Noah's Nuggets of Wisdom

It is said that the only constant in this world, the only characteristic of existence that can be counted on to continue without fail, is change. Seeing that change has and will always exist, and considering that it is one of the most important mechanisms by which we humans function, it would make sense that change should be a widely accepted, and even embraced, concept. But, as we all know, nothing could be further from the truth. Humans are, simply put, deathly afraid of change. It is our nature to want the world to stay “as we know it to be.” This idea is embodied in the way older generations view their replacements. Every generation has a negative stereotype of some kind to bestow upon the one that follows. This “kids today” mentality has existed for centuries, and it will continue to exist into the far future. So it is not unreasonable to pass many negative views of subsequent generations off as their predecessors being afraid of the change and “deviance from the norm” that they perceive as something bad. However, there are certainly times when the change being observed is indeed something truly alarming, and a development that is not simply a normal, healthy progression into the modern era. Here is where the problem lies: how can we discern whether a fear of new developments is due to the stubbornness of a generation refusing to move on or to a legitimate epidemic? In her 2017 article, “Have Smartphones Destroyed a Generation?”, author Jean M. Twenge explores an issue that applies perfectly: the impact smartphones and social media have had on the new generation that uses them.
In this article, Twenge strongly asserts that the overall impact phones and social media have had on the new generation of teens who use them, whom she refers to as the iGen, has been overwhelmingly detrimental. In light of the fact that Twenge is separated by several generations from the new iGen, readers might be inclined to pass her off as just another critic of new times, clouded by a nostalgic view of what the world used to be like. However, Twenge’s article makes it very difficult to view her in this context. Rather than attempt to persuade readers why the “older times” were better and how the new digital age has taken away the simpler joys of the past, Twenge offers data and analyses that illustrate a great increase in negative behaviors and characteristics in today’s teens and their correlation with the use of screens. Some of the changes in behavior in iGen teens that Twenge notes in her research findings are a decrease in dating and sexual activity, a decrease in time spent with friends, and a decrease in the average amount of sleep. Though no direct correlations were made between these behaviors and phone and social media use, it is quite reasonable to deduce that the use of screens is connected to these behaviors at least indirectly, as screen time has been the greatest change that distinguishes the iGen from other eras. Now, perhaps these behavioral changes are not too troubling. After all, they’re not utterly detrimental to the well-being of teens; rather, they merely make the iGen seem less interesting than previous generations. However, Twenge’s article quickly delves into further statistical changes observed in the iGen, the likes of which are quite concerning. Twenge cites changes that are directly correlated with increased phone and social media use, such as increased feelings of loneliness, increased depression rates, and increased suicide rates. These developments are hard to move past, and though it cannot be definitively proven that great amounts of screen use cause these trends, the numbers all point to this conclusion, as all of these rates soared after the release of the iPhone in 2007 and have remained high since. Additionally, there are several threads of reason that justify this conclusion: the aura of competitiveness and flattering self-portrayals by which social media is characterized decreases teens’ self worth, makes them feel left out, and opens up opportunities for cyber-bullying, all of which can lead to feelings of loneliness and depression.
Though I do agree strongly with many of Twenge’s takes on the impact of the digital age on teens of the iGen, there are a few key aspects I believe she missed in her analyses. I believe that the impact of screens on adults should have been studied and included in the article. We are often inclined to limit our view of the phone epidemic to children and teens in today’s society because they are the more vigorous users of these mediums. However, adults are certainly impacted by this changing culture as well. Phones and social media are now a means by which the world functions; work, communication, problem-solving, free time… all these aspects of society center around screens in some way, and to believe that these devices are limited to kids is to be blind to reality. Though teens are certainly more emotionally vulnerable than adults, and thus are likely more heavily impacted by the dreads that phones impose on frequent users, I believe it is certain that adults experience negative consequences as well. Also, I think Twenge overlooked many of the positive impacts that the digital age has instilled as commonplaces in our society. To name a few examples, navigation is easier than it ever has been with a GPS at our constant disposal in a convenient app, work-related tasks can be completed almost anywhere at anytime, and friends and relatives can be communicated to and “seen” through FaceTime or Skype in an instant. So, instead of a new development that is hurting a new generation, as Twenge asserts that phones and social media are, I believe that our screens are developments that are improving the world and opening up entirely new realms of possibility by the day, while also generating negative emotional and behavioral consequences among all of its users. Now that the effects of phones and social media on our society have been thoroughly discussed and considered, there is one important question left. Considering all the good and all the bad that our screens bring to the table, are they worth having, or would we be better off without them?

