A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups

By DAPHNE MERKIN

Published: March 6, 2005

Who can forget the frenzied public anticipation — not to mention the media blitz — surrounding the photogenic and, as it would turn out, fatally ill-conceived union of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer? That summer in 1981, when a sober Charles wed a certifiably virginal Diana — she looking more like a demure, pretty milkmaid than the attention-craving glamourpuss she would become — I was staying at a writer’s colony in upstate New York. The atmosphere was heavy with literary concerns, and it was definitely not the thing to evince interest in the choreographed nuptials of two silly anachronistic royals. I worried that I would have to forgo the pleasures of watching the ceremonies along with 750 million other viewers when several days before the event I discovered another writer who shared my declasse fascination. The two of us hatched an ornate plan to depart the colony at 5 a.m. on the day of the wedding, having arranged to drive to a town nearby where my friend knew someone with a house and, most important, a TV. While our colleagues back at the colony lingered in their dreams, we settled down to gaze, wide-eyed with vicarious inner-princess gratification, at the regal fantasy, replete with a gilded chariot, unfolding on the small screen.

Fast-forward to the recent announcement of Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles’s plans to marry in April. Smirks. Snickers. Rolling of eyes heavenward. Everyone on both sides of the Atlantic feels free to join in a riot of name calling — started, I might add, years ago by none other than Diana herself, whose snide nickname for her rival was the Rottweiler. The front-page headline of The Daily Star chortled: ”Boring Old Gits to Wed.” Brit Hume of Fox News was more than a bit perplexed: ”Well, if you look at a photograph of Diana, you can understand, but this one . . . why? Why her?” A man sitting next to me at a dinner party insists that he wants proof that Camilla is a woman. Another man, one of the more discerning among my acquaintance, but also something of an unreconstructed babe watcher, refers to Camilla as a ”wreck.” When I demand to know why she is a wreck, it emerges that any woman over 30 — which would include this man’s wife and daughter, not to mention my own inexcusably aged self — qualifies as a wreck. ”The guy could have had any woman he wanted,” he adds, sounding outraged on behalf of his entire sex that Charles has sunk to such frumpy depths in his choice of a partner.

The fact that none of this is meant seriously is beside the point, for what is stunningly clear is that Charles’s decision to wed a woman he has been extraordinarily attached to since they first met at a polo match in 1970, and whose allure for him goes well beyond any obvious pinup appeal, has profoundly threatened the football-bonding, beer-guzzling, mother-rejecting frat boy in every man. Ours is a culture that is open to all kinds of desires, it seems, except the sort of male longing for a woman that isn’t immediately reducible to its prurient, arm-candy essence. Which is why Charles’s amorous devotion to Camilla, who has the temerity to look her age and not get her teeth capped or keep her waist whittled to Scarlett O’Hara dimensions (and who, by all accounts, is completely at ease with herself notwithstanding), immediately gets translated into an embarrassing spectacle, something that shows him up as a loony wimp and her as a conniving shrew along the Wallis Simpson model.

Of course, you can hardly expect the poignantly belated decision of these two long-in-the-tooth lovebirds to consecrate their relationship to stir up much in the way of wild excitement. Neither of them possesses the requisite qualities to stimulate the contemporary imagination, grown flabby on a diet of Heidi Klum visuals and C.E.O. excess: Camilla is not beautiful or young or, for that matter, thin (enough), and she seems about as far from the habit of televised, heavily mascaraed soul-baring that endeared Diana to her fans as Bishop Berkeley. Meanwhile, the dithering Charles lacks the singleminded vision and vulgarity of purpose that is supposed to go along with being a rich and powerful guy and that so enthralls onlookers about Donald Trump’s various commercial/matrimonial ventures. If anything, he seems a bit too much of a sensitive mama’s boy, forever looking for a lap to crawl into or — and this must be a first in the annals of overheard phone confessions, whether from a prince or a pauper — a tampon he might impersonate. It’s interesting that for all the cultural agitation about the uncrossable communication divide and lack of closeness between the sexes, the impression that Charles conveys of being in touch with his most intimate yearnings, however painfully expressed, hasn’t earned him points with women. Just as the fact that the couple, middle-aged and insufficiently comely as they are, seem, quite evidently, to have the hots for each other, hasn’t persuaded anyone that this match has an erotic dimension far more potent than the one between Charles and the sexy Diana.

