I know I dropped off the face of the WP world for a good half a year; I’m sorry if you missed me. I’ve been lacking inspiration as of late, as well as busy with some real life stuff. I’ll try to be a bit more consistent.
I’m back to ramble a bit here about something that really isn’t related to Korean culture at all. Not that I’ve been aiming for this blog to be specifically about Korea, but I thought I’d write a bit of a disclaimer since the past entries have mostly been related to that theme.
I wanted to take some space here to rationalize my guilty pleasure of reading books with no nutritional value. Twilight saga, in particular, written by Stephenie Meyer.
A bit belated in response to this Twilight cultural phenomena? Maybe. I am writing this as I wait for the last installment of the movies to come out on DVD so I can watch it to gripe about it some more.
I know people could get really uppity about this–I understand that there is a loyal following of this series, as well as a strong base of anti-fans. I just wanted to remind you upfront that this entry is saturated with my very personal opinions, bias, and values. You are welcome to take my ideas or leave them.
Here are my thoughts on the series: As you might have guessed, they are mostly negative.
I find the books shallow and poorly written, as though the author wrote out her ideas as a rough draft then sent them out to publish them without much afterthought. A celebrated author, Stephen King, agrees with me: “Both Rowling and Meyer, they’re speaking directly to young people… The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good.” (Source) I find myself tripping over the words in her books, distracted rather than getting immersed into the storyline by the language. I can’t even be bothered to roll my eyes at its quality.
Further more, the storyline and Bella the heroine of the series in particular really irk my feminist sensibilities. As one writer critiqued on NPR:
…When a saga popular with pre-adolescent girls peak romantically on a night that leaves the heroine to wake up covered with bruises in the shape of her husband’s hands–and when that heroine then spends the morning explaining to her husband that she’s incredibly happy even though he injured her, and that it’s not his fault because she understands he couldn’t help it in light of the depth of his passion–that’s profoundly irresponsible. -Linda Holmes, NPR
That’s just one of many offenses I found in the saga. There are many many more.
Yet, here is the kicker, I’ve read all the books and watched all the movies like it was crack. It was addictive. I had enough sense left in me to avoid buying the books or watching the movies in the theatres because I did not want to monetarily contribute to this franchise–but it doesn’t change the fact that I was huddled in the corner of the bookstore during my lunch break from work for a good week, reading the Breaking Dawn as soon as it came out onto the bookshelves. I grimaced and complained about everything that was wrong, and yet I’ve read all the books and watched all the movies. Some of them, twice.
There is definitely a cognitive dissonance here, and I feel compelled to sort it out.
It is my assumption that when something is appealing, it is satisfying a desire of some kind. When it comes to books or ideas especially, it is addressing a personal, emotional, or psychological need. When a story gathers a mass following, like Star Wars, Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and yes, even Twilight, it probably is satisfying some universal craving in all of us. The fantasy genre of books and movies in particular can be especially addictive, and it draws attention to a craving from something deep and subconscious of the human nature. There is something about epic wars between good and evil, the underdogs winning against incredible odds, and justice prevailing in the end that we root for and identify with.
At all ages, if [fantasy and myth] is used well by the author and meets the right reader, it has the same power: to generalize while remaining concrete, to present in palpable form not concepts or even experiences but whole classes of experience, and to throw off irrelevancies. But at its best it can do more; it can give us experiences we have never had and thus, instead of ‘commenting on life,’ can add to it. -C.S. Lewis
There’s an element of this in the Twilight saga, albeit shrouded in a whole mess of junk, that strikes a chord with all the pre-adolescent girls (and sometimes, grown women like me) across the globe. (Haven’t heard of many boys being a fan of this saga–any out there?)
On that note, this kind of messy but addictive quality is also present in Korean dramas. But that’s maybe for a later time.
Because, despite what I want to believe, Twilight franchise is successful across the globe, raking in millions through publishing sales and millions more at the box office across nations and various cultures. There’s a quality in the characters, in the relationships, in the story that satisfies a hunger that is universal and feminine.
