Straight White People Saving the World! (Or, my annoyed reaction to the 2014 Oscars)
Okay, I know I'm going to rile a few people up with this, so I'm going to leave this open for discussion. But as a warning, I'm going to rant a bit.
I will be the first to admit that I don't like Matthew McConaughey. I have repeatedly said I hate Matthew McConaughey. I know that's a strong word, but he constantly underwhelms me. He doesn't choose movies that I want to see, or would even enjoy seeing. He looks like he smells like Stetson, body odor, and earwax. I know that some people think he's attractive, but I don't see it. At all. Never have. His voice makes me want to punch him.
But I digress.
The point of this blog entry is that I couldn't quite pin down what bothered me so much about his win. True, I don't like him. I didn't love Dallas Buyers Club, but I didn't hate it. I loved Leto. He blew me away. But what didn't blow me away was McConaughey, or his character. But I couldn't quite pinpoint why until I drew the comparison to my feelings after Sandra Bullock won for The Blind Side.
What do those two movies have in common? Let's look at it.
The main character of Dallas Buyer's Club, played by McConaughey, is established in the first scene as straight. Very straight. So fuckin' straight, man. He's having a three way at a motherfuckin' rodeo. He says faggot so many times in the first few minutes I began to hope I'd get to see him die a slow death. He was a terrible man. Everything he did was selfishly driven, but he had a redeeming relationship with a transgender woman named Rayon, played by Leto. He treats her like crap, but hey, at least he doesn't call her a faggot left and right. And he stands up for her! Yay for character development! The problem here is that a straight white man becomes a hero for a minority group (here, gays). He saves so many lives, changed the face of medical treatment for AIDS, yay for everything working out and giving McConaughey an Oscar for playing a straight white guy who turns out isn't a bigot after all!
The Blind Side is about a straight white woman who sacrifices so much to help a poor, underprivileged black boy without any opportunities reach his potential. She's sassy! She's tough! She's inspirational! Sigh. Once again she saves the day, thanks to her heterosexual whiteness and being a decent human being who isn't racist.
Why do we award actors playing characters who start out as dicks but end up learning the lesson to not be dicks? Or who are radically not racist but others judge them for it? I'm reminded a lot of my ambivalence towards Schindler's List. Why are we making the story of one man whose selfishness saved lives? Sounds so much like Dallas Buyer's Club, doesn't it?
Well, I feel better for having vented a bit. That being said, 12 Years a Slave deserved all the Oscars it received, and then some. Like Best Actor in a Leading Role.
Let's reward stories that aren't about straight white people helping out minorities. Let's reward reality. Let's reward diversity. Lets allow the Oscars to reflect something other than this strange American tradition. We are better than this.
For over half of my life I have carried on a passionate and sordid love affair with Harry Potter. It began quite simply when he was eleven and I was nine. He was a scrawny orphan boy with a lightning-bolt scar and coke-bottle glasses and I was a not-so-scrawny fourth-grader with a wild, dark imagination that kept me chronically out of step with my peers. I was two years younger than the oldest student in my class because of a skipped year of kindergarten so I was always one of the smallest, but one of the smartest. In short, I was alienated on a number of different levels. To make matters worse, I loved to read. Preferred it even to recess. I would get in trouble and not care because I could have a book as I sat on the either scorching hot or freezing cold sidewalk. My teachers soon caught on and started taking my books away.
My mother introduced me to Harry, though in retrospect I don’t believe she fully understood the literate, Anglophillic monster she was creating. She had returned from a weekend at a conference bearing gifts of free stationary, candy, and bookmarks. In her hands she also bore my future- a relatively small paperback novel illustrated with a bright and whimsical cover. It took me a couple of months to clear my busy reading schedule, but I devoured the book quickly only to turn around and read it again. Christmas brought me the third book but not the second, and it killed me to have an oblong piece of the sun and a bumpy piece of ground, but no piece of sky to fit between them to bring the puzzle together. I read the first book again and again until my hunt for the elusive Chamber of Secrets was successful and I was finally able to read of Harry’s hunt for the elusive Chamber of Secrets.
