Becoming Human: The Place of Reader Response and the Depiction of Disability in Me Before You

Dear MC,

I must apologize for two things: 1) for taking so long to respond on this blog (I could make up some excuse about caring for my aunt's cousin's cat, but instead I'll admit to flopping around and trying to put off the inevitable doom of moving into adulthood), and 2) not reading Jojoy Moye's Me Before You. However, I do fully intend to, upon watching this film, rush off to the bookstore, and grab as many copies of Me Before You as possible (or, you know, just one). As such, my response will be strictly limited to the movie, which, not to sound like a pretentious ass (I'm going to sound like a pretentious ass), functions as a text quite similarly to that of a novel--its narrative structure is nearly identical, the reader, or viewer in this case, relates to the characters in similar ways, and in both novel and film, what isn't said is arguably as important as what is.

Basically, it makes you feel all the feels. But more on that later.

First I will respond to your initial question in which you ask if a reader can create meaning that isn't necessarily intended. I answer with a resounding yes. You know how much I love New Criticism and Formalism, but, much to the new critic's chagrin, a text does not exist in a vacuum. The only reason a text, and consequently an author, can become popular, is if the reader relates to or feels a close affinity with the text in some way. As the reader lends success, the text must speak to the reader in a form other than lecturing. The text must allow the reader to, upon completion of the novel/film, go "yes. This. Everyone must know this. Allow me to spam all of my social media with this newfound enlightenment."

Basically, in human terms, the creation of the text is the conception. The reader and viewer's interaction with the text is the life. This life is impossible without the creation of meaning.

And I found a lot of hidden meaning in Thea Sharrock's portrayal of Louisa and Will in Me Before You (yeah for smooth transitions). As you previously noted, this film tells the story of a disabled man's love for an able-bodied woman. While the film tackles the issue of physical disability, I saw Will's isolation and desperation to relate to those with whom it was impossible to relate to and thought of my own life in which my own mentally disabled brother is left quite isolated due to his own limitations. As this is a romantic film, I am almost positive that Sharrock's initial motive was not to uncover the day-to-day struggles of living with a disability (in fact, I would argue that there was a good bit of romanticization of disability. But more on that later). But, because of my specific situation, I was able to relate to and derive meaning from the film in ways that a majority of the viewership may not.

And I was sad. But weirdly, as you pointed out, I paid money for and enjoyed the experience of being sad. 

I wholeheartedly agree with your hypothesis that we, as viewers, enjoy being sad, as we enjoy relating to fictional characters on a human level. But, to take this proposal a step further, I would like to introduce the importance of place in the context of human experiences. Admittedly, I have been thinking about place a good deal in preparation for my departure of the place I call home, but it relates to movie-going to a relatively high degree. I would suggest that while this movie lends strong emotions no matter where the viewer is, watching the film at a movie theater, specifically with other people, heightens the sadness.

Why is this the case? This hypothesis is still largely unfounded, but in my experience, the viewer's association with a fictional character's emotions is two-tiered: the viewer seeks to relate to the character's human experience itself, but in doing so, she creates a human experience with the other theater-go-ers who are doing the same thing. This act becomes powerful in which we are reminded that we are not alone in experiencing sadness or pain.

If you think about it (and stretch the imagination, like, a whole lot), this makes perfect sense. The whole notion of shelling out $10 to sit in a dark room with a bunch of strangers is a little odd, but group entertainment has been around for (insert historically accurate number here) years. And this notion of intensely feeling with strangers around you makes sense due to how we as humans congregate. We come together in large groups, in large part, to grieve or celebrate. The most beautiful, intense, human experience come from severe sadness or severe joy. In thinking about going to see a beautifully sad movie in the same way that we may think about going to a wedding or a funeral, we see that not only are we relating to the experience itself, but we are relating to those around us. And this is a beautiful reminder that we are not alone in feeling deeply about the human experience. 

I certainly shared a more meaningful experience in seeing this film with my friends and those who also felt no shame in crying at the cheesiest of moments than I would watching it on my laptop. It's a powerful reminder to be assured that I am not only allowed to feel intense sadness, but that it is a bonding experience to feel intense sadness. 

This experience is what makes us human. And it's what makes illnesses like depression such a monster--at its most dangerous, it strips someone of feeling, of a sense of humanity. It tricks someone into feeling that he is both alone and numb. Even when we feel ostensibly "negative" emotions, we can be re-assured that we are still living, that we are still human. 

As you are well aware, I was sucked into every last scene in the film. I unabashedly adore cheesy romances. But as I hinted at earlier, there were a couple themes that I, and several others, took issue with. In depicting the issue of physical disability, Sharrock seems to suggest that Will's limitations serve as a vehicle (no pun intended) for the able-bodied woman to discover herself, to recognize her own worth in society. This movie runs the risk of arguing that the disabled's needs are second to the able-bodied's desires. As it glosses over the daily hardships of living as a paraplegic (like the primary caretaker doesn't have to help her client go to the bathroom? What?), much of the film is devoted to the romantic ideal of changing someone who is stuck with the pesky little problem of merely having a bad attitude.

Also, a good deal of the disabled community takes issue with the suggestion that the solution of dealing with a disability is to commit suicide. So there's that. 

But that's me getting on my high horse. Which is the question I have for you. Clearly this film was meant to be a light, predictable form of entertainment. It was certainly not meant to be met with the scholarly eye (that's what I call my eye when it's read a total of like, two scholarly articles). It's largely unquestioned that things like ableism and sexism still run rampant in our society. There is an ever-expanding collection of media that seeks to expose and change that phenomenon. 

Me Before You is not a part of that collection.

