Paranormal Elements in Jane Eyre and the Realm of the Feminine












By Ian Coleman




















From the onset of Charlotte Bronte’s, Jane Eyre the title character of Jane Eyre is challenged by obstacles to her personal happiness that occur throughout the story. Such obstacles are products of attempts by oppressive individuals to enforce their will upon Jane, or others who undermine her sense of self respect by making her out to be a plaything. Although Jane’s constant struggle to free herself from the grip of these oppressions is a very concrete one, it also has a basis in the supernatural elements that creep up in various points of the novel. These instances of paranormal visions and perceived ghostly encounters underscore Jane’s oppression by the individuals she encounters and her struggle to maintain the sanctity of the personal realm of her mind.
Jane Eyre’s consciousness can be personified as an extension of heavenly forces. Although her resistance against individuals working against her is established in the very first chapter, it is not until the formation of her friendship with Helen Burns that her sense of personal sanctity constructs itself. Helen acts as a mirror image of Jane; a young girl deemed unfitting to function in society due to her unconventional mannerisms. Jane’s concept of God at this point, unlike Helen’s, is not completely formed. This changes upon Helen’s death however, when Jane becomes acquainted first hand with the benevolence she comes to believe has been bestowed upon her. After Helen tells her that she “will come to that same region of happiness” as her and “be received by the same mighty, universal parent” (Bronte 83), and dies, Jane assimilates her sense of belonging ordained by a divine presence and bases her subsequent actions on what she views as God’s will.
Existing in opposition to the light and virtue of Heaven, there is the darkness and fire of Hell. The struggle between these forces plays out in Jane Eyre through the macabre encounters and visions the title character experiences. The first, and perhaps most significant of these encounters occurs in the second chapter, in which Jane is sent to a room in her home of Gateshead she refers to as “the Red Room”. In the red room, her uncle, John Reed, had died and consequentially, her childish mind associates the room with supernatural forces and perceives the moonlight entering it as “a herald of some coming vision from another world” (Bronte 16). It is after this vision and the panic that ensues as a result that Jane yearns for a change, a chance to escape from her imprisonment by her relatives. Unfortunately, she continues to come upon others who belittle her, and such oppression is accompanied by macabre visions and encounters. It is Jane’s experience in the red room that sees her first traumatic experience with harsh constriction of her will and the paranormal phenomena that accompany this constriction as an extension of the red room’s perceived underlying malevolent will.
Even after escaping to “freedom” and finding love in the character of Edward Rochester, Jane still continues to be haunted by the specters of repression. Rochester’s estate of Thornfield Hall, which at first seems a place in which Jane can pursue a fresh start, is painted as an extension of the malevolence following Jane. This is most clearly conveyed in her first meeting with Rochester. Although he quickly establishes himself as Jane’s object of affection, her first meeting with him carries an eerie air. Jane first spots Rochester riding toward Thornfield and the image springs a memory of a creature called the Gytrash a spirit “which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways” (Bronte 114). Rochester’s initial association with this evil spirit carries over to certain aspects of his character. Although he loves Jane dearly, his conduct toward her is characterized by a severe lack of respect, fooling her with false stories of plans to marry another woman and after his first marriage proposal, treating her as a child and undervaluing her self respect. Rochester in truth, carries but a hint of menace; the true evil will present in Thornfield is personified in the character of Bertha Mason.
Much of the paranormal intrigue of Jane Eyre revolves around Rochester’s insane wife, Bertha Mason. Although her character is a physical presence, her appearances, or traces of such, are decidedly like a specter. Sneaking around Thornfield and menacing its inhabitants, Bertha most often leaves naught but a horrific trace of her presence, ranging from a bite mark to flames; remnants of a creature who seems driven by nothing more than evil itself. The eventual description of her physical appearance too, evokes horror of a demonic nature: mangy, animal like, and possessing red eyes that conjure an association with Jane’s red room. This metaphorical affiliation paints the ghostly, devilish Bertha as Jane’s polar opposite; the physical manifestation of all she opposes. Were she to stay with Rochester even after the ghoulish revelation of his wife’s identity, she would be casting herself into Bertha’s negative ground. Thus, Jane decides to leave her love behind.
At the conclusion of Jane Eyre however, the supernatural elements that before carried a sense of doom, ends up working to Jane’s advantage.

