Here on The Fandomentals we usually write about and discuss things we love, but every now and then someone decides to bite the bullet. Well, now it’s my turn. I bit the bullet. I read Storm Front, the first of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files novels.
Oh, boy it was a ride. The worldbuilding was messy, but the plot was decent. Nothing great but enjoyable, or it would have been, if not for the sexism. The sexism ruined it. Not that sexism isn’t everywhere. It is. Still, given that the book is written using the first person perspective, the sexist perspective of the protagonist colors everything he sees. And, therefore, everything the audience reads. It gets nauseating. And since I had to suffer through this lens, you will, too.
Let’s start with the protagonist, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, the man who believes:
“men ought to treat women like something other than just shorter, weaker men with breasts.” (p.11)
Yes, that is an actual quote.
Harry is a wizard, the phone book says so, and he is behind on rent. Luckily a woman “with a voice that was a little hoarse, like a cheerleader who’d been working a tournament” (p.5) contacts him about her missing husband. They decide to meet up to discuss it further. But first, Harry has to take a look at a crime scene.
At the hotel where the crime scene is at we meet Detective Karrin Murphy, the original tough girl, who prides herself in never showing weakness. First thing Dresden does is an extensive and appreciative description of Murphy including her,
“kind of cute nose you’d expect on a cheerleader.” (p.10)
Seriously, what is this fixation with cheerleaders? Aren’t they usually pretty young? Is that an American thing? This is not the last time this comparison comes up, clearly.
He goes on to speculate how her legs look beneath her trousers, and physically races her to the door so he can hold it open for her, She finds this irritating and does not wish for it, yet he does it anyways. Chivalry may be an outdated concept, but in itself it is usually not malevolent. Undermining the authority of the woman who is supposedly in command by habitually going against her explicit wishes in said chivalry, that’s something else.
Before entering the actual crime scene in the bedroom, Harry looks around and finds some woman’s underwear, which is again described extensively and appreciatively. The first description of the actual corpses is this:
“They were on the bed; she was astride him, body leaned back, back bowed like a dancer’s, the curves of her breasts making a lovely outline. He stretched out beneath her, a lean and powerfully built man, arms reaching out and grasping at the satin sheets, gathering them in his fists.” (p.15)
Only then does he mention that both of their ribcages seem to have exploded. Clearly that is of lesser importance.
I…have a lot of questions that are unaccounted for in Dresden’s description. Why does rigor mortis keep them in this aesthetically pleasing position? Logic and biology would have them slump down long before it sets in. How can her breasts still be as lovely as described when her ribcage is exploded? Anatomy doesn’t work that way, Harry Dresden.
Harry then concludes that the murderer of the woman (in her twenties, in fabulous condition) and her lover is a woman. Why?
“Because you can’t do something this bad without a whole lot of hate. […] Women are better at hating than men. They can focus it better, let it go better. Hell, witches are just plain meaner than wizards. This feels like feminine vengeance of some kind to me.” (p.21)
This earns him a “Chauvinist pig” remark from Murphy, but I wouldn’t take anything coming from her as serious critique of sexism. Even if she intended it thusly, the outcome of her remark (i.e., nothing) doesn’t support reading it that way.
Speaking of outcomes, spoiler alert, the killer was not a woman. Does this undermine the sexist lens Harry sees through? Maybe it could have, had he ever reflected on it. We learn that the murdered man is a gangster named Tommy Tomm and the woman, a sex worker in the employ of the vampire Bianca.
We get another extensive and over-appreciative description of a female character when Dresden meets up with Monica Sells, the woman with the missing husband. It’s not worth repeating in full, but trust me, it’s more of the same. Turns out her husband, Victor, disappeared three days ago. He showed an interest in magic, which is why she contacted Harry rather than the police. She tells him to look around the family’s lake house and leaves him with a scorpion pendant that belonged to her husband.
The logical thing to do now is, of course, visit the nearest bar, McAnally’s, the pub for the wizarding community. There he meets Susan Rodriguez, the book’s only person of color. After the obligatory overly-appreciative female character description, this time including exotifying her darker skin and the “lazy appeal of her dark eyes” (p. 55).
Susan is a reporter, and she, too wants information concerning the murders.
“One of the things that appealed to me about her was that even though she used her charm and femininity relentlessly in pursuit of her stories, she had no concept of just how attractive she really was.” (p. 57)
The author was probably going for Obliviously Beautiful. But, it seems more like Susan’s lack of confidence is seen as more attractive than the presence of it given how Dresden treats Karin Murphy. She is also written as clearly attracted to Harry. While she is flirting in part to obtain information she is shown to be disappointed that “[Harry] didn’t look down her blouse even once” (p. 57). He did look, actually.
Harry then drives out to look around to the Sells’ lake house, where he summons a fairy to blackmail for information. Said information is that someone was having sex and ordered pizza the previous night. The conclusion Harry draws on the missing husband?
“He was lurking about his love nest with a girlfriend, like any other husband bored with a timid and domestic wife might do under pressure.” (p. 76)
When he turns to go, the warden Morgan appears and reminds Harry that he is the magic counsels prime suspect for the murders. he is being watched and any breaking of the laws of magic will lead to execution. Returning home, Harry decides to prepare an escape potion before meeting with Bianca. He doesn’t know the ingredients, so he summons Bob, an air spirit living in a human skull.
Bob, as can be expected of bodyless spirits, is obsessed with sex and easily insulted in his masculinity. After asking for details about Susan’s looks, he agrees to help with the escape potion but under the condition that Harry prepares a love potion, too. This, naturally, makes Harry contemplate Susan.
“I thought, if Susan should ask me for some kind of demonstration of magic (as she always did), I could always-
No. That would be too much. That would be like admitting I couldn’t get a woman to like me on my own, and it would be unfair, taking advantage of the woman.” (p. 94)
Clearly, he has his priorities straight (that’s sarcasm, if you can’t tell). Dear Harry Dresden, consent shouldn’t be an afterthought, especially not to your ego.
He does agree to brew the potion, even if he does not intend to use it. (Obvious Chekhov’s gun here.) As for the ingredients of a love potion? Tequila (“so long as it’ll lower her inhibitions”), chocolate (“chicks are into chocolate, Harry”), perfume, lace, the last sigh at the bottom of the glass jar, candlelight, a torn up $50 bill (Harry was out of diamonds and money is “very sexy”), and “the ashes of a passionate love letter” that turn out to be torn pages from a romance novel (p. 97). You better believe the quote Bob chose from the novel started with “her milky white breasts” because what else would it start with?
Now on to my least favorite chapter, the meeting with Bianca the ‘vampiress’. After a phone call from Murphy who complains that “that bitch won’t talk to us” (p. 102), Harry decides to stop postponing the encounter. They meet at Bianca’s Velvet Lounge. Harry is led in by her assistant, Rachel, and the description of her physical appearance is thankfully neglected. For now.
