I was so happy to see Lin-Manuel Miranda's brief interview in the NYT this Friday. In that piece, Miranda identifies "The Little Mermaid" as one of his favorite movie musicals.
So of course I began thinking about Howard Ashman--I don't really need much of an excuse--and it occurred to me that part of his greatness has to do with "writing about The Other."
You don't have a story without memorable characters, and it seems to me that Ashman made waves by sneaking eccentric, fascinating pseudo-homosexuals into an array of princess tales.
Take "Mermaid." Ariel could be a pretty cipher, but she's not that. She is someone from an alien planet, looking up at our world. She becomes vivid because she is *not* like "the norm"; she struggles with the words for "feet" and "fork," and she actually can't communicate in the English language for a portion of the movie. She wants success in the world, but she is, by definition, an odd duck. Aware of her eccentricity, she hides her collection of "earth trophies"--sunken treasures--in a secret chamber far from her father's eyes. (Any gay man can relate to this idea of secrecy.) Ashman makes Ariel more than a blank face--and he does so by channeling his own experience of "other-ness" into his writing.
The same is true for the Beast, in "Beauty and the Beast." It's evident Ashman is in love with the Beast. Here is an alien form attempting to make it in "the mainstream world." He struggles to fit into evening finery. He is illiterate; an old tale like "The Sword and the Stone" can feel emotionally overwhelming to him. Basic manners have been left by the roadside; a moral triumph, for the Beast, is something as small as saying, "Would you like to join me for dinner?" Again, we have the sense of an outcast's journey; someone written out of mainstream history struggles to acquire a voice and find a place in the world.
Finally (even though this show came first), you see other-ness, as well, in Audrey, from "Little Shop of Horrors." Our heroine is not to the manor born; she's a neurotic tenement-dweller. Her dreams concern a subscription to "Better Homes and Gardens," plastic "on the furniture," the acquisition of "an ironing machine." Audience members might take these things for granted--but the longing of The Other, the longing of Audrey, makes the world briefly seem new and strange. I'm confident Ashman struggled to feel comfortable in his own skin, and he made something great out of that struggle: He spilled his ideas about discomfort into characters who then became distinct, unforgettable, larger-than-life.
Miranda didn't say any of that in his interview. But there you go. No characters? No story. Ashman made lemonade from lemons. He realized that the experience of having been bullied or shamed can be a gift. It can help you to invent things different from--and better than--the stuff your competitors are creating.
So of course I began thinking about Howard Ashman--I don't really need much of an excuse--and it occurred to me that part of his greatness has to do with "writing about The Other."
You don't have a story without memorable characters, and it seems to me that Ashman made waves by sneaking eccentric, fascinating pseudo-homosexuals into an array of princess tales.
Take "Mermaid." Ariel could be a pretty cipher, but she's not that. She is someone from an alien planet, looking up at our world. She becomes vivid because she is *not* like "the norm"; she struggles with the words for "feet" and "fork," and she actually can't communicate in the English language for a portion of the movie. She wants success in the world, but she is, by definition, an odd duck. Aware of her eccentricity, she hides her collection of "earth trophies"--sunken treasures--in a secret chamber far from her father's eyes. (Any gay man can relate to this idea of secrecy.) Ashman makes Ariel more than a blank face--and he does so by channeling his own experience of "other-ness" into his writing.
The same is true for the Beast, in "Beauty and the Beast." It's evident Ashman is in love with the Beast. Here is an alien form attempting to make it in "the mainstream world." He struggles to fit into evening finery. He is illiterate; an old tale like "The Sword and the Stone" can feel emotionally overwhelming to him. Basic manners have been left by the roadside; a moral triumph, for the Beast, is something as small as saying, "Would you like to join me for dinner?" Again, we have the sense of an outcast's journey; someone written out of mainstream history struggles to acquire a voice and find a place in the world.
Finally (even though this show came first), you see other-ness, as well, in Audrey, from "Little Shop of Horrors." Our heroine is not to the manor born; she's a neurotic tenement-dweller. Her dreams concern a subscription to "Better Homes and Gardens," plastic "on the furniture," the acquisition of "an ironing machine." Audience members might take these things for granted--but the longing of The Other, the longing of Audrey, makes the world briefly seem new and strange. I'm confident Ashman struggled to feel comfortable in his own skin, and he made something great out of that struggle: He spilled his ideas about discomfort into characters who then became distinct, unforgettable, larger-than-life.
Miranda didn't say any of that in his interview. But there you go. No characters? No story. Ashman made lemonade from lemons. He realized that the experience of having been bullied or shamed can be a gift. It can help you to invent things different from--and better than--the stuff your competitors are creating.
Comments
Post a Comment