Essay

Ian Coleman
Kazushi Nathan Rickert
Ms. Cornelius
AP English Language and Composition
23 March 2009
An Archetypal Analysis of Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World
The two interconnected narratives, the detective story, “Hard Boiled Wonderland” and the metaphysical, mythological melodrama, “The End of the World”, as they are structured and composed in Haruki Murakami’s Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, correspond to Carl Jung’s theory of The Archetype of Transformation. This theory involves “the Process of Individualization or the Integration of the Personality… the experience of detachment from the world of objective reality… and the finding of a new dimension in which it can be contemplated and lived… a death of the old life and the birth of a new” (Drew 18). The protagonist’s excursion into his own subconscious, a journey characterizing the “End of the World” segment of the story, is constituted of a series of archetypes, or “primordial images” that exist in the collective unconscious. The sequence and role of these archetypes, personified as individuals and animals within the narrator’s subconscious, form a pattern in his mind that instigates the evolution of his sense of self within it. This allows him, by the novel’s denouement, to transcend the limitations placed upon him culturally, as well as the shortcomings of the personality and moral ethics of his previous self as it existed in the realm of reality.
The two stories, told in alternating chapters composing Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World initially present themselves as separate narratives. Hard Boiled Wonderland plays out in a manner similar to a detective thriller, with its unnamed protagonist dragged into an information war between two warring factions of humans with brains modified to process information through a method similar to a computer. These groups are the Calutecs, a faction to which the narrator belongs, and the Semiotecs. The Semiotecs pursue the protagonist at various points, seeking the information he obtained from decoding experimental data. The End of the World, a story of another unnamed narrator who arrives in a town populated with strangely complacent human beings called The End of the World through unknown means. Midway through the novel, it is revealed the two stories are interconnected and that the two narrators are actually the same person. The End of the World is in fact, a realm created in his own mind by an experiment involving creating a

Fullmetal Alchemist the Movie: The Conqueror of Shamballa

To sum up this theatrical continuation of the Fullmetal Alchemist television series in two words: mixed blessing. There’s no denying that Conqueror of Shamballa hits many of the right notes, but leaves some areas wishing for a bit more time and care put into them.

The story is set three years after the conclusion of the television series, with the events that transpired in the final episodes leaving Edward and Alphonse Elric separated between two parallel worlds. Edward now resides in pre-World War II Nazi Germany, studying rocketry and longing for his homeworld of Amestris, and Alphonse, who wanders through the country searching for a way to recover his brother. Unknown to Edward, an occultist group sponsored by the Nazis known as the Thule Society has discovered the existence of the parallel world of Amestris, which they refer to as “Shamballa”. Assuming Ed and Al’s homeworld yields new and advanced technology that will lend itself to the Nazi’s planned takeover of Europe, the Thule Society, directed by the cruel Dietlinde Eckhart, plans to open a portal to “Shamballa” and invade it. As Edward becomes involved in the Thule Society’s plot, the actions of Alphonse, the three surviving homunculi scattered across both worlds, and Ed and Al’s father, Van Hohenheim, threaten to bring Eckhart’s plan toward fruition. This first half of the film leaves little to complain about, moving at a perfect pace and slowly ushering the audience into the story. Once it starts to build to the grand, final battle however, some flies can be noticed in the ointment.

Compared to the original manga, the animated adaptation of Fullmetal Alchemist was noticeably more character driven. While the action of the manga revolves around an epic “fate of the world” plot, the anime was much lower key and put more emphasis on the decisions and inner workings of both the protagonists and antagonists. While it occasionally fell into the realm of cliché while doing so, the anime storyline ultimately has more emotional impact. It was hard not to feel sorry for even the most ruthless and cruel of the anime’s villains once you understood exactly what motivated them. In Conqueror of Shamballa, director Seiji Mizushima and writer Shou Aikawa choose to take the opposite direction, probably due to the fact that they had two hours to tell their story as opposed to the twenty hours they had for the series.