Bianca, when she appears looks “too good to be true” (p. 109). She flirts with Harry (as most women do), but when he brings up the murder of her employee, she attacks him, drawing blood. In losing control of her demeanor, she loses control of her appearance.
“It had a batlike face, horrid and ugly, the head too big for its body. Gaping, hungry jaws. It’s shoulders were hunched and powerful. Membranous wings stretched between the joints of its almost skeletal arms. Flabby black breasts hung before it, spilling out of the black dress that no longer looked feminine.” (p. 111)
It. In losing her attractive appearance Bianca goes from ‘she’ to ‘it’, from person to animal or thing. Like the warden, Bianca thinks Harry murdered her employee. Only when he manages to convince her otherwise and talk her down, does she return to her attractive human form. Her “flabby black breasts swelled into softly rounded, rosy-tipped perfection once more” (p. 115).
She is willing to talk now, yet she’s still embarrassed and furious at Harry and herself. Because she lost control? No, because what she wants most in the world is to be beautiful. He saw her ‘true’ form and now knows she is ugly; she f*cking cries because of it. Make it stop.
According to her, Tommy Tomm was one of the better clients, because “he treated [sex-workers] like real people” (p. 116). She has no idea to a possible motive, but provides Harry with the phone number of Linda Randall, the murdered woman Jennifer Stanton’s former co-worker and roommate.
When Harry leaves, Bianca, hungry from seeing Harry’s blood, feeds on her assistant Rachel. And this is when the story decides to describe her appearance. In full.
“Bianca’s tongue flashed out, long and pink and sticky, smearing Rachel’s wrist with shining saliva. Rachel shuddered at the touch, her breath coming quicker. Her nipples stiffened beneath the thin fabric of the blouse, and she let her head fall slowly backwards. Her eyes were glazed over with a narcotic languor, like those of a junkie who had just shot up.
Bianca’s fangs extended and slashed open Rachel’s pale, pretty skin. Blood welled. Bianca’s tongue began to flash in and out, faster than could really be seen, lapping the blood up as quickly as it appeared. Her dark eyes were narrowed, distant. Rachel was gasping and moaning in pleasure, her entire body shivering.” (p. 120)
Was all this necessary, for the characters? The worldbuilding? The plot? Hardly. Like the extensive description of female characters, this is purely to cater to the (presumably straight male) reader.
Harry contacts Linda Randall, she works as a chauffeur and repeatedly refuses to meet him. Does he leave her alone? No. He tracks her down while she is waiting for her employers.
“Well, you’ve got me cornered, don’t you? I’m at your mercy. […] And I like a man who just won’t stop.” (p. 126)
Like almost any other woman, she flirts with him, partly to distract him from the fact that she is hiding something. We learn that her and Jennifer Stanton were occasional lovers (hypersexualized bisexuals, yay!) and that they would often meet customers together (bisexuals in threesomes, yay!), including Jennifer’s fellow murder victim. The conversation ends with the arrival of Linda’s creepy employers, the Beckitts. It is implied that besides being the chauffeur she is intimate with at least Mrs. Beckitt.
Afterward, Harry confirms that there really was someone having sex at the lake house by talking to the pizza- delivery guy, who says it was more like an orgy. He also learns that there was someone taking pictures from outside.
The next day Harry visits Murphy at the police department. On the way up, he sees the arrest of an addict high on the pseudo-magical drug ‘three-eye’. The woman “looked like a teenager having a fight with an out-of-town boyfriend” (p. 142) . Gods, can you please stop infantilizing women/ comparing them to teenagers!
Anyway, he sees and stops the escape attempt of the three-eye addict, which leads him to conclude that the drug is in fact a magical substance. It’s supplier is a magician capable of murdering Jennifer Stanton and Tommy Tomm. After fainting in Murphy’s office due to a concussion (he was attacked the night previously), Murphy drives him home and tucks him into bed. She kisses him on the forehead when she leaves, because all women are attracted to Harry Dresden. He wakes up to a storm and realizes that it is an adequate supplier of energy to magically murder someone. Indeed, there had been a storm on the night of the murders.
He plans to get dressed for a meeting with Linda Randall but has not yet done so when the doorbell rings. It is Susan, the date he has forgotten. This he judges to be “a little rude of me” (p. 165).
He leaves Susan in his living room and takes a shower. Hearing someone come down the stairs to his apartment, he hurries to the door in a towel. If Susan opened the door and it was Linda “that would be the cattiest thing you’ve ever seen” (p. 168).
It is not Linda, it is a demon, who tries to kill him. Fighting the demon Harry loses his towel (of course he does). He shoves Susan downstairs with instructions to drink the escape potion. She drinks the love potion instead (of course she does). Eventually both her and Harry seek refuge from the demon in a small protection circle they are not allowed to leave. Which is obviously when the love potion kicks in.
Harry has to protect Susan from breaking the circle and accidentally killing them both because “she [is] beyond reason, the potion [has] kicked her libido into suicidal overdrive” (p. 179). He is the sensible one. Because female sexuality is irrational and animalistic. Through all of this Bob only comments how great the love potion is working.
They escape with help of the escape potion. At first Susan refuses to drink it, endangering them further. Harry has to promise to sleep with her afterwards to get her to drink it. Once outside they could easily shake of the demon by passing flowing water, readily available in the storm. But naturally the different potions Susan drank interfered and leave her vomiting and unable to walk. As it is there is no chance for both of them, our ‘hero’ “[would] never make it with her slowing [him] down” (p. 187).
Manly man that he is Harry decides to fight, especially when the demon’s master appears as a phantom made of shadows. Harry channels the storms lightning to vanquish them both. Oh and Linda Randall is dead, which is a why she missed her appointment with Harry.
Dresden and Murphy inspect the crime scene. Again, the first thing he does is inspect her underwear lying around and note that she liked her ‘toys’. Then we get more vivid description of her dead, naked body.
“Linda had been on the phone when she died. She was naked. Even this early in the year, she had tan lines around her hips. She must have gone to a tanning booth during the winter. Her hair was still damp. She lay on her back, eyes half-closed, her expression tranquil as it hadn’t been any time I’d seen her.” (197)
No anatomical impossibilities this time. An exploded ribcage still leaves some very nice hips to ogle, though. Sorry, dressed, non-sexualized corpses are clearly too much to ask for. Linda Randall with her “vulnerability that magnified the other parts of her personality” (p. 198) and her so-called “Slut act” (p. 129) is treated in death as she was treated in life, poorly.
We learn that Linda’s employers lost a daughter in a shooting involving some of Johnny Marcone’s men (the guy Tommy Tomm worked for). When Murphy confronts Harry with the fact that Linda had his card, he internally remarks that she doesn’t look at all “like a cutesy cheerleader” (p. 202).
