Subtlety in Funaro's The Sculptor

Every child is drawn to good stories.  Stories that transcend time and space, and place us in the shoes of a hero or heroine that defies the odds and conquers their quest.  Centuries ago, these stories were didactic in nature and were often cautionary tales for the impressionable but still the root of the story had to be good enough that the didacticism was transparent, leaving the story arc in the foreground.  At least at first.  And that's because those stories exercised subtlety.  And it's because of subtlety that Grimm's Fairy Tales are as popular today as they were in the 1850s.  The story came first, the lesson second.  

Now, Gregory Funaro's, The Sculptor is not didactic.  There are no lessons to be taught to the impressionable child but I believe the book itself can still teach the impressionable writer a thing or two.  While the book does some things right, I recognized what not to do, especially in regards to subtlety, more so than not.

So, as a reader, what do we dislike more than anything else?  Being aware we are being told a story, right?  We want to transplant ourselves into someone else's shoes, experience what they experience, overcome what they overcome.  It doesn't take much to be pulled out of a story.  It can come in an instant with a simple word or phrase or line of dialogue, but when a reader is pulled out of the story and is suddenly aware they are reading a story, the spell the story teller is weaving is broken.  The house of cards of a narrative comes crashing down and may take some time to build back up.  And who says that reader gives the writer that kind of time?

For this entry I just want to focus on character and character motivations.  Outside the mystery and sometimes horror genre, character is usually the most important thing in a story.  They are driving the plot, right, so of course they'd come first.  Characters should think, talk, and act as real people should, correct?  Even if the story is of an alien on a space station surrounded by other alien species, there should be something that resembles human expectations of realism.  Characters should not resemble marionettes being manipulated and dragged along by the writer.  This breaks down the fourth wall and the reader recognizes that this is indeed a story, and we've been in our own shoes the entire time.  Nothing is more disappointing.  As writer's we don't want that.  So, in Gregory Funaro's, The Sculptor, the protagonist is Dr. Cathy Hildebrandt, professor of art history at Brown University.  Recently separated from her husband, Dr. Hildebrandt's life is already in a bit of a tailspin when a body is discovered posing as Michelangelo's Bacchus with her name on it.  And from the very beginning, we get a lesson on subtlety. 

When we’re first introduced to the villain, The Sculptor, he’s in his carriage house where he performs his art, in his case posing corpses in likenesses of Michelangelo sculptures.  “The Sculptor removed from the desk drawer the only book he allowed in the carriage house: his copy of Slumbering in the Stone” (Funaro 30).  While the novel up to this point has been anything but subtle this is a contained example.  Is it possible the killer only keeps Dr. Hildebrandt’s book on Michelangelo in his workspace, the space where he kills?  Absolutely.  But is it subtle?  No, it’s convenient.  Why would a sculptor rely on one text, or even one artist as an inspiration?  It would be the same if as a writer, I only read and cared about the work of one author.  I wouldn’t make a very good writer, would I?  And the same would go for The Sculptor.  It’s an intrusion by the author to keep the focus on Dr. Hildebrandt when in reality, an artist interested in classical art would appreciate and admire hundreds of artists.  In the novel, The Sculptor constantly hums classical music by various composers, why wouldn’t he like different artists and their work?  What would make for a more compelling and believable villain would be if Funaro pulled actual scholarship regarding Renaissance sculptures and made us believe through subtlety that the villain disregarded the other artists because they xyz unlike Michelangelo who is abc.  Actual research would lend itself nicely to this sort of thing.  Even if we don't understand the subtle plugs of research (I'm thinking of Michael Crichton), we'll believe it because the subtle hints will, keyword hint, at a bigger, grander picture regarding the character.    

