Werewolves and Grimms and Rats, Oh My!

 In the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry receives a present from Hagrid, 'The Monster Book of Monsters.' Beginning a pattern that will repeat throughout the book, Harry at first perceives the present as dangerous, wild, and threatening, only to later learn that it is in fact harmless--if treated with kindness. Harry is forced to restrain the book in order to control it. Only later will it be revealed that the way to handle the book is to pet it, like an animal. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban presents multiple motifs of human vs animal nature, challenging Harry and the reader to question their own beliefs and standards without reaching any definite conclusions. 

This motif, which begins with a seemingly humorous moment, is repeated with increasing depth and seriousness throughout Prisoner of Azkaban. Rowling uses animals and monsters to raise several probing questions about our assumptions and perceptions of others, as well as posing the question of what makes a human human. Is it a body, a soul, a mind, or all three? Are monsters monsters because of their nature, or because of the way they're treated? What matters most--the way we see ourselves, or the way others see us?

Rowling repeats the animal motif and perception vs. reality question so many times in Prisoner of Azkaban that it is impossible to cover them in a single post--from Buckbeak the Hippogriff to the dementors to Crookshanks to Hagrid to Argus Filch to Professors Trelawney and McGonagall. Instead, I decided to focus on the most obvious and most complex example--the four Marauders--and analyze each individually as examples of Rowling's trope.

"His name is Professor R. J. Lupin."

On the surface, Remus Lupin is a mild-mannered, even shy, professor who becomes a mentor for Harry--the first adult to truly show an interest in Harry as a person, and not as a burden, an orphan in need of protecting, or a tool for fighting Voldemort. (The reasons why Dumbledore does not qualify are numerous and probably best addressed in their own post.) As the reader learns, however, Professor Lupin's quiet nature masks a dark alter-ego, a vicious, mindless monster who is violent and cruel. Professor Lupin is a werewolf, and wizarding society has deemed werewolves dangerous and undesirable. Ample evidence suggests that Lupin was living in poverty before coming to Hogwarts. Lupin was the first werewolf to attend Hogwart. It is shown again and again that wizards have a heavy prejudice against werewolves. Like wizards, Rowling seems aware that her readers' initial reaction to a werewolf would be the assumption that it is a monster.

Instead of presenting her readers with a slobbering, blood-lusting beast, Rowling cleverly hides Lupin's true nature until the climax of the Prisoner of Azkaban. By the time Hermione blurts out Lupin's secret, readers have come to see Lupin as the antithesis of a wild beast; with his books, tea, dislike of fuss, love of teaching, and quiet care for Harry and his other students, Lupin is the definition of civilized. At that point in the story, readers have no choice but to support Lupin, to be sympathetic to his plight. As Harry's regard for Lupin grew, so did the readers'; Rowling leaves us no choice but to see Lupin as a human trapped in unfortunate circumstances rather than a monster masquerading as a man.

Numerous essays have been written claiming that Lupin in particular, and werewolves in general, are Rowling's way of critiquing society's view of AIDS patients, homosexuals, racial and religious minorities, women, drug addicts, and criminals. While Rowling may have had one or more of those groups in mind when creating her werewolves--and wizards' reaction to werewolves--I do not believe werewolves are meant to stand for any one type of person, but rather society's reaction to anything it perceives as wrong, different, or deviant. From the Nazis to the KKK to the Red Scare to the current (and awful) Minuteman Project, humans have proved again and again what a poor job we do of accepting those who are different than us, who we believe threaten us in some way because of their beliefs, religion, race, or gender. 

If Rowling is making a statement with Lupin, her wolf in human clothing, it is that labels, perceptions, and generalizations never tell the whole story, never capture the individual. For the majority of Prisoner of Azkaban, the reader sees Lupin as a man. There is no reason for their view of him to change once it is revealed that he is a werewolf, yet wizarding society is willing to reject him on the fact of his nature alone. Even Ron, Harry's best friend, who has been in Lupin's class all year, reacts with horror and disgust upon learning Lupin's nature. ("Get away from me, werewolf!") Lupin is the most in depth form of Rowling's monster motif, and as for the question if he is human despite--or because of--his animal nature, Rowling answers in the affirmative repeatedly, throughout this and the later books.

"Sirius Black killed twelve people, he did." 

