Monday, December 23, 2013

SEQUELS




There are in my view both real sequels and quasi sequels. A real sequel is when the author of a book, say, Margaret Mitchell, or someone else writes a novel about what happened to Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler after Gone With the Wind. A quasi sequel is really a repeat appearance, as when Conan Doyle or J. K. Rowling writes another Sherlock Holmes or Harry Potter fiction, about the hero’s further, new adventures.

Both phenomena come about when a beloved protagonist elicits a repeat performance of some kind. Personally, I am no great fan of these procedures. But sequels of either kind have been wildly successful, and are in fact a tried old stratagem, as the careers of, for example, Balzac and Alexandre Dumas pere compellingly illustrate.

All very understandable, given the hard world in which fiction writers operate, although the same phenomenon prevails in spades at the movies and, to some extent, even in the theater, just ask Neil Simon. And now there is a stage version of Harry Potter in the planning. But isn’t a novel, say, a complete entity, self-sufficiently featuring a beginning, middle and end, and in no need of further elaboration any more than a lyric poem does. Although there is such a thing as a sonnet sequence—just ask William Shakespeare.

What is it exactly that hates endings and gives rise to sequels?  First of all, it is popularity. Why wouldn’t the cherished scoundrel Vautrin figure in several Balzac novels? Why shouldn’t beloved Harry Potter make more millions for J. K. Rowling? Why shouldn’t there have been a series of ever longer novels about the three beloved musketeers—really four, counting d’Artagnan—and their descendants?

Popularity, i.e., sales, have much to answer for, as well as the fact that it is safer to bring back a well-regarded fictional hero than to invent a new one. But something else also plays a part here: human inquisitiveness. Just as we are curious to know more about friends, enemies, celebrities, we are curious about what happened to fictitious characters after, say, they married and “lived happily ever after.” Tolstoy to the contrary, happy families are not all alike, if for no other reason than that, in real life, they seldom remain blissful forever. If, God forbid, there were a sequel to War and Peace, would everything be hunky-dory for Pierre and Natasha?

And to think that even Goethe saw fit to write a sequel to the so very satisfactorily completed Faust part one with a Faust part two. And, as we all know, Shakespeare brought back the rogue Falstaff in a sequel, The Merry Wives of Windsor, whether or not, as reputed, at Queen Elizabeth’s request, hardly matters. (The groundlings’ request, more likely.) Success plus curiosity begets sequels.

But there is a further trigger for sequels: our fear of mortality, our conscious or unconscious wish to live forever. Somehow or other, the persistence through sequels of a fictitious character translates into a sense of our own not coming to an end. I fully believe that young persons reading about Huck Finn’s striking out for the Western Territories suggests to them that he is immortal, and that they themselves will be around reading about his further adventures someday, somewhere.

To be sure, there are readers who don’t want sequels of contemporary novels. They are the ones aware of the backlog of great classics they haven’t read yet and want to catch up with more Dickens or Dostoevsky or D. H. Lawrence. They are very happy that, for instance, Robert Graves stopped at two Emperor Claudius novels: one sequel was quite enough.  But young readers especially crave sequels, and thus for example Astrid Lindgren’s Pippi Longstocking novels have had sequels upon sequels in print, film and television series. For young German readers, there were (are?) the Wild West novels of Karl May that kept bringing back the great white hunter Old Shatterhand and his Indian chief friend, Winnetu. They can be thought of as very persistent, very numerous sequels.

And sequels persist. They may have not much more in common than an imaginary town or region, as the audiences of Horton Foote or readers of William Faulkner well know. It could be argued that a Steinbeck locale is at least as real as his characters, and that geography itself can provide sequels. In any case, continuum is a great human desideratum, and sequels of whatever kind cater to it.

Speaking for myself, I’d be perfectly happy if there were no more sequels, though I can also live with them. Among sequels I now include also revised second editions of previously published books. Scholarly works, dictionaries, encyclopedias keep coming out in new, more up-to-date, or merely expanded, improved editions, and such reissues can be infuriating.