Another example just a few pages later, “Nonetheless, the fifty-year-old lifer could not help but feel cheated that the first and only break in the biggest case of his career had fallen into Markham’s lap, for no matter how much he admired Markham, Bill Burrell was instinctively territorial.  Like a bulldog.  And this was his junkyard” (Funaro 40).  This excerpt is shortly after we’re introduced to Bill.  So without letting readers discover that Bill feels this way, we’re told outright.  Bill’s character is summed up in exposition.  Is it accurate to the character?  Sure, but does it lack subtlety?  Yes, again Funaro intrudes and tries to make us feel a certain way about a character before we have a chance to make our own conclusions, which is a falsehood in my opinion.  You can tell me a character is a certain way every time but if the evidence isn’t acted out on the page, I won’t believe you.

And while none of Dr. Hildebrandt’s and Agent Markham’s relationship is subtle, the very first mention of a connection is so forced I had to put the book down.  “Cathy detected a hint of Yankee in his voice—a disarming but relaxed formality that made her like him” (Funaro 20).  Now, imagine Funaro brought that out in a scene rather than telling us within one page of being introduced to this character.  If he stopped the line at ‘voice’ and throughout their conversation, readers inferred rather than being told how she feels, wouldn’t that have made for better writing?  He could still be just as pointed in their conversation but let us, the readers discover how characters feel, what their emotional state is.  Don’t tell us.  Because you show me an author who’s intruding in a story and I’ll show you a story I don’t believe.  

With just a pinch of subtlety, the fourth wall would remain intact and readers would have a much better appreciation for the characters, and the novel.   

The Biggest Fan

Growing up, for me, Stephen King was synonymous with the written word.  Sure Shakespeare was what they crammed down your throat in school (as they should), but King was living and breathing.  He was still producing.  Not to say that I read any of his books growing up.  No way, much too advanced for me, but I saw all the movies.  I used to watch It over and over.  Pet Cemetery was another favorite, and Stand By Me convinced me that every child actor since the 1980s are no talent upstarts that have no place being in show biz.  As a kid, reading and watching were one and the same.  Now as a much older and wiser (I hope) Stephen King fan, I can tell the difference between what’s on the page and what’s on the screen.  And after watching Misery countless times, I have to say the tried and true idiom, “the book’s better than the movie” still holds true even when the movie receives Oscar nods. 

I won’t focus too much on the story.  The story for the most part is the same.  A crazed fan kidnaps and tortures her favorite author after pulling him from a car wreck.  And while the scope of the movie is a little bigger since we get more than one point of view, the film and novel are close enough as far as that goes. 

No, what I want to discuss are the characters.  First, James Caan’s Paul Sheldon is infinitely cooler than Paul Sheldon.  And where most of the time, cool means better, here in King’s Misery, not so much.  James Caan is a tough actor.  He usually plays tough characters that remain true blue through and through and he brings that toughness to Paul Sheldon.  But Paul Sheldon isn’t tough.  He is what I imagine King is: a physically weak, squirrely kind of writer.  It’s a personality that makes you wonder if he really will make it out of this or not.  And we see this from the very beginning of the novel.  As soon as Paul is semi-coherent, he is already cowed by Annie.  He begs for his meds.  He drinks dish water.  It isn't until Annie makes him burn his manuscript that he begins to recognize he must fight.  And that's where the sly, James Caan version begins to rear his ugly-soon-to-be-one-legged-head.

And while James Caan plays up Paul Sheldon's toughness, Cathy Bates played down Annie Wilkes's.  In the film, Cathy Bates was lauded for her performance and she should have been.  She does a fantastic job.  But the artistic direction of her character is down played tremendously.  Annie Wilkes isn't the loving, manic-depressive, number one fan that slowly transforms into the crazed woman bent on killing her favorite author.  No, she's a manipulative nut-job who, from the very beginning, tells Paul he owes everything to her kindness and generosity.  The transformation in the novel is much more subtle and drawn out.  It’s more of a demotion of levels of psychosis.  Paul knows from the very first pages, it's strange that he isn't in the hospital but he's smart enough not to ask.  And she never mentions it either.  She gives him no hope from the very beginning that help will come for him.  And it’s that constant taunting as Paul struggles to find hope that Annie quickly extinguishes that brings more and more out of the story that the film lacks.

