We begin with another standard of fan-fiction; gender bias. As the lead and narrative voice of Twilight is female, any other characters who are not male will be described as negatively as possible, if at all, and are generalized as selfish, gossiping bitches. I've found this to be a popular choice in otherwise credible fiction, including the very adult, supernatural hackings of Laurell K. Hamilton. Just like little Bella, Hamilton's Anita Blake corners the market on “class and beauty,” with the other girlies can't even be relegated to rival status and instead grovel at the plot table for scraps of dialogue.
Today, the teenagers flock to the beach to socialize, Bella somehow numbered among them for no explicable reason. While awkwardly shooting down her prospects and obsessing over Edward, she meets Jacob, a fifteen year-old American Indian who is fated to doggy-bag Edward's sloppy seconds in the sequel. For now, he's underage despite a deceptively deep voice. (I spent my entire day trying to come up with a visual for Jacob that wouldn't be just another pretty face in a teen movie. Instead I actively failed and chose Steve Strait in his portrayal of Warren Peace from Sky High because he's panties-round-my-ankles hot.)
Someone drops the Cullen name, and Jacob's crew is just as visibly discomfited as I am. Curious and suddenly aware of her femininity, Bella decides to sweet-talk Jacob into telling her more about why Edward, ahem, sucks. However, during the whole adorable scene, she mentally flagellates her already bruised ego for being a liar and leading Jacob on.
Because good
Jacob doesn't smell the stank on this one and drops the entire plot on her. To make it even less important or foreshadowed, I'll sum up. Blah-blah-blah werewolves. Blah-blah-blah good vampires. Wanna go steady?
The nuclear fallout of feminine wiles and surprise Nosferatu torment Bella for the entirely of Chapter 7. She withdraws into noise and sensory overload, she is assailed by pointless nightmares, she wanders like an equally gravity-stricken Ophelia into the forest to finally face her fears and decide, once and for all, what she's going to do about Edward. Instead, she doesn't. Do. Anything. After pages upon pages of aching knots of Gordian heartstrings, Bella runs out of steam. The rest of the chapter meanders towards a close with a shopping trip with the placeholder girls that shivved their way to the top of the NPC heap.
Taking the perspective of a deeply affected girl stricken with crippling anxiety, intense paranoia and a shrinking violet cum martyr complex, I can't say I'm looking forward to the inevitable hook-up with the bi-polar bad boy wanna-be. Her first seemingly selfish act in the entire book is a choice to flirt with a guy she's not interested in to get information about the object of her slavish obsession. God may as well have lightning bolted her ass to spare her the guilt trip that followed. Top it all off with a Mormon writer and a pre-teen audience. This will be the sex of MPAA-approved legend.
And Laurell K. Hamilton cackles in her ivory tower, “Where's your iron willpower now, dearie? Anita fucked a leopard! HAHAHAHAH!”
Anne Rice slits her wrists in the only obvious recourse.
not to spoil the plot but, according to my sources, bella and edward don't actually get it on until they are married (i haven't personally confirmed this, but my intel is solid). figures.
ReplyDeletehonestly, i think that lesbian version at a deeper, more realistic plot.
Doggy-bagging sloppy seconds... Wow.
ReplyDeleteI love when your snark turns purple like that. :)
Tim, I don't know if making it a lesbian version would help. We'd need a better writer, one that is also without oodles of stereotypical goth bitterness that is found in 99% of fanfic. How do you have supernatural fiction without angst? I suppose the trick is not overdoing it.