What am I to do if I spent a tidy sum on, say, a history of the printed book, or of Shakespeare stagings, or of the Paris underworld through the ages, and out comes a new, presumably improved edition a few years later? Throw out the previous version, even though it was a first edition, and maybe had a finer binding, wider margins, better paper and larger print? Do I simply ignore the revised version and merely scowl at the one on my shelf as a sort of intellectual coitus interruptus?

I count myself lucky for not being a completist, and can ignore such sequels as the complete Waverly novels of Sir Walter Scott. Yet I cannot but admire anyone who  has read them all. Then again, there was the fellow who, seeking employment in a college English department, spouted excerpts from the least known ones among them, thereby conveying the impression that he knew the whole lot intimately from alpha to omega--without even having glanced at the rest.

And then there is that most pernicious kind of sequel, as when a major author revises a lengthy fiction of his own and both versions are considered important enough for us, if we are serious academics, to have to read hundreds of pages in quasi duplicate. This is very much the case of Moerike’s Maler Nolten. Or what about Great Expectations, for which Dickens first had a less happy ending, but at Bulwer-Lytton’s urging came up with a happy one? We have here a work that is its own sequel, and are we now, as teachers, responsible for both versions?

Nor let us forget that late nineteenth-century novels tended to come out on the installment plan, several chapters at a time over a long period, earning payment for each segment, and so prompting the author to make his novels doorstoppers. Robert Graves memorably came up with a considerably shortened version of one of the Dickens novels (David Copperfield, as I recall)) just by cutting the word “little” each time it occurred.

The matter of sequels makes one wonder: Is shorter better? Would Proust’s magnum opus, In Search of Lost Time, be better if it were less literally magnum? It is really a series of novels, each a sequel of the preceding and sizable in itself, with quite a parade of more or less ancillary characters. Yet these sequels with their large casts are in order, for we thus get a panorama of how personalities evolve and relationships change, and how memory in pursuit of the past rounds out our brief term on earth. Better than perhaps anyone else, Proust has validated the sequel.

But this does not mean that we want sequels from lesser writers. Do we need a tetralogy from Jeffrey Eugenides? Do we want Erica Jong to dredge up her checkered past for us in ever more novelistic searches? How many times do we wish Margaret Attwood to reinvent herself? Isn’t even late Hemingway an unnecessary sequel to  earlier Hemingway? To say nothing of Thomas Mann’s Joseph novels, of which even one may be de trop. How many epigones will grind out posthumous James Bond tomes? How often did Updike have to go Rabbiting without a strong case of sequelitis?  But at least his are bona fide, thought-through sequels. We have too many writers nowadays who don’t even know that they are writing sequels. 

18 comments:

  1. "But there is a further trigger for sequels: our fear of mortality, our conscious or unconscious wish to live forever. Somehow or other, the persistence through sequels of a fictitious character translates into a sense of our own not coming to an end. I fully believe that young persons reading about Huck Finn’s striking out for the Western Territories suggests to them that he is immortal, and that they themselves will be around reading about his further adventures someday, somewhere."

    This is false. Paradoxically, the more a story continues and more its characters age, more we become aware of mortality.
    Fairy tales feel immortal because they end on note of 'happily ever after'. But suppose there were sequels where Cinderella grows older, has children, becomes wrinkled, etc. We would become aware of her mortality and that life doesn't go on 'ever after'.

    Suppose there had been no Rocky sequels. Our lasting image of Rocky would be that of the young man who nearly upset the champion. But all the sequels just showed him growing older and over the hill.

    Godfather seemed mythic and immortal the way it ended with part 2. But the terrible part 3 just reminded us that people grow old and weary.

    Beatles seem fresher in our minds than the Stones cuz they quit when they were in top form whereas the Stones continued long after their youth faded.

    Sequels are often anticlimactic and that reeks of mortality.

    It's like a Christmas story should end on Christmas, a day that feels eternally magical to children. If the story continued for another month after Christmas, it would only be marking time.

    The great quest promises a sense of attaining immortality. You believe that if the objective--love, treasure, power, etc--were attained, the sky will open up and you will own the perfect moment that feels like forever.
    But after that, you're just marking time. This is why a story that ends on an immortal note shouldn't go on.

