A Poor Echo of a Mockingjay

If you haven’t seen or read The Hunger Games series or trilogy (as appropriate), there will be spoilers in this post.

We finally watched the Mockingly Part 1 last week. I’d say we’re slow, but it’s really that it’s grim and depressing. I’ve read the books, so I know how it all ends: the journey is harsh.

But it’s “The Hanging Tree” I want to talk about, particularly in the film. Some of the imagery has a chilling resonance with a completely different trope to that of rebellion. Katniss interprets the song for herself, and the reader. I don’t necessarily disagree with her interpretation, but I think there is a bit more going on metaphorically than a single dead murderer singing. There are numerous interpretations of “The Hanging Tree” all over the internet: try The Hogwarts Professor’s, or Amelia Mason’s take on it, they also explore the lynch mob influences that litter American History and song.

While those influences are important, I’m not American, so my take on it is inevitably different. I don’t wish to take away from its cultural roots, but it is applicable in other, if similar, contexts.

The song itself runs:

“Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

There are differences in the song in the movie that have to do with the delivery of the music - I’ve typed this out exactly as it appears in my copy of Mockingjay, and I’ve had to resist amending the punctuation to get it “right”. The only important change is by no-longer-gamesmaster Heavensbee from “necklace of rope” to “necklace of hope”. He says himself “it’s a bit on the nose, but ‘"of course so is war”. It’s more than on the nose, it’s twee. Given the subject matter, and the oppression the Capital practises, it’s also unnecessary. The Districts know what they face in rebellion, and I’ll be coming back to this later (with a short video interlude), because it deals with the resonance I mentioned at the beginning. It is in keeping with original rebellion trope, because District 13 does seem to treat this as a game with real players. I don’t doubt their resolve, seriousness or ultimate aim, but the ending surprised me not at all. (I’m not going to give that much of a spoiler, sorry kids.)

The song, then (which I’ll describe by stanzas, because it’s easier).

The language in the first unique line is telling: “they strung up a man they say murdered three”. Not “a man was hanged”, but he was strung up, which suggests a midnight lynching rather than due process of law (yes, yes, cultural root, I know). And then, “They say murdered three”. In most of the critiques I’ve read, much is made of the “they”, and quite rightly so, but I’m more caught by the “say”. Say anything you like, it doesn’t make it true.

The second unique line is probably the easiest to understand. Run. Away. The third Katniss believes to be the murderer calling his love back to him, and thinks it’s confirmed by the last line. In a straight reading…yep, okay. But in the context of a banned song that is used (in the film at least) as District 13 propaganda to foment rebellion, it’s a little more complicated.

What strikes me is the meaning of the surrounding verse, and the interaction of meanings with each unique line.

The surrounding verse in each stanza could be taken to describe a physical gallows: in a state of total oppression, where the state murders its subjects, the gallows is a central place where the populace must gather at the behest of their masters. However, what the people see and feel is more often different to their masters’ intention than not. While the oppressor may aim to subjugate, the oppressed will eventually rebel or flee entirely than remain oppressed. History is littered with examples, and here the cultural roots are amplified, but the examples are not limited to those roots.

And here, while the gallows is something of a meeting place, “strange things did happen here” has several meanings. The meanings: that the Capital persecutes rather than rules; that the accused may not be guilty of the crime for which they are punished; that the watching populace is not entirely subjugated but ultimately doubts the wisdom of such treatment; that the hanging tree becomes a metaphorical place to meet; and that the hanging tree becomes a metaphor for rebellion (or freedom, depending on your point of view).

The metaphorical meaning of the hanging tree changes subtly with each unique line. If we take the entire song as a call to rebellion or revolution (as District 13 would have it), then the personal story of one murderer” doesn’t hold water.

With the first stanza, the straightforward reading of the hanging tree as an execution point appears correct: the impact of the stanza comes from the unique line. The warning is implicit (“they say…”), rather than overt.

In the second stanza, the hanging tree itself becomes the warning as the singer warns his love directly. The surrounding verse is then more ominous. It tells of the price of rebellion. I take the inference that the only way to avoid the hanging tree is to flee.

But in the third stanza, taking the second unique line into account, if fleeing isn’t an option, then die for your freedom. The hanging tree itself, as characterised by the surrounding verse, is becoming a metaphor for freedom.