Familiar characters like the Elric Brothers and Roy Mustang have strong emotional arcs that run throughout the film, dealing with their respective realization of responsibility and requisition of a sense purpose. On the other hand, some others suffer. Out of the three surviving Homunculi, Envy, Wrath, and Gluttony, only Wrath seems properly handled. His character carries a nice and tragic subplot that functions well within the greater context of the story, moving it forward while still providing a satisfying close to his arc. Gluttony’s portrayal as a mindless beast somewhat excuses his lack of development, but his abrupt entrance and quick exit from the story highlight the nature of his character as a plot device. Out of the three homunculi though, Envy suffers the most. His grudge against Hohenheim is finally brought to a conclusion, but is done so in a quick, cheap, and unsatisfying manner that allows no sense of a proper end and renders him a simple plot device. The abrupt manner in which the antagonists of the series serve their roles in the story is only made more tragic by the new villains introduced in the film, who feel by comparison rather flat.

No character however, has a more unsatisfying role than Van Hohenheim, whose treatment is absolutely pathetic. The character suffered enough from a lack of screentime in the series, but at least had a strong emotional weight that accompanied his history and motivations. As with the series, it is Hohenheim’s offscreen actions that begin the film’s story, but in the end he doesn’t amount to much more than another cheap device to moving the “Nazi Invasion” storyline forward. Appearing for no more than two minutes, he performs an action that begins the final battle and departs, bringing a disgustingly abrupt end to his character. The fact that no one ever mentions him again after he serves his purpose in the plot serves as a bitter testament to how little writer Aikawa cared for the plenty compelling character.

Despite the rocky treatment of familiar characters, the new protagonists fare decently. Alfons Heidrich stands out as the most well rendered of them, having a strong and tragic motivation and character arc that accompanies the development of Edward’s character and lends some nice emotional power to the film. Officer Hughes, a parallel version of Amestris’ Maes Hughes, is another nice player in the story, especially considering the viewer’s familiarity with the other version of the character and his ultimate fate. The fact that he plays a decent role is a nice thing for fans of the original character (such as myself) to see. On the other hand, some new characters have a few problems. The Gypsy Noa, despite her sizeable screentime, comes across as a bit unlikable and cliché, and as entertaining as it was to see a “nice” incarnation of King Bradley in the form of Fritz Lang, he feels a bit unnecessary overall.

My final bone to pick with the film is the way it ultimately ends. A traditional “happy ending” would have functioned counter to the overall thematic structure of Fullmetal Alchemist, so a lack of one here isn’t a problem. The issue here is how open ended the denouement is, especially considering this is supposedly the final installment of the Fullmetal Alchemist anime storyline. While it’s true that all threads left untied at the end of the television series are addressed in this film, its ultimate conclusion plays out as a lead in to a second series, which to my knowledge, isn’t going to materialize (it’s true a new anime is in production, but no word on whether it’s a continuation of this film or a more faithful adaptation of the almost-finished manga). The ultimate flaw of Conqueror of Shamballa, which functions as both a part of the character development and the ending, is that it just doesn’t feel like a satisfying goodbye.

While Conqueror of Shamballa may disappoint a bit in terms of story and characters, it’s superb from a visual and auditory standpoint. The animation is wonderful and fluid, a perfect combination of traditional methods and CGI. The action sequences are a treat for the eyes, well directed and animated. The older bunch of voice actors deliver typically strong performances, and the cast of characters exclusive to this film are also well portrayed by a selection of new voices unfamiliar with the anime industry. In terms of music, Michiru Oshima delivers a nice score that accompanies the action nicely although like her work on the series, it doesn’t have the stand alone appeal of one of her Godzilla scores. Like the TV series, Conqueror of Shamballa opens and ends with a song from a contemporary Japanese artist. In this case, it’s L-arc-en-ciel, who provided the second opening of the anime series. Both of their songs here are some pretty good tunes and set the right mood of their respective positions in the film.

Fullmetal Alchemist the Movie: The Conqueror of Shamballa is an overall enjoyable anime flick with some fundamental issues. As a capper to the Fullmetal Alchemist series, I can’t really say it does its’ job, but ultimately is a worthy entry in FMA canon.