    The Graduate intimated this feeling in the last few seconds. Ben wins Elaine and it's like a fairy-tale, a forever moment. But the camera lingers on them, and Ben finds himself a mortal once again just marking time. From climax to anti-climax.

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    1. Stanley Kauffmann in a 1972 interview on the ending of 'The Graduate':

      "...I felt there was a sense of anti-romance in it, there was a sense of 'my God, I know that our getting together won't make the world right, but what can we do EXCEPT this? This is the ONLY log we have to cling to, it's not going to turn it all into technicolor roses down the path forever, but we'll DROWN without this. We've GOT to have this.' I got that very clearly form the exchange between them, the looks between them in the church and from that last moment on the bus which was very distinctly NOT a happy ending. It was an iron lung ending. 'At least we can breathe now.' "

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    2. Jeez, Spider's almost as smart as Simon. I may be in the wrong blog here.

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  2. What about thequels where the same themes recur and/or are expanded even though the characters are different?

    Think of the films of Ozu.

    And Kubrick. THE SHINING suggests that Jack Torrance relives the same horror over and over in the Overlook Hotel.
    Similarly, Kubrick's themes are reincarnated from film after film. Different characters and different locales, but the vessels of the same transmigrated themes.

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    1. Yeah, Ozu: daughter doesn't want widower father to remarry!

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  3. "Do we need a tetralogy from Jeffrey Eugenides? Do we want Erica Jong to dredge up her checkered past for us in ever more novelistic searches? How many times do we wish Margaret Attwood to reinvent herself? Isn’t even late Hemingway an unnecessary sequel to earlier Hemingway? To say nothing of Thomas Mann’s Joseph novels, of which even one may be de trop. How many epigones will grind out posthumous James Bond tomes? How often did Updike have to go Rabbiting without a strong case of sequelitis?"

    What is meant by 'we'? If most people were genetic clones of Simon, no.
    But suppose 'we' happen to be chubby sexually frustrate middle-aged Jewish women with fantasies of having multiple lovers. Then, 'we' would need more Jong novels just like boy Simon couldn't get enough of those Dejavu Thoris the pink whoris novels.

    Eugenides may not be major but Marriage Plot is impossible to shake off. Memorable characters and high octane storytelling.

    Hemingway cut away the fat and made writing mean and lean. The fault wasn't with him but his imitators who used him as a crutch for mistaking their plain writing for powerful writing.

    It's like Bergman later developed a spare film style(with real power) but it was laughable when copied by an art house poseur like Woody Allen.

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  4. "The matter of sequels makes one wonder: Is shorter better? Would Proust’s magnum opus, In Search of Lost Time, be better if it were less literally magnum? It is really a series of novels, each a sequel of the preceding and sizable in itself, with quite a parade of more or less ancillary characters. Yet these sequels with their large casts are in order, for we thus get a panorama of how personalities evolve and relationships change, and how memory in pursuit of the past rounds out our brief term on earth. Better than perhaps anyone else, Proust has validated the sequel."

    I never read Proust but I did see Time Regained. From the film, I gathered the impression that Proust's work didn't constitute sequels in the strict sense of the word. Sequels generally imply an orderly chronology. It's about what happens 'after'. And prequels are about what happened 'before'.
    But in Time Regained, the very notion of 'after' and 'before' becomes irrelevant as, within the oceanarium of the mind, the creatures of the distant past, not-so-distant past, and near-past share the same space.
    And in a way, they were all part of the present since they were kept 'alive' only by the remembrance of someone in the present.
    So, if anything, I think maybe Proust's work dissolved the very notion of the 'sequel' as every paragraph could be an 'after' or 'before'.

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  5. "And then there is that most pernicious kind of sequel, as when a major author revises a lengthy fiction of his own and both versions are considered important enough for us, if we are serious academics, to have to read hundreds of pages in quasi duplicate. This is very much the case of Moerike’s Maler Nolten. Or what about Great Expectations, for which Dickens first had a less happy ending, but at Bulwer-Lytton’s urging came up with a happy one? We have here a work that is its own sequel, and are we now, as teachers, responsible for both versions?"