What makes a great movie? This question seems to be so commonly known, yet so hard to pinpoint. A crowd of movie-goers exiting a theater is always ready to condemn a film as being a horrible waste of the ten dollars and two hours they just spent; however, this same crowd is also willing to acclaim their time in a dark, cold room full of strangers as an incredible journey, the likes of which they have never before conceived. But when asked for the specific reasons for their criticism, many draw a blank and offer crude cliches in an attempt to explain what they so loved or hated. Whether the key to making a good movie is writing great dialogue, camera work, an intricate plot, or simply keeping the eyes of the viewers “occupied”, few writers and directors throughout history, let alone in the modern era, have figured out how to consistently put masterpieces on the big screen. One of these few, who has now consistently crafted movie masterpieces for over twenty-five years, is none other than Quentin Tarantino. Whether you are a fan or not, you cannot deny his amazing ability to score the praise of critics and fans alike again and again, and his ability to stick to a general theme for over two decades while also exploring mountains of diversity has been matched by few. Starting out as a high school drop-out video store clerk with a simple idea for an Indie crime thriller, Tarantino was an immediate success (at least in his first stint in the public eye). His release of the film Reservoir Dogs in 1992 made people turn their heads, and, coupled with his Cannes Films Festival winner Pulp Fiction two years later, Tarantino had been solidified as one of the great modern directors. Characterized by whimsical and relatable dialogue, eccentric and loveable characters, out-of-order sequences, and, of course, over-the-top violence, “Tarantino” became a genre of film in itself, and the director would go on to explore topics ranging from crime-ridden 90’s Los Angeles to a frenzied Europe in the midst of the second World War.

This past summer, Quentin Tarantino came out with his ninth film, entitled Once Upon A Time In Hollywood. This newest edition to the director’s superb resume takes place in 1969 Los Angeles during the “Golden Age” of Hollywood cinema, and it follows the stories of fictional western television actor, Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio), his stunt double, Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt), and real-life actress, Sheron Tate (Margot Robbie). This story was the most meaningful to Tarantino out of all his films, as he grew up in Los Angeles during this era, making the film a nostalgic window into his past. With this said, one would expect Once to be one of the director’s most thoughtful and beautifully written stories yet. However, many did not see the film as all it had been cracked up to be, and instead saw Tarantino’s newest work as heavily overshadowed by his past accomplishments. Though it was received well by critics, many audience members had a couple of problems with the film. Number one, it was too long. The movie runs for two hours and forty-one minutes, which was simply too long to be invested in one story, some viewers felt. Number two, there is no distinct plot. Once tended to jump around from situation to situation, neither running as a sequence of events leading up to a climax nor focusing on the conflicts experienced by one main character, and many audience members did not buy into this. Despite what many viewers of Once Upon A Time In Hollywood may think, I assert that this film was nothing short of another Tarantino masterpiece.

To address the problem of the length and the lack of a typical plot, I believe that people’s disapproval is due to their finding these aspects “missing” (that is, a uniform flow of events that leads the story toward a climax and resolution in a timely manner). However, concerning these aspects of the film, I believe that viewers are not simply looking for something that isn’t there; I believe they are looking for something that shouldn’t be there. It was not simply a mistake that Tarantino crafted a roundabout plot that did not land on any specific character or scenario, nor was it a result of the director simply trying to include too many aspects, leading to an accidental lack of focus. I believe that Tarantino’s goal was not really to “tell a story”, per say. Rather, I believe his intention was to “give us a taste” of the golden age of Hollywood cinema, an era like none other that was on the verge of extreme change. How did Tarantino intend to do this? He simply “showed us around.” Throughout the course of the film, we see clips of old Western and detective television shows, meetings of actors and directors in old-fashioned trailers and cigar-smoke filled bars, hippies wandering the busy streets hitching for rides, and much, much more. When considering this new light of “getting a glimpse” of Hollywood, Tarantino certainly does a wonderful job. The audience is made to feel completely immursed in this world, and though we have never witnessed anything like this before, we are made to fully believe that this is what Hollywood in 1969 was. The beauty of this movie does not lie in a wonderful, crazy story that features scene after scene of chess match ending in a shootout or sequences of engrossing and hilariously dark dialogue that ends with one person outsmarting the others. This is what most Tarantino films are like, and this is why I think many viewers were disappointed with the director’s newest edition. Though we as an audience don’t get what we might have intended from Once Upon A Time In Hollywood, we get something else that is truly fantastic and, in many ways, better than the typical brilliantly-crafted plot. We are allowed to see through a window into an entirely new yet old world, and this not only provides the audience with feelings of nostalgia and connectedness, but it evokes a pure feeling of captivation, and that, in the end, is what makes a great movie.