And it’s that hopelessness that brings the real horror aspect of the story out.  In the film, we’re shown in multiple perspectives what is happening. In fact, he never asks.  We get Paul and the old sheriff in town.  We get eagle's eye views of what's transpiring.  In the novel, Paul's all we get.  So we have no idea if his car is found, if there’s a manhunt, anything.  We're as much alone as Paul.  Imagine how much more terrifying that would’ve been to see on the silver screen?

The Silence Too Loud To Be Shushed

Now that I have one of Thomas Harris's stories under my belt, it's about time I do another, right?  Well, not quite. Not the first of Harris's stories on the silver screen but the first notable, John Demme's The Silence of the Lambs did more than just bring Harris's work to the mainstream.  It popularized one of the most inventive psychos that you just hate to love from any medium.  While in my previous post, I stated it was nice that Hannibal began as a mere footnote in Harris's first novel in this universe, Silence of the Lambs is where Hannibal Lecter really takes on a life of his own and undoubtedly contributes to the film’s lasting impression.  Psycho films are a dime a dozen but few can make you root for the psychotic character, especially that of a pseudo-villain like Hannibal Lecter.  

Where novels are a primarily solo endeavor, films are a collaboration of epic proportions.  And there are few parties (two for me) that make this film not only a success, but one that stands the test of time. 

If we’re giving out credit where credit is due, first we have director John Demme to thank.  First, let’s establish this film is not scary.  I don't even think it's supposed to be scary.  At least not the type of horror that makes you jump or gives you bad dreams.  If it is scary, its characters are scary only on the subject of believability.  The characters are realistic, and that level of realism makes it scary that a Buffalo Bill/Hannibal Lecter could exist.  It's not like Red Dragon.  The gruesome details are off screen and implied (with the exception of Hannibal breaking free).  But, and it's a big but, Demme's choice of camera angles are what add a sense of foreboding, a sense of fear, that otherwise the film would seriously lack.  The camera, when shooting character interactions, are often in close-up frames where only the character’s eyes and facial expressions can be seen.  And while the settings are for the most part normal (with the exception of the asylum, Bill’s house, and the storage facility), they are eerie.  The camera gives the film a sense of creepiness that would otherwise not be there.  The settings are for all practical purposes, safe and normal.  It's the camera that makes them uncomfortable such as Dr. Chilton and Jack Crawford's office.  They're safe places: well lit, surrounded by law enforcement and orderlies but the camera angles make them feel predatory.  We become on edge as we watch the twitches and quirks appear on Starling or Chilton’s face.  

And secondly, and most memorably, we have the cast.  While there are many Hollywood elite that star in Silence of the Lambs, Anthony Hopkins undoubtedly steals the show as Hannibal Lecter.  He brought the deep, complex character to life in a way only he could.  There are some roles people are born to play and I believe that one was meant for him.  Jody Foster's is by no means groundbreaking in her performance as Clarice Starling but she is still memorable.  Clarice’s character is a believable portrayal of a young student trying desperately to advance her career/cope with the responsibility she's been given.  There's a real sense of her being in over her head the film over.  And it's that feeling that is by no means spelled out for you, in which she fuels the film towards being truly unique.  It's a feeling that is never elaborated on, drawn attention to, or even given a label (and we know Lecter would have).  It's subtle, and that to me, is where the real brilliance of the movie lies.  We feel it because she feels it.

Thomas Harris's Genius Geniuses

If you’ve seen the film Red Dragon, you’re at least briefly aware of Will Graham’s story. Like most films, the source material is much different than the screen version but it still gives you a cursory understanding of the story.  And like most of us (I suspect), I’ve seen more of Thomas Harris’s stories on the screen than I have on the page.  In fact, Red Dragon is the first of his stories I’ve seen on the page and I found it to be as complex and compelling as its characters. 