    This has nothing to do with sequels. It's about variations, and maybe we need more of it in literature. Van Gogh drew several painting on the same theme. Munk made many paintings of the scream. Ozu made two versions of some of his films: I Was Born But and Ohayo, for example. Lucas made two versions of THX 1138.
    Musicians often produce several versions of their compositions.

    There are theatrical versions and director's cuts of films.

    So, why should a work of literature remain static and fixed? And I like the fact that Great Expectations have both endings. It reminds us that literature is imagination/fantasy no matter how realistic it may be. It also tells us that, by chance or will, things can be different. Life is never as simple as a happy ending or a sad ending. Life is the possibility of a happy or sad ending, and if both versions are convincing in their way, they offer food for thought.

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  6. Sequels work if there's room for growth for the story with its original main characters.

    Or if the universe created in the first story offers up many more possibilities for expansion. These may be called set-quels because, often, the original characters and storyline are gone but the basic setting remains the same. So, a sci-fi or fantasy sequel will have totally new characters and storyline but operating within the same vast universe in a different part of its time and/or space.

    I think the new Star Wars movies will be like that. Same universe but with many new characters. And Star Trek had 'new generations' though I never watched it.

    The concept that annoys me most is the notion of the 'trilogy', as if there's some magical quality to a work for coming in three somewhat related installments.

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  7. A sequel that tells us more than we need to know might be called a 'squeal'.

    2001 is a great film filled with mystery and wonder. The last thing we need is some dufus explaining what happened, but Clarke and Hyams did just that in 2010. Kubrick of course wanted no part of it.
    Why squeal out one possible 'truth' when the sense of mystery and multiple possibilities were the essence of the original work.
    Needless to say, 2010 is totally worthless.

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  8. Speaking of Margaret Atwood, she is also a fine poet --- below is one of her efforts:

    A SAD CHILD

    You’re sad because you’re sad.
    It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical.
    Go see a shrink or take a pill,
    or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
    you need to sleep.

    Well, all children are sad
    but some get over it.
    Count your blessings. Better than that,
    buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
    Take up dancing to forget.

    Forget what?
    Your sadness, your shadow,
    whatever it was that was done to you
    the day of the lawn party
    when you came inside flushed with the sun,
    your mouth sulky with sugar,
    in your new dress with the ribbon
    and the ice-cream smear,
    and said to yourself in the bathroom,
    I am not the favorite child.

    My darling, when it comes
    right down to it
    and the light fails and the fog rolls in
    and you’re trapped in your overturned body
    under a blanket or burning car,

    and the red flame is seeping out of you
    and igniting the tarmac beside your head
    or else the floor, or else the pillow,
    none of us is;
    or else we all are.

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  9. The urge to revise affects composers, too. Beethoven published two revisions of his one opera, "Fidelio" (which might partially explain why he never published another opera). That made three different versions of "Fidelio," each with its own substantial differences in score, libretto, and even overture.

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  11. Sequels and remakes seem more prevalent today because the culture is so fragmented. A familiar title or character is a way of getting the public's attention.

    I laughed at the latest Bond movie Skyfall. Everything Bond stood for was laid to waste leaving one to think: where do they go from here? But then the final scene seemed to promise a return to a more carefree Bond as if the whole series was starting over again!

    There seems to be a need to redo every well-known story from the perspective of some minority, e.g., blacks, gays, vampires, so its members can "relate" to it better.

    TV is overtaking the movies in popularity because it can tell a story over a year and the production values are just as good.

    Some movie sequels are planned beforehand, others are made because the original made money and are simply remakes in a different setting. It's a return of the plot as much as of the character. Die Hard is a good example.

    Movies that rely heavily on special effects get remade often to make use of new effects.

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  12. A good read as usual. Do you still write reviews? If so, for whom?

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    1. John Simon's recent theater reviews are available here:

      http://www.westchesterguardian.com/

      You can download the back issues!

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  13. Sequel to a homosexual movie: fequel.

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