The fourth stanza calls for solidarity in death. “Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.” In this the hanging tree is completely a metaphor for rebellion/freedom: fight or die, there is no flee.

And here I get chills. The song is beautifully written and performed in the film (props to Jennifer Lawrence - see what I did there?), but it’s the District 2 footage that chills me.

The song is catchy with a wonderful rhythm, despite its content…or maybe because of it. Though I criticised it earlier, the light moment of Haymitch saying (in his usual sarcastic tone), “Oh, you are a true wordsmith.”, and Heavensbee explaining himself is heartening. That Beetee details his contribution to both the security and breaching of it underlines the rebellion trope.

It’s a beautiful segue in tone: when the voices of the people join in with Katniss (at 1:59), with that weight of numbers and the curiously soothing thing that is human voices in chorus happens, it becomes downright terrifying. Or did to me. Those people are going to sacrifice themselves.

What disturbs me more is that the imagery is very much zombie horde approaching normals. And sure enough, they act with no regard for themselves: they are mown down, but still keep going…or coming, depending on your point of view. That they succeed at all is utterly marvellous, but no, oh no. In the context of the story, there is no other way: the song makes this clear. Foreshadowing, if it be needed, take a lesson from this one.

I’ve always thought of zombies as simple metaphors. Pick your representative thing. Go with it. Whatever you’re an individual about, the zombies are the them. You are the us. Yay. Straightforward. But that this uses similar imagery is disturbing.

Musically, here’s a more intricate version:

Lovely, right? But. Though less violent, the imagery is similar: a horde standing in backlit fog, then screaming and running into the enemy.

I don’t have an answer to this, but is this us? Are we the zombie horde now, and our governments/authorities/people in charge/media the “normals”? I’m not asking to make some crap joke because I don’t like the Libs: have we shifted from prizing our individuality to wanting nothing more than strength in numbers? By what are we so threatened?

Food for thought.

Tipping End Over End

In much better spirits since my last post: there's nothing like writing a zombie story in which a stand-in antagonist gets their face ripped off. Husbandly's response was "go zombies", so that should tell you all you need to know about that particular nemesis. Actually writing it was a bit ick, because killing anyone off is fairly disgusting, yet at the same time, I finally had a flow going. I wasn't too concerned about anything other than the word count (it was a uni assignment), and the thing I'm taking a break from sketching out today doesn't currently have one. Yay. Mostly it was just fun. With more than one character to be all anxious about.

Today I should be, guess what, asleep, but why bother? I'll have a bit of a kip this afternoon, that will do. I don't have anything to do for uni until next Monday, then I'm back into two subjects all over again. I don't really want to do two subjects at once - it's draining - but I also don't want to be doing this degree until I'm ready for retirement. No thanks.

And here I have nothing much else to say. I finished reading the Earthsea Quartet, by Ursula Le Guin with much more alacrity than I expected. A Wizard of Earthsea, while good, didn't leave me enthused. Serves me right, that snap judgement, because I loved the other three. I've also gone mad online book shopping, so I have a whole pile of books wending their way to me soon. Including The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins. We had a chapter as a reading for a lecture on memes, and I was pleasantly surprised at Dawkins' style. Unlike reading one of my textbooks, which I won't name here, but wow, was it dry. When I put my review up on goodreads, I got a slightly unpleasant surprise reading other people's reviews. Another reviewer considered the text as facile as it included mention of memes, a subject "not of sufficient academic rigour". Eheu.

I find that bizarre. If you're talking about internet memes, which are basically jokes and/or observations, I'd agree, but memes encompass cultural units: how to eat, how to cook, what to cook*, clothing, and much more besides. Maybe I'm being a bit too egalitarian (I certainly am about what constitutes "literature"), but I don't see the point in being particularly snobbish about (relatively) new ideas.

*I guarantee, if you're the cook in your household, there will be some things you do because you learnt to do it that way, and clearly I'm eating my lunch as I type this. The best story I ever heard was about three generations of women who would cut one corner off their legs of lamb before roasting. Going back to Grandma it was discovered that she did it because her roasting pan was a bit small. Her daughter and grand-daughter did because that's what she did.

Anyway, I want to get back to my planning, and my lunch, so this is me, signing orf.

Have a lovely day. May all of your antagonists have their faces metaphorically ripped off.

Fragmentation Grenade

I have no coherent thoughts this week.

