For the sake of not revealing too much of the presentation Kate, Janice and I have prepared for class, I’ve decided to focus on just my experience reading Lauren Slater’s "Lying," keeping the research and conclusions I’ve found for class discussion. (because there is so much!!!)
From the beginning, I felt extremely engaged in this book and I had a hard time putting it down. I think as a reader, I was influenced by the fact that we would be discussing this book, and so I read through it more meticulously than I would had I just been reading it for pleasure. I think I would have found it more of a “fun” read had it been solely for pleasure. I found myself treating the book like a puzzle, constantly looking for hints and clues that would better help me understand the reality of Slater’s content. I became a little obsessed with trying to figure out if she was “lying” or not. And rightly so, I think that was her goal/intention.
I feel like this book is a sort of coming-of-age book, tracing the adolescence (age 10-19) of a young girl who is trying to cope with the difficulties that come from a narcissistic mother, an indifferent father, and a variety of mental illness symptoms. Like any teenager, she is lost in a constructed society, confused in her sexuality, and desperate for what all humans want: attention and affection. As a writer, Slater decides to use epilepsy as a metaphor to describe all the good and bad senses and emotions she experiences growing up, ones that open a window into the brain of a rather damaged and perplexing mind.
Although Slater fills this book with an incredible amount of fascination information (that in itself makes this an interesting read), she proves herself to be an incredible writer as well. There were many passages I highlighted because of the beautiful language and lyricism she brought to a page. Although these passages would sometimes be right in the middle of a crazy experience, they kept me grounded to her voice and as a writer, pleasantly engaged. Her ability to run in and out of her “adolescent” voice and “adult” voice was very fluid, insightful, and something I find difficult to do.
Slater wanted to blur the boundaries between fiction/non-fiction, memoir/novel, fact/truth, and I think she was extremely adventurous and determined to make that happen. There is a lot of controversy over the genre of this book, and if it does in fact constitute a memoir, which I will talk about in class. But what was important for me, didn’t involve nit picking for the facts or looking for answers. It was the expression of an individual who wanted to tell her story in the best way she knew how; something I found refreshing, ingenious, and bold. To me, that is what memoir is all about.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Meemaw Part II
I was always so amazed by Meemaw, amazed at who she was when she was living, but even more amazed at what I discovered about her after she died: the things I could only understand at an older age. At 19, she had her period for over 12 months. The doctor’s injected her with sheep’s ova, and a year later she was diagnosed with clinical depression and bipolar disorder. She was forced to drop out of college, and admitted into two different mental institutions after having a manic episode. She blamed the sheep (and I do, too). At 21 she developed tuberculosis and had to have one of her lungs collapsed. Within the same year, she escaped from Shepherd Pratt Institution by breaking through her screen window and running home. Years later, she told my dad that one day she felt the depression lifting off of her, and she knew if she didn’t take control of it now, it would take control of the rest of her life. From that day on, she was without a manic episode for 50 years.
At 26 she married a man named Waller Morton Lewis. One year into their marriage, he walked into a gate, an iron rod that stuck out into an alley. It was dark and he had been drinking heavily. It ruptured his peritoneum, and he bled to death. Just like Houdini. Within a year, she met my grandfather, Jesse Brooks Nichols, but he went by Brooksie. They were married in December 1941 and three weeks later he was shipped to Britain, not returning for three years at the armistice of WWII. They tried to have babies, but the doctors advised her against it as she was too weak from the TB to care for an infant. She had one miscarriage, then my dad, and three miscarriages after him. Brooksie killed himself when my dad was 15, leaving him and Meemaw, yet again, alone.
I never understood how Meemaw did it, how she got through the days, how she kept on living her life after all the difficult times she must have experienced. When I think about all the bad in her life, it’s funny how what I remember of Meemaw is all good: her red lipstick, her slippers, her gold necklace, her soft hair, her cough, her southern accent, her love for crabs, her Christmas lace cookies, her voice. I was so unaware of parts of her life, so ignorant to the pain she must have endured, and as an adult I’m angry and sad, guilty that I never looked at her then the way I would now: with open eyes that want to know how she feels, and what she thinks about, and if she is okay. She was full of optimism, positive energy and a strength that never let her break emotionally. Hers is a story of not just survival, but of conquering the hardest fight of all, human emotion. I want to find a way to tell it.