It is my belief that all of us desire to be cherished and valued; we want to be enjoyed. We want to be special to someone, and be worth fighting for. We want to be significant.
And Bella becomes those things in this story–not only to one but two very appealing beings (well, if you like vampires and werewolves, that is). Despite her misgivings about her worth and agency, these boys fight for her, cherish her, and protect her. And given all the sexual tension in all of the books, the characters (especially Edward, the hero and the vampire) make it a point to wait until the fourth book to do anything about it. One of the main themes of the book is this: that Edward treasures and cherishes her so much that he is willing to sacrifice his thirst for her blood, his hunger for her body, and his desire to immortalize her to keep her with him forever. There’s something romantic in that–the Bella-centered way he is. Similar can be said of Jacob, the werewolf boy.
This is not to say that is all we want. And I am definitely not suggesting that we desire to be objectified or demanding that our partners become self-sacrificing martyrs. We can be desired, cherished, and enjoyed and still be complex, active human beings. We can be respected for our significant and irreplaceable roles we play in life. And the partners, in turn, can be considerate and respectful without simplifying to a one-person-centered amoeba.
That’s one of the biggest problems I have with Twilight (aside from the quality of the writing). Everybody’s too simplified and focused on the other. No one has balance or common sense. Each character hinges on the other, co-dependent and enmeshed–like they’re addicted to each other.
Bella has no agency and gets thrown around by the supernatural forces in her life, by the whim of these boys who decide what’s best for her. It takes her four novels to convince someone to allow the fate she chose in book one, and even then, it was because there was no other choice but death. She becomes a zombie when Edward leaves her and disappears (for her own good, apparently). She may be argued to be smart–she apparently reads a lot and solves the mystery of these supernatural beings in her life on her own, but she doesn’t do much else until the last third of the last book of the series.
Despite all the roles Edward plays to protect Bella from himself and other, less-benign vampires, he also is a character who had no meaning or purpose to his life before Bella. He is just as addicted and co-dependent as she is.
I have issues with this kind of romance marketed as something for the impressionable youths to desire and strive for–because we are more complex than this. Our desires, our hopes, our hungers are designed to make us reach for more than just this. That brings me to my next point.
Another “hunger” that Twilight satisfies, at least for me, is this universal desire to be a significant and irreplaceable agent in an adventure. Like the moment when Harry the orphan finds out that he is a famous wizard, or the moment when the powerless Pevensie children become the answer to a prophesy in Narnia. When Frodo the little hobbit becomes the hero that carries the fate of Middle Earth, and when Katniss change from insignificant piece in the Hunger Games to the girl on fire that set off a revolution. These moments answer our deep longing to be special and irreplaceable in a bigger adventure and a cause outside of ourselves.
This moment is also present in the Twilight saga–it just doesn’t show up until the last third of the fourth book.
Bella, after finally getting to be a vampire which apparently was the highest goal and ambition of her being, discovers confidence and significance in herself. She finally learns of her gifts and talents that gets “accentuated” when she becomes immortal, and she uses them to save her child, friends, and family from a very bloody and fiery death. I can get behind this story of coming into her own, realizing her significance, and worth independent from Edward or Jacob or whatever else. This portion of character development is golden. Sadly, this is just a minor plot point in the grand scheme of the saga. And even then, I had to wade through hot mess of all the other problematic issues to get there.
There are themes in this saga that hits the spot. And the fast pacing, the suspense, the tension is innate in the story–it hooks the audience and carries them along. The trouble is once I was hooked, I was dragged down a very treacherous and disturbing road, and I didn’t realize how much time and energy I spent caring about the shallow world until it was over. Then I was left hollow with all good sense sucked out of me (ha-ha. pun-intended), like I regressed as a human being.
And yet, I still go back to it from time to time. I love to hate on this saga.