Again, she demands that he share his information with her and the police force, because he is a strong suspect for the murders. Again, he refuses to do so, deciding that telling her would endanger Murphy, as if leaving her blind doesn’t. Also, he fears, that in admitting he knew Linda, Murphy might question whether they were lovers and as “Linda wasn’t exactly a high-fidelity piece of equipment” (p. 202) ascribe him jealousy as a motive. Harry leaves after Murphy, in tears, promises to arrest him the next day if he doesn’t start cooperating.
While thinking about “doing Murphy’s job for her” (p.206) Harry is attacked again. In the struggle his attacker manages to steal some of his hair, a necessary ingredient for the chest exploding spell. The guy escapes, but Harry recognizes him as one of Johnny Marcone’s men.
Since he is certain that the murderer is the one supplying the city with three-eye, he seeks out Marcone. Learning that his guard has collaborated with the drug supplier and undermined his control of the city’s organized crime, Marcone has him shot. Unfortunately for Harry ,the hair has already been passed on.
After wandering around in the rain musing about his dead mother and witnessing an execution, Harry breaks into the now abandoned apartment of Linda Randall. After sleeping there for a while he finds a film canister of the same type that was at the lake house. This time, it actually containing film.
That is when someone else breaks into the apartment. The man, Donny Wise turns out to be the photographer from the lake house and another occasional lover of Linda’s. She promised him sex in exchange for him taking photos of the orgy at the lake house she was participating in, supposedly trying to get leverage on some of the other participants. So many levels of wrong in this.
Harry burns the film, lets the photographer go, and heads of towards Monica Sells’ house. Monica, of course, breaks down crying. He learns that she was abused as a child, and that “she’d married a man who provided her with more of the same” (p. 243). Look, abuse narratives have a place in stories. They can be justified, even important, if the author can handle them respectfully. Here, it is treated as one note. It adds nothing vital to the story in a way to make it justified, nor is it more closely examined either. It’s a Tragic BackstoryTM for a Tragic Female CharacterTM. Full stop.
We learn that Monica Sells and Jennifer Stanton are sisters (there were no discernable clues for this). Victor Sells, a wizard, powered his spells for producing three-eye first with his wife’s fear of him, then with the lust of the people he was organizing orgies with, including his wife, her sister, Linda and the Beckitts. Worried about the wellbeing of her children Monica spoke to her sister, who got Linda to provide leverage on Victor and threatened him with exposure. He killed both them and Tommy Tomm, who was most likely collateral damage.
Leaving her to her weeping, Harry meets Jenny, the Sells’ daughter, who knows that her father’s not one of the ‘good guys’ anymore. Fueled by manpain, Harry decides to call Murphy. Murphy, however, has made good on her promise. Since Harry has not deigned to communicate anything at all, she is waiting for him, searching his office, handcuffs ready.
Panicked, he tells her not to look into his desk drawer because there is an evil wizard’s magical scorpion talisman in there he neglected to mention. Logically, Murphy does what every cop would do when a suspect tells them not to look inside the drawer. She looks inside the drawer.
Again, dashing hero Harry Dresden hurries to the aid of a damsel in distress that wouldn’t be distressed at all if not for him. When he reaches her,
“Murphy lay there, curled on her side, her golden hair in an artless sprawl about her head” (p. 264).
Seriously, please consider getting to the rescuing part. This is a woman in distress, who cares whether her hair sprawls artlessly or not!
The scorpion is alive, it is big and growing. Harry calls 911 for Murphy’s shoulder wound and poisoning. Murphy does the counterintuitive thing to staying alive and handcuffs Harry to herself. This effectively inhibits most of his movements and prevents him from fighting the scorpion. The “stubborn bitch from hell” is literally tying our protagonist down (p. 265).
They make it out, barely killing the scorpion. The EMTs arrive, as does the storm. Harry does not expect to survive the storm if he doesn’t act immediately, so he slips Murphy’s hand out of the handcuffs, leaves her with the EMTs, and limps over to McAnally’s. There, he borrows a car determined to outdrive the storm to the lake house, knocking out Morgan who has again come to confront him on the grounds of the murders. His dead mother gives him strength to get there.
He arrives just as Victor Sells is preparing the sacrificial rabbit for his ritual. The Beckitts provide the necessary lust as fuel for the spell. Harry breaks the circle in time to prevent the ritual, but not prevent the killing of the rabbit though. The naked Beckitts grab guns and start shooting while Victor sets more scorpions loose before resorting to starting a fire.
Harry doesn’t catch fire, but the house does. Then Victor makes the mistake of summoning the previous demon in Harry’s presence.
“I thought of little Jenny Sells, oddly enough, and of Murphy, lying pale and unconscious on a stretcher in the rain, of Susan, crouched next to me, sick and unable to run.” (p. 310)
Thinking of the poor women Victor harmed (not that two out of three weren’t put into harm’s way by none other than Harry himself), our brave hero wrests the demon’s control from Victor without claiming it for himself. Harry then watches the demon turn on Victor and devour both it and his scorpions.
Morgan shows up just in time to save him from the burning building. He ends up in the hospital, right down the hall from Murphy’s room. Harry sends her flowers, she throws them in his face. I hope the authorial intention here was to show that Murphy is still mad about the lies and needlessly endangering her, but I fear that it is meant to show that she is a Strong WomanTM who doesn’t need flowers from men.
In the end, Susan agrees to another date. They are implied to have had sex because this is critical information for the reader. it wouldn’t be part of the ending monologue otherwise.
Yes, this is the end, the book is finally over. It managed to be sexist on both character and narrative level. I didn’t even write down every instance; it’s that pervasive in the story. For everybody not reading this book, congratulations, you dodged a bullet. Thankfully, I’m not inclined to self-torture, which is why I won’t read the second Dresden book.
Pictures courtesy of Roc Books
Faerie Tale Aged Poorly
Once again before starting this article I must once again confess that I do not own Faerie Tale in its original langage. This shouldn’t be a problem for the following article which as more to do with the story than with the style of the book. Nevertheless because of it some names might sounds strange. I apologize for the inconvenience.
There is nothing worse, speaking of books, than getting utterly disappointed by a book that seems written for you. The other day, when I pitched the story of Faerie Tale to my best friend, he asked me playfully “why are all the books you are reading always so you?”. And that is true. On paper, Raymond E. Feist’s Faerie Tale had everything to please me. Folklore, slightly gothic ambiance, horrific set-up, fantasy, a focus on a coming of age story, an entrapment situation… Everything! I even read it in the best mental conditions possible to welcome the story warmly.
And yet as I progressed in the story, an increasing amount of elements irked me. Until the final of the mystery of the ex-owner of the house was reveled. I wasn’t just irked at this point. I was laughing. Laughing because what I was reading was laughingly bad.