At 26 she married a man named Waller Morton Lewis. One year into their marriage, he walked into a gate, an iron rod that stuck out into an alley. It was dark and he had been drinking heavily. It ruptured his peritoneum, and he bled to death. Just like Houdini. Within a year, she met my grandfather, Jesse Brooks Nichols, but he went by Brooksie. They were married in December 1941 and three weeks later he was shipped to Britain, not returning for three years at the armistice of WWII. They tried to have babies, but the doctors advised her against it as she was too weak from the TB to care for an infant. She had one miscarriage, then my dad, and three miscarriages after him. Brooksie killed himself when my dad was 15, leaving him and Meemaw, yet again, alone.
I never understood how Meemaw did it, how she got through the days, how she kept on living her life after all the difficult times she must have experienced. When I think about all the bad in her life, it’s funny how what I remember of Meemaw is all good: her red lipstick, her slippers, her gold necklace, her soft hair, her cough, her southern accent, her love for crabs, her Christmas lace cookies, her voice. I was so unaware of parts of her life, so ignorant to the pain she must have endured, and as an adult I’m angry and sad, guilty that I never looked at her then the way I would now: with open eyes that want to know how she feels, and what she thinks about, and if she is okay. She was full of optimism, positive energy and a strength that never let her break emotionally. Hers is a story of not just survival, but of conquering the hardest fight of all, human emotion. I want to find a way to tell it.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Meemaw Part I
As the weather turns warmer, I remember my grandma, Grace Ashton Nichols. She was my father’s mom and we called her Meemaw (which is “Mommy” backwards phonetically.) She always loved the hot weather. The hottest days in July are when I remember her most, stirring sweetened iced-tea on her back porch in Baltimore. Meemaw died when I was in the fourth grade. She was 79. Both of my mother’s parents are still alive, and as a child I never understood why Meemaw was so much older looking than them. I hadn’t figured that she had given birth to my dad in her 40’s, which was rather old for a woman of her time.
Meemaw was extremely intelligent. She scored so high on every test she ever took that her educators labeled her a genius. She worked with retarded people most of her life. She was bipolar and manic-depressive, which I find fascinating that so often sick people help other sick people. After she had a heat stroke, and ended up in the hospital, my dad decided it was time that she moved to Carlisle, PA so that he could take care of her. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from our house and every Wednesday, my mom would pick up my younger sister and me from elementary school and drop us off at Meemaw’s. I remember chicken nuggets and biscuits. She had a small brown and yellow kitchen, and she’d heat up dinner and make iced tea in tall smooth glasses with green and yellow flowers painted on them. She used to help me with my math homework when I was in the 3rd grade. She was so patient and calm, but I would get so angry and frustrated that I would yell at her. I knew she was so much smarter than me and I always felt guilty after I’d storm out of the room, leaving the shortbread cookies half eaten that she had brought in to share with me.
She let my sister and me dress up in her old silk pajamas. My favorite one was long and peach, with a little lace at the top that showed off my bare shoulders. She even let me put on her emerald broche, along with clip-on pearl earrings and sometimes even a squirt of her perfume. Her vanity smelled like mothballs and musk, a scent I still sometimes smell, opening random trunks of her old things that still scatter my parents’ house. We would dance around in circles, practicing our ballet moves and singing into the small living room full of knick-knacks as we watched the “Lawrence Welk” show on her large TV. She let us fall asleep in her shiny maple-framed bed, as she rubbed my back with alcohol, singing in a low husky voice. I don’t remember which songs…
Meemaw was extremely intelligent. She scored so high on every test she ever took that her educators labeled her a genius. She worked with retarded people most of her life. She was bipolar and manic-depressive, which I find fascinating that so often sick people help other sick people. After she had a heat stroke, and ended up in the hospital, my dad decided it was time that she moved to Carlisle, PA so that he could take care of her. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from our house and every Wednesday, my mom would pick up my younger sister and me from elementary school and drop us off at Meemaw’s. I remember chicken nuggets and biscuits. She had a small brown and yellow kitchen, and she’d heat up dinner and make iced tea in tall smooth glasses with green and yellow flowers painted on them. She used to help me with my math homework when I was in the 3rd grade. She was so patient and calm, but I would get so angry and frustrated that I would yell at her. I knew she was so much smarter than me and I always felt guilty after I’d storm out of the room, leaving the shortbread cookies half eaten that she had brought in to share with me.