Fear is a response that demands an awareness of surroundings, an intricacy of perception, and a spike in our sense of “now.”. Under circumstances in which our brain is consciously aware that we are safe despite a perceived threat, fear can be quite exhilarating and entertaining, and it can allow us to retain vivid memories due to our heightened senses. Perhaps the best example of people submitting to fear in an engaging recreational manner lies in the timeless scary movie. Old and new, realistic and outrageous, horror films have thrived for decades and have been among the heaviest demands in the entertainment world. Though they often lack substance, following a cliche thread in lieu of a deep plot or underlying meaning, scary movies can also be some of the richest forms of art the entertainment industry has to offer. One of the best examples of a horror masterpiece is the 2016 film, The Witch. This movie takes its viewers on a journey like no other, and one that is excruciating to watch and impossible to look away from at the same time. Writer-director Robert Eggers pairs the inevitability of a horrific outcome with an aura of soul-shaking uncertainty to solidify The Witch as one of the most well-crafted and unsettling horror flicks of all time.
The Witch follows a 15th century immigrant family that is banished from its Puritan village and is forced to start a new life in the New England wilderness. To add to this misfortune, the family’s youngest member, infant son Samuel, “disappears” while playing peek-a-boo with the eldest sister, Thomasin. Though our main characters are left in the dark, the audience is made fully aware that this tragedy is the doing of a twisted woodland being; a grotesque figure is seen trudging through the forest cradling the baby, and the scene cuts to the creature rubbing what can only be assumed to be the infant’s flesh all over its body in some kind of hideous ritual. This shrewd construction of a harsh and unforgiving setting immediately followed by a hellishly disturbing sequence sets the stage for a theme that can be observed throughout the movie: the assurance of an ungodly, horrific outcome. A family is stuck in the middle of an unknown, untamed wilderness, and they are in the midst of a devilish creature (or creatures) that have a supernatural ability to intrude without being noticed in addition to a proclivity for grisly and inhuman practices. Our protagonists have nowhere to flee, no way to defend themselves, and, worst of all, they are completely unaware of the threat that lurks just beyond their crudely built shelter. The Witch articulates this progression toward an unfavorable ending in the recurrence of insurmountable obstacles in the family’s quest to live off the land. Their crops fail to yield a sufficient food supply, the father is injured while hunting, and the cows fail to produce milk. In addition to this sequence of bad luck, Eggers employs a progression of subtle supernatural encounters and the toll it takes on the family to ensure that the ending will not just be destructive, but it will be nightmarish as well. When the eldest son, Kaleb, fails to find his way back after a trek through the woods, he stumbles upon a smoking hut in the permeating darkness, where a deceptively beautiful “woman” lures him inside. After the boy returns naked and cursed, the family spirals into an abyss of accustation and despair as the evil around them continues to strike.
This theme of “no way out” is what sets The Witch apart from nearly every other horror film. Most scary movies begin on a somewhat positive, or at least hopeful note, and the possibility of a way out remains a tension-building theme throughout. Whether it’s killing a killer, getting the devil out of a little girl, or warding off an angry spirit, there always seems to be some type of a “solution” in horror flicks. The Witch offers none of this, instead crafting its fear and suspense by ensuring the audience of a grisly end and instilling in them a sense that they should not be seeing what they’re seeing. Though the audience knows things will end horrifically, it remains a mystery how things will end horrifically. The supernatural beings remain very much a mystery throughout the film, and though the audience knows they’re there, only glimpses are ever shown. The intent and nature of these “witches” remains enigmatic, and the source of the evil and misfortune that plagues the family is not revealed until the end. Utilizing this “ambiguity amidst certainty”, Eggers instills a sense of constant disturbance and hopelessness among his audience while also keeping them on the edge of their seat. The viewers are made to ask, “Will everyone in the family die, or will a worse, more eternal fate befall them?”
