“Wax on, wax off!”
Even if you haven’t seen The Karate Kid (1984), you know the cliché. To fend off bullies and win the girl, Daniel LaRusso is desperate to learn martial arts from a mysterious master. Mr. Miyagi finally relents. But then, instead of learning fancy kicks or killer moves, Daniel is relegated to an endless series of chores: waxing cars, sanding floors, painting the fence and house.
Daniel feels like he’s been conned. Frustrated with getting nothing for his unpaid labour, he confronts the seemingly aloof Mr. Miyagi, who is disturbed by Daniel’s impatience. Mr. Miyagi strikes Daniel. Daniel, reflexively, blocks it. His hands seem to move on their own. His eyes are wide. He can’t believe his own body as he parries punches and kicks.
Mr. Miyagi (played expertly by Pat Morita) nods and huffs, as if this discovery was a distraction from the real work. But the purpose of all the chores is revealed. Daniel realizes that he, unbeknownst to himself, has already learned the magic power he so desperately sought. He knows karate and he can stand up to giants.
In the logic of The Karate Kid and its sequels (including the ongoing Netflix series, Cobra Kai), karate is magic. It has rules. It is highly sought after, but few can master it. It is used by, and for, good and bad. It can change fortunes, shape the universe, and save the world. The point at which the protagonist discovers that he, too, can wield it is often the favourite part of the story.
Luke using the force to destroy the Death Star. Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Peter Parker waking up to realize he is a superhero who doesn’t need glasses anymore. These are moments of wonder and satisfaction as the hero is lifted out of his or her lowly circumstances to weave a grand story of their own.
The Karate Kid is particularly satisfying because Daniel doesn’t realize he is becoming this magic-wielder, but instead fights against it. It’s like the classic romantic comedy, where the guy and girl despise and work against each other (protagonist-antagonist) until they discover that they were actually falling in love, like two chemicals combusting before they combine. And then they have to team up against the real antagonist (ex-boyfriend / planned wedding / life in the big city), which has been lurking in the story all along.
Elantris
W. Somerset Maugham said, “One can always learn more about writing from bad prose than from a really good book.” In the case of Elantris (2005), fantasy author Brandon Sanderson’s first published novel, I learned a lot in both respects. Sanderson usually writes epic fantasy with all its usual ingredients: magic, heroes, villains, swords and shields in a medieval setting. He is known for his intricate, logical magic systems and detailed worldbuilding. Elantris features all of this, and it’s a great example of a magic system that is integral to the plot.
On the other hand, I couldn’t help but compile a list of criticisms as I ploughed through the book. I’m a writer, after all. Like a hockey player watching other players skate too fast and hit too hard in their early days. What else am I going to do?
There are unrealistic political machinations, some flat dialogue, unrealized characters, and lots of fluff that could have been cut. One of my biggest issues with Elantris is that many characters are simplistic—apart from the central figures (Raoden, Sarene, Hrathen), everyone else seems to act and believe according to what the author needs from them.
Realism, which is the prism through which any reader or audience member can escape, requires nuance. A good character is like a real person: capable of feeling one thing and thinking another, or being torn between what they want and what they need. A character that induces eyerolls is one that does what the author decided in their outline they had to do in order for the plot to flow smoothly.
Right at the start of Elantris, Prince Raoden wakes up to discover that he has undergone the “Shaod”: a transformation that once meant he would be a magical being. But since the fall of magic ten years ago, it now means he is damned and essentially dead. Raoden’s father, King Iadon, immediately dispatches him to hell on earth: the fallen city of Elantris. Throughout the book, Iadon is a one-dimensional pawn in Sanderson’s plot outline: he is a bad king and a terrible father who wanted Raoden dispensed with long ago. But the more Sanderson tries to drag Iadon through the mud (we discover towards the end that Iadon has been kidnapping and murdering women and girls for human sacrifice), the less believable he becomes. A man can be all of these terrible things and still feel like he is a father. Even if the son never gets to see it, we should.