It hasn’t helped the couple’s situation, either, that the logistics related to their big day have resulted in one gaffe after another, all eagerly picked up by the British news media to carnivalesque effect, as if we were being asked to consider a pilot for a sitcom to be called ”Charlie and Cami Get Married.” The announcement of the impending nuptials came four days before Valentine’s Day, which made for a slim but sweet journalistic peg, but we will never know why the queen, in all her impenetrable imperial wisdom, decided that it was O.K. for her scandal-plagued eldest son to marry his live-in divorced girlfriend this year and not last year, or next. Undoubtedly her eye is on securing the monarchy after her death (she is 78), but her decision seems to be shot through with lingering ambivalence about how best to salvage whatever dignity remains invested in her hapless brood.

First there was the flurry about the venue for the ceremony. By contrast to Charles’s first marriage, when nothing would do but St. Paul’s Cathedral and Kiri Te Kanawa, this time around nothing seems inglorious enough. Windsor Castle was traded down to the Guildhall, with attendant press mutterings about the cost to the public; then there were various edicts from Buckingham Palace about table settings and premarital sleeping arrangements; finally, as if to puncture this particular balloon before it ever gets off the ground, came the announcement that the queen herself would not be attending the ceremony, followed by the news that neither would any of Charles’s siblings. When you add to this various other rumors, including the one circulated in a British tabloid that the Bushes have decided not to entertain the couple in the White House — they are divorced, after all, and who knows how that would play in the heartland — it’s a wonder the pair don’t throw in the monogrammed towel and take off for a chapel in Reno.

Most crucially, though, there is the shadow of Diana, who was everything the wife to be is not. Despite her own celebrity, she remained persistently star-struck, a vulnerable child of divorce who grew up to marry the icon whose poster she had on her bedroom wall, and whose dance partner at the White House was John Travolta. She was obsessed with her image, counted gaudy celebrities like Elton John and Versace among her friends, suffered from bulimia as well as various mood disorders and constantly tried out new hairstyles and wardrobes. In all this she reminded us of who we are, stuck at home watching the E! network, fantasizing about becoming grander and more gorgeous versions of who we are. The fact that she was troubled by larger demons than the specter of her husband’s former flame and that she was enormously skilled at manipulating her own coverage, the question of whether she had anything to offer Charles or whether she was in fact interested in knowing who he was beyond the poster icon — all these issues got lost in the tragedy of her death.

In truth, it’s impossible to approach this occasion with stardust in our eyes, which is where it most importantly differs from marriage No. 1, and is also where it fails to please us in some easy way. Featuring, as it does, a mature and un-Botoxed woman at its center, however, it should speak to us — especially us older women, otherwise known as wrecks — in a fuller, more resonant fashion. The long and resilient history of Charles and Camilla is a testament to the power of soulmates’ love: not love as an escapist fantasy, but love seasoned by mutual understanding and the contrivances of largely illicit passion. (Let’s hope an official seal of commitment won’t put the clamps on their erotic life, as it has been known to.) The infinitely gratifying but tragically pubescent fairy-tale romance of Charles and Diana has been replaced by a romance for grown-ups who seem to have taken each other’s human measure in private, away from the click of cameras. Camilla, who enjoyed the solid and nurturing childhood that neither Charles nor Diana had, seems to be fairly free of psychological baggage. She is the kind of woman who, if she has a problem, as one of her friends has observed, ”rather than go and see a therapist . . . is a lot more likely to go fox hunting, come back, put some rum in her tea and have some scrambled eggs.” Whatever liabilities she does come with — children, pets, an ex, a touch of jowls — are out in the open for all to see, not tucked away behind the palace doors, as Diana’s turned out to be.

What this love story suggests to us are the salutary uses of disenchantment, if I may tweak the title of Bruno Bettleheim’s book about fairy tales. It is anti-ageist, anti-looksist and pro-realism. Coming to us, as it does, in less than perfect shape, the tale speaks to the ordinary imperfections and extraordinary hopes that color all our lives. The tragicomedy that is life in the House of Saxe-Coburg Gotha — ”the world’s most brilliant soap opera,” as The Economist calls it — is finally bringing us an act worth watching. Far from joining in the disparagement, we post-babe types should be gathering on the appointed day to toast the prince and his ”devoted old bag,” as she calls herself. Bring on the confetti.

Daphne Merkin, a novelist and critic, is a frequent contributor to the magazine.