Robert Eggers’ The Witch is a horror film like no other. It does not succumb to the conventions of typical scary movies in that it does not build fear and tension in the possibility of an escape. Rather, this film does just the opposite, ensuring the audience of a gruesome ending from the get-go in both the hopelessness of its setting and in the progression of bad luck and supernatural forces that remain uncontested. This sense of certainty is paired ironically with an aura of mystery, as the audience is left in the dark concerning the nature of the evil in the woods and the kind of horrible fate that awaits their protagonists. Eggers’ skillful employment of these various elements makes for a film that shakes us to our very core and doesn’t let us rest for even a minute. In this portrayal of a tale that is troubling as it is intriguing, The Witch proves that storytelling is not so cut and dry, and rather, it often gains substance through a loss of conventionality.

 

 

 

“People… need a time to laugh. It’s up to us to bonk ourselves on the head and slip on a banana peel so the average guy can say, ‘I may be bad, honey, but I’m not as much of an idiot as that guy on the screen.’” This quote by famous comedian, Chris Farley, though obviously meant as a simple joke, does have a deeper meaning that rings very true. Comedy is very linked to, and often dependent on, the expense of the characters or comics we watch. Chalk it up to the malignancy of human nature or the childish tendencies inside us all, but watching people struggle can be just plain funny. This essence of a comedy reliant on blunders is most clearly seen in movies and skits involving physical slapstick humor, but it also applies to broader comedy in a much more subtle way. I believe there are two keys to constructing good comedy that stem from people’s innate relishing at expense, and nearly every form of comedy has at least one, and usually both, of these ploys in place. The first is the outward portrayal of anger, and the second is the more subtle but just as omnipresent presentation of stupidity. Comedy is much more funny when the characters don’t know they’re in a comedy, and anger and stupidity are essential to this ignorance. Watching characters bumble through emotionally charged arguments and make stupid mistakes makes allows viewers to really relate to them while also taking joy in the nonsense that is unravelling before their eyes. One such show that has mastered these tactics to formulate a timeless storyline that has held for over a decade is It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. This sitcom follows five friends who own a bar is south Philly and their ridiculous day to day lives that involve destructive behavior, dead-end plans, and enough anger and stupidity for the entire city. Sunny has asserted itself as a timeless, masterful comedy that builds its ingenious humor around a thoughtful combination of absurdness and reality that serves to engage its audience and punish its characters in hilarious ways.
Sunny can be broadly summed up in its blending of wildly unrealistic scenarios with relatable perspectives and dialogue. Most every episode features a crazy and unexpected turn of events while sticking to a general script; the pattern the show follows is some type of scheme formulated by the gang (which refers to the five friends) with some alterior motive or motives in mind, the likes of which are usually immoral and illogical. The gang tends to act on impulse, sticking fervently to an idea for a day or so and then suddenly moving on to the next. The specifics of these strategies range from selling gasoline door to door to consulting a therapist to determine who should have to clean the dishes. In this way, the show takes everyday quarrels and conflicts, like problems with money or division of labor, and puts a spin on them in which drastic measures are taken to fulfill rather trivial pursuits. This strategy features relatable dialogue in which the characters are portrayed as very self-centered and irrational, much like people in the world really are. Many of the conversations in the show revolve around everyday topics that do not further the story and serve rather to construct the unique personalities of each character and frame a comedic group dynamic. In this way, the show’s audience is engaged by even the most simple scenes and events as they are made to see some of themselves in the struggles of the characters. Sunny then uses this engagement to take its viewers down a convoluted, senseless path as the characters bicker and hurt themselves and each other, and this is where the absurdity comes in. Nothing ever goes as planned in this show, and, more often than not, a horrendous and strange outcome is reached in place of a remotely predictable one. Things always get worse for the characters, and they usually succeed in aggravating whatever initial conflict they were dealing with even further. Episodes often end with the characters giving up or foolishly believing that things have been resolved, and the five friends will inevitably return to their bar to resume their stationary and shallow lives. These aspects of relatability and outrageousness combine to engage the audience with a satirical take on the flaws of all people while giving viewers the expense and randomness that is central to all comedy.