She let my sister and me dress up in her old silk pajamas. My favorite one was long and peach, with a little lace at the top that showed off my bare shoulders. She even let me put on her emerald broche, along with clip-on pearl earrings and sometimes even a squirt of her perfume. Her vanity smelled like mothballs and musk, a scent I still sometimes smell, opening random trunks of her old things that still scatter my parents’ house. We would dance around in circles, practicing our ballet moves and singing into the small living room full of knick-knacks as we watched the “Lawrence Welk” show on her large TV. She let us fall asleep in her shiny maple-framed bed, as she rubbed my back with alcohol, singing in a low husky voice. I don’t remember which songs…
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Seven-Year Old Nightmare
It is one of my scariest memories. I was seven and my sister, Molly, was nine. We lived in a three-story duplex house on a small street in Carlisle, the town where I grew up. I shared a room with my younger sister, Tessa. We had bunk beds that stuck out into the middle of the room, surrounded by plush blue carpet and close enough to the closet that a train of toys and clothes always seemed to pile up between the bunks and the closet door.
I remember it was a Saturday morning. My parents were downstairs cleaning the house, really cleaning it: mopping the floors, dusting and Murphy-oiling the furniture, vacuuming every room, even Windex-ing the windows. My dad was having an English Department party for the college where he was a professor. Molly and I were up in my room playing “concentration camp.” Now, I know that sounds weird, but we used to pretend that we were Jews during the Nazi regime and that the top bunk was our designated sleeping spot. We had to hide from the Nazis in the middle of the night so that they wouldn’t find us in the morning and take us to the showers.
I don’t know how much I actually knew about the Holocaust at age seven; I know it was later in elementary school that I went to the Holocaust Museum and learned all about the Germans and the Nazis and this horrendous time in history. Molly was really smart and knew all about it, so being the passionate little girls that we were, I think we somehow wanted to be a part of this tragedy, maybe to understand, maybe to try and sympathize.
We turned out the lights, grabbed our flashlights and crawled down from the top bunk. We used the mound of clothes between the bed and the closet as an imaginary trench that we crept along until we reached the closet door. This was the best hiding place ever. The Nazi’s didn’t know it was there and we could hide safely “until morning” with our flashlights dim. We scurried into the closet, whispering to stay quiet and found yet another mound of clothes to sit on. We could hear Crosby, Stills, and Nash blaring downstairs.
We pulled our knees up into our chests and pretended like we were finally safe. What I did next is about to make this moment one of the scariest in my life. The duplex was an old house with Victorian style doors that only latched from the outside, meaning there was no handle or lock on the inside, just a small square fixture with a tiny t-shaped handle that you turned from the outside to open and close the door. I pulled the door almost closed so there was still some light coming in from the outside window.
“Libba, the Nazis will see us if that light can come in,” Molly said to me.
“I know, I know,” I replied. “I will try to close it even more.”
My goal was to shut it just enough so no light could come in, but not enough that it would latch. I slid my fingers underneath the door and pulled, but it still opened slightly. Too much. I pulled, and it did it again. Frustrated, I pulled harder and suddenly, it latched. Darkness.
“Libba!” Molly cried. “Why did you shut the door?”
I reached up above and pulled the string to turn on the light bulb. Her soft face was terrified.
“I didn’t mean to shut it! It just slammed! What are we going to do?”
For a moment we panicked. Then we started screaming. “Mama! Papa! Tessa!” we cried over and over again. “Help us!” We even started crying in unison because we figured it would be louder that way. “Ok, one, two, three…Mamaaaaaaaaa!” Nothing. All we could hear was the upbeat melody of “St. Peppers’ Lonely Heart's Club Band.”
