Thank heavens for fan fiction! Because so many questions from this magical show remain unanswered, some of them due to oversights on the part of the writers; some due to the exhausting, and maddening, constraints of shooting for television; yet others due simply to the perfect storm of vagaries, colliding agendas and requirements, and institutionalized chaos of producing a television series.
Every fan has his or her own “Top 10” nagging questions that haunt them; I’m no exception. One substantial difference however– in how I view the story, the series, and the unanswered questions– is that I am an actor, writer and director, and obviously I write fan fiction under several pseudonyms.
With some misgivings I finally decided to include this information about myself because it will (I hope) explain the particular “holistic slant” at which I approach not only the series, and not only the myth upon which it is founded, but equally in the artistic, professional, and logistical aspects of the “whole enchilada.” Meaning I experience Beauty and the Beast on many levels, including the nitty-gritty of my overriding awareness of such details (unknown to the viewer) as an actor trying not to trip over the tangled nest of cables on the floor of every set– not a problem we actors ever have in the theatre obviously, but a huge consideration for screen actors. Trying to be Ralph Fiennes or Meryl Streep while simultaneously not breaking an ankle on the cables is one of the less glamorous aspects of being an actor…. and I am going to bring such considerations, naturally, to anything I write about the show. In fact, I think I need to give a quick mini-lesson here before I address the question in the title of my piece.
Because I am an actor, I am extremely sensitive to, among other things, the emotional integrity of any given character, both for the character him/herself, and for that character’s emotional integrity within the given plot, or story arc. Meaning: there is how the words and the plot look on the page (in the script)…. and then there’s this entirely other thing, which is how those words sound and feel when delivered by the actor.
I suspect it’s pretty widely known that a gifted actor can make all but the very worst dreck of bad writing, look good– real– believable. In fact a gifted actor can often “carry” a dreadful play or series or even film, purely on the strength of their own emotional integrity, including what they personally bring to the reading– their interpretation– of the role. I have done this myself, and greater actors than I do it regularly. It just goes with the territory if you’re an actor. We can cover a world of bad writing with our own sensitivity, intuition, intellect, humor– our own souls.
So how does this tie in to “what the hell happened to Lisa?” Well, it’s actually pretty simple, as far as I’m concerned. In the earliest available (online) script of Arabesque, adult Lisa was emotionally fragile, and frightened, and desperate not to revisit the night of her banishment by Father; but she wasn’t shallow, vapid, vain and narcissistic. But that is how she ended up being written in the final (shooting) version of the script. The actor cast as adult Lisa (and I find no fault with her at all– she was capable of far more depth and nuance than she was directed to portray)– was directed to be guileful, deliberately deceptive, vain, shallow, narcissistic, and heartless. Elyssa Davalos, the actor, was also not a ballerina– though she had a gorgeous figure it was decidedly not the figure of a working prima ballerina. I personally assign blame for this across the board; they cast an actor of marvelous sensuality… but then the director undercut it. Although Davalos was not a ballerina, given the right direction, she could have delivered a much richer, deeper and more layered performance than she was allowed to do. And this is on top of the reality that the final shooting version of the script had flattened Lisa’s personality into a bad cliche.
Why is this so disturbing to me? because the Arabesque storyline in particular and the show in general deserved integrity– integrity of plot and integrity of character– and continuity of character. In other words, if a character changes personality, it must, somewhere in the story arc, be explained outright or at the very least an explanation hinted at. To do otherwise fails the requirements of storytelling.
Too often, if “the writing just isn’t there,” directors and actors must scramble to make emotional sense of bad or deficient plot-writing. A director must be ever-inventive, and lean heavily on his or her actors to use their own personal “storehouse” of emotional depth, intuition, and integrity to “fill in the holes” in the writing. When “the writing is just not there”– and a black hole is in the character-arc– the actor must throw him or herself “into the void” and close that black hole.
An actor of Perlman’s power, depth, and unflinching self-knowledge, is able to do this easily. Hamilton– though I adore her persona and charisma and am well aware that what she has– stunning screen presence— can transcend the definitions of actual talent– Hamilton is simply not able to do what Perlman does, and did, effortlessly. When Hamilton was presented with giant black holes in the BatB writing, she filled them in as best she could (as many beautiful sensual female actors do– and are rewarded for doing)– with her own personal beauty, sensuality, and soul. This is all that is traditionally asked or expected of beautiful women, especially “beautiful actresses”– a beauty and sensuality that is purely passive– something we NEVER ask of a male actor. Would Clooney put up with “just stand there and look troubled and gorgeous and smoldery. Perfect. Cut. And that’s a wrap!”
Hell no.
But historically, this has usually been all we’ve asked of our female screen icons. The Meryl Streeps of the world added a dimension– sheer effing acting talent that somehow, in and of itself, became beautiful— that had long been expected, even demanded– only of male actors. More and more female actors began to get opportunities to show that they were more than commodities on screen; that they possessed powers of humanity, just as male actors do, that transcend stale notions of beauty and sensuality, which are, let’s face it, in the eye of the beholder anyway.
So, mini-lesson finished, on to answer my own question.
High on my own list of “wait, WHAT?” for nearly 30 years now is what I consider to be the central mystery of the episode Arabesque, because of some very troubling questions it raised for me, the most disturbing of which I’ve never seen addressed in fan fiction. The questions, for me, are these: what, exactly, was the source of Father’s evident and profound guilt and unease around the very subject of Lisa? As offered by actor’s actor Roy Dotrice, Father’s reaction was far darker than mere sorrow or regret. An actor of Dotrice’s caliber adheres to his own superb instincts (and insights into human nature– his own, and that of others) and as such does not make such significant character choices randomly. I trust Dotrice’s (and Perlman’s) instincts far beyond those of the writers, directors, network execs and/or the occasional guest star’s interpretation of motivations, aftereffects, etc.
Next: what epiphany, what inner light did the camera capture in young Lisa’s face as she appeared to quickly forget about her injury and her fear, and stared at Vincent’s reaction to Father’s interference as if becoming aware of something she had never realized before, something that this viewer read in actor Kelli Williams’ face as the beginnings of hope— of joy? –of the realization that Vincent was ready to defy Father in order to follow and claim her?
But most disturbingly: why did the shocking personality change Lisa underwent— from the happy, loving, confident girl she was the last time Vincent saw her in adolescence, to the brittle, evasive, jittery and bitter, very different adult-Lisa who flees to the tunnels–
1) go unremarked in the episode
and
2) go unremarked and unexplored in fan fiction?
How is it that fans were not deeply disturbed by the personality erosion suffered by this character who had been Vincent’s whole world? Surely if someone as deep, sensitive, and perceptive as Vincent were able to adore Lisa, she couldn’t have been “just” a shallow, vain, empty-headed, narcissistic and/or selfish manipulator/failed-seductress? What would that say about Vincent, if she were?
So assuming Vincent was a decent judge of character even in adolescence, how can the profound change in Lisa, by the time she reaches adulthood, not be a huge and distressing red flag of some kind of deep trauma endured by her?
In any case I offer this piece as the introductory foundation of a larger explanation and exploration, of this heartbreaking change in Lisa’s entire way of being around other people, and her desperate, deliberate estrangement from her old self, the happy girl whom Vincent had once known and loved with all his heart— and by whom he had been loved, with complete trust and abandon, in return.
~author