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is a comedic work of art that is so simple and yet so convoluted. The show features simple and predictable characters that like to drink, yell, and have their way. The program also features shallow dialogue in which resolutions are rarely reached, making for an aura of relatability and makes the audience laugh even as nothing really happens. On the other hand, Sunny features events and outcomes that surpass even the wildest dreams of most sitcom writers, touching on encounters with serial killers, drug-induced hallucinations, and much more. Though this unpredictability, a plethora of anger, bad decisions, and uncertainty is afforded that few programs can match. It is this deft combination of stupidity that makes Sunny so smart.

“Sometimes there’s a man,”…or two for that matter. Joel and Ethan Coen, a package deal, are two of the best movie directors of all time, and they are pioneers of new, innovative styles of film as well as revivors of timeless settings and plots. Defined by southern and midwestern settings, desperate criminals in search of wealth, a trademark blend of darkness and comedy, and articulately bumbling dialogue, Coen masterpieces have now been in the making for over thirty years. Some of their best films include plot-heavy westerns in No Country For Old Men and Fargo, outrageous “down-and-dirty” comedies in Raising Arizona and O Brother Where Art Thou, and nostalgic takes on styles and works of the past in Miller’s Crossing and True Grit. However, the Coens’ masterpiece, and perhaps the film that deviates the most from their typical settings, is The Big Lebowski. This movie, though not received notably well at the time of its release, has grown to become a cinema classic, even inspiring a religion in its ascension. This film is truly the Coens’ best work, and it evokes memories and unifies people in a shared relishment like no other movie has ever done. The Big Lebowski has been solidified as a cinematic treasure and perhaps the funniest film ever made in its unmatched, masterful crafting of relatable and hilarious dialogue, and in its deft characterization of one of cinema’s all-time great protagonists in the Dude.
The dialogue of Lebowski is the glue that holds the film together, and, to the great surprise of many, it was not ad-libbed at all. This is because the Coens, in fact, employ a strict “stick to the script” policy for all their films, and thus, each and every movie they release plays out just as they wrote it. This is almost unfathomable in the context of Lebowski, as the ocean of stutters, “um’s”, witty syntaxical pairings, and, of course, “f-words” incline viewers to believe that least some lines had to be tweaked in the heat of the moment. However, these viewers would be mistaken. This is truly remarkable, as the Coens are able to capture exactly how real people talk, or at least how these kind of people talk. It is clear that the Coens are amazingly skilled writers who are able to capture the very essence of humanity in its most bumbling and emotional. As great as they are, however, it is evident that all of the phrases and conversations they write can not accumulate solely from their minds. This inclines me to believe that a great deal of research goes into the Coens’ development of dialogue, particularly in Lebowski. Perhaps the brothers read volumes of texts detailing speech patterns and colloquialisms prevalent in southern California, where the film takes place. Or perhaps the directors gained their insights simply by travelling to Los Angeles and “listening around.” However they did it, the brothers craft lines and interactions that arouse paradoxical feelings among their viewers that they have witnessed conversations just like these while also being swept up in a brand new and outrageously funny way of communicating. The dialogue of Lebowski is vastly different from many other films in that it doesn’t depict its characters as speaking elegantly and skillfully. This type of dialogue is very common and effective, and a unique, “simple but sophisticated” version of this skillful speech can be observed in the films of esteemed writer-director Quentin Tarantino. I call Tarantino’s dialogue “wish-I-would-have-said-that” talk, because everything his characters say, even if it’s concerning the simplest of topics, is said in such a cool and skillful manner and is something we normal people can only ever dream of being able to come up with. In Lebowski, the Coens go for the exact opposite, but generate an even better effect than does the “cool-kat” dialogue of Tarantino. The Coen’s have their characters talk like normal people, and perhaps even like bums, as the main characters are, indeed, deadbeats. Throughout the film, our protagonists argue and fail to come to resolutions, lose their train of thought, repeat themselves, and articulate their outrageous plans in sentences full of stutters and incomplete clauses. This unique and skillful relation of speaking serves not only as a hilarious outlet on which to build on the comedic plot we are watching unfold, but it also allows the audience, as normal people, to relate to the characters in a way no other film does.
