Category Archives: Tales of Despair

Tales about art inspired by despair, depression and darkness.

Tales of Despair: Pélleas et Mélisande

Love incites bitterness; revenge leads to death, and the world descends into madness. From the chaos is birthed the new, the pure, and the harmonious. And so the cycle continues.

La Mort du Fossoyeur – Carlos Schwabe

The symbolists of the late nineteenth century were consumed with the goal of depicting the world not in itself, but as a representation of a deeper meaning, of dreams and ideals; life, and love, and death. In painting, angels, demons and death abounded, uniting love, death and despair. A beautiful example of this is Carlos Schwabe‘s La Mort du Fossoyeur (The Death of the Gravedigger). An angel – not white, but dark – looks upon the old man, deep within the grave he has dug for himself. The world is cold and frozen, blanketed in pure snow, and as the angel’s wings curl around the man, ready to bear him hence, she lights a green flame in the palm of her hand, the unearthly glow lighting her face. The angel is death, and transformation; the man is of the weary and aging world, longing to be taken from his agony.

It was against this symbolic background that Maurice Maeterlinck wrote the tragic play Pélleas et Mélisande – a tale of darkness and doomed love. Goulaud, a prince of Allemonde, discovers a young girl by a stream in the woods, lost and afraid, with no memory of who she is, but for her name: Mélisande. Goulaud falls in love with the girl, and they are soon wed in secret. Despite his fear that his grandfather, named Arkël and ailing king of Allemonde, would not approve, word eventually reaches him via Pélleas, who is Goulaud’s brother. Arkël would have his grandson return home nonetheless, and is smitten by the beautiful girl, and gives the couple his blessing.

Soon, though, Mélisande discovers a deep love for Pélleas, and the two begin to spend ever more time with each other. Deep in the woods, Mélisande loses her wedding ring in a well; fearful to tell Goulaud the truth, she tells him it was lost in a dark grotto. He bids her retrieve the ring, and again Pélleas accompanies her, providing her comfort in the terrifying darkness.

Growing ever suspicious, Goulaud brings a warning upon his brother: deep under the castle, he leads him to a great chasm, and darkly tells him to beware: Mélisande is with child, and is not to be his.

Pélleas kisses Mélisande’s beautiful tresses (courtesy of Ken Howard and Metropolitan Opera)

Yet Pélleas and Mélisande cannot deny their love, and in a desperate attempt to save her, Pélleas tells her he must leave, lest they bring Goulaud’s wrath upon them. But even as he departs, Goulaud confronts Mélisande, and in his anger, casts her violently to the ground. In tears, she flees in search of Pélleas, determined to be with him one last time. Once more deep within the woods, they meet and embrace in love – unaware that Goulaud had followed her. Descending upon them in fury, Goulaud runs through his own brother, and in casting him lifeless to the ground, deeply wounds his own bride.

Growing now ever weaker, Mélisande gives birth prematurely to a daughter; upon seeing her face, she bids the nurse to take her away from her, as she is nothing but tragedy to her. And so, in tears, she dies also.

Throughout the play, the story is rife with symbolism. In flirting with Pélleas, Mélisande loses her wedding ring – an symbol of the infidelity to come. The strength of women is also implicit in the grief their loss wreaks upon their men. Arkël, king of Allemonde, has lost his own wife; Goulaud is a widower when he discovers Mélisande; and of course, he brings the death of his second wife, Mélisande, upon her himself.

Maurice believed firmly in the cycle of destruction and rebirth; Eros, mythical god of love, and Anteros, his counterpart as the god of revenge, are at the heart of Pélleas et Mélisande. In the great darkness, love is slowly dying; the kingdom is ravaged by famine, waters are foul, and death surrounds our characters. In seeking forbidden love, Pélleas and Mélisande culminate this, and revenge is visited upon all, now leaving the world ready to begin again.

Pélleas et Mélisande has been influential since in a number of media; best known are Claude Debussy‘s opera, and Jean Sibelius‘ incidental suite. This latter is a wonderful musical journey of beauty and tragedy; I would highly recommend discovering and listening to this masterpiece.

Tales of Despair: Paranorman

Spoiler Alert: If you haven’t seen Paranorman yet, read no further!

I know what you’re thinking: isn’t Paranorman that stop-motion kids’ movie that came out earlier this summer? You know, the one with funny-looking zombies and plenty of goofs?

Yes, it is…sort of.

I took Little Satis to see it the other day – a kind of day-before-school treat – assuming it would be a good bit of fun. Something like Corpse Bride, I thought, or The Nightmare Before Christmas (goulish animation seems to be the exclusive realm of Tim Burton). I wasn’t expecting to find a movie that was surprisingly dark, genuinely scary, and ultimately heartbreaking.

Norman talks to dead people, and unsurprisingly, most people – including his parents – think he’s a freak. The only person who listens to him is the fat kid, who shares his torment.