The Plague Dogs

It probably doesn’t take much guessing to discern why Martin Rosen’s The Plague Dogs seems to have a commercial appeal as gaunt as the film’s furry protagonists by the end. While both the folks responsible for putting Grave of the Fireflies in children’s film festivals and general audiences seem to finally be recognizing more adult approaches to animation as a valid medium that stands apart from children’s fare, this film’s obscurity is probably proof enough that audiences still can’t stand to see animated furries meet a cruel fate. Among a slew of predictable animated adventures of anthropomorphic domestic animals, The Plague Dogs is a most unconventional beast, although one that’s most certainly more memorable than its cult status would suggest.

An ominous series of shots of a water tank open the film, followed by the image of a black dog struggling to keep above the water. He eventually loses his strength and sinks, only to be recovered by men in lab coats and revitalized with an air tube. It is this heart melting sequence that sets the tone for the film and will probably have children cowering and bawling. The fact that this scene occurs before even the five minute mark foreshadows the sheer emotional poignancy of the film.

The dog, known as Rowf, ends up escaping his holding pen in the animal research center in which he is held. Following him in a hellish journey through a darkened laboratory is a fox terrier named Snitter, who has undergone experimental brain surgery that renders him subject to dementia and hallucinations. Escaping through an incinerator chute, the two dogs reach the outside world and flee to the surrounding countryside. Snitter, despite his horrible abuse by men, dreams of reacquiring the life he had with his benevolent former master. Rowf on the other hand, has been hopelessly embittered by his treatment and dismisses Snitter’s optimism. It is their fear of mistreatment, as well as their interactions revolving around their varying pessimism that influence their actions around humans. These actions end up deciding the difference between friend and foe and cause the same people who could have just as easily treated the dogs warmly to shun them.

Unable to win the compassion of any human beings, Snitter and Rowf decide to become wild animals and kill to survive. They luckily come across a tod (male fox), who agrees to help them hunt in exchange for part of their kills. The dog’s actions are eventually noticed by local farmers and a hunt ensues. The situation escalates when a newspaper reporter gets wind of the dog’s escape and inflates the story to bigger proportions when suggesting that the dogs may have contracted an experimental strain of bubonic plague during their breakout attempt. This, and the desperate actions taken by the dogs, gets the British government, and ultimately, a battalion of soldiers involved in the situation.

In dealing with the human characters and their reaction to the undertakings of the Plague Dogs, Rosen takes a far different approach from that of the novel, offering up much of the novel’s deeper characterizations of its human characters. Characters such as Stephen Powell and the female version of the novel’s Digby Driver had fully realized conflicts and personalities. Here, they and the rest of the human characters have been reduced to figures with obscured faces and disembodied voices that foreshadow what is about to visually appear. Though the sacrifice of character development is not unwarranted here, it does somewhat dilute the strength of Adams’ message.

Regardless of what changes have been made to the portrayal of the two legged characters, the Plague Dogs themselves are wonderfully realized protagonists. The characters experience a simultaneous rise and fall that’s both heartbreaking and uplifting. Seeing the initially optimistic Snitter’s mind eaten away by his horrifying hallucinations and his hope betrayed by bad decisions and simple mistakes provides for an interesting and piercing conflict. Rowf on the other hand, undergoes an opposite growth of character. By the end of the film it is they who have traded roles. The tod too, proves to be a rather interesting protagonist. Though it is the intervention of the tod that keeps the dogs alive, it’s hard not to see certain malevolence in his in gaze as he watches the dogs kill to survive, almost as if encouraging a descent into an irredeemable, sinful state of being. While the novel handled this questioning of the limitations of innocence in the form of a biblical allegory, this angle has been all but wiped clean from the film adaptation. Nevertheless, Rosen keeps the central questions intact and functioning well within the context of his version of the story. The superbly realized emotional development of the characters culminates in a short, but deeply moving moment at the very end that highlights the very real sense of friendship between the dogs and the preservation of their inner nobility despite the damning actions they undertake throughout the film. This ending, which differentiates starkly in tone from the novel, is ultimately the better denouement. The novel’s ending is certainly more conclusive and upbeat, but I can’t help but find it a bit contrived. The film version throws away the contrivances of the novel and opts for a more ambiguous and darker route. Ultimately, the end result is indescribably powerful and escalates to untold levels of poignancy when Alan Price’s moving “Time and Tide” plays over the end credits.