So my question is this: does this lack of exposure make a "stereotypical" film inherently problematic? I want to remain a critical viewer and member of society, yet I also want to enjoy a cute, albeit simplistic, movie without the consequent guilt of watching a romanticized depiction of something that is aggressively un-romantic. Yet I also know that people want to watch cute things, dammit, without being lectured about the consequences of ableism. I am fully aware that I am running the risk of being "that person" who gets offended at everything that isn't explicitly trying to expose the issues of our society. So how can we be successful critics while still finding that balance of enjoying cute media?

Until next time,

Kira

Why Do People Enjoy "Sad" Books?

Dear Kira,

I'm aware that it's not my turn to write on this blog, however, you're taking a long time to respond to my last post and I have stuff to say! (Don't think this gets you out of answering both questions though!)

So, yesterday, you and I went to see the movie Me Before You (which is based on a book, which makes it relevant to this blog). Spoiler alert if you haven't seen the movie or read the book: it's extremely sad. Even so, we both really enjoyed the movie. (Spoiler alert: Emilia Clarke's eyebrows are amazing.) That's kind of weird, isn't it? Ordinarily, people don't enjoy being sad. Naturally, most people prefer to be happy (well, except Eeyore, but he's a donkey). So, why do so many people (us included) watch and enjoy sad movies and read sad books, even if it makes them sad?

I suppose that the cynical answer would be that, on some level, people get some sort of pleasure out of the sadness and pain of others. Some might argue that people enjoy other people's sadness because their own lives are too boring or ordinary. That sounds a little sadistic, doesn't it?

On the other hand, a more optimistic person might argue that reading a sad book helps people to deal with pain and problems in their own lives.

I suspect that both of those analyses are correct in certain contexts. However, for most people, I think that the answer is somewhere in the middle. I think that most people have natural curiosity about the life experiences of others. Humans are, after all, social animals. It makes sense that we are invested and interested in the lives of others. But why do we enjoy observing other peoples' lives when they're sad?

Even in the case of fictional stories like Me Before You, we as viewers identify with the characters on a human level because they are having human experiences. And, in the spectrum of human experience, extreme emotions and heightened situations are most compelling and interesting. Sadness is perhaps one of the most extreme emotions. Although too much sadness can be exhausting and emotionally draining, there is also something interesting about watching characters cope with and come to terms with these feelings. Simply put, it's compelling to watch characters struggle with emotions that most of us have experienced at one point, even if the character's experience is much more extreme and dramatic. For example, in Me Before You, Louisa Clark cares for (and basically falls in love with) a disabled man. Most people have not had this experience. Yet, they can relate on some level. Viewers enjoy seeing how the characters
choose to deal with these extreme situations and heightened emotions, and they can imagine how they themselves would react in this situation.

So, why do you think people enjoy sad movies and books? What do you think of Emilia Clarke's eyebrows?  

MC

Reader, Not Writer

Dear Kira,

Yes, it's been a horribly long time since anyone has written on this blog; however, I think it's safe to say that we've both learned a lot about English and writing in the past two years so, hopefully, the blog will be the better for it.

In your last blog, you talked about a fear of reading too much into a novel -- the danger of extrapolating too much from insignificant details. This is the perennial problem of being an English major -- sometimes you're making good points; sometimes you're just making stuff up (roughly seventy percent of all essays ever written). For example, I think we've all been in situations in classes when professors say something to the effect of, "actually, Romeo & Juliet is a criticism of global warming" and everyone rolls their eyes.

English is a great field because every theory and opinion is, theoretically, equally valid. That being said, there are obviously cases where people take this sort of intellectual liberty too far. In one particular class, I remember the professor making a big deal about the amount of walking characters do in Henry IV part 1. Maybe there's a valid point there, but, in Shakespeare's time, if you didn't have a horse, what were your other options? I'm pretty sure Falstaff didn't drive a Prius. I think the problem is that too many people assume that the author does everything with intent. Sure, there is such a thing as authorial intent (for example, C.S. Lewis is very famous for putting allusions to Christianity in the Narnia books), but not every word is selected with a motive in mind. There's definately a balance between taking the author's perspective into account and analyzing every word to death because you want to be the 101th person to write a book about Romeo & Juliet.

On the flip side, there are books in which absolutely nothing is intended -- tabula rasa, if you will. For example, if you read Twilight, you could probably pick out all the times the words "rain" and "blood" are mentioned and write a pretty convincing essay about the symbolism of water in contrast with the symbolism of blood. Did the author intend this? Probably not -- she doesn't seem very bright.
However, lest you think me an enemy to Formalism and New Criticism, I will say that authorial intent isn't the only thing that matters. What is important, in my opinion, is that the text speaks to you in some way. So, if the rain in Twilight is really inspiring to you and meaningful in your life, maybe you should have a theory about it. While I believe that it's important to keep the author in mind, the meaning of the text is really more dependent on the reader than the writer. Shakespeare is a good example of this because people love to have theories about Shakespeare (in case you're wondering, I too am guilty, guilty, guilty). Last year, I wrote a paper about the role of women in war in the Henriad plays. Now, I'm fairly certain that feminist criticism wasn't at the front of Shakespeare's mind when he was writing these plays (actually, I do have theories about what he actually intended). However, I'm female so, naturally, the women in the plays are interesting to me. In this case, I think the important thing is that interpretations of texts have relevance to the lives of the interpreters and the lives of other people who share their worldview.

So, should all the fourteen year olds in the world be writing about symbolism in the work of Stephanie Meyer? I think their English teachers would probably disagree. If any individual can find validity in any text that speaks to them, what does this say about so-called "classics." Is a classic worthwhile even if it doesn't speak to you? Or, is it a classic because it speaks to many people?

MC