EDIT: Had Snape decided not to kill Dumbledore, he would have died. As he made an "Unbreakable Vow" (must fullfill ALL the clauses…or else) with Narcissa Malfoy. Putting my theory aside, it would have meant that Snape simply chose his life over Dumbledore’s (the Headmaster was wandless and probably dying then because of drinking god-knows-what from that cave), quite a "heartless" choice, but the most logical *if you catch my meaning*. Snape is one of the most brilliant minds in the series, probably surpassing even Dumbledore and Voldemort. He actually reminds me of Karla the Grey Witch from The Record of Lodoss War. Neither belonging to the light or the darkness, just concerned with maintaining balance between the two.

And who the hell was R.A.B.???’

Oh, I also liked the bits with Luna Lovegood. I like Luna’s character, kind of reminds me of myself when I was younger (and even until now). That part with her being the commentator for the Quidditch match was positively hilarious. "Loser’s Lurgy"!

————————————————————————

Just finished reading Half-Blood Prince. The sixth book undoubtedly cleared some issues, particularly those frequently discussed in fandom, some silly examples:

• Harry paired with…everyone else (yes, that includes Remus Lupin to Grawp the Giant). It’s now officially Ginny.
• Hermione paired with…everyone else (including Severus Snape! - aack! eeek! and to the side of, ummmmm…NO!!- funny how and where these people get their ideas!). Now we know that it is Ron.

But left some really interesting questions (which I hope will be answered on Book Seven). Like the loyalty of Severus Snape. Just some thought, when Dumbledore said, "Please…Severus…" was he asking Snape to kill him? Or was it the obvious, pleading Snape NOT to kill him? And what about that Phoenix-like phenomena during the funeral? Is Albus Dumbledore really gone? (we know he’s physically gone, but what about?). But then maybe, like Harry, I cannot simply accept the fact one of the greatest wizards of all time was gone and that Albus made a terrible mistake of trusting Snape (after all he’s only human, wizard or not).

Back to my first theory. Why would Dumbledore ask for something like that? First, as a sort of a final, grand lesson for Harry. At the last part of HBP, Harry realized that he can’t forever depend on other people to protect him from Voldemort. Like the book said "the last of his great protectors were gone". On OotP (Order of the Pheonix), JK Rowling gave light to the fact that Harry’s "protectors" were also like him…human. Starting with the attack on Professor McGonagall (which left her on the Infirmary for days), the general helplessness everyone else felt when Dolores Umbridge (a very loathsome character indeed!) and the Ministry of Magic took over because Dumbledore was in hiding (after false accusations of inventing false accusations - you know, he sided with Harry while everyone else thinks that the-boy-who-lived has gone quite mad)!

Anyway, back to Snape (I keep getting derailed), it’s still very difficult to judge, much more hate him. Given the context of his childhood (there are plenty of clues), abusive muggle father, apparently weak pure-blood mother, bullied at school, the list could go on. Actually, like the book mentioned, Snape has a lot of similarity to Voldemort. But what about Harry? He was abused and neglected as a child (though not as worse compared to the previous two), but still managed to show fairness (even to those who don’t deserve it, like Peter Pettigrew), rationale, compassion and kindness? Although he loses it occasionally. How far does one person’s experience influence his/her choices in life?

And what about innate personality characteristics and family background? Tom Riddle showed an alarming lack of conscience even at such a young age. He actually reminded me of "The Poisoner…", an article about a young psychopath (he started misdeeds at the tender age of 7! -and yes, his family was perfectly normal) I’ve read at CrimeLibrary.com, it goes like this, the psycopath’s sister told him that perhaps he should go out more and meet friends, and here was his answer: "Nothing like that would help. You see, there is a terrible coldness inside me." It was both chilling and sad. When asked if he felt remorse for his victims (including his family), he replied. "No. I would be a hypocrite if I said yes. What I feel is in the emptiness of my soul." See? Even the person was aware that something is missing inside him. That must be the case with Voldemort. He never had friends because he didn’t feel the need for them. And no amount of counseling and coaxing would make him change. He was a person literally born "without a soul". And don’t forget the history of mental illness in his mother’s family (a result of in-breeding). Like psycopaths, he can only "imitate" human feeling (and believe me true psychos are extremely good at this), and there is no use telling him that whatever he’s doing is wrong, because he doesn’t and won’t understand. Ever. What I’m talking about are extremely rare cases. Most are still treatable.

Ah! derailed once more! Back to Snape, I’d rather believe him to be on Dumbledore’s side. But of course, there’s always the possiblity that he was nothing more than a selfish coward (but then, that place was currently occupied by Peter Pettigrew). He’s extremely skilled in Occlumency. And what about this Snape-Lily connection I read on many fandoms?? Remember, Snape never passed off a chance to throw insults at Harry, particularly about his father. But not one about Harry’s mother?? I find that a bit off. And then there was Snape arguing with Dumbledore a few nights before the Tower Fisaco.

