Or what movie are you really watching? Either question can be addressed by the profound things I am about to say.
A few Christmases ago, the movie of choice at my mom’s house was the Swedish version of Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. There were a few scenes during which I was oh-so-eager to help Mom in the kitchen, but for the most part I enjoyed the movie. So did my husband. In discussing it with him later, though, I realized that we were essentially watching two different movies. He was interested in the disgraced journalist trying to redeem himself through a wild goose chase. I was interested in the wild goose chase itself–the creepy family mystery put me in mind of Gosford Park or even Jane Eyre. Neither of us cared a lick about Lisbeth Salandar, supposedly the main character of the whole trilogy. In fact, when I realized the family mystery was resolved and wouldn’t appear later, I had no interest in the sequels.
This got me thinking about how many layers many good stories have and how two people can equally enjoy a story but do so while being attached to a different layer. It amazes me that my all-time favorite movie, The Sound of Music, is mostly remembered as a fluffy kids’ movie because people see it as children and become attached to the child characters and the woman who cares for them. If you watch it as an adult, suddenly it’s a romance, or a war movie minus battle scenes, or a “Christian” film about the discernment process in religious callings (“You have a great capacity to love; what you must find out is how God wants you to spend your love.”). It’s all those things, but unless you watch it when you’re older than, say, twelve, you don’t understand it that way.
And so on. Libba Bray’s Gemma Doyle trilogy provided the same layering for me and my husband. I loved those books as historical fiction told in a semi-modern teen voice. My husband, who I am amazed read these books in public at the height of their popularity with no attempt at disguising their covers, loved the fantasy world. Okay, we both loved Libba Bray’s signature snark, but otherwise we were reading two very different books with the same words. Or take Downton Abbey (why not?). For some, it’s subtitled The Love Story of Mary and Matthew Crawley, and last season’s finale ended the show for them. I grieved for Matthew, but for me, the show has and always will be subtitled The Maggie Smith Comedy Hour, and Julian Fellowes has practically sworn an oath not to kill off Violet. So while Rose and whoever Mary’s new love is definitely have the capacity to sour the show, Maggie’s zingers will keep me coming back for more.
Shannon Hale has written extensively on her blog, like here, about how readers bring their own experiences and worldviews to stories in ways authors can’t predict, and I’m probably not going to say any of this better than she has. My point, besides humorous observation, is that every story in whatever genre or medium is about more than one thing. What “makes the story” for one person may have no impact on their best friend, who loves the same story for an entirely different reason. What’s more, those things alter as we grow and change. Never did I expect to read the biblical story of Sarah as the story of one woman’s grief, pain, and anger over her infertility. Never did I expect I would be hooked on a drama about an Irish-Catholic family while my husband’s hooked on a cop show that often deals with minority religious groups and NYC politics and both shows are called Blue Bloods.
And here I thought stories could only tell one story at a time. How glad I am that I was wrong.
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