In the end if I were to grade Faerie Tale I would give it 5/10 because there were things I really like so it doesn’t deserve to be under average. And I wanted to like this book. Still, after my encounter with the laughingly bad twist I came back on everything that irked me about Faerie Tale. It’s not good and it doesn’t deserve more than the strict average.
But maybe there is more to Faerie Tale. Maybe it isn’t a disappointing book after all. Maybe it simply aged poorly.
The Hastings in Fairy Land
Faerie Tale follows an American family, the Hastings, relocating to the father’s hometownin the 1980’s. The Hastings are five. Phil, the father, is a popular screenplay writer. Gloria, his wife, was a actress without real career who dropped everything to take care of her sons. Gabbie, Phil’s daughter from a first marriage, is a young college student who came to spend the summer with her father. And finally there are the twins Sean and Patrick. The Hastings are rich, in the case of Gabbie crazy rich. Is it important to the plot? Not really. If anything, it makes the Hastings will to endure what is thrown at them weirder. But it allows the initial situation and its mention a lot (A LOT) so I figured I should mention it.
Thanks to their sweet sweet money, the Hastings bought the house and land of an eccentric German who passed away without heir. On the land stands the Hill of the Elven King, a place, which in the local legends, is renowned for hiding the faerie court. Of course, as it turned out, it isn’t a legend and the fairy living there are trapped and want nothing more than to be free. And for that they are more than ready to manipulate the Hastings into helping them (I guess they are also doing all that they are doing because they are fairies and therefore assholes).
After several very severe incidents (Gabbie being nearly rapped, the family cat being gutted, Sean being swapped for a changeling) the Hastings (let’s be perfectly honest Patrick and Phil) helped by some secondary characters (all men) defeat the evil fairie. They also make a pact with the less evil one and the status quo is restored. The world is saved.
Still, the international secret organisation that secretly rules our world makes everyone forget everything about what happened, except for Patrick and Sean. Then, the Hastings are magically manipulated into moving back to California.
Everything for Nothing
Here you already might see one of the issue with Faerie Tale. What was the point of the books? We have five main protagonists and two are virtually unchanged by the 370 pages of development they just undertook. Gabbie has development (and I will come back to it later), but it isn’t linked to the faerie business. So if we exclude the twins, what was the point of the story?
Most of the characters, who weren’t really interesting to begin with, didn’t progress because of it. The villains—who are unnamed, unseen, and whose goal was already reached at the beginning—have already won. It wasn’t scary. It was mildly distracting (I might be harsher with my books that I am with my TV-shows, but it’s like that). And it didn’t have any sort of profound meaning.
So yeah, the plot of the book has its issues already. But that’s not the only problem with Faerie Tale.
Being a story of urban fantasy (rather rural fantasy… please someone stops me) Faerie Tale deals with myths that are real.
Fairies as archetypes
One the things I really liked in Faerie Tale is that the fairies are fairies. They aren’t human and don’t have a human sense of morality. Their essence isn’t the same as ours. And frankly it’s refreshing. Considering the current craze around fairies in YA where the fairies are mainly pseudo medieval humans with powers and a penchant for misogyny, I am delighted to be facing creatures that are really different and troubling.
The fairies in Faerie Tale are archetypes. They play a role and when they have been beaten, another steps into their shoes assuming their role to the point of taking their identity. They are immutable. And they are monsters that are egoist and takes pleasure from human inconvenience and misery. Some of the members of the fairy courts are humans, but they are humans who have suffered the corrupted influence of the fairies for years. They are unhappy, twisted, wrong, etc.
So, Feist did create an interesting fairy court. The only complaint I have is that it is made pretty explicit in the book that the degree of horror inflicted on the Hastings is linked to the will of the fairy to break free. Meaning that if the master plan wasn’t set into motion, the family would just have suffered harmless pranks. None of the pranks they suffer in the book are harmless (except one) and they are all linked to the master plan. Which leads me to believe that this fairy court is super lazy on a daily basis. But that’s just a detail.
One folklore to rule them all?
My main issue with Faerie Tale is the refusal to explain where the fairy court stands in a complex cosmology. I mean the book states that fairies, as conceptualized in Ireland and Germany, exist. Apparently Christianity might be correct too, since Christian prayers are efficient against fairies. But what about other religions that have different folklore traditions (Islam, Judaism)? Are their prayers efficient against fairies, too? Do their folkloric monsters (Djinn, Golem) exist too? The story explains how the fairies were brought to America, but what happened to creatures from the various Native American folklores? Did they ever existed? Or is this a case of ‘Germano-Celtic culture was right all along and every other belief is superstition’?
A good example of that is the presence of White Ladies in Faerie Tale. You see, in France White Ladies are probably one of our most famous folklore creatures. The issue is that they aren’t fairies. They are revenants. They announce death (or they might lead to yours if you see them, it depends on the legend you are considering). The myth is old and persistent. The Louvres and Versailles were and still are known to have their White Lady. The current urban legend of a vanishing hitchhiker has been fed in France by the White Lady mythos (most of these stories in France are about women who warm you about the place they died leading you to your death or avoiding it, it depends).
So when I saw the White Ladies of the books depicted as sexualized fairies in a fashion reminiscent of the Brides of Dracula, you have no idea how disappointed I was. “They suck” was my honest reaction.
To be perfectly honest, the issue I have with Faerie Tale‘s lack of a complex cosmology that refused to acknowledge the diversity of myths might have been enhanced by the fact I read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods just after. Still, there is something missing here. And it’s annoying.
If I tell you a story put fairies and a conspiracy theory together, you might answer me that doesn’t sound like a good mix. And you are right. As a general rule, I am not a fan of conspiracy theories. I think they are way of shifting the blame from the actual people responsible for the situation to someone else (sometimes a disadvantaged minority) and preventing systematic changes. I also think that they are often anti-science. If we add to that our current political context of fake news and post-truth, I would find any story cheaply relying on it distasteful.
Unfortunately that’s what Faerie Tale does. The ex-owner of the house was a member of a secret organization using fairy magic to rule the world. The members of this organization are super rich and super powerful and they use all this power to remain secret and keep the fairies from hurting humanity. Wait… Are they the good guys? No, they aren’t because they are still a secret evil organization that rules the world for its own gain and that’s all… They just want to be rich and powerful. They are the GAFA without internet and with pixie dust.
They are uninteresting. They are unoriginal. They don’t add a lot to the story considering that all their influence undoes the story. From a storytelling perspective, they are useless, stereotypical, and dumb. This is the laughably bad distasteful part of Faerie Tale.
Faerie Tale’s characters aren’t unforgettable. Far from it. Every time I sensed something interesting could be done with one of them their potential was utterly wasted. But I will focus on two main issue in this section
Money, money, money
Thank you Faerie Tale for making me feel like Lady Violet Crawley.