“Libba, I can’t breathe. We don’t have a lot of oxygen in here.”
“It’s okay, Molly. Ok, ok, we’re gonna be fine. Where is Tessa?” Seconds passed as we looked around the closet for something that could pry open the door. This was a small closet. There were clothes hanging, clothes piled up on either side, toys and stuffed animals behind me, and Molly and I were squeezed in next to each other freaking out that we were going to suffocate.
I remember a feeling of heroism came over me. Molly was the smart, logical one but she was panicking. I was the strong athletic one and I felt like I needed to get us out. I found a Mouse Trap game underneath me and pulled out all the plastic pieces that make up the board. “Ok, Molly don’t worry. I’m going to use this piece to pry open the door.” I attempted to open the door. Of course a piece of plastic had no chance against the thick wood, but I was determined. I grabbed a hanger and uncoiled the hook, shoving it into the crack and pulling with all my might.
“Papaaaaaaaa! Mamaaaaaa! Help us! We’re locked in the closet!” we kept yelling over and over and over. Eventually we just started screaming. No words. Just shouts, hoping someone would hear us over the music. Why did they have to be cleaning the house on this Saturday?
What felt like an hour, and the nearing end of our short-lived lives, was probably about five minutes. I don’t remember how much more screaming we did, but I remember the fear. I remember breathing in and out, slow, heavy breaths, trying to get as much air as I could because I thought we were going to die. Tears were streaming down our faces, sweat was beading on the back of our necks. We grabbed each other’s hands and kept saying how much we loved one another.
“Libba? Molly?”
A voice. It was Tessa!
“Tessa, Tessa, we’re in here. We’re in the closet in our room, help!”
Tessa ran in and tried to turn the latch. “Open it!” we cried.
She was too little to get the latch so she ran and got Papa. He rushed back upstairs with her and opened the closet door. Molly and I burst out and hugged his side.
“Oh my god, where were you? We were stuck in there for hours and we thought we were going to die!”
It’s weird how an imaginary world completely fabricated in our young minds could leave us with such a real emotion. I hadn’t thought about it at the time, not at all; I was just happy to be breathing air from outside the closet. But, to think we were in that closet, genuinely fearful of our lives, our seven and nine-year old innocent lives, believing they were about to end just like the victims of the Holocaust, is creepy. That was the last time I remember playing “concentration camp.”
I remember it was a Saturday morning. My parents were downstairs cleaning the house, really cleaning it: mopping the floors, dusting and Murphy-oiling the furniture, vacuuming every room, even Windex-ing the windows. My dad was having an English Department party for the college where he was a professor. Molly and I were up in my room playing “concentration camp.” Now, I know that sounds weird, but we used to pretend that we were Jews during the Nazi regime and that the top bunk was our designated sleeping spot. We had to hide from the Nazis in the middle of the night so that they wouldn’t find us in the morning and take us to the showers.
I don’t know how much I actually knew about the Holocaust at age seven; I know it was later in elementary school that I went to the Holocaust Museum and learned all about the Germans and the Nazis and this horrendous time in history. Molly was really smart and knew all about it, so being the passionate little girls that we were, I think we somehow wanted to be a part of this tragedy, maybe to understand, maybe to try and sympathize.
We turned out the lights, grabbed our flashlights and crawled down from the top bunk. We used the mound of clothes between the bed and the closet as an imaginary trench that we crept along until we reached the closet door. This was the best hiding place ever. The Nazi’s didn’t know it was there and we could hide safely “until morning” with our flashlights dim. We scurried into the closet, whispering to stay quiet and found yet another mound of clothes to sit on. We could hear Crosby, Stills, and Nash blaring downstairs.
We pulled our knees up into our chests and pretended like we were finally safe. What I did next is about to make this moment one of the scariest in my life. The duplex was an old house with Victorian style doors that only latched from the outside, meaning there was no handle or lock on the inside, just a small square fixture with a tiny t-shaped handle that you turned from the outside to open and close the door. I pulled the door almost closed so there was still some light coming in from the outside window.
