Don't mind the short post... I adapted this from something I wrote for a writer's forum about a month ago. I'm super busy right now, and thought of this as an easy and (hopefully) worthwhile post for my blog. Without further ado...
Here’s the deal: last month, I watched Saving Private Ryan. For those of you who’ve never heard of it, it’s a
movie set in World War 2, during the Normandy Invasions/D-Day and the days
after. To sum up, a unit of men is dispatched through the French countryside to
find one Private James Ryan, whose three brothers were killed in action.
They’re bringing him home, because the top folks in the Gov’m’nt want his
mother to have a child come home (it’s more compelling and there’s actual good
motivation when it’s actually told the way it’s supposed to, and not summed
up).
Now, most of you have probably heard of this movie. Many of
you have probably seen it.
If you’ve heard of it, it’s probably for the opening 20-30
minutes. Why? Because it was (I doubt it still is, with all the stupidity being
released nowadays) once of the most gruesome and visceral depictions of
violence on the big-screen when it was released (1998). In some ways, it’s been
considered the bar by which violent battle scenes are judged.
Basically, it’s an accurate depiction of what the D-Day
landings looked like. It was bloody and harsh and gruesome. The movie is rated
R, most especially for this extended scene. There’s a lot of blood and gunfire
and explosions and people die a lot. They lose limbs or are shot or blown up by
mines. It’s hard to watch.
Very hard.
Now, I’m a violence-immune person. Very, very little grosses
me out, very little violence is “too much” for me. But this scene was hard.
Why?
Because back when my great-grandfather was alive, he’d tell
stories about his experiences in WW2. He served as a radio technician in the
Pacific, and was involved in several of the island landings (including, I
believe, Iwo Jima). When he saw this movie, this is what he told my dad (and my
dad told me):
“That begins to give you a picture of what those landings
looked like.”
It -begins-.
If that’s just a picture
of the intensity and emotion and violence, then what in the world are we doing as writers?
I know a lot of us write stories about soldiers. I know a
lot of us write stories about fighting, about battles. Sure, some of them
aren’t set in World War 2, some of them aren’t even set in this world.
But I’ve read a lot of stories both published and not. I’ve
seen the movies; I’ve read the stories with battles in them.
What do those stories do, most of the time?
They glorify battle.
Now, they don’t do it completely on purpose. They’re just
copying those who came before, who were just attempting to create something the
audience would enjoy. The thing is… we’re not supposed to enjoy battles and
fighting and violence. Those things aren’t just -entertainment-. When battles
are fought, people are hurt. They are wounded and they are killed. Have you, as a writer and as a human, ever really stopped
to think about that?
Those people had lives. They had hopes and dreams and fears
and loves and hates and relationships and they saw beauty and ugliness in the
world. They were bundles of emotions and feelings and thoughts and desires.
Dead.
Gone, wiped out.
And it wasn’t pretty.
Authors often talk here about “too much gore” or describing
things to give the reader an “idea without painting it gruesomely”. But the
thing is… there is no way to gloss over those things without cheapening them. There
are some things that we should never cheapen, that we should never just gloss
over.
Am I saying we need to make our books viscerally violent?
That they all need to be equivalent of a hard-R rating for violence?
No.
At the same time, however, we can’t just smooth over the
ugly and just describe a bit of pain and move on. If we want to be honest, Saving Private Ryan does a better job
than any other movie or book I’ve ever watched/read in showing that violence is
disgusting and painful. It shows
reality for what it is. It shows the baby-faced young man, lying on the beach,
weakly crying out for his mother while his blood soaks into the sad. It shows
the brutal and stark reality that battle. Isn’t. Glorious.
It's hard.
It’s so painfully hard that we can never imagine it fully or
describe it accurately.
We’re not here to tell stories that make readers feel faint,
but we’re not here to tell stories that gloss over reality.
Years and years ago, when I was just starting writing, I
thought fighting was pretty cool. I was that one nerd who loved the medieval
ages and knights and swords. The whole cliché nine yards. When I wrote, I wrote
with this idea that battles were pretty fascinating and epic.
Now?
I know better. I know so much more, I understand what death
and life are, I understand that battle isn’t pretty. It isn’t glorious.
It’s hard. Pure, raw, hardness. I’m doing my best to show it
for what it is, in my writing.
What about you?
No comments:
Post a Comment