And about the matter of him helping Narcissa Malfoy. Again, I suppose it goes back to Snape’s troubled childhood. I actually like Severus Snape because he is a morally ambiguous (sp?) character.

HBP Bits I liked best (because i loved the book):

• Fleur still determined to marry Bill, even after he was attacked by Fenrir Greyback (which left the eldest Weasly less…desirable -physically-).
• Tonks never took a liking for Sirius after all, it was in fact, Remus Lupin! (who would have guessed!?)
• All the Ron-Hermione, Harry-Ginny bits. I found them all very amusing.
• All of Harry’s lessons with Dumbledore. Especially all the explanations about Voldemort’s differences and similarities with Harry. I got a bit teary eyed. *shame*
• All the "Ron-was-poisoned" scenes.
• Ron and Hermione’s decision to stick with Harry even if he decides to leave Hogwarts to hunt for the remaining Horcruxes.

And to address a fan’s comment about how Harry was less sad about Dumbledore’s passing, than about Sirius; I disagree. Just because someone isn’t moaning and screaming that doesn’t mean that he/she isn’t deeply affected. Besides I don’t think a man such as Dumbledore would have liked that. A few words before signing-off: *blubber, oddment, tweak*.

I must whine. Yes, "whine" (widdle, twaddle). Why? Because I must (and don’t you dare stop me!), and I’m generally very good at whining. But first, let us define the word "whine". Let’s see, according to "The American Heritage Dictionary",

1. To utter a plaintive, high-pitched, protracted sound, as in pain, fear, supplication, or complaint.
2. To complain or protest in a childish fashion.

Now, that’s the formal definition of "whine". But I will simply define it as "to complain". Oh, another similar word would be "gripe".Why the sudden interest? Because the succeeding paragraphs will consist solely of complaints. And if you do not wish to be bored to tears, I suggest you stop reading now. (i mean, in case someone actually bothers to read, but, whatever, i couldn’t care less.)

Anyway, let’s start. First, the "Million Dollar Question", which, unfortunately cannot be disclosed. I do not want to sound too pathetic (widdle, twaddle, waddle); so, I’ll keep the question to myself. This particular bit of inquiry has been plaguing me for the past, uh, 10 or so years. Since I was in high school? (not too sure) maybe. I have searched far and wide, high and low, sideways, down-under, over there, left and right, top to bottom for the answer, but no luck! I cannot find either a psychological nor a scientific one (i’d be glad if there was a scientific answer), a mathematical one, perhaps? or literary? cultural??

0_0! But I won’t give up!

My search wasn’t entirely in vain, however. I managed to find "tid-bits", "half-truths" and then some. But I can’t settle for those, can I?? Some answers were so unsatisfactory that they cannot even be considered answers (like the ones I got from my parents and some of my "friends"). Although, I am very much aware that there is no such thing as an absolute truth, I must, nonetheless find something closer to it. Otherwise, I will be driven to complete and utter madness! Why?? Why?? You tell me!

Next, The Signs and Omens of the Future.

I was sitting on the couch last, last Sunday. Doing the usual things -the usual for those who don’t have a "life" -that is, as defined by our society -, mainly cross-stitching, drawing (i’m almost done with Lindbergh), playing videogames, what have you; when i had a sudden vision of "clarity", meaning, I saw the future (not career-wise, but as a person). No. No. No. I’m not talking about messiah-scale types (i did not faint, convulsed, spoken in strange tongues or voices- otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, I’d be somewhere deep in the mountains, hiding in caves, waiting for the end of all things or speaking in vast auditoriums, having thousands of followers or, if i’m not too lucky, in a mental health institution). Just an understanding. Here are the signs:

The Needle, The Apartment, The Book, The Job, The Sketch Pad. The Illustrator and The Musician (I have an ink drawing of that, might show you sometime).

Oh, and not only that. I dreamt of Willy Wonka. No. Not Johnny Depp. Willy Wonka. What could be scarier than to have Willy Wonka in your future.

For those who noticed the music used on both of the Sin City trailers (I was very much taken in by the way the trailer was made - you know, how they cut the scenes, the images, and above all, the music-), it’s called "Cells" by The Servant (you’ll like them if you’re familiar with Radiohead or Coldplay and other British rock bands), although they used the instrumental version. You can download it here: http://www.theservant.co.uk/audio/Cells_In…nstrumental.zip