Sirius Black is presented as an insane murderer who killed twelve people, including his friend, and is now coming after Harry to gain revenge for Voldemort's death and his own incarceration in Azkaban. When the truth comes out--Sirius did not kill anyone, was protecting the Potters, and broke out from Azkaban to protect Harry--it flies in the face of everything Harry and the reader believe. It is easy for Harry to believe Sirius is a monster because society views him as a monster: he is described as 'vampiric,' with waxy skin and long, matted black hair, and he is guilty of committing the ultimate sin: the betrayal of his best friend. 

Harry does not want to see Sirius as anything but a murderer because to do so disrupts Harry's black and white view of the world: his parents were good, Voldemort was evil, Sirius Black betrayed his best friends and deserves to die. Harry's view of the world is understandable; he is a thirteen-year-old orphan who lost his parents violently at a young age. Acknowledging that Sirius may not be a cold-blooded murderer but an innocent man who made mistakes out of love is tricky and troublesome for Harry. 

In Prisoner of Azkaban, we see Harry pulled between his two best friends and their opposing view-points: Hermione is always willing to give a second chance and values logic over emotion, while Ron has a firm and unshakeable view of the world and follows his gut rather than his head. Throughout the book, Harry is searching for answers and for balance: he knows Hagrid is innocent and Buckbeak was just acting on instinct, but also blindly accepts Crookshanks's guilt in Scabbers's disappearance. It is only when he learns the story of the Marauders and what they did for Lupin that he comes to find a peace and a balance within himself: he refuses to accept someone's guilt based only on hearsay, but he also seeks justice for those who have wronged others. 

Harry learns to not accept stories as fact and that perceptions can differ wildly from reality. In Sirius, who Harry views as a monster for most of Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry finds a guardian, a mentor, a godfather, and a man whose loyalty to his friends strongly reflects Harry's own. Sirius serves as a lesson to Harry and to the reader: a person's worth is more than skin deep, and each individual's worth should be judged by their actions rather than the outside world's perceptions. 

"Poor Pettigrew. Always running after Black, Potter, and their little gang." 

Peter Pettigrew is quite literally a man within an animal. After arranging the murder of one friend and the imprisonment of another, he spends the next twelve years as a rat. His main crime is the sort that only a human could commit: betrayal. Pettigrew is a man who uses an animal to hide his human nature, which is truly monstrous. In the case of Pettigrew, it is the man, not the beast, who is a monster.

In Prisoner of Azkaban, not only do we get a villain who turns out to not be a villain at all, but the true antagonist is not  a terrifying, all-powerful wizard, but someone who's evil is frighteningly, recognizably, human. Peter Pettigrew's crime is betrayal, but it's betrayal born not of malice, but cowardice. As Homer says, to have a great man for an intimate friend seems pleasant to those who have never tried it; those who have, fear it. Peter's three closest friends are all men who are unusually courageous--James faced certain death against Voldemort to give his family time to escape, Sirius willingly risked torture and death to protect his friends, Lupin acted as a spy against Voldemort and has endured being a werewolf. 

With Peter Pettigrew, Rowling for the first time introduced a villain who her readers could relate to--perhaps even more than they could relate to James, Sirius, and Lupin. Prisoner of Azkaban contains a depth and maturity--a human monster--that the other Harry Potter books approach, but never quite reach. Voldemort is humanized in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, but compared to Pettigrew he is a distant evil, driven by lofty goals of purity and power. Peter Pettigrew is a traitor, but his betrayal was driven by fear rather than cruelty.

Like Lupin, Pettigrew is outwardly harmless, both as a rat and as a man. He protests that he spent three years sleeping next to Harry without ever harming Harry. Pettigrew is not dangerous as an animal, however, but as a human who is fallible and weak and frightened. Unlike Sirius, Pettigrew allowed others to determine his self-worth, relying first on the Marauders' approval and then later on Voldemort's. Because he lacks a core strength and sense of self, Pettigrew was easily swayed to Voldemort's side. Peter Pettigrew is an example of how monstrous humans can be--and how those who commit terrible acts are often weak rather than evil. 

"You look just like your father, Harry. Just like him."

The fourth ambiguous nature is one that will not be fully revealed or explored until Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, but a few hints are given in Prisoner of Azkaban about the--if not dark then certainly gray--nature of James Potter. Before Prisoner of Azkaban, Snape's reasons for hating James, and, by extension, Harry, are ambiguous. In Prisoner of Azkaban, we learn that James and his friends likely bullied Snape. The Marauder's Map responds with insults when Snape attempts to speak to it, insults that seem tailored for Snape specifically. Snape's immediate reaction is to contact Lupin, confirming both that Snape has heard these words before and that Lupin and the other Marauders used the words. Later, when Sirius's true nature is revealed, he speaks about Snape with casual contempt--not as if Snape is a rival, but as if Snape is beneath him. Finally, from Snape we learn that Sirius once attempted to murder Snape sending him to meet Lupin in werewolf form. Although James saved Snape's life, later evidence gives credence to Snape's claim that James did so more to protect Sirius and Lupin than Snape.