The town he lives in, Blithe, is renown for the trial and execution of an evil witch some three hundred years ago. Soon, strange goings-on begin, and Norman is confronted by a crazy man claiming to be his uncle, telling him he must read from a book at the witch’s grave before sundown, or the dead will rise. Needless to say, the old man dies, Norman doesn’t make it in time, and a host of zombies – the seven folk who had sentenced the witch to death – rise from their graves: cursed by her to wander forever, undead. Norman, the fat kid and his unwilling older sister are now faced with delivering the town now not only from the hordes of zombies, but from the evil of the witch herself.

The darkness in this movie, however, comes not from the ghostly story or ghoulish characters, but rather from Norman himself; the creators of Paranorman made the (brave) decision to create a main character – in a children’s movie, no less – who is drowned in misery and depression. Norman passes through his life numb, bearing the torment of those around him, and never considering that there could be any other way of life. The thought of tossing a stick for a dog to fetch – the concept of fun – is entirely lost on him.

And of course, it could be no other way, for the ending of the story was as emotional as it was surprising. Gradually, we learn that the seven undead executors, far from being evil, are merely seeking rest – relief from the torment of living dead for over three hundred years. And when Norman hunts desperately to discover where the witch’s grave could be, he discovered a terrible, tragic truth: the demonic witch, scourge of the town and held as evil for three hundred years, was only an eleven-year old girl. For nothing more than appearing to control fire, she was hunted, trialled, and executed.

I was blinking back tears by the end of a movie I had expected to be thoughtless entertainment (after all, it wasn’t Pixar). But the misery, the tragedy of so young a girl, ripped from her parents by ignorant, fearful men and put horribly to death…it was so unexpected, and so sad, that my heart went out to her. In my throat was caught my heart when the girl’s ghost, finally spent of her rage, collapses to her knees and utters…

I want my mommy.

This was no children’s movie, despite what its producers would have us believe. It was something special – something that speaks to the bullied, the tormented and the abused in all of us. I am glad I saw it – and glad Little Satis did to, despite it all. The world is a dark place sometimes, and our children need to learn this: it will make them appreciate the light all the more.

Tales of Despair: When the Walls Begin to Crumble

Imagine you are not who you say you are. You are something different, something other, that no one else sees. Something that no one else can be allowed to see, for fear it will destroy you both.

So many years ago, you became this other you. Like a slow tide, you were unconsciously inundated, uncertain when the first cold touch of sea first came, but knowing that the depths were rising. Before long, all that remained were dead eyes, remaining above the surface – and soon, you sank below, and the deep and the black swallowed you whole.

The dark became your life; it threatened to take your life; it was around you, and in you, and through and through, it was you. And the drowning was a bliss, because as slowly the breath was stolen from your lungs, all things became unimportant, and thought left you mind. Day upon day passed, undistinguished, and the very light of the sun was darkness to your eyes.

And then, like all things, it came to pass; the waters receded, and the world returned…but it was not as before. You were changed, irrefutably, and irreparably. The world became always dark, and the thrills and joys were muted and grey. And you began to notice the ways of the world, and cynicism and spite grew like poison thorns in your mind. You pitied – and envied – the thoughtless, empty, blissfully unaware souls that surrounded you, deluding themselves with false happiness and toiling ignorantly towards insignificant goals.

And you came to realize that you had to survive. There was no place for one like you anymore in the world. And so, piece by piece, you crafted your mask – you built the walls.

And you built them high, and strong, and through the windows came the smiling light of a joyful soul. The walls were whitewashed, and the roof was tiled, and the shutters painted, and the garden neatly tended. What a beautiful house, they all said – what a wonderful person. There is humor, there is wit, there is drive and there is compassion. You looked around, and you observed, and your false house became a mirror of those among whom you now live. Always careful – only a small piece from here, a tad from there – just enough that they all believe you are your own, original, colorful creation.

What they don’t know – what they can’t know – is that inside, the lights are out, and the floor is dusty, and on the walls the cobwebs hang thick. Here is where you go at the end of each and every day. And the worst is that, on your way home, you see that bright, friendly house you built, and for a moment – just a moment – you believe in it. You built your walls so convincingly that you have fooled yourself.

How were you to know what was to come? How could you have known that those walls wouldn’t last forever? It almost seemed you could live in that fantasy, and as long as you stayed on the outside, the dark might not actually be real. And then – now – the walls are beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, you see them fall away. There are days when you try to patch, support and rebuild, but it is insidious – like that first, callous tide that pulled you under and changed you forever.

Soon, the walls may fall away, and there, huddling amid the rubble, is you – the true you, the twisted and deformed you, the you that was made, all those years ago. And there will be no hiding, and no rebuilding. And then, the tide will come in again, and it will wash away the ruins…and perhaps, it will wash away you.