I remember waiting for the fourth book to be released, then eventually going to buy my copy from a Wal-Mart that still exists in the evolved form of an Ace Hardware Store. The copy cost $24.95, and was the first one to Disapparate from the small cardboard display by the door. I read it all the way home, then re-read all four.
In the following period of time lies the alleged ‘Harry Potter Bible’ incident. I may have enacted a cunning plan- worthy of the most slippery Slytherin- to sneak one of the books to church. I took my Precious Moments bible out of its case and replaced it with the Goblet of Fire. It was all rather harmless until my Sunday School teacher discovered that instead of crying because of the power of God’s word, I was crying because of the rather untimely death of Cedric Diggory. The pastor may have been informed of the indiscretion on my part, and there may have been a whole sermon devoted to the blasphemous nature of witches and wizards. Specifically, those mentioned in Harry Potter. Instead of listening, I was more than likely reading my bible- the passage where Sirius Black spaketh to Harry through the flames to warn him of approaching evil. The word of the Lord Voldemort. Amen.
This happened just as Harry Potter was taking root in popular culture. People were protesting it, burning it, banning it, and claiming that J.K. Rowling was trying to corrupt America’s children to the ways of Satan. Never mind the children of Britain, who had been reading these books for quite a while and coming out unscathed. Our children needed to be shielded from such filth. I lost a best friend because of what her mother said about me and about the evils of Harry Potter. It hurt at the time, but then I learned that her mother was a professional party clown and I felt a little bit better about myself. In the lengthy wait between the fourth and fifth books I distracted myself with Anne Rice, which my mother didn’t approve of but didn’t stop me from reading. My mother would have let me read anything, simply because she was just happy I was reading. By this time she was no longer a teacher but the high school librarian, and since people rarely checked out books and read them, the content of the books were rarely questioned. Since my graduation she has added works by Anne Rice and Stephen King to the library with no restrictions and no protest, both of which would have fallen on deaf ears. She holds more seniority at the school than the principal and the superintendent combined with plenty of years to spare.
In the eyes of the church I had been successfully corrupted, but in my eyes I was just growing up. I was questioning authority and questioning my religious upbringing. I had branched out to new ways of looking at the world and what I had been taught didn’t mesh with the way my mind was beginning to work. By the time the sixth and seventh books came out in relatively quick succession I had read the first four Harry Potter books so many times the bindings had cracked and fallen apart. I grew up in two worlds simultaneously, two worlds struggling with the same questions of morality, love, fate, and friendship. There were times when it seemed like my life was falling apart and I wouldn’t be able to handle the hurt, but what I was facing paled in comparison to the murder of Harry’s parents, three-headed dogs, Dementors, or Dark Lords. Harry Potter has become such an significant part of my life that I can’t separate myself from the story- I can’t clearly remember a time before I met Harry, and I don’t foresee a time where he won’t mean something to me. Our lives are so thoroughly intertwined that I’m not sure where I start and the story begins.
I do acknowledge the fact that I have an obsessive personality, but just taking a look at popular culture shows the extent that Harry Potter has shaped the world. For the first time in a long time a book series united a group of people against censorship- religious or otherwise. Because of the hoopla raised over Rowling’s work, I made it my mission to read as many banned books as possible, and I’ve come to realize that a book isn’t worth reading unless it has been banned by someone. Being inflammatory simply means you’re pushing all the right buttons in a person.
J.K. Rowling did little to acknowledge those banning her works, but has done so much to acknowledge her fans. She gave us a magical, heartbroken, and triumphant mirror in which to examine our own lives. She gave us good guys, bad guys, and questionable characters. She gave us permission to use our imaginations and gave us permission to think. I will always hold a spot in my heart for the blasphemous, sacrilegious Wizarding World. There aren’t words enough to express my gratitude to J.K. Rowling, and so I will just worship her, wizards and all.
