Following the fairytale: Beauty and the Beast

This past weekend, I came down with an irascible cold, but as much as I lamented the loss of time and mental acuity that could have been spent on homework, one brilliant thing did come of it: for the first time in a couple of years (and for the first time ever on DVD), I re-watched Disney's Beauty and the Beast in its entirety.

I was worried, going into this, that the movie might not live up to my memories -- that the sincere curiosity and fiery spirit I'd attributed to Belle in other versions of the tale wouldn't actually play out in the version of it I'd first encountered. I was worried that, despite my (occasionally lengthy) assertions to the contrary, Belle was just another Disney-fied fairytale princess-to-be, possessing a few good lines and a few smart ideas but frighteningly passive at times and with a limited scope to her personal desires (beyond that ur-desire to find herself a man).

And then I watched it, and thank god, I had no need to worry. By ten minutes in, I had actually started making a list of the small things that made me fall in love. The Beast's eyes are the color of Belle's dress, and Belle's eyes are the color of his pelt. Belle wears her hair back in a ponytail! A sensible hairstyle for girls who are doing things, none of this long hair that is always worn down but somehow does not get in the way, ever! (I say this as a long-time defender of the ponytail who has just recently started wearing her hair down more frequently than up.) And the small things soon became big things. Belle isn't just an idiot with Stockholm Syndrome, or the good girl who falls for the bad boy. When she gets angry with the Beast, and can't take his mercurial treatment any more, she leaves! (Okay, of course she does get beset by hungry wolves and is forced to return, but it's the principle of the matter.)

But one moment above all others encapsulated why, for me, the Disney version of Belle is worthy of praise. When her father's horse returns home without him, Belle is determined to find him. She makes her way to the Beast's castle, finds her father locked in the tower, and is about to free him before the Beast arrives. Although the audience can easily see the features of both Belle and the Beast, we're meant to understand that the room is dark, with a single beam of sunlight splitting the room, so that as long as he sticks to the shadows, the Beast can keep Belle from seeing his monstrous appearance.

She can't even see him, and she offers herself in her father's place -- but before she solidifies the offer, she says four small words that made me want to run right into the scene and give her a Strong and Awesome Women high-five:

"Come into the light."

It's not a plea and it's not a question. With this inquisitive face and a tone that's equal parts curiosity and command, she tells the monster hiding in the darkness to come out and face her, expecting from him the same civility that she's offered, equalizing the field of the agreement.

Damn, girl.

Of course, when she sees him, she's afraid -- I mean, I don't care how often we're told that beauty isn't skin deep, if I saw a talking monster I'd probably freak out, too -- but after she gets over the single girlish shriek, she stands up tall and goes through with the bargain.

And -- would you look at that? -- now, they're both in the light. Together. And he's only there because she asked him.

***

Re-watching the movie also reminded me of how many wonderful retellings of this particular fairytale I've read over time. I could probably spend another entry on each of these stories, but for now, I'll just mention them.

Hands down my favorite treatment of the story is Heart's Blood by Juliet Marillier, which I read and reviewed last year. It's more of a re-imagining than a re-telling, with a looser interpretation of what, exactly, constitutes a "beast," but that's why I find it so compelling. Well, that and the fact that it's set in Ireland around the the time of the Norman Conquest and that the main character, Caitrin, gains misfit status because her father trained her as a scribe in a time when few women were literate.

Robin McKinley's Beauty is the classic re-telling, which sticks more closely to the original(s) than the more familiar Disney version. However, it's apparently where Disney got their idea for the Beast's library -- and let me tell you, the library in McKinley's version is stunning, and features in more than one scene. (As a side note, I can't actually tell if "Beauty and the Beast" made me a bibliophile, or if my love of books made me like "Beauty and the Beast." I'll probably never know.)

Perhaps the most creative re-imagining I've encountered is the short story "Skin So Green and Fine" by Wendy Wheeler, which you can find in Silver Birch, Blood Moon ed. by Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling. The excerpt on Wheeler's site doesn't do justice to the whole, though it does begin to give a feel for story, which is set primarily in Haiti and makes use of voudoun-flavored magic (and a "beast" with the eeriest appeal of them all, if you ask me).

And of course, if you're interested in where it all started, Project Gutenberg has an e-text of one of the earliest versions of the tale, translated into English for the sake of people like me, who are only belatedly beginning to parle un peu francais.

Alien Appreciation: The 456 of Torchwood: Children of Earth

People of more discerning taste than I possess occasionally complain about the production values and special effects budget of BBC's sci-fi shows, including Doctor Who and its spin-offs. Being one of those people who appreciates less-than-top-dollar effects in sci-fi movies and shows ranging from the original Star Wars trilogy to the best of the X-Files, I can't really understand these complaints. I do realize that the Doctor Who producers don't have all that much cash to create their effects, or consequently their aliens, but although sometimes they seem to overreach themselves and produce some truly questionable costumes or effects, occasionally, they get it right.

The 456 are an example of "getting it right" -- which, in the context of Torchwood: Children of Earth, translates as "generating maximum terror on a minimum budget." From the first episode of this miniseries, when the 456 decide to get the attention of the entire world by simultaneously speaking through all of earth's children, I was suitably freaked, but my genuine horror at this alien race was only heightened by the decision to never show a clear image of their form. They appear inside a specially-designed tank in a pillar of blinding light. The tank itself is filled with toxic gases through which alien forms can only be vaguely seen, and the cinematography makes these glimpses appear even more brief by only focusing on the 456 for brief moments, switching camera angles quickly and preventing the audience from ever getting a clear idea of what the 456 look like. The audience never even learns their true name -- they are called "the 456" after the radio frequency they first used to contact the Earth.

Another part of the terror comes from the perfectly-pitched juxtaposition between their obscured but alien appearance and their clear and familiar method of expression. For although they might seem so incredibly otherworldly, they communicate with the British government by taking over a speaker system and reproducing a normal, human voice...when they're not thrashing about looking like some indiscernible hydra and spewing a vomit-like green liquid at the inside of the tank.

Again, I don't think there's a better way to have represented these aliens -- or really any aliens that are supposed to induce this kind of fear. The fear of any alien obviously stems from the fear of the unknown, but Torchwood takes it one step further and makes the 456 not only the ultimate unknown, but the ultimate unknowable. The pervasive despair of Children of Earth is that humanity is up against a foe so strange, so different, that even all of our faith in knowledge as a form of power cannot overcome the primal dread for the murky or dark.

Of course, later on in the Torchwood miniseries, the viewers are offered a closer look at the 456 -- but the same camera techniques are used, the same spirit of juxtaposition prevails, and the same sickening feeling of fear has a tendency to worm its way through my stomach. I'd say more, but in the words of another Whoniverse regular, "Spoilers!" If you want to get a real feeling for the strangeness of the 456, watch Torchwood: Children of Earth, although I'd suggest watching Series 1 and 2 of Torchwood first, and then making sure that you watch Children of Earth with a friend, a fuzzy blanket, and an incredibly heartwarming movie cued up to counteract its gut-wrenching effects.