Before, during, and after Prisoner of Azkaban, James Potter is presented as a saint. He was a loving father and husband. He was a talented wizard and loyal friend. He gave his life protecting his wife and son. Although he was apparently a trickster, such episodes are treated with amusement and nostalgia rather than disapproval. Until Harry enters Snape's memory in Order of the Phoenix, he has no reason to doubt this rose-tinted picture of his father. Readers, however, may begin to sense the disconnect between the myth and reality in Prisoner of Azkaban. In a book about concealed nature and the dangers of misconception, the astute reader should realize that the portrait we are given of James Potter up until that point is not entirely accurate.

To be clear:  James Potter is not a bad man, nor does Rowling think that James Potter is a bad man. He is a good wizard, father, husband, and friend. He gave his life protecting his family and fighting Voldemort. But that does not mean he was an untarnished paragon of virtue. He was arrogant, self-centered, and a bully. If Harry learns anything in Prisoner of Azkaban, it is that things are not always what they seem, and just because the majority declares an opinion about a person, that does not mean the majority is right. The last scene with Lupin is a perfect example: although Harry knows Lupin is a good, kind, even honorable man, Lupin is forced out of Hogwarts because many parents believe he is dangerous.

 In Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Rowling forces Harry to grow up. He learns that the world is not black and white--this is the first book where the villain, and the right course of action, are not clean cut--and that adults can be petty and cruel. He learns that sometimes things do not work out the way they should, and that sometimes friends betray you. Rowling is preparing Harry for the even harsher truths he encounters in Order of the Phoenix: the loss of his perfect view of his parents, and his own weakness inadvertently causing the deaths of people he loves.

Maybe I'm Delusional, But I Like It That Way; Or An Alternate Alternate Theory About What's Really Going On In "My Neighbor Totoro"

First things first: yay for my first post where I'm praising something instead of criticizing it! Yay! The Grinch's small heart grew three sizes this day!

Ehm. Right. Moving on.

So, for those who aren't familiar, My Neighbor Totoro is one of the earlier films by Hayao Miyazaki, the genius Japanese writer/director whose films include Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle, and Kiki's Delivery Service. Totoro (*massive spoilers from here out*) tells the story of two sisters, ten-year-old Satsuki and four-year-old Mei. After moving to a haunted house, first Mei and then Satsuki meet Totoro, a giant, benevolent spirit who lives in the woods behind their house. While it's certainly possible (and maybe preferable) to see Totoro as a sweet, adorable story about a pair of sisters who make magical friends as they cope with their mother's illness, there is a darker, alternate theory about what's really going on in the film. (Hence mine being an 'alternate alternate' theory.)

The alternate theory goes something like this: at the end, the entire family is not reunited, because Mei and Satsuki are dead.

Pause. I did warn you it was a darker interpretation.

Here's where the theory comes from: right before Mei disappears, right after her argument with Satsuki, the camera pans down and shows her little pink sandals. Later, the searchers find a pink sandal floating in a pond, but Satsuki says it doesn't belong to Mei. According to the theory, the sandal does in fact belong to Mei; Satsuki is just in denial or overcome with grief and guilt and refuses to accept the truth. Satsuki then goes to Totoro and essential commits suicide, or gives herself over to death, so that she can be with her sister again. At the end, both girls are dead, and the credits are either a fantasy or a memory of a time before the film when the family was happy.

Although Satsuki does not visible kill herself in any way, there is evidence to support the alternate theory. For one, Mei's sandal. The sandal in the pond looks like hers, so it would make sense that she drowned--how else would the sandal have gotten into the pond? For another, after Satsuki finds Mei, neither girl has a shadow for the rest of the film. Then there's the cat bus. The first time it comes around, Mei and Satsuki shrink from it in fear and do not climb on when given the chance, but at the end they seem to relish the chance to ride the bus. After Satsuki climbs on, she comments that 'the trees are fading away,' and 'no one can see her anymore.' The cat bus may be a portal between the world of the living and the dead. Finally, when the cat bus takes the girls to the hospital, why do they not simply go in and see their mother if they're actually physically present? The mother thinks she sees them in the trees, but then thinks it was an illusion.