So instead of saying, “no, it’s just Harry Potter,” at a family reunion when an old man I’m pretty sure really isn’t related to me asks me as I sit alone, reading a book the size of my head, “Is that the Bible you’re reading?” I will say “Yes, yes it is.” After all, they’re both banned books and therefore inappropriate reading material for the minds of our youth, and obviously those banning books know what is best for the children. Or, as Albus Dumbledore says in the gospel according to the Order of the Phoenix, “Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.” The Word of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.
I have mastered the art of being dumped. To be fair, I have only dated one person in my whole life, and it was in fifth grade and we lasted about a week. He kept asking me if we were still going out, because I would ignore him pretty much all the time, until finally I got mad at him. I yelled “No, Josh, we aren’t going out anymore!” and that was the end of that. We never even kissed. I think he only asked me to be his girlfriend so he could officially say he had dated every girl in our class.
I’m talking about being a master at being friend-dumped. It has happened to me so many times in my life that it was something that I expected to happen every time I got close to someone. So I tried really hard not to get close to people, even though I desperately wanted a Best Friend Forever.
My school was very small. I graduated high school with nineteen people. I was two years younger than everyone in my class because I skipped kindergarten and had a birthday at the end of the school year. I joined my class in first grade and everyone had pretty much paired off. I tried very hard to find someone. Like a lion, I tried to pick off the weak gazelle. Corner them. Befriend them. Bam. Best Friend Forever.
The easiest targets were the new kids. No one talked to new kids, so I talked to new kids. First there was Cassidy, who always dressed up for school. Like…dresses, big hair bows, tights, and dress shoes…the works. Fashion forward Best Friend Forever. I dressed like a colorblind crazy person most days, so this could work out! No one would play with her at recess, so we stayed in the classroom and colored. On the day in question, the day that I thought would solidify our friendship, Cassidy needed to use the bathroom and we had to go ask the teacher for permission. Our teacher said no, and Cassidy was very upset. So I was upset. Empathy. Empathy makes people like you. Your sad, so am I. Oh so sad.
Cassidy was wearing brand new red tights on the day in question. I remember this so vividly because Cassidy peed herself in our classroom and her tights turned her pee red. A big red spot on the carpet. She was crying and I’m sure I was crying because I cried all the time, and I went to go get our teacher. Cassidy got in trouble, her mom had to bring her new clothes, and she was forced to clean up her pee. I volunteered to help her. I helped clean up this red stain during recess because I wanted desperately for Cassidy to like me. I had seen her through her darkest days; surely we would form an unbreakable bond.
No. Cassidy moved. And our classroom floor was stained red forever.
Then there was Savannah. She had long red hair and was bossy as shit, but she was a new kid and they were treated like they had the plague and I wanted her for my own. That first recess I went to play with her and she told me that from that point forward, I was to be her cat named Fluffy. A white cat with long hair. So I was. I crawled around behind her every single recess, meowing. She would pet me, tell me what to do, feed me, pet me, and I was her faithful companion. I didn’t talk, I no longer existed. I was Fluffy the cat. I became the cat. I told people that I was part cat, and I thought they believed me. They didn’t, they just thought I was fucking insane.
But then Savannah moved away. But…BUT…I met my best friend Erica. Erica was different to, because she was the only black kid in our whole class. She was awesome, and nice, and way cool and we became Best Friends Forever, even though we literally had nothing in common besides the fact that we were both different than everyone else. She was athletic, so I tried to be athletic! She was funny, so I was funny! We were so awesome, the two of us. And we stayed good friends all the way through school, which is pretty easy to do when you see the same 19 people five days a week for 12 years. We wrote each other letters over the summer! She came to all my birthday parties! We were officially Best Friends Forever.
But as we got older we grew apart. Because we were so different. She was cute and short and personable and popular with the boys, and I was weird and short and fat and not popular with anyone. I read books about ghosts and murder and wrote stories about goblins and experimented with what sort of behaviour got one friends. Making people laugh? Friends. Being cruel to people to make people laugh? Some friends, some enemies. Inventing crushes on people to have something in common with other girls? Friends. Gossip? Friends. Threatening to kill someone for gossiping about your friends? Not friends, getting sent to the principal and having to do anger management. Not good. Very not good.