Though I’d hesitate to slap on the title of “masterpiece”, Martin Rosen’s adaptation of The Plague Dogs is certainly worthy of standing against his superb “Watership Down” and earn a deserved status of animated classic.

In the Mood For Love

In the Mood for Love-

In short, it’s the single most hypnotic film I’ve ever seen, one that affects me in a way that few have even attempted to and even less have succeeded in. An appropriate metaphor to describe this film is that of a sea, a sea of pure sensuality, tender feeling, and keen insight. As the film going mind dives deeper into this sea, lulled down by the rich emotion and tender character arcs that are taking shape, the initially murky waters become clear and what the mind perceives as pretensions reveal their true function. By the time the waters have cleared, the mind realizes that unseen forces at work in this sea have obliterated outside consciousness and are funneling some shapeless concept that words can only weakly articulate the true significance of into the hollow that is your head.

Yes sirs, it’s that good.

To describe the film in more concrete terms, it’s deceptively simple and incredibly subtle in its execution. It’s a story of the conflict between fulfillment and personal dignity, one that contemplates just what one must both strive for and give up to advance one’s soul to the level where one’s life has been fully consummated. This contemplation is brought to a sensual level through the physical space keen eye for visuals captured by the camera as well as a musical score that can be described only as supremely haunting. It’s an unparalleled work of art.

The Seventh Seal

And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.

1957 was a pivotal year for the career of Ingmar Bergman. In the space of a year he crafted not one, but two important pieces of cinema that gained him international recognition and propelled forward an amazing career that would influence generations of incredible filmmakers. Of the two films produced that year, The Seventh Seal is by far the more monumental, painting a beautiful, comedic and often horrifying existential portrait.


The Seventh Seal, like many of Bergman’s subsequent works, thematically concerns itself with the mortality of man and his relationship with a silent God. The film is quite possibly the most effective portrayal of these themes. Bergman’s direction is consistently stunning. Although most of the film’s cinematography is slow and mellow in nature, it still manages to convey a great emotional weight, particularly in the scene in which Block unknowingly confesses his insecurities to Death, obscured behind the bars of a confession booth. This emotional weight extends to the dialogue, which drips with profundity and extreme importance. Even with the rather overall grim tone, the film manages to be quite comedic without feeling as if it broke from the mold it established for itself. Even if a scene manages to be funny, the comedic nature of such sequences ties into Bergman’s grand artistic vision with a deep, poignant sense of irony. Under all the irony and despair however, lies a compelling existential vision: that life is fundamentally a series of equally valid paths into truth, with death as the only absolution. Though infallible in nature, it ultimately amounts to a hollow function, and failure to recognize this provokes blind faith that proves counter productive to progression through different paths and interpretations.

The performances in The Seventh Seal are simply put, incredible. Though he had and would feature in many other works from Ingmar Bergman, the director arguably never again drew such a compelling performance from Max von Sydow, who nails the conflicted and tormented nature of his character perfectly while still crafting a likeable protagonist. Gunnar Björnstrand, who would play major roles in some of the most important of Bergman’s works, such as Wild Strawberries and Winter Light, also gives a pitch perfect performance as Jöns. He remains one of the most compelling players in the story, cynical and bitter to an almost vulgar degree, but at the same time, is the inarguably the wisest character. Nils Poppe and Bergman regular Bibi Anderson deliver good, yet somewhat syrupy performances as is demanded by their over the top characterizations as the Holy Family-esque Jof and Mia. Regardless of how irritating they can be at times, the characters are essential to the film’s ultimate vision, representing the salvation of man through his consciousness. Inarguably, the film’s most iconic performance comes from Bengt Ekerot as Death himself, who gives a sinister performance with an effectively restrained level of creepiness. His iconic performance and scenes would be endlessly mimicked and mocked. Even today, characters like Anton Chigurh in the Coen Brothers’ masterpiece, No Country For Old Men recall the cold, calculating indestructible Death.

The Seventh Seal would bring Ingmar Bergman much deserved recognition worldwide. Critics and audiences discovered with this film Ingmar Bergman’s immense talent as a filmmaker, contributing to the development of prestigious filmmakers from Kubrick to Tarkovsky. Though Bergman would revisit several ideas established in this film several times over, The Seventh Seal establishes an existential vision unparalleled in its profundity and beauty.