This will make the half century of entries. I should do something celebratory, but baking a cake is futile internet-ically speaking. I feel slightly better than I did, with the help of paracetamol, naproxen and the occasional hot toddy. My biggest achievements for the last few days involve going to work, talking to the boys and shaving my legs. If you complain to a razor company that your legs are not silky smooth, do they send someone out to check? Does a little man with a doctor's bag come out and ask to stroke your shin? "Hmm, yes Ms Lateonenite, I see what you mean"?

I seem to have quit smoking, which has prolonged the illness. I almost hesitate to say it, because it's only been a week. Strangely I don't have any (more) cravings for the nicotine (so far), which is just as well, because nicotine replacement therapies make me want to hurl. Seriously. Barf city. Over the weekend I kept picturing myself stopping at a service station on my way home from work, but it was late and I was tired. Today I keep thinking along the lines of not wanting to quit, because I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid living for the now. Sure I am.

Now I've spent time typing this out, of course I really, really, really want to have a smoke. Too bad I don't have any then, isn't it?

We have a (relatively) new supermarket near us that boasts the wonders of the self-service checkout. Small lad keeps calling it the Silver Surfer. All we need is a Fantastic Four deli counter and we'll have the set. (Would the Thing be slicing meat, or would he be a kind of pastrami?)

In an effort to change up on my dream cycles, to wit: ditch the damn zombies, I've been mainlining Blackadder and Red Dwarf. It seems to be working except for re-reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies yesterday. I don't know why I did it either. I like the book, a lot, but that doesn't make up for being pursued by drippy corpses in my sleep.

Dear Tarted-Up White Pages Website,

Perhaps when I search for a business at a given postcode and suburb, I am not searching for a business at a completely-different-suburb-on-the-other-side-of-Sydney-but-I-can't-tell-that-until-I-click-on-that-link. Just a thought.

Disgruntled.

It really is late and I am tired. This is shift four out of five and my eyelids are ready to slam shut. Time to move around. Midnight will be here soon and I'll have lots to do after that. Mwahahahaha!

My Little Horse Must Think It Queer

I wish to sleep far more than I do. Failing time I would choose to sleep more deeply and all-round under the radar. Today's carnival of dreams involved Nathan Fillion looking concerned, but I could only see half of his face - as if I was too short and trying to see him across a shiny table. His face was reflected in the surface with something strange about his mouth. I climbed on something to see better and he didn't have a mouth, it was a black concrete railway tunnel. He held it open and I kept waiting for the scream, but there were only whispers, dark and deep, dry and dead, his eyes were dead, but it wasn't him it was a blonde man whose eyes should have been red. Then I was standing in the lab trying to spray the air with deodorant but I was holding the can in some spastic way so I sprayed my fingertips and got that foaming-because-you've-hit-to-close-to-the-nozzle.

Sleeping during the day isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I found a note to myself about zombies feasting on brains, with no tie to Nathan Fillion so far as I'm aware. I can't figure out the appeal of les zombis to anyone since I find them pretty naff (I have seen the enemy and he is a shambling corpse). The potential for metaphor is enormous, if completely unsubtle and lost in the bits-keep-falling-off-and-there-are-fluids-and-teeth! I have enough fluids, including other people's, to deal with, thank you very much. Besides, imagine the smell.

I have rediscovered Robert Frost (and apologia of a not very formal nature to anyone looking for more Robert Frost than my titles and this paragraph). I have words singing through my head when I'm not asleep. That it may be preventing my own use of words is troubling me only slightly. The music of words is enough for anyone if they know how to listen and the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

For Christmas I will be getting a Doctor Who Sonic Screwdriver - Tenth Doctor - which I suspect will be a boomerang back to small lad since he was supposed to hide it while I forgot about it when it arrived. Instead I had a rehash of "Partners in Crime" in small lad-speak. He wants to try the pointing of two sonic devices together. His sonic screwdriver - Eleventh Doctor - is now part of his school kit, in that it goes in the side pocket of his bag and gets carried everywhere. I love that he lives in his head.

Plumber's cracks abound around me at the moment. There is a lot of work going on around the lab and at home there have been workmen. Of the plumber's crack variety, not the serious eye candy sort. Dammit.