I was always the starter friend. New girls would move to town and I would pounce, befriend them first. Then they would become accustomed to everyone and find people who weren’t as clingy and obsessive and weird and move on.
In eighth grade I met a girl named Naomi who was the smartest person I had ever met. She had been home schooled until eighth grade and she read the same sort of books I read. She was very religious, and I had been raised very religious as well. Everyone thought she was weird! She dressed strangely! She was new! She was articulate! I could have her all to myself. I approached her first, latched on like a parasite, and we were best friends. We wrote each other notes, emailed each other, played Neopets together, read the same books, and even wrote stories together. We both wanted to be writers, and I was so happy. I knew what it was like to have a best friend. I saw our life together, going to college and being roommates and co-authoring books and becoming famous writers together.
And then I got an email. Saying that God had told her that she could no longer read books about witchcraft, write about witchcraft. She had written a series of books that were amazing, and she deleted them all. She completely changed her course, and much of what we had in common she couldn’t do anymore. I introduced her to Harry Potter. I was obsessed with it, and I felt terrible. I felt like I had destroyed everything. This all happened in a very dark time in my life. Within a year both of my grandfathers passed away and my parents got divorced and I basically turned my back on religion altogether. I’ll talk about this particular time a bit more in another blog entry, but long story short I realized that Naomi and I couldn’t be best friends anymore. Everything changed after that. It hurt, a lot. I thought that everything was my fault. I thought that I destroyed every relationship I ever had.
I didn’t try much anymore, after that. There was another girl who I befriended but our friendship stayed at school. She was strange as well, she came out as a lesbian our senior year and everyone shunned her, but I didn’t. I was there. In a way. I called her my best friend.
I went to college and met friends there as well. I spent most of my time in college with a girl named Michelle who was so different from me that I was sort of in awe. I really don’t know why she wanted to be my friend. At all. We had so many differing opinions, we had some rough times, but in the end we are still friends, though we don’t talk much. She has kids now, and is married.
I did fairly well in college. The last year of college I lived with a girl named Nicole. Nicole was the coolest person I had ever met. She was gorgeous, she was popular, she made her own clothes and she was smart. She was involved in everything, she was an RA and she lived below me before she asked me to move in with her. We had a pet bird that was contraband, and our door was always open. When I lived with Nicole, I felt the most at home. I felt accepted.
The summer after I graduated we studied abroad together in England. I visited the country I have always loved with her, and had an experience I would have never had on my own because of her. She still had a semester of college left and I returned back home, waiting on her to graduate before we moved in together in the town in which I was planning on attending graduate school. I had never been so happy. I had my Best Friend Forever.
Then problems began to arise. I have always been obsessive. And antisocial. I want a single person, one on one interaction in the comfort of my own familiar territory. I don’t do well in group settings, and don’t need much interaction. Nicole did. She had loads of friends, and loved spending time with them. And she wanted me to come along. Wherever she went, so did I. She came home with me to visit my family on holidays, and I went with her to her family. People thought we were a couple. Maybe we were. We never talked about it.
Here’s the thing: I worked under the impression that the difference between a friendship and a romantic relationship is sex. So as long as we aren’t having sex, we aren’t in a romantic relationship! Which I don’t necessarily believe now. Looking back at our time together, we were in a romantic relationship. For the last six months we lived together we slept in the same bed. We did everything together. We missed the other and texted when we were away from each other. I was jealous if she dated someone else. She was enough for me to feel emotionally fulfilled, and I did not understand why she didn’t feel the same way. I didn’t want to have sex with her-- not that she was not physically attractive-- I wanted her to be my friend. My best friend. I was willing to live with her and her husband and her children just to have her in my life. I would have done everything she asked me to. If she told me to be Fluffy the cat I would have done it in a heartbeat. To make her happy. To keep my Best Friend Forever.