But that’s maybe asking too much. Here’s another Star Wars reference: when Luke returns home after finding Obi-Wan Kenobi in the desert, he discovers that his aunt and uncle have been murdered. There’s a brief moment of sadness, more to reinforce how evil the Empire can be than how human Luke is. And then, cut to the next scene, and Luke is happily following his destiny once again, never again to think back on the sudden, dreadful death of those who raised him and some of the only people he’s ever known. It’s ridiculous, and famously so. But if Star Wars were to linger here, it wouldn’t work. We’re here for adventure, not mourning.
Discovery
In Elantris, Prince Raoden discovers a whole city of the damned: people who, like him, have undergone the Shaod and have been cast away. It’s actually quite horrific: Elantrians seem to be stuck in time. Their hearts don’t beat and they don’t need to eat or drink or even breathe (though they experience gnawing, insatiable hunger). Every wound suffered remains as painful a week later as it did at the very moment it was caused. People in Elantris “die” when they are rendered totally helpless and mindless against this unyielding, ever-increasing pain.
Raoden, of course, changes things. He brings hope back to the city, challenging and conquering the gangs that have plagued it, and studying the old texts of Elantris to understand what happened ten years ago and how to fix it.
Why? Well, mostly because the author needs him to. But also because he’s a well-bred prince with noble aspirations and a love for his fellow being (cue eyerolls here). He spends his free time learning the aons (the codes that Elantrians used to use to practice their magical art) to no effect. Why? It’s never quite clear. Sure, there are perfunctory explanations. But really, we know why he’s doing all this practice: it’s in the plot outline, damn it!
The karate kid doesn’t realize what he is actually learning and practicing, until he fights so hard against the journey (want coming into conflict with need) that he confronts his master, threatens to quit, and forces a moment of discovery—both for him and for us. Even watching the film again, knowing what’s coming, there is something magical in this moment.
In Elantris, magic returns and Raoden is suddenly a powerful archwizard. It’s a very cinematic sequence filled with action and consequence. But we are robbed of the satisfaction in how he got there, not just because it’s predictable, but because Raoden did what the author wanted him to do (while wearing a heavy layer of plot armour, I might add).
It’s unfortunate, as Elantris does magic-as-plot very well: the act of discovering the lost magic of the world is the very process the protagonist needs to follow in order to save it. Exposition is action.
Maybe I’m a philistine, but I like clever plots: ones where the author has been up to something else behind the scenes while I’ve been watching the distraction onstage. The clichés of The Karate Kid are so predominant in our culture that we forget the clever misdirection of the movie. Mr. Miyagi pits Daniel against himself, yes, but it happens again at the climax.
The “dark night of the soul” occurs when Daniel’s foot is immobilized in a cheap attack by the opposing side. How can he possibly win? The answer’s been there the whole time: that special move he’s been practicing. Yes, he has been practicing it because the screenwriter needed him to—but that motivation is hidden behind a bigger, better and frankly more believable one: Daniel has been practicing balance. Something his character, and the world, needs.
Writing
Not a lot of writing this week as I am traveling and on vacation in Alberta.
Reading and Listening
Brandon Sanderson has an excellent lecture series on YouTube: “Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy”. The 13 lectures are recordings of his BYU Creative Writing class in spring 2020—which was in-person until the last few. For anyone interested in writing this kind of work, Sanderson puts it all on the table. Here’s the first lecture.
Started listening to A Brief History of Intelligence: Evolution, AI, and the Five Breakthroughs That Made Our Brains by Max Bennett. Fascinating to understand how our brains work, and how that is rooted in billions of years of evolution.
Quote of the Week
“We work in the dark — we do what we can — we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
― Henry James, The Middle Years
I really enjoy your writing, Ben.
I am intrigued by your subject matter as well. You write of realms quite new and foreign to me.