Never would I have thought that a book about fairies would talk so much about money. Never would I have thought that characters could talk so much about money without having their story center around it. The Hastings are rich. Gabbie is more or less the equivalent of an heir to the Rockefeller fortune. Despite that they are presented as humble people. I mean, the book tells us they are humble and they do welcome everyone in their home.
But everyone must be ready to hear about how much money they have. Phil explains to a perfect stranger (let’s be honest, he spoke to him twice before this) how much his daughter is rich. They have their own lawyer, their own agent. They can pay a doctor to came to a study specifically for them… But rest assured that they don’t spoil their children and raise them to value real life. They just allow their daughter to drop out from college because she won’t have any problem starting again later. They buy a house on a whim. They postpone their children’s extravagant fancies to teach them rationality. They dropped a promising career because they don’t think the story they were writing was good enough…
You know normal stuff from normal people who aren’t literally made of money. How did they get this money? Well Gabbie inherited it. Phil wrote extremely popular movies fro Hollywood. What are they doing with this money? Phil is doing normal things for an 80’s American: not paying taxes that would finance public universities, public healthcare, etc and indulging in an lifestyle of over-consumption. Gabbie is buying horses and an expensive car (paying for her little brother’s treatment) and not learning how to do anything significant for the companies that create her fortune. Relatable stuff that will definitively make them sympathetic to an average audience.
Sure, it could be forgotten in the narrative. But they talk about money all the time! This is ridiculous. You just want to shake them violently and scream “You are rich idiots without real problems who put their children at risk and need to move out of the bloody estate!”.
This constant mention of the Hastings’s fortune ended up making them despicable in my eyes.
Faerie Tale has a deficiency of female characters. If I had to give a percent of the gender balance of the book, I would say that 65% of the characters are men and 35% are women. To gives you an example, there are four named doctors in this book, the four of them have dialogue, all of them are men. Among the fairies, four of them are women. All of them are sexualized and none of them really have an agency linked to the master plan. The three most important fairies are men. And despite Gabbie having a strong sexual reaction to them, none of them are describe in any way as sexualized as the female fairies are.
Among important female characters, we have Gabbie, Gloria, and Phil’s university mentor. Let’s start with the last. The first thing of importance to note is that I have forgotten her name. But let’s put that aside. this character could be an interesting one. Indeed, having a woman scholar who guided several male characters in their literary/professional progression is pretty progressive. Having men being inspired by a woman’s work and ethic is great. It’s a nice reversion of the “I don’t want to fuck him, I want to be him” trope, and I think it essential for boys and for girls to see it done more often in media. However, your devoted servant would argue that it isn’t that well done here.
Phil’s university mentor has a maternal relationship with both the men she has tutored/is tutoring. She even misses the true calling for one of them: being a dialogist. And of course the person who notices this oversight is… a man. In general, she doesn’t do a lot of mentoring despite the evident respect both her students have for her. A huge missed opportunity.
Now to Gloria. Gloria isn’t a bad character. Once again she had a lot of potential. She is the only one of the adults Hastings that feel there might be something deeply wrong with the estate. She even witnesses a fairie’s activity, which allows her to connect with Patrick after Sean’s disappearance. Clearly, or at least from my point of view, Gloria was built to be the parent who ultimately assists/saves Patrick in his quest to get his brother back. But in the end, it’s Phil who gets the mission of finding his sons. Phil, who never showed any instinct for the supernatural and who had no progression—no real mental progression—linked to it. Why from a narrative perspective is Phil chosen to go and saves his sons? Well I guess it’s because that’s what fathers do, while mothers fall into a hysterical state…
Finally, let’s discuss Gabbie. Gabbie is an 18-year-old woman currently studying in California. We have already discussed Gabbie’s financial situation so we won’t do it any further here. There are a lot of things done properly with Gabbie: a subversion of the spoiled rich girl trope, a good relationship with her step-mother, a positive treatment of the rape attempt she suffers, and a positive depiction of her sexuality. Still, no character infuriates me as much as Gabbie.
Gabbie has two important arcs that are connected: her love story with Jack and her relation with her mother. You see, Gabbie’s mother married Phil young. They had a bad year professionally and Gabbie’s mother also broke with her family, who didn’t approve of her lifestyle (she was disinherited). Then Gabbie was born and her mother changed her profession to journalism, more precisely to be a war reporter. She then decided that her career was more important than her daughter and husband, leading to her leaving Phil and not taking care of Gabbie. Here I must emphasize that Phil also put his career before his daughter and Gabbie was left to her maternal grandmother, who raised her.
Now that her grandmother is dead and she is an adult, Gabbie has bonded with her father but not with her mother. Partially because her mother, too caught up in her career and in her importance for the “American left” (yes, that phrase in the book; take it as you want because I really don’t know what I am supposed to do with it), hasn’t extended any hand for her daughter to grab. Therefore, Gabbie’s arc deals a lot with her coming to terms with her insignificance to her mother.
This is once again an incredibly important narrative to explore. Once again, it’s a gigantic wasted opportunity. The career of Gabbie’s mother is constantly denigrated by the book. Her principals and ideologies are ridiculed when Gabbie learns that her mother is to marry a French millionaire (who is also a pedophile since he hit on Gabbie when she was 15) that she should normally hate if if she wasn’t a total hypocrite. As a consequence, Gabbie has no trouble with and no regret leaving at her mother behind her since she is irredeemable. Indeed, none of the reasons Gabbie’s mother had to abandon her daughter have any sort of value. (Note that Phil, who also left his daughter behind for his career, has to be a decent human being to be allowed back in her life with open arms.)
Therefore Gabbie has no trouble to make the decisions she ends up making. She decides to marry a man she has known for 5 months (her first sexual partner if I might add). He is an aspiring writer being tutored in college by the same tutor as Phil. She also decide to stop her studies for now. Does she have a better idea of who she wants to be as a person, except than being Jack’s wife? No, but I guess it’s okay because she is going to be someone’s wife; what else could she aspire to be? In the end, Gabbie rushes into marriage without knowing who she is, with a man who is a younger version of her father (yes, Jack even admires Phil). She is making exactly the same choices her mother did, but she’ll be fine because she is being a good sport about it, unlike her mother.
I can’t even begin to explain how much I despise this narrative. Even if it hasn’t directly touched me, the idea of coming to term with one’s insignificance to one’s mother is something that has influenced a lot of people I love in my family. I can guarantee you that it’s not fixed by making all the same choices as your mother but not being a total hypocrite about it. People are complex, yes, even people who abandon their children. They can’t be summarized by using two overused cliches, and the impact they had on you can’t be brushed aside by simply reducing them to these overused cliches. Besides, do I have a to explain why I find it distasteful to see a woman bloom in domestic bliss when her mother is vilified and mocked for pursuing a career? No? Great!
