Sunday, July 29, 2007

Why Can I Not See Myself in Your Eyes?

Memories retained from childhood always seem to evoke sweeter sensations than their sources would warrant. An old television show, a silly song, the smell of wet asphalt; these things, if experienced for the first time, are rarely in the realm of extraordinary. Yet, armed with the heavy perfume of impalpable nostalgia, these fragments of recollections weigh heavily on our hearts and can elicit the strongest of emotions.

The Rankin and Bass classic, The Last Unicorn, is one of those rare cases that seem to shake simple nostalgia and bear fruit of new and intense understanding. I have vague memories of a warbly VHS recording from long ago, but when I watched it again recently, it struck me in a way entirely separate from simple familiarity. All in all a beautiful, lovely story.

Having heard much praise for the original book, and of Peter S. Beagle in general, I picked up a copy on a whim. The cover itself is underwhelming, which is a pity. The text deserves far better than the canned Photoshop texture and drop shadow effects.

But the work within is truly magical. It walks the line between an honest fantasy and self-referential parody in such a way that even the most obtuse of facts become completely believable. Prince Lír can talk of slaying dragons and being a hero with every bit of knowledge that we as readers have come to know of them. Princesses must be saved, nefarious plots by an evil brother or uncle must be thwarted, and a weapon exists somewhere to conquer any foe. But despite this breaking of the fourth wall, it never becomes a joke. Prince Lír is as real as any character, and this goes as well for the rest of the stellar cast. Fans of the film will notice that all of the characters are a bit darker than they are portrayed in the movies, but they are all that much more believable for their faults and moments of bitterness. Molly Grue actually ends up being one of the most positive characters.

Most of all, the character of Amalthea intrigues me. The author describes her in a way that conveys her magical heritage to exactness. Her beauty transcends beauty, so that even her imperfections seem to enhance it. Her struggle with her new feelings, with what she has become, and what she used to be, enchanted me to the end.

The prose itself is surprising, too. Beagle eschews the classic collection of comfortable clichés in favor of new and telling similes and metaphors. The Red Bull's horns as pale as scars conveys an exactness of color and the resulting emotion of the frightened characters in a way no adjective could have. And sound, the inexplicable sense that is often the most difficult to describe in words, is always treated with an artful reverence that manages to makes us hear with our eyes.

Beagle's unrelenting use of simile does become distracting and grating at times. Few things are simply as they are, and the power of the simile is lessened through its pervasiveness. No one just laughs. Rukh's chuckle like matches is striking (no pun intended) when it is first used, but when every laugh is like the sound of snakes through mud or an ax falling on wood, it ceases to be a creative descriptor and becomes a parody of itself. It's a shame, because there are beautiful images made of the simplest of events. Whether Schmendrick's words march out of his mouth like soldiers or Lady Amalthea glows as brightly as a flower, there are truly affecting phrases wrought throughout the book.

In case I have somehow failed in making it clear, I recommend this book with great fervency. If you have seen the film, you will find yourself well at home with much of it – Beagle wrote the original screenplay, after all. If you have not, then I can only recommend it that much more. It's one of the great fantasy stories of our time.

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