“Libba, the Nazis will see us if that light can come in,” Molly said to me.
“I know, I know,” I replied. “I will try to close it even more.”
My goal was to shut it just enough so no light could come in, but not enough that it would latch. I slid my fingers underneath the door and pulled, but it still opened slightly. Too much. I pulled, and it did it again. Frustrated, I pulled harder and suddenly, it latched. Darkness.
“Libba!” Molly cried. “Why did you shut the door?”
I reached up above and pulled the string to turn on the light bulb. Her soft face was terrified.
“I didn’t mean to shut it! It just slammed! What are we going to do?”
For a moment we panicked. Then we started screaming. “Mama! Papa! Tessa!” we cried over and over again. “Help us!” We even started crying in unison because we figured it would be louder that way. “Ok, one, two, three…Mamaaaaaaaaa!” Nothing. All we could hear was the upbeat melody of “St. Peppers’ Lonely Heart's Club Band.”
“Libba, I can’t breathe. We don’t have a lot of oxygen in here.”
“It’s okay, Molly. Ok, ok, we’re gonna be fine. Where is Tessa?” Seconds passed as we looked around the closet for something that could pry open the door. This was a small closet. There were clothes hanging, clothes piled up on either side, toys and stuffed animals behind me, and Molly and I were squeezed in next to each other freaking out that we were going to suffocate.
I remember a feeling of heroism came over me. Molly was the smart, logical one but she was panicking. I was the strong athletic one and I felt like I needed to get us out. I found a Mouse Trap game underneath me and pulled out all the plastic pieces that make up the board. “Ok, Molly don’t worry. I’m going to use this piece to pry open the door.” I attempted to open the door. Of course a piece of plastic had no chance against the thick wood, but I was determined. I grabbed a hanger and uncoiled the hook, shoving it into the crack and pulling with all my might.
“Papaaaaaaaa! Mamaaaaaa! Help us! We’re locked in the closet!” we kept yelling over and over and over. Eventually we just started screaming. No words. Just shouts, hoping someone would hear us over the music. Why did they have to be cleaning the house on this Saturday?
What felt like an hour, and the nearing end of our short-lived lives, was probably about five minutes. I don’t remember how much more screaming we did, but I remember the fear. I remember breathing in and out, slow, heavy breaths, trying to get as much air as I could because I thought we were going to die. Tears were streaming down our faces, sweat was beading on the back of our necks. We grabbed each other’s hands and kept saying how much we loved one another.
“Libba? Molly?”
A voice. It was Tessa!
“Tessa, Tessa, we’re in here. We’re in the closet in our room, help!”
Tessa ran in and tried to turn the latch. “Open it!” we cried.
She was too little to get the latch so she ran and got Papa. He rushed back upstairs with her and opened the closet door. Molly and I burst out and hugged his side.
“Oh my god, where were you? We were stuck in there for hours and we thought we were going to die!”
It’s weird how an imaginary world completely fabricated in our young minds could leave us with such a real emotion. I hadn’t thought about it at the time, not at all; I was just happy to be breathing air from outside the closet. But, to think we were in that closet, genuinely fearful of our lives, our seven and nine-year old innocent lives, believing they were about to end just like the victims of the Holocaust, is creepy. That was the last time I remember playing “concentration camp.”
"Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood"
Marjane Satrapi’s graphic memoir is a uniquely powerful account of the life of a fiery young girl growing up in the death and destruction of the Islamic Revolution. What surprised me most about this memoir is how effective the comic strip layout and images were in revealing the story of a childhood; a childhood that was ridden by fear, fear to walk outside, fear to dress with style, fear to be and say anything you wanted. The black and white images displayed a deepening contrast that took me into a world where the idea of right and wrong, black and white, was meaningless. I appreciated Satrapi’s simple, conversational language as it conveyed the reality of life in Tehran during the revolution and war with Iraq. Although this left me less engaged as a writer with the language, I was constantly moved and emotionally charged by the natural component of the story. She told it like it was.