The twins, Sean and Patrick, are the saving grace of Faerie Tale. Not only are they the more connected to the fairy court, they have the most interesting progression as characters. More Patrick than Sean but still. Patrick is a shy little boy that ends up finding the courage to save his brother. Sean learns that he can rely on his ‘weaker’ brother and shouldn’t lash out at him because they both have strengths and weaknesses. By teaming up, they save the world, kill the villain, and free their perverted double. And of course for all of that, they are graced by the capacity of remembering what happened.
All in all, the twins’ story is a well-crafted, interesting storyline. I just wish I didn’t have to suffer the rest while reading Faerie Tale.
As you have probably gathered by now, I didn’t really enjoy my read. But while thinking back on Faerie Tale, I came to the realization that I might be part of the problem. Raymond E. Feist is an incredibly popular author. The last time I went to a bookstore, one of his new works was heavily advertised (I mean, as much as a fantasy book can be in France). I don’t doubt that he has great qualities as an author.
A quality he can’t have though is creating a book that pleases the taste of a public that will be born 8 years after its original publication and will only read it 30 years later. Nothing is ever perfect, and age is never tender. Trust me on this, even fine wine that isn’t properly preserved ages poorly. This doesn’t absolve Faerie Tale of its mistakes. But I must be honest.
When it was first published in 1988, Faerie Tale might have been an above average book. It might have introduced a new concept: a sort of gothic horror based on fairy tales taking place in our time and adding an ‘international context’ to it. But everything I saw Faerie Tale trying to do, I have seen done better in other books since then. Time has been cruel to Faerie Tale, and, unfortunately, I paid good money to discover that.
Image Courtesy of Doubleday
Avatar, Spirits, and Spirituality
Here on The Fandomentals we like to talk about Avatar: the Last Airbender (ATLA) and its sequel, Avatar: the Legend of Korra (LoK). But while many of us have talked about the strides the franchise has made in LGBT representation, its portrayal of a mental healing and recovery, complicated family dynamics or deconstruction of the superman narrative, I would instead talk about something that has concerned me ever since I saw the second season of Legend of Korra: spirits. After all these years, it’s time to finally put my concerns into words. And I will unfortunately continue to be the resident malcontent when it comes to the show.
To start with, let me lay down some groundwork and my central thesis. See, there’s two ways that the word “spirituality” is used in the franchise. One is the meaning we associate with it in the real world – concerned with immaterial things rather than material ones, inward-looking, meditative, contemplative. The other is the setting-specific meaning of being connected with the spirits and their world. But here’s the rub – the spirits aren’t actually very spiritual. Why do I say that? Let’s begin…
Avatar: the Last Airbender
Spirits certainly exist in the world the original show portrays, but they only sometimes play any major role – the biggest is perhaps the Book One finale. They’ve got their own worlds, but they also have a rather vague relationship with nature. In “Winter Solstice” we see a spirit named Hei Bai go mad after humans devastated a forest.
Vague it may be, it’s also significant, as we find out during “Siege of the North”. Zhao killing the Moon Spirit causes the moon itself to grow red and waterbending to stop working. If Yue hadn’t become a new Moon Spirit, presumably it would have become even worse from there.
In the same finale we also meet Koh the Face-Stealer, a spirit whose brief appearance nonetheless made him memorable. Just as his name implies, he steals faces, and the only defense is to maintain an entirely neutral, emotionless expression. This is the kind of thing that spirit stories tend to run on, after all – taboos and specific behavior that protect you from malevolent spirits. He was genuinely creepy and threatening in what little we saw of him.
The other spirit who plays a major role is Wan Shi Tong, the cranky owl who runs the spirit library. He accuses humans of always trying to use his knowledge for their own brutal ends. In his defense, Zhao used the library to find out about the Moon Spirit’s physical form, and we know how that ended up.
The Painted Lady only appears very briefly, after the rest of the episode might make us suspect she doesn’t actually exist. Like Hei Bai and the Moon and Ocean spirits, she has a connection to the natural environment, in this case her lake.
The show’s finale involves Aang receiving energy-bending from a Lion-Turtle, but… are they spirits? It’s kind of ambiguous what they are, what they aren’t and what they want. Still, they clearly do have some spiritual connections and they allow Aang to resolve the conflict without compromising his beliefs… even though the way they do it leaves something to be desired.
Spirits are, in general, the more outwardly “magical” element of the world in Avatar: The Last Airbender. Bending is by design rather predictable and we generally know what works and what doesn’t by the time we’ve seen half of the first season. Spirits introduce stranger and more fantastical things with them when they appear, but they’re not particularly central.
Legend of Korra Book One
The first book of the sequel contains no spirits. Amon says that they sent him to bring balance to the world, but he’s lying. So none of them appear or do anything. However, the word “spiritual” crops up frequently, mostly in terms of Korra’s lack of this trait. But why is she lacking in it and why is it a problem?
Well… that’s a good question, actually. “Not spiritual enough” seems to be a catch-all term for Korra’s struggles with airbending, connecting to her past lives, entering the Avatar State and her general combative attitude that focused on fighting and bending rather than the Avatar’s duties as a leader. Basically, every character flaw and struggle the show outlines for her.
Unfortunately, as we know, none of it really goes anywhere. Korra receives her vision from Aang long after it ceases to be useful, her airbending comes to her when Mako is in danger and she connects to her “spiritual side” because she’s depressed. This moment is just the first of many where the word “spiritual” is thrown around without any meaning. She became more “spiritual” in the sense that she got access to all her Avatar powers, but she gained no spirituality in the other sense of the word.
Sadly enough, you can see some ultimately unused plot hooks in this story. Korra receives her first incomplete vision of Yakone’s trial after Amon knocks her out during their “premature” confrontation. She receives her second vision after Tarrlok bloodbends her into unconsciousness and the final, complete one when he holds her hostage. It seems clear that Amon also used bloodbending on her, but subtly and maybe in combination with chi-blocking. Thus opening a way for Korra to figure it out on her own. But that was not to be and instead all the relevant information came from Tarrlok’s exposition dump.
But let’s not dwell on it too much. Instead, let’s move on to the second season, where spirits come to the fore.
Legend of Korra Book Two
And they do so in style, by attacking right in the first episode. The dark spirits prove difficult for even strong benders like Korra, Tonraq, and Tenzin to handle. Non-benders are entirely helpless, even though we saw Sokka best Wan Shi Tong with a heavy book and gravity. This is in keeping with LoK’s treatment of non-benders, really. We also find out there’s some tensions between spirits and humans and that corrupt spirits attack more and more often.
Either way, Korra’s uncle, Chief “I’m not a villain, I swear” Unalaq pacifies the spirit with a waterbending technique. Korra is impressed and wants to learn from him, since she feels she’s not spiritual enough to be the Avatar and a bridge between worlds. Sensible, one might think, and a logical progression. And yet… something doesn’t add up.