She moved out of our apartment when I was visiting my family over Christmas. She texted me to tell me on New Year’s Eve. I was devastated. I know I suffocated her, and we had been having problems, but I was still surprised. She left me. And I was alone. I felt like my life was over. Over. When I finally returned to our half-empty apartment she had left my Christmas present on my bed for me. I didn’t open it for months. I hid it from myself because every time I looked at it, I cried. Once again, I had destroyed everything. Been friend dumped. Because, in short, I didn’t know how to be a friend. I didn’t know what the boundaries were between a friend and a significant other. I didn’t know I had crossed a line until I had alienated her and made her uncomfortable. I tried to talk to her, to ask her to teach me these boundaries, but that is hard for someone who inherently understands them to do. I should have known.
Nicole and I aren’t really in touch anymore. I hear about her from mutual friends, but it’s a topic that people tend to avoid. It doesn’t upset me as much as it used to. Part of me desperately wants to see her again, to be her friend again, but I know that, logically, it’s for the best. She is happy now. I am too.
I’m not mentioning some important people because this is where they come in. Right now. And these people are connected by the fact that I am a fan. First of Harry Potter, which drew me to some of these people, and of Sherlock, which connected the rest of us.
My oldest friend I have only met in real life three times. I grew up with her online. We wrote together, we’ve talked to each other online or on the phone for hours, and I think about her every single day. Kendra is my family. My first and oldest fandom friend. We got tattoos together in the back of a music/sporting goods store. She is a part of me.
Whitney, who is Nicole’s friend first and foremost and who was apparently scared of me for a while, is still close to me. She helped me through dark times, and I helped her through some as well. We talk nearly every day.
Rachel, who miraculously wandered back into my life at the midnight premiere of The Hunger Games and saved my life in more ways than I can name. When I met Rachel we worked together at Wal-Mart the summer she married her husband. We lost touch for months, and then when we reconnected we spent more time together than apart. If there is such a thing as a soul mate, I have found it in Rachel. She understands me, and accepts me, and because I have never known her not to be married, I cannot delude myself in thinking that she is mine. Because no one can belong to a single person exclusively. As much as I would like to think they can.
Sarah, who I hero-worshipped in college and reconnected with on Facebook because of Sherlock, and her cousin Amber who is just all around awesome and opened her home to a ragtag group of gals when we went to San Diego Comic Con.
Our friendship is bound together by shared obsessions. They are my fanmily.
Now I am 24 years old, and if I’m going to be completely honest I am still terrified of losing every single one of these people. But because of every single time I have been friend dumped, I understand more clearly the boundaries of how to be a good friend. I have a running list in my head of things to do and things not to do. Now, I don’t delude myself in thinking that I am a particularly good friend, because I made it really fucking hard to be my friend, but these people have the patience of a saint and see something in me that I have never really seen.
What is nice about all of these friends is that I didn’t corner them. I didn’t track them down; I didn’t try over and over to impress them, to make them my friend. They found me. They saw me and thought ‘Wow, that’s an awesome chick and I want to spend time with her’. Which confounds me. I think they are all fucking nuts, but I’ll take it.
Because I’m happy. And I’m in some pretty rad long-term relationships.
So although every single time I’ve lost a friend it hurt, now I can really appreciate the friends who found me, and who love me. Even though I’m a bit obsessive. And antisocial. They understand.
In Which I, Again, Review Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller's Frankenstein for the National Theatre, Roles Reversed
This time I saw Cumberbatch as Victor. Oh my darling. Everything that I had read said that this was the better version of the play, and I must say that I agree. Now, this isn't to say that the other version wasn't good, but really thematically they became about two separate things. Which is what I love about theatre. You can see the same play one hundred times and get something different out of the experience every time.