Surprisingly, in a book flooded with murdered loved ones, bombing victims, exiled revolutionaries, and cultural oppression Satrapi maintains a sense of humor throughout. Her often sarcastic and witty undertone empowers the story by unveiling the absurdity of what was going on: women forced to cover all their hair, men tortured for throwing parties, children punished for wearing Nikes. The humor reveals a characteristic of human nature, one where the only way to survive a life of such pain and repression is to laugh, to find the only humor in the situation, and alternatively to express the extreme mistreatment of the Islamic Regime.
Many of the comic images are grotesquely graphic and blunt: a man cut into pieces, bodies flying in different directions from an explosion, backs lashed with whips and soaked with urine. Although disturbing, these simple black and white images were as powerful to me as if I had seen them in a real film. Satrapi in no way sugarcoats a situation or edits it down for pleasant viewing. And to see it in a comic book format, a book normally filled with childhood images of superheroes and fantasies, makes it all the more moving.
I ended up watching the film “Persepolis” before reading the memoir. Initially I felt as though the book would be less compelling since I had already seen the movie and knew what was going to happen. But it ended up having the opposite effect. The situation with Marjane’s country, who is in power, the history of the regime, who is fighting with who and why is all rather complicated. Having had the movie lay it out for me ended up being extremely helpful when I got to the book. I knew who was who, how they were related and was therefore able to spend more time on the story itself and the character of Marjane, rather than the logistics of the situation. Surprisingly, I felt like the book contained much more detail (even though it was only the first part of the film:her childhood) and as a result, found myself even more engrossed than in the film.
As an American, who only knows the facts about what Marjane grew up in, I found this form of storytelling educational, emotional, powerful and real. I felt more connected and could better understand some of what Marjane and her family experienced by reading pages of comic book graphics over any documentary or news broadcasting. It was unique and refreshing, and proved the power of communication, despite its form.
Surprisingly, in a book flooded with murdered loved ones, bombing victims, exiled revolutionaries, and cultural oppression Satrapi maintains a sense of humor throughout. Her often sarcastic and witty undertone empowers the story by unveiling the absurdity of what was going on: women forced to cover all their hair, men tortured for throwing parties, children punished for wearing Nikes. The humor reveals a characteristic of human nature, one where the only way to survive a life of such pain and repression is to laugh, to find the only humor in the situation, and alternatively to express the extreme mistreatment of the Islamic Regime.
Many of the comic images are grotesquely graphic and blunt: a man cut into pieces, bodies flying in different directions from an explosion, backs lashed with whips and soaked with urine. Although disturbing, these simple black and white images were as powerful to me as if I had seen them in a real film. Satrapi in no way sugarcoats a situation or edits it down for pleasant viewing. And to see it in a comic book format, a book normally filled with childhood images of superheroes and fantasies, makes it all the more moving.
I ended up watching the film “Persepolis” before reading the memoir. Initially I felt as though the book would be less compelling since I had already seen the movie and knew what was going to happen. But it ended up having the opposite effect. The situation with Marjane’s country, who is in power, the history of the regime, who is fighting with who and why is all rather complicated. Having had the movie lay it out for me ended up being extremely helpful when I got to the book. I knew who was who, how they were related and was therefore able to spend more time on the story itself and the character of Marjane, rather than the logistics of the situation. Surprisingly, I felt like the book contained much more detail (even though it was only the first part of the film:her childhood) and as a result, found myself even more engrossed than in the film.
As an American, who only knows the facts about what Marjane grew up in, I found this form of storytelling educational, emotional, powerful and real. I felt more connected and could better understand some of what Marjane and her family experienced by reading pages of comic book graphics over any documentary or news broadcasting. It was unique and refreshing, and proved the power of communication, despite its form.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"Persepolis" The Movie
Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood” was transformed into a powerful, emotional and highly entertaining film. It seems fitting that a graphic memoir would be easily made into a film, but I did not expect it to be as moving as a real film. From a series of black and white comic strip pages to a dynamic animated movie, “Persepolis” brings to life the story of a curious Iranian girl in an effective, moving manner. From a kind-hearted fiery little girl to a proud tenacious young women, “Persepolis” unfolds, in black and white animation, the tale of Marjane Satrapi, a survivor of the Islamic revolution, a war and of herself.