It once again comes down to the issue of spirituality and actual spirits. Unalaq complains about how the Southern Water Tribe turned their spirit festival into a festival of commerce. Which sounds plausible on the surface. He’s a crusty old traditionalist, of course he’ll complain about it. But what do the sprits even care? It’s not as if they have any concept of economy. As long as humans don’t go around destroying the environment or infringing on “spiritual” places (not that we know what makes a place qualify as such), they seem to be indifferent. Korra’s father, Tonraq, got on their bad side by doing the latter.
I feel like the show sort of expects us to take it as face value – they call it spiritual, so obviously spirits should care, right? But real-world religions give a reason why the spirits or deities they believe in care about the ceremonies and rituals. Here, we see no such reason.
As I mentioned at the beginning, ATLA got around spirits by being pretty vague about them. They do spirit-y things, they get angry if humans mess around with things they shouldn’t, they have a connection to nature… in the end, they’re not what’s important. But the second season of Legend of Korra puts them front and centre and makes them tangible… well not literally tangible, but much more real and relevant.
It doesn’t exactly get better when it turns out that Unalaq– who is absolutely not a villain, trust him on that– arranged for Tonraq to destroy a spirit-grove in the first place. Later on, it further turns out that he’s working with the spirit of darkness. It’s the two of them together that are responsible for the dark spirits attacking people. Which means… there’s no actual tension between humans and spirits, no crisis of spirituality or anything of the sort. Just two bad guys doing bad guy things.
Or… not exactly. After Unalaq spent many episodes doing various terrible deeds, and competing with Hiroshi for the title of the franchise’s second-worst father, he asks Korra if Avatar Wan had done the right thing when he separated the worlds. So it suddenly becomes a question we’re meant to care about. The relations between spirits and humans become an actual topic rather than just Vaatu being a big evil kite. But this happens right before the finale, so there’s not much time to talk about it.
As we know, Korra agrees. Why? Good question. The decision to keep the portals open gave her agency that the Book One finale had never given her. Her becoming the first Avatar of a new age is also appropriate. But as far as motivations and sense go… well, it has none. Which brings me to the second massive problem with the spirits in the show, and requires me to start at the “Beginnings”.
In the two-parter we see humans and spirits living in the same world. Or rather, humans surviving seemingly thanks to the protection of the Lion-Turtles. Everything beyond the four settlements huddling on their shells is a hostile jungle full of spirits who won’t give them an inch. We see proto-firebenders go out to hunt using their power. Again, the only reason they can do even that is because the Lion-Turtles help them. Why? Like I’ve said a few times already, good question. But one we have no answer for.
When Wan is exiled from his town and ventures into the wilds, he earns the spirits’ trust by not eating a gazelle he encounters. Which… well, I suppose gets us into the whole argument about whether or not it’s moral to eat meat. But still, he had to risk starvation for them to give him a chance? This starts the general trend in which it’s humans who have to put all the effort into harmony between the two species.
We do later see that there was a tribe of proto-airbenders who live in harmony with the spirits. But how? Once again… good question, no answer. There’s really nothing here except a vague feel-good “spirits are great” message.
After Wan accidentally frees Vaatu, he later fuses with Raava permanently to fight him, becoming the first Avatar. He seals Vaatu into a tree and decides to forever separate the world. Which… isn’t a perfect solution, perhaps, but certainly looked better than what was, at best, a perpetual war. At worst, it was spirits oppressing and bullying humans. So why are we supposed to believe that this wasn’t the right choice and that the one Korra made was right?
Aside from the spirits’ behavior, there’s still the major disconnects between them and being “spiritual”. We still don’t really know what it means. Yes, Korra is woefully unequipped to deal with spirits. But that’s just part of her general immaturity and rashness at this stage of her character arc.
Tenzin, her mentor, is however also unable to mediate into the Spirit World. For… some reason. It seems connected to his general psychological turmoil and massive pressure he’s under to live up to his father’s expectations. The Spirit World is governed by human emotion, so I suppose it would make sense.
While the inability to enter the Spirit World this way is yet another failure dropped on the large pile of Tenzin’s issues, his daughter Jinora can do it. Once again, we don’t really know why Tenzin can’t do it, but she can. All we get is that, you guessed it, she’s more spiritual. Except we still don’t know what that means and why being spiritual is even of any concern.
I’m also not entirely sure why only benders seem able to enter the Spirit World through meditation. If we accept that it requires peace of mind, concentration and inner balance, non-benders are as capable of them all as benders are.
When Korra actually enters the Spirit World, it turns out to be a realm where reality is something of a subjective matter. Human emotions affect it, particularly those of the Avatar. It more or less adds up, is visually interesting and makes some intuitive sense. Still, I’m not sure how much it adds up with the spirits’ connection to the environment that we saw in ATLA.
We also see Iroh in the Spirit World, which raises the question of whether human souls end up there after death. We know the Avatar reincarnates into new bodies every time, but what about everyone else? Maybe Iroh was special – “spiritual” enough to transcend into the Spirit World after death.
This kind of exemplifies the problem I’m talking about here. Yes, Iroh was spiritual in ATLA, in the more conventional sense of the word. There were some hints that he’d travelled to the Spirit World, but for the most part his spirituality was very down-to-earth. He told Zuko to look at what’s in front of him and think about what he wants, instead of chasing some lofty destiny someone else had imagined for him.
The wisdom of spirit-Iroh in Legend of Korra feels a lot like platitudes. Light, dark, staying true to yourself and all that. There’s just not much to it. His earthly wisdom and vague mentions of having had dealings with spirits are turned into some sort of deep connection to the spirits. Which allowed him to effectively become one.
What it adds up to is that the season tries to build up to Korra keeping the portal open, but the attempts just don’t work together. We don’t have a clear idea of what the relationship between humans and spirits should be. Korra’s decision feels like a big plunge for no good reason.
Legend of Korra Books Three and Four
The first episodes of Book Three deal with the consequences of the worlds reuniting. Korra spends a lot of time trying to contain the spirit-vines growing in Republic City, with the help of her friends. And the spirits… well, they don’t do a thing about it except yell at Korra, as if Raiko and the press weren’t enough. It seems that, once again, it falls to humans to work for harmony and peace, while the spirits are just going to complain about everything they do.
The spirits themselves take a backseat as Korra has to contend with the Red Lotus, so she never gets the chance to properly solve the problem. Which instead happens off-screen – we find out that in the period between Books Three and Four, while Korra was recovering from the horrific beating she took from the Red Lotus, Republic City integrated the Spirit Wilds. We see no real evidence of the spirits doing anything to help here, but at least they didn’t get in the way, I suppose?
