big story.  In fact, coming to the end of the second book is somewhat like those cliffhanger season enders of your favorite TV shows.  If you’re prepared enough to have purchased the third book ahead of time, there’s just no way you can put down The Girl Who Played with Fire and not immediately pick up the next installment.  It’s a pretty clever structure, actually.  It means that the first book of the trilogy allows you a gentle introduction to the characters and the world they inhabit, while not having to bother with setting up the important plot points (that’s relegated to the first third of the second book, which is actually somewhat slow going; once that part is over, the remaining book and two-thirds takes off like a shot).  But you wouldn’t want to have a book that does nothing but introduce characters and setting, right?  So Stieg Larsson creates a whole separate plot to keep you engaged.  The first book in the Millenium trilogy reminds me of the old Bill Cosby line: “Now, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.” So, a set of trilogy titles where the last two of the three follow a pattern, making them similar, but the first one doesn’t, making it stand out somewhat, would be very appropriate, all in all.

But the larger reason is that this is really what the book—nay, the whole triology—is about: men who hate women.  Wikipedia tells us that Larsson witnessed a gang rape when he was a teenager, and was thereafter haunted by his inability to go to her aid (or reluctance, if you prefer, but I think a 15-year-old kid should generally be forgiven for not jumping on a gang of violent rapists).  This, opines an unknown Wikipedia editor, “inspired the theme of sexual violence against women in his books.” It’s safe to say that there’s a theme of sexual violence against women in the books, and that’s why Men Who Hate Women is such a perfect title.  But I’ll go farther: it’s not just about men who hate womena, it’s about men who marginalize women, men who condescend to women, men who ignore women.  It’s about men who think women are inferior, and the things they do every day, which range from the banal to the sensationalistic, to put them down.  Nearly every female character in the series, from the major to the minor, faces some level of discrimination from male colleagues: Lisbeth Salander, the series’ true hero (Mikael Blomkvist is really just an author stand-in, in classic Mary Sue fashion), takes the brunt of it, certainly, but look at the others.  Monica Figuerola has to put up with derision from her peers because she’s a tall strong woman.  Miriam Wu is accused by the police of being a dangerous deviant because she’s a lesbian.  Sonja Modig is subject to all sorts of ridiculous prejudice.  And others, such as Harriet Vanger, are in nearly as bad a position as Lisbeth herself.  Even Erika Berger has to suffer through a largely unnecessary subplot, seemingly just so we can learn that even the editor in chief of Millenium is not immune to male condescension.

So it seems to me very clear that there is a strong feminist message in the Millenium trilogy.  (If you want a competing viewpoint, you could check out this blog post; I disagree with many of her conclusions, but she has a major advantage over me in that she is an actual woman.)  Thus, it seems that Men Who Hate Women is not just an appropriate title, but a perfect one.  Why was it changed?

Well, a Publisher’s Weekly article gives some insight into the US publishers’ thinking, but note that they were discussing whether to change it back to Men Who Hate Women; the original change to The Girl with the Dragon Tatoo was made for the UK version.  Not much official insight on why that was done, although there are some apparent comments by the English version translator (although certainly that can be considered non-authoritative on several levels).  The common guess that everyone makes is, “marketing.” After all—so goes the reasoning—who would want to buy a book called “Men Who Hate Women”?  Sounds like a self-help book.

In 1997, J. K. Rowling published the first of the Harry Potter books: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.  If you are American, you may not even realize that that is the proper title of the book; you almost certainly think that the first HP novel is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.  But what you don’t realize is that Scholastic, who bought the American publishing rights, decided that no self-respecting American kid would buy a book with “Philosopher” in the title.  What is that, some sort of textbook?  No way dude!  American kids, of course, are too stupid to realize what the philosopher’s stone is, or to have any concept of the history of alchemy.  J. K. Rowling has said that she regrets agreeing to this change.  Had she but known she would soon be the world’s richest author, she could have told ’em to go stick it.

For a sillier example, IMDB tells us that the original title of Zombieland was “Another Day in Zombieland,” but the studio was worried people would think it was a sequel.

If you want to know why marketing is destroying our society, you don’t need to listen to me: go ask Craig Ferguson.  But it does seem a shame that marketing has so low an opinion of our intelligence that they pre-pablumize even our book and movie titles for us.  Here’s an author gone and put out a perfectly lovely book, just for us to read, and put a perfectly lovely title on it, which sums up all its themes and aspirations perfectly, but we have to change all that, so people will realize that they want to buy it.  And I don’t want to lay all the blame on the advertising executives.  I think the lawyers bear some responsibility as well: often titles (and many other things about a book or movie) are changed preemptively to avoid legal hassles.  That is, they are changed not because someone has been sued.  They are changed because someone might be sued.  You know, just in case.  Similar to my theory on how political correctness results in self-censorship, here it seems like we don’t really have to worry about people mucking up our entertainment for us because we’re perfectly capable of doing it ourselves.

I do think it’s important to know the proper names of things.  Original names are often lost, but they signify something.  Does not semiotics teach us that all a name is is a signifier?  It’s an arbitrary sign that we hang onto a concept in an attempt to clarify it, to communicate it, to assign meaning to it.  The name of something as given it by its creator is surely more meaningful than a name assigned after the fact by someone attempting to sell that concept to as many people as possible.  Although I suppose you could argue that all advertising is communication, really.  Well, sorta communication.  Demented and sad communication, but communication.  Right?

There are good reasons to change titles.  “The Aircastle that Was Blown Up” definitely needed a change.  But “Men Who Hate Women” was pretty spot on.  I’m a bit sad to have lost it.