The first time round it was the story of a stranger in a strange world: The Creature was not of this world and had no way of understanding the intricacies of human emotion or empathy. He was apart-- he was better, in most aspects. Victor had created the Creature for the glory of having done so-- he was a cold, intense, deeply emotional man. The dynamic was the same-- someone who feels and understands the world deeply versus someone who has no hope of understanding. The interesting thing to note is that as the actors switched roles, they kept the same attributes. Ben as The Creature and as Victor lacked the emotional vocabulary that Miller exhibited in the parts.
Ben's Victor was, first and foremost, a scientist. He wanted to dissect Mother Nature and understand how the world worked. And he achieved this task, and it both frightened and exhilirated him. Even though he understood how things worked, he never understood why. He, much in the same vein as his portrayal of the Creature, had no way of understanding the intricacies of human emotion or empathy. A number of Victor's lines suddenly made sense to me-- when he asks the Creature what it feels like to be in love, and after the Creature's explanation asks, yet again, "That's what it feels like?" He has ultimately created a being that is more human than himself, and more human than he could ever wish to be. He isn't driven at all by any sort of emotion. He finds it quite easy to leave after the death of his brother, even easier to leave after the death of his new bride. I found this portrayal much more fitting of the character of the Creator, not wanting glory for what he has done, but wanting a full understanding of what makes a being 'human'? What creates life? What the human mind is capable of accomplishing and creating through science rather than simply accepting a Creation myth.
I will say that I didn't really find Miller's Creature more sympathetic. Quite the opposite, in fact, but for reasons previously stated. In both roles Miller was emotion-driven, throwing tantrums, yelling more, stomping more, throwing his weight around. Miller has said that his interpretation of the Creature was based on his two year-old son, and that was very apparent. His 'birth' scene was shorter and much more controlled. Ben's Creature was inspired by people recovering from strokes, war injuries, and other severe injuries, and the Creature in Miller's adaptation had much more control over his body. He learned much quicker, he was tense and solid, where as Ben was more loose and unsure. It appeared to me that Ben's Creature didn't have much control-- he would try to move a body part, say a leg, and it wouldn't quite do what he wanted it to. That there were missed synapses and his brain had been seriously impaired. His Creature had been mentally incapacitated and was also recovering from said injury. Miller's creature had no such injury-- he was, in essence, a child in the beginning and by the end he is a man.
Miller's Creature had a very real understanding of the world around him. The Creature was driven by wants and needs, love and revenge. Not just because it is what the men he had read about in Roman history had done, but because it was what he wanted. What his body and mind craved. Victor really spurred this on when he presents the Creature with the body of the woman he is to make the Creature's bride, and he touches her breasts while he speaks about how beautiful she is and how monstrous the Creature is. Miller didn't do this as Victor, and it was only later did I really note why this addition was so important.
Miller's Creature more obviously raped Victor's wife Elizabeth as revenge. With Cumberbatch it was more implied and it didn't take Victor as long to intervene. Miller's Creature raped her to climax, and it was only then that Victor intervened. In fact, Victor is so stunned with fear that he falls to the ground, watches the Creature climax, and then watches him snap Elizabeth's neck. This was so so so much more moving and disturbing. This was not a cold, calculated act, this was driven by sadness, disappointment, and the need for revenge. It's a child with a man's needs and body-- he has overwhelming urges and acts on them without considering the consequences.
I will say that I found the final scene more moving with Miller. When he thinks Victor is dead he asks, while he cries, "What is death?" I was reminded again of a child-- unable to comprehend finality. He still has so much to learn, and he still is vunerable.
In all, I think the Heart Versus the Mind idea worked better in this version of the production. I really thought I would come out of it saying it should have been Cumberbatch as Victor and Cumberbatch as the Creature, but I don't think that would have worked as well. They would have understood each other. Miller is a good counterpoint in both versions because he brings the necessary emotion and passion, while Cumberbatch brings a more calculating, analytical, and intensely focused mind.
Conclusion: I think that Sherlock would definitely had despised this Creature and found a kindred spirit in Victor. The need to understand everything...Victor even proclaimed that music was 'dull' and school was 'boring'. Ring any bells?