In this novel, there are many things Harris does exceptionally well but none compare to his characters.  From a writer’s perspective, characters are what we love to create but  it is difficult to create characters that readers will love.  And after reading Harris’s Red Dragon, I recognize he is a master at it.  His hero, Will Graham is not your typical hero, which is ironically typical of heroes yet this one still stands out.  Will’s neurotic and easily manipulated.  He’s also a genius law enforcement investigator.  Dr. Alan Bloom describes Will as having pure empathy (almost a super power in this context) in which Will is able to empathize with a person so much that he sees through their eyes with near perfect understanding.  As you would guess because of this gift (or curse) he has a proven track record of finding serial killers.  While his ability sounds a little farfetched, Harris presents Will in such a way that we not only believe it, but it’s as fascinating to us as it is to the characters in the novel.  And that’s where Harris’s true talent lies.  I don’t know how many stories I’ve read where the author forces a character on the reader and tries to make them feel or believe certain things about them.  They might tell us he’s a genius inventor, or the cool kid at school, and so we’re supposed to accept it but it’s not supported in the text.  It’s the author’s intrusion and not genuine.  And yet Harris never falls into that.  He does tell us how to think about certain characters, but where other authors fail, Harris delivers.  From the very beginning we are told Will Graham is (or was) the best at what he does: solving strange murders.  And while that’s a little on the cliché side, the next scene we see it for ourselves and instantly I’m a believer.  Harris writes his genius characters as geniuses; something many authors fall short on.  From Will’s first walkthrough of the Leeds house, and the way he reconstructs the crime, almost becoming the killer himself, I believe it.  He walks through the house, reconstructing the murders with stark clarity, reliving them as if he was there.  He thinks about the bodies and immediately picks up on two fingerprints the police may have missed since the rest of the scene was clean.  Nothing about Will’s investigating or character is logical.  It’s easy for a writer to show a smart character, especially a cop, by having them discover aspects of crime first by jumping on logical conclusions but that’s not what Harris does.  His murders, and characters, are complex and I’m left as impressed as the characters in the novel.

Dolarhyde is much the same way.  The villain of the novel, Dolarhyde is clearly a psychopath.  And like most psychos he believes he is right, that he is above other people, that his murders are creating something that other people are too base to appreciate.  He compares himself to Michaelangelo in that his murders, and the films and pictures he takes of them, are art of the highest caliber.  While disturbing, it is believable that someone could be so disillusioned they could slip into that mentality.  And again, Harris could get off with showing us the killer in certain lights and we’d be fine with it.  We’re not supposed to like the killer so we expect not to.  But Harris gives Dolarhyde the same treatment as Will.  He gives us all of Francis.  We see his meticulous genius perhaps even more than Will (and from many different povs), as well as his human and demonic sides.  Though one of my biggest issues with the novel is from his back-story (I think it was both illuminating and interesting, but largely unnecessary), Dolarhyde, like Will, is both weak and strong.  He’s publicly weak as Francis fears ridicule about his physical appearance.  Yet, he’s privately strong, both physically and mentally.  His coworkers know him as a quiet, timid man and he is.  He wears his work goggles at all times at the office, even in the cafeteria so people are not able to glimpse his deformity.  He wears masks.  He is at times Francis Dolarhyde, the quiet darkroom photography tech, and at times the Red Dragon, a deranged serial killer.  Both (they almost become separate characters) are shown with such vivid, interesting detail we not only believe his character, but we are left like Will, empathizing with it as well.  He’s a genius in the way he constructs his crimes.  And his interaction with Hannibal Lecter is integral yet almost a side note but it is still presented as two geniuses corresponding and we believe it.  The characters, like us, scramble to figure out what their letters mean to each other and when they discover the truth, like them, we are left in shock and awe.  Each one of Dolarhyde’s murders are masterfully written into his character, and are masterfully written crimes. 

And as a side note, while this is of no fault or achievement of Harris’s, I enjoyed how small Hannibal Lecter’s role was in this story.  Of all of Harris’s interesting, complex characters, Lecter is the one that will stand the test of time.  He has become synonymous with villains-you-just-hate-to-love and I have to admit it was refreshing to see that Harris’s character had humble roots in his stories.  I don’t mean humble as in Lecter’s background, but his presence.  His cameo, while integral, was brief and does not leave a long lasting impression, which only speaks to Harris’s ability to create compelling, complex characters as the series continues.