Now onto the aspect of Lebowski that truly solidifies it as an all-time great: the Dude. The Dude is a post modern hippie clinging to the remnants of the “hitchhiker” era of the 60s in southern California. He lives a simple life and has simple tastes. Living in a small apartment in Los Angeles, he enjoys bowling, smoking his joints, and drinking white russians. The Dude is not greedy or in search of great success like the bustling city around him; rather, he is simply at peace with the world…that is until his rug is soiled by two petty gangsters who mistake him for a millionaire that shares his name. The rug “really tied the room together”, as the Dude insists, and on the advice of his fiery Vietnam-vet bowling buddy, Walter Sobchak, he attempts to get this rich Lebowski to compensate him for the rug. This sets off a chain of events in which the Dude is yanked out of his element and gets all mixed up in a kidnapping scandal that has him eluding the wrath of German “kidnappers”, porn-filmmakers, and the millionaire Lebowski himself. The context the typically peaceful and easy-going Dude finds himself in makes for hilarious bursts of anger, bumbling ploys at getting out of trouble, quotes for the ages, and the construction of a character the cinematic world will never forget. The Dude’s nonchalant means of handling his troubles coupled with the discrepancies and incohesive plan-making he practices with his bowling buddies yield situation after situation of misfortune, revelation, odd dream sequences, and slapstick humor. The audience grows to love the Dude (although they can’t help but laugh at his misfortunes), and the ending that sees our main character being restored to his natural habitat of existence and serenity make for an audience satisfaction that comes around once in a blue moon.
The Coen Brothers wrote and directed many fantastic films throughout their three-decade stint, but The Big Lebowski is undoubtedly their masterpiece and could very well be the funniest movie ever. The thoroughly-researched and roaringly funny dialogue makes for an aura of relatability and memorability that is unique to Lebowski. The peaceful and lovable characterization of the Dude and the unfamiliar world into which he is tossed make for one of the funniest and most memorable protagonist performances to date. The Big Lebowski, though a rare work of art, is a prime example of how remarkably simple elements of storytelling and characterization can be pieced together in a kind of “universal language” to create mediums people will remember forever.

“How can you move faster than possible, fight longer than possible, without the most powerful impulse of the spirit? The fear of death.” This quote from the film, The Dark Knight Rises, though derived from a fictional setting, illustrates a point that is all too real. The fear of the sheer nothingness, the uncertainty that is death has been one of the most prevalent and yet most buried terrors human beings have faced since their dawn. For millennia people have developed and passed on stories of a life after death to mask this fear, but it has endured nonetheless and is just as great a stressor today as it was thousands of years ago. Many writers and thinkers throughout the ages have attempted a different approach than classical religions’ “distraction tactic” to cope with this ultimate anxiety; this tactic involves embracing this fear through storytelling rather than burying it. Fictional tales and urban legends involving encounters and “agents” of death have been around for as long as language itself. The most obvious motive for these myths and narratives is a means of entertainment, but I believe they also came to fruition as a response to the need to embrace the natural and powerful fear of death through a medium which people inherently understand. This identification with the ever-present anxiety of dying is a key to “being human,” as it enriches life and fills our experiences with color and meaning. One of the greatest ever to delve into the realm of “making death come to life” through writing stories is also one of the most recent to do so; the man I am speaking of is none other than America’s own Edgar Allan Poe. Poe was a gifted poet, well known for his long rhyming tales replete with sorrow and chills in works such as “Annabelle Lee” and “The Raven,” both of which revolve heavily around the theme of death. Poe is also established as one of the great prose writers of all time and is even credited by many as the inventor of the short scary story. Perhaps the greatest example of Poe’s eerie yarns, and a tale that clashes adeptly with the topic of death, is “The Tell-Tale Heart.” This story follows a deeply disturbed young man who commits to the idea of murdering an old man, an acquaintance of his, for the sole purpose of never having to see his “vulture eye” again, which so vexed him. The tale offers a simple and yet wildly intricate recount of the young man’s plot to commit this dark deed, the thrilling execution of this plan, and the stunning and unearthly sequence of events that comprises the aftermath. If you have never read this brief and spine-chilling story, I strongly encourage you to do so by clicking the link below. “The Tell-Tale Heart” is a masterfully chilling and utterly captivating tale that remains one of the strangest and most praiseworthy short stories ever written. The methods Poe uses to craft this tale into the masterpiece that it is are a remarkable blend of oppositional literary devices and an overwhelmingly intriguing ambiguity of the context from which the story is delivered.