Once upon a time there was a frog who had once been a parrot. He also tried out monkey-ness, being a teapot, half-a-bee, a barfly and eventually gave up to live in a puddle. The end.

Frog Takes On Lawnmower

I have an urge to run and hide this morning. I have lovely coffee-spill decoration drops down the front of my shirt. It might have been better if I'd kept to my old bad habits of wearing a lab gown everywhere, but no, I try to stay gown free on the eating and the drinking. I try to stay gown-free most of the night anyway, because the petticoats just get in the way and pants are just so practical.

I blame the shirt. It's one that has mysterious stains. (Food-related mysterious stains, not- oh never mind). I wash and scrub, until my washing machine starts chugging, iron the shirt and fail to notice the mark right between the boobies. I'm hardly likely to scrub until my fingers bleed, I don't have a washboard and I'm too big a girl for that sort of thing.

Despite appearances to the contrary, I haven't been at the alcohol swabs, unless someone wants to make me an offer.

Yesterday morning (which is still this morning to me, welcome to the disorientation of twelve-hour night shifts) I took forty minutes longer to get home than I should have. Because to wanted to...SING! So I did. Forty minutes of singing at the top of my lungs, with a wind down listening to Vivaldi. Great way to relax. Tell your friends.

Unfortunately tonight/{this} morning my voice is heading towards crackville (not Crackville, in California; only drug addicts go there). I may have the small lad's lurgy, but before the hypochondria sets in, I'll assume it's overdoing the singing.

I have the attention span of an ADD squirrel. Or a dog distracted by a squirrel while trying to get it to fetch the stick, boy, go on! It's a problem and not one to explore at four in the morning, unless I really have been at the alcohol swabs (or much more likely alcoholic facsimile from a pretty glass bottle in a special shot glass); small bananas compared to solving all of the world's problems (this should only ever be undertaken while mellow and under the influence). Two o'clock is the best time really, particularly if beer has been consumed, but let's make do.

Or we could all be kind to each other, all the time, or most thereof, but apparently not.

Oh, terrific mood, thy name is me. I had a phone call earlier, the kind where I hung up the phone and said, "And when you've finished being unpleasant, perhaps we could get on with it." Because everyone else "just does it" (no they don't), and I wouldn't. Blood Bank! Mad with power! Arbitrary rules just to shit you! Yes, you in particular! Patient safety doesn't enter into it!

So much for leaving work at work. No, wait, I am at work, so that's all right.

SQUIRREL!

As much as I like the movie Up!, the dead squirrel joke isn't much chop for very literal little people (like alliteration? Me too!). "It is funny because the squirrel is dead." and it is, for the grownups; mystifying for littlies.

For anyone who hasn't seen the movie, skip the squirrel, dog and random exclamations. If you want.

If you don't, go watch it. It's a great movie though strangley not as beautiful as Wall-E. Back to Up!, the only part that puzzles me is the bad guy. In the commentary it was said that the writers tried not to make the bad guy intrinsically evil. The odd part is the bad guy takes the prize in the Pixar universe for "Most Evil (and Believable) Villain". He's adult, ugly and twisted, and creation of talking dogs (!!!) notwithstanding, one of the most reprehensible characters in a kid's movie.

The other bone I have to pick with Up!, and since I've started I may as well, is the talking dogs. Talking dogs! Really! I want one! I want all of the dogs I have ever owned to be talking dogs! Every dog person who saw the movie (especially the lines "Can we keep him?" "No." "But he's a TALKING DOG!!" and the very well-animated Kevin's body language on the "TALKING DOG!!") wants one! Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything, I think about how much I want a talking dog! Ever since watching this movie! Do something about that, would you?

I wish I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum, all day long I'd sit on my bum, if I were a wealthy man.

Then again, I'm not sure I want to commit to the sex change.

Today is my birthday. Thank you for all the good wishes. I have no plans to do anything. Other than the ironing, I'm catching up. Finally I have myself slightly organised, while outside my windows zombies smear icky things and mumble about brains. They don't want mine, apparently it induces fits. I'll be safe come the end of the world then.

I meant to be serious there, not quite sure what happened. Just think, you too could be this mental...just...errr...maybe not. I was going to blame something, but it's much more fun to assume I'm a nutbag. Better than being a peanut (as in size of brain equals, for those who don't geddit, geddit?).

Lawnmowers: one. Frogs: a blood-smeared and speckled zero.