Still, when Korra goes to ask for their help with Kuvira, she gets the cold shoulder. Kuriva is abusing the spirit vines to power her weapon and she’s invading the city where spirits and humans live together. But what do the spirits say? They’re not going to help, since they don’t interfere with human matters. But aren’t spirits and humans supposed to live together now, so there’s no “human matters” and “spirit matters” anymore? The worlds are back together and they’re all in it together, aren’t they?
I feel like it’s pretty common that whenever humans and more supernatural beings are in conflict in stories, the pressure is on humans to do something about and find common ground. The others, in this case spirits, are seemingly allowed to be aloof or outright hostile instead.
And of course it bears mentioning that humans have a lot more to fear from spirits than the other way around. They can hurt humans in many ways, while humans struggle to retaliate or attack. The biggest danger spirits seem to suffer from humans is their tendency to twist and corrupt when around humans who feel strong negative emotions.
To bring it all to the central point, I think the treatment of spirits in the Avatar franchise is one of the cases where a previously vague and ambiguous element gets more attention. Which doesn’t serve it well. Legend of Korra seems to expect us to take a lot at face value. It’s a lot of talk about spirits, spirituality, change and harmony without a whole lot to back it up. I got the distinct impression the show just skips over it all so we don’t have time to think about it too hard.
Images courtesy of Viacom
Suspension of Disbelief, Representation, and You
Suspension of disbelief is a key element for fictional stories to work. This is our willingness to believe something surreal, that goes against logic or reason or the way we know the world works. It’s the act of suppressing our criticism for the sake of enjoyment and immersion, if you will.
We know that a bite from a radioactive spider won’t give people superpowers. We know there isn’t a secret wizarding world right under our noses. We know mechas shouldn’t be piloted by angsty teenagers. Actually, we know mechas aren’t even a thing. Our willing suspension of disbelief is what allows us to ignore all this knowledge and be carried away by the narrative. It’s our brains saying what if.
Speculative fiction in particular wouldn’t work without this, because it plays with elements distant from our reality. There are entirely invented worlds, or technology that humanity is far from developing. We have zombie apocalypses, alien invasions, time travel, alternative realities, monsters, and magic. It’s not that we don’t know those things aren’t real, we just want to see a story in which they are.
Opening our hearts and minds to the universe presented by the creators is our counterpart, as audiences, to allow stories to touch us. We need this to be fully invested in them, and that emotional engagement is when stories matter.
When there’s friction in your fiction
This doesn’t mean, of course, that we’re willing to accept everything. If the audience’s job is to be open to the impossible, the creator’s job is to make the impossible seem plausible. Stories don’t need to be realistic but they need to be internally consistent in their setting, characters, or plot.
If you establish your fictional society as heavily patriarchal, you cannot expect us to believe that a female character could be sassy without social consequences. When your character is commanding a fleet, that fleet cannot simply show up on the other side of the world a day later. You can’t have a character being stabbed in the guts and dumped into a dirty canal, then soon parkouring around the city and fighting as if nothing has happened. And yes, these are all the same show.
When creators break the rules they set for their stories, our suspension of disbelief breaks as well. Just as it’s not fun to play a game with someone who cheats, it’s hard to be invested in a story when we can’t follow its internal logic. Thus, we’re less engaged and we trust the creator a little less.
What makes or breaks the suspension of disbelief will depend on the audience. A good example is when creators mess with specific knowledge that most people don’t have, but experts in the field will find hard to ignore. It’s simply easier to suspend your disbelief when you don’t know enough about a topic to dispute it.
People also have different levels of tolerance to absurdity and inconsistency. To continue with Game of Thrones example, for us at the Fandomentals the show has defied logic for years, but for a good part of the audience it took a character gumbo and their unlikely quest to raise eyebrows. There’s no right or wrong answer in those cases, since we’re all different. If the story still works for you, then it still works.
It’s worth questioning, however, what breaks our suspension of disbelief and why.
I want to believe
Follow fandom discussion for long enough and you’ll notice that sometimes what breaks suspension of disbelief for audiences is the presence of certain characters in the story, particularly when they belong to socially marginalized groups. Why would the agency or protagonism of these characters bother our immersion more than all the absurds we buy into when consuming fiction?
Cast an actor of color for a period drama and you’ll hear people complaining about “historical accuracy.” Have a mostly female cast in your story and you’ll be accused of being “politically correct.” Write multiple LGBT+ characters and people will cry there’s “too much diversity.” The list could go on, but this diversity happens in real life and it’s actually much more realistic than your typical homogenous cast. Then why you can always count on part of the audience to look at it with incredulity?
In the past I’ve complained about gratuitous sexual violence in stories, especially when used as a shortcut for “gritty historical realism” in fantasy. This complaint is sometimes met with “that’s how it was back then;” people that defend the decision because it supposedly adds realism and credibility to the story. Wait, so you can believe in dragons or ice zombies, but that one rape scene “had to happen” because otherwise “it would have been too unrealistic”? I’m sorry, I just don’t get the metric for realism here.
Perhaps the easiest example for this relative suspension of disbelief would be Mary Sues. There’s a lot of debate on the validity of the term and this deserves its own separate piece, but we can all agree that a Mary Sue is the type of character that forces our suspension of disbelief. So why is this label often used to undermine competent female characters when we would be a lot more forgiving with a male counterpart? Star Wars is a great example of that, because since the release of The Force Awakens audiences have accused Rey of being a Mary Sue. Have you ever seen Luke or Anakin being called Mary Sues? I haven’t, even though their abilities were much more of an asspull than Rey’s. Then why is Rey the one breaking the audience’s suspension of disbelief?
Why do those examples threaten our suspension of disbelief? Why is it so hard for us to simply accept these characters as part of the story, to extend them the same open mind we would to others? If we can’t conceive a fictional society that is diverse or accepting, then maybe the problem lies in our imagination.
It would be tempting to say that this happens because people are sexist, racist, homophobic, etc. To be fair, that’s true for a good portion of the audience that has these reactions. But I think there’s more to it as well: we’re too used to be sold a single narrative, and we’re too used to buying it.
We have come to naturalize certain actions, or characters, or beliefs. Now, when we find a story that goes against what we internalized, that story hurts our suspension of disbelief. In a way, it’s easier to believe in elements clearly distant from our reality, like hobbits, evil robots, or superheroes, than to go against a social narrative we’ve been taught since a very young age.
Yet we have to do exactly that. When something breaks our suspension of disbelief, we have to ask ourselves why. Why is this, of all things I’m being asked to believe, the thing that bothers me? Does it make sense for this particular setting that this specific group is being oppressed? Is this an interesting story to tell or consume? If I changed the race, gender, orientation, etc. of this character, would they still feel unrealistic? Does my belief belong in the 19th century and should I send it back there?
We may not be responsible for the narratives that are created, but we are responsible for examining how we interact with them. This is key for demanding better stories and for engaging with stories that challenge our world views. Especially when said views are in dire need of being challenged.