The most prevalent tactic Poe puts into action in this classic is his blending of adversarial concepts. Throughout the tale, Poe brilliantly clashes seemingly incompatible ideas to elicit a number of emotional responses from the reader and maintain an aura of uncertainty and a desire to discover what happens next. Some of these conjunctions are relatively obvious and can be pulled directly from the text, such as imagery of light and divinity juxtaposed by imagery of chilling bleakness and hellish delusions: “I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth,” (paragraph 1) “…it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me.” (paragraph 5) However, many of these oppositions are not as apparent and require some analysis. For example, Poe utilizes a skillful blend of inevitabilty and uncertainty throughout the entire story. From nearly the very beginning, the speaker reveals that he had a plan to kill the old man, and the story is constructed as a recount of the entirety of events that unfolded as a result of this plan; as a result, it is reasonably assumed that the tale the speaker is about to relay will surely involve the slaying of this poor old man. However, despite this assured inevitability, the narrative is very heavily defined by a recurring sense of uncertainty. From the steadfast suspenseful build-up on the night the old man is murdered to the troubling perplexity of what will happen as two police officers make there way into the house where the murder took place, the reader is made to remain on the edge of their seat for the entirety of the yarn. A number of other “blendings” can be observed throughout the narrative, such as the characterization of the speaker as both a malignant, delusional madman and an amiable craftsman, and the convergence of the speaker’s feelings of pity and disdain for his helpless victim. These contradictory elements make for an advanced relation and understanding of events, the likes of which the reader has never experienced before; this tactic produces a sense of captivation that cannot be replicated.
Another method by which Poe shapes this tale of fright is through his implementation of a context composed of ambiguity and speculation. The story begins with a brief prologue in which it is made known that the events that are to be told have already happened, and this narration is simply a relation of things that have been rather than a progression through the sequences as they occur. In addition, the introduction reveals that the speaker had plans to commit a murder. Several times in the first few paragraphs, our conniving narrator openly tries to argue that he is not a madman, despite what the reader may think. Besides these few clues, no other information is given as to what lies outside the text. The speaker’s whereabouts as he relates the story, what became of him after he confessed his hideous crime to the police, and his motives in recalling this window into the past, all of these are left up to the speculation of the reader. Perhaps the speaker was arrested and confined to a prison for the rest of his days as he relates his experience to a visitor. Perhaps he was shanghaied to a mental institution upstate, and his motive for telling his tale is simply a tactic to convince the guards that he does not belong there. Or maybe, in a fit of delusional rage, the narrator made a violent escape after his confession, leaving the two officers for dead and fleeing to the wilderness to live a life of concealment; the story he is telling is simply his schizophrenic mind recounting the events in an effort to keep his senses at bay. Whatever the answer is, each new possibility considered, each crazed explanation the reader allows their mind to journey into sends chills down their spine. This ambiguity opens up a whole new realm of senses and further deepens the reader’s immersion in the narrative. In a sense, this open-endedness allows the story to never end, and that is something truly spectacular.
Edgar Allan Poe’s famous short story, “The Tell-tale Heart” is truly one of the best ever written, and it offers a sense of fear and engrossment that is second to none. To craft this tale into the original and soul-shaking work of art that it is, Poe uses a realm of juxtaposition in which unlike elements are articulately blended to yield a sense of bewilderment and engrossment that is one of a kind. Poe also solidifies this story’s dazzling and unique status by employing an air of mysteriousness and uncertainty concerning the world in which the story takes place and the condition of its speaker, and this unique tactic makes for a self-perpetuating range of possibilities that will drain the color from the reader’s face while keeping their mind locked in a trance of captivation. The far-reaching, sometimes inexplicable implications of this tale and Poe’s many other works not only piece together to tell mind-bending stories, but they also stem from a basic human need to face death while being enthralled with life.