In Which I Review Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller's Frankenstein for the National Theatre
Thoughts on Frankenstein, Take One
14 June 2012 at 20:31
Alright, the version I ended up seeing first was Cumberbatch as the Creature, which I am pleased with, to be honest. I have heard the other version is better, so it was nice to see this one first.
Okay, before I dive in, I will preface this review with this: Frankenstein was the first book to ever make me cry. I was at a sleepover as a child and was bored (Usually I would commandeer the host of the sleepover's barbie dolls and play by my self until it was time to go to bed, then I would call my mom to have her come get me. Sometimes she did, sometimes she told me I had to suck it up and stay the night.). I was rather young, probably eight or nine, and it was one of the 'suck-it-up' nights. I was tired of playing with barbie dolls, so I picked out the scariest-looking book from the book shelf, and started reading.
It was Frankenstein, and it was a version that had illustrations in. I didn't sleep that night, but I did read all of Frankenstein. I was in tears at the end. The Creature is a character that I identified with so strongly as a child, alone in a room full of children who had no problem socializing, playing, and generally being children. Then there was me, who could not communicate in their language. I hold the story of the Creature very dear to my heart, and I knew that I would be deeply moved by this version.
I was not disappointed. The birth of the Creature, complete with a knotted 'umbilical' cord, was breathtaking. The entire sequence of him learning how to control his body and, ultimately, standing, had me in tears. The scene was excruciatingly long-- it seemed to go on for at least ten minutes, but witnessing the absolute control Cumberbatch had over every single muscle in his body was nothing short of brilliance. It seemed so long because he was alone-- a stranger in a strange world having to learn what most of us find instinctual all on his own. I wanted so much to help him, to reach out and help him stand, because I could sense real fear and discomfort. I made a mental note that every student of Movement should see that sequence and really witness what we all take for granted. I would have LOVED to see the rehearsals where he was trying to find those movements, find the sounds. The way the stitches and wounds were coloured also highlighted the contours of his muscles, which pulled even more attention to the conscious decision to move each one in turn. For someone who seems so uncomfortable with his physical appearance, Cumberbatch is deeply in tune with how his body works, and is a master at using his body as an instrument for dramatic art.
Additionally, I was mesmerized with his feet. I seem to have this fascination with bare feet on stage-- they tell such an interesting story. Cumberbatch used his feet as tools-- curling them in to help him stand, flexing his toes as a child would. His feet are long and thin, and much like his hands, are elegant and beautiful. His hands curled like a dancers would, his wrists rolling and fingers fluttering like a conductor.
I also was astounded with what he did with his voice. Now, Cumberbatch has a lisp. He has worked very hard to work around this lisp, but a lisp isn't something that is simply 'cured', which I know from experience (I have one too). He did, however, use this lisp to his advantage as the Creature. Lisps automatically lend a more 'child-like' tone to one's voice, and because the Creature is just learning to talk and articulate thought, it was a really smart touch. Most people probably didn't notice it, but I have a sharp ear for it because I have been trained to. And because I'm a bit of a Cumberbatch stalker, I knew that little tidbit about him.
Jonny Lee Miller as Victor was...lackluster. And I know I am biased, which is why I will save most of my consideration of him for when I see him play the Creature, as it is really the Creature's story. He seemed unfamiliar with the basics of stage acting, specifically cheating out, because I lost his face quite often. He also didn't seem to have much emotional variance-- he was either screaming or talking very intensely. He sounded a bit hoarse and grumbly, which could be a character choice or it could be he had a sore throat. I think the moment that really lost me what when he discovered his brother had been killed by the Creature. In the very next scene he meets the creature and is proud of himself and his accomplishments. That is an ENORMOUS shift and it was one I didn't believe.
Lastly, there were some quotes that really stuck with me, and all are from the Creature:
"I will not rest until I desolate your heart."
"Do not be inconsistent; it infuriates me."
"All I wanted was your love. I would have loved you with all of my heart."
All I know is that Sherlock Holmes surely is a fan of Frankenstein. How could he not relate to that?
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