As I child I used to watch colorful animated films like Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella that sparked my fantasy and carried me off into a dream-like world full of happiness and hope. As a result, it was quite an interesting parallel to watch this more serious black and white animation, so many years later, and yet be as emotionally moved and engaged as I was. The animation—the stark black and white slow-moving action and scenery echoed a powerful representation of the struggle of the Iranian people. The facial expressions were bold, like a word, they were there and then gone with no time for fading in and out; I felt the climax of the moment.
“Persepolis” has an important comical undertone, one that at times made me laugh out loud and at others prevented me from crying. By nature, Marjorie has a sarcastic sense of humor that plays throughout the film on the absurdity of this situation: dictatorship, murder, imprisonment, lack of freedom. Satrapi brings these crucial and severe issues to surface in a comprehensive, compelling way that weaves in with the development of a little girl into a young adult, lost in where she is from and lost in who she is.
As animated films go, I felt the music was very crucial. It was a classical string instrumental and it was extremely critical in helping the simple animation move freely and forward. Another prominent effect for me was the bomb sounds. They would go off in the background, somewhat subtly but very present at the same time, leaving a black and white flicker at the back of the screen, looking exactly like it would in real life.
There was a lot of falling snow between scenes, slow and heavy, filling the white space of time. It gave me time to reflect and feel what was going on during the “white space” moments, the horror and angst of it all. The scenes in the “present” for the narrator were in color which I thought was very interesting. Everything was seen in a different light, like the color somehow was a doorway to a peaceful, more hopeful future for Marjane.
A lasting image for me was also one of my favorites. It was the Jasmine flowers from her grandma’s bra falling down the screen. The large petals faded slowly down, disappearing into the bottom of the screen. They seemed to represent hope, and the future, but also death and failure.
I was so engaged by this film that I am only now remembering that it was in French. The story (even in subtitles) kept me so emotionally involved that I forgot it was in another language. Part of that may have to do with the fact that I speak French, and so I was less inclined to notice but I definitely think it had a lot to do with the power of this story.
As I child I used to watch colorful animated films like Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella that sparked my fantasy and carried me off into a dream-like world full of happiness and hope. As a result, it was quite an interesting parallel to watch this more serious black and white animation, so many years later, and yet be as emotionally moved and engaged as I was. The animation—the stark black and white slow-moving action and scenery echoed a powerful representation of the struggle of the Iranian people. The facial expressions were bold, like a word, they were there and then gone with no time for fading in and out; I felt the climax of the moment.
“Persepolis” has an important comical undertone, one that at times made me laugh out loud and at others prevented me from crying. By nature, Marjorie has a sarcastic sense of humor that plays throughout the film on the absurdity of this situation: dictatorship, murder, imprisonment, lack of freedom. Satrapi brings these crucial and severe issues to surface in a comprehensive, compelling way that weaves in with the development of a little girl into a young adult, lost in where she is from and lost in who she is.
As animated films go, I felt the music was very crucial. It was a classical string instrumental and it was extremely critical in helping the simple animation move freely and forward. Another prominent effect for me was the bomb sounds. They would go off in the background, somewhat subtly but very present at the same time, leaving a black and white flicker at the back of the screen, looking exactly like it would in real life.
There was a lot of falling snow between scenes, slow and heavy, filling the white space of time. It gave me time to reflect and feel what was going on during the “white space” moments, the horror and angst of it all. The scenes in the “present” for the narrator were in color which I thought was very interesting. Everything was seen in a different light, like the color somehow was a doorway to a peaceful, more hopeful future for Marjane.
A lasting image for me was also one of my favorites. It was the Jasmine flowers from her grandma’s bra falling down the screen. The large petals faded slowly down, disappearing into the bottom of the screen. They seemed to represent hope, and the future, but also death and failure.
I was so engaged by this film that I am only now remembering that it was in French. The story (even in subtitles) kept me so emotionally involved that I forgot it was in another language. Part of that may have to do with the fact that I speak French, and so I was less inclined to notice but I definitely think it had a lot to do with the power of this story.
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