One final factor that adds credence to the death theory is that when My Neighbor Totoro was first released in cinemas, it was shown as a double feature with another children's movie, Grave of the Fireflies. Grave of the Fireflies is a semi-autobiographical story about a brother and sister struggling (and ultimately failing) to survive in a war-torn Japan during WWII. The film's writer, Isao Takahata, wrote the story as an apology to his younger sister, who died under very similar circumstances to Setsuko, the little girl in the film. Both Totoro and Fireflies are about older siblings struggling to save their younger sisters from dangers that are partially the older siblings' fault. At the end of Fireflies, Seita lays dying, believing it is what he deserves for failing his younger sister. Given that the films were released together, it seems possible that Totoro is a lighter, hidden retelling of the circumstances in Fireflies, which offers a relatively happy ending by showing the siblings reunited in the end.

Or that's all a load of crap.

One of the fantastic things about Hayao Miyazaki is that he takes Classic tropes, themes, and characters and reapplies them in modern stories, stories that often either feature children or are geared for children. Spirited Away in particular is one long lesson in Classical ideology. The central character travels far away from home and ends up lost next to a sea. She has to go through multiple trials that test her strength, determination, and intelligence, before facing a final trial which tests her discernment, which she has gained over the course of her journey.  She ultimately has to leave all of her companions behind, but she has grown to the point where she can survive on her own. In addition, there's a witch that turns greedy and gluttonous people into pigs, and a great significance is placed on names and knowing who you are. Chihiro's journey could almost be called, an, oh, I don't know, an odyssey.

Spirited Away is the most obvious example, but the Classics pop up in all Miyazaki's movies. Journeys to discover the self, battles with powers that can't be defeated, punishment for greed and hubris, discerning protagonists, and the necessity of surrendering to a higher power--Miyazaki is the modern master of the Classic journey. 

It's from that last part in particular--surrendering to a higher power--that my alternate alternate theory comes from. The way I'm looking at it, Mei did indeed die at the end, but when Satsuki goes to Totoro she's not asking to die to be with her sister--instead she's asking to surrender her life to save her sister. To be perfectly clear--I'm not saying that Satsuki is sacrificing herself to save Mei. Instead, Satsuki is taking the journey of all the great Classical heroes, the descent into hell. Like Odysseus and Aeneis, Satsuki is daring to do what no one else dares--to travel to hell and back. Earlier I said that Satsuki 'gives herself over to death.' I do think that's what happens--but I think that in surrendering herself, Satsuki ensures that both she and Mei will be able to return unscathed. If My Neighbor Totoro is meant as a parallel to Grave of the Fireflies, I think Totoro grants Satsuki and Mei the happy ending Setsuko and Sieta were denied, not because the siblings are reunited, but because Satsuki, unlike Sieta, succeeds in saving her little sister from death.

When Satsuki rides the cat bus, it is the journey between the mortal world and the underworld. Before, she was too frightened to take the journey, but now that she has a reason, she has the courage she needs to step into the unknown. Because Satsuki was willing to risk everything to save Mei, both girls can take the journey back to the mortal world, but they will only arrive once they're back at their house--the only way to regain yourself is to go home. When Satsuki and Mei's mother sees them out the window, she's seeing them as they pass from one world into the next. The sight of them does not fill her with dread, but with peace, because she knows that they'll all be together again soon.

What evidence do I have to support my theory? Not a whole lot. All I have is my knowledge of other Miyazaki works, and my inability to believe that Miyazaki would pointlessly kill two characters (two young children) who are his protagonists. Characters die in Miyazaki films, although rarely in his children's films, but their deaths always serve a purpose or make a point. Mei and Satsuki's deaths--if they do in fact die--are entirely random. I can't believe that Miyazaki would just kill them without a good reason--I can, however, believe that he would kill one character to set up an epic journey for the other.

Maybe I'm the delusional one. Maybe I'm just in love with happy endings. But if I'm delusional, then I'm happy that way. Miyazaki is a phenomenal director and writer, and the very fact that I can spend pages and pages writing about just one of his films shows the depth and power of his work. Given what I've seen and what I know about Miyazaki, I can't believe that he just allows Mei and Satsuki to die. I believe he gives Satsuki a chance to learn from her mistake by taking a life-changing journey into the unknown. Homer would be proud.

--Cates