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Short ... random burble, really, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oneiriad, who asked the following:
You mentioned in your previous post, how enemy mine hits you right in the gut. Care to elaborate on that?
Enemy mine, for those that don't know, is the TV tropes name for situations in fiction where enemies are forced to work together for a common goal, usually survival, sometimes to defeat common enemies (it's also a fabulous science fiction book and film, look it up, I love it). And, um, this seriously gets me in the id-place, so possibly this will not be very coherent -_-;
oneiriad, who asked the following:You mentioned in your previous post, how enemy mine hits you right in the gut. Care to elaborate on that?
Enemy mine, for those that don't know, is the TV tropes name for situations in fiction where enemies are forced to work together for a common goal, usually survival, sometimes to defeat common enemies (it's also a fabulous science fiction book and film, look it up, I love it). And, um, this seriously gets me in the id-place, so possibly this will not be very coherent -_-;
Essentially, enemy mine is about hope for me. A fantasy about the better elements of human nature.
*muses* Okay. Enemy mine, the direct trope where they end up working together, is tangled together in the same place as 'mercy unlooked for and an enemy's grace' in my head. Those places where people who have every reason to hate each other, to wish each other harm, or those people whose duty it is to cause each other harm, meet each other in dark circumstances and are moved not to enact that hate or that duty. It's ... it's that tangled rush of relief and suspicion and lingering terror and anger and desperate, desperate relief. It's power held in abeyance, power to hurt that isn't used. It's mercy and compassion, or maybe only honour, or perhaps nothing more than a certain pragmatism, but it's that moment where someone could hurt you, has reason to hurt you, but doesn't.
And the short version, mercy unlooked for, is precious to me, is powerful to me, that moment of safety from someone who should hurt you, that moment of mercy from someone who should destroy you. Valjean and Javert at the barricades. Those moments that have to be somewhere in Aziraphale and Crowley's past, where one of them didn't strike despite having the opportunity to. That moment when Richard Kimble has Phillip Gerard injured under his hands, and moves to take care of him instead of let him die. That moment when Heyes and Curry move to walk to their deaths to spare people who were going to sell them. That moment when Roy Batty pulls Deckard back onto the roof. That moment when one of them has their enemy in their power, and doesn't strike. Gods, oh gods, I love those moments so.
But the long version, enemy mine, the version where the situation is extended, where that moment of mercy, whatever its motives, becomes lengthened by the circumstances into actually working together, for however brief a time ...
That version has something a little more. More ... potential, perhaps? Because that version is where enemies are perforce given a window into how the other functions, how the other works, when they have to act in concert, and give each other leeway that they wouldn't before, even if only for a few moments. It's the place where there is, perhaps, most potential for change, for one party or the other to see something, to learn something, that they cannot afterwards ignore. It's ... it's a chance, a window of opportunity, something that draws them close to each other long enough to maybe see ...
For Jack McGee to see the man, 'John Doe', lurking under the Hulk, the man in pain, the man needing help. For Heyes and Curry to see the sheer, uncompromising honour and determination in Joe Simms. For Eric Lensherr and Charles Xavier to be reminded of what they once loved about each other, over and over again. On the darker side, the more dangerous side, the chance for G'Kar to see how weak, how desperate, how frail Londo is, under his bluster. The chance to see weaknesses, to see chinks, to see the squalling, frail things that lurk under everyone's exterior. To see honour unlooked for, mercy unlooked for, but also weakness unlooked for.
Enemy mine gives people who hate each other (or are ideologically opposed to each other) an unprecedented chance at ... at a kind of intimacy, an exploration of each other that the normal course of their relationship would not allow. And for the length of that situation, for the length of the circumstance that brought it about, they cannot act on it, they cannot use what they know against each other, and that creates a sense of potential. A sense of teetering on the edge, of lurking change, of lurking danger. It creates a precipice, over which the rest of the story might fall, or at least the rest of this relationship.
And there are a myriad of ways it can go. My favourite, the ones that get me in the id, the fantasy of human nature, are the ones where the circumstance shows the enemies the other's worth, shows them their honour, their sacrifice, their pain, their courage. But the other ones, the darker ones, when played right, can be so perfectly tragic that you have to respect them. G'Kar refusing to aid Londo in that lift, ready to die rather than help his enemy because it's the only weapon he has left, gods, you have to respect it. You do, you have to. Londo did, somewhere under there. The moments where they come so close, so close to a chance to end this without pain, and then it falls. Then something snaps, and you are left with so exact a picture of all that might have been, and will never be again (Eric and Charles, over and over and over again).
As I said. It's a fantasy of human nature. The idea that, given only the chance to see, even the worst of enemies might know there was something in each other worth saving, worth admiring, some scrap of honour or mercy or courage worth valuing. The idea that if we could only see, we might ... might lay down arms, might understand enough for mercy ourselves. Tangled inside it, that desperate fantasy, that we might be safe, that even those we fear might be moved, somehow, not to harm us. That there is mercy and honour and compassion in the world, enough to spare us, enough to give us a chance. That inside our own natures, there is that same mercy, same honour, same compassion. That in giving it, we create a chance to recieve it. That people are good, that people are merciful, that safety is only a last gasp of understanding away.
And gods, there are days when I need that, so goddamn much. Days when I so desperately want to see Roy Batty spare Deckard just because he wants someone to live. When I want to see Richard Kimble keep Gerard alive just because it isn't in him to let a man die to save his own life. When I want to see Jack McGee realise there is something human and in pain beneath the Hulk's rage, and never again forget it, always afterwards try to save that human thing. There are are days when I just ... when I need that, that hope, that compassion, that chance at mercy. Days when I want stories to tell me that even people with so much hate or fear or duty between them can find moments, even just moments, where it is within them to help each other.
*shrugs carefully* It's a fantasy. It's an id-thing. I know that. But gods, there are days I need it, and more days where I just want it and love it and let it bring me pleasure. *smiles crookedly*
And I'm not sure that was coherent, but we'll leave it so, yes?
*muses* Okay. Enemy mine, the direct trope where they end up working together, is tangled together in the same place as 'mercy unlooked for and an enemy's grace' in my head. Those places where people who have every reason to hate each other, to wish each other harm, or those people whose duty it is to cause each other harm, meet each other in dark circumstances and are moved not to enact that hate or that duty. It's ... it's that tangled rush of relief and suspicion and lingering terror and anger and desperate, desperate relief. It's power held in abeyance, power to hurt that isn't used. It's mercy and compassion, or maybe only honour, or perhaps nothing more than a certain pragmatism, but it's that moment where someone could hurt you, has reason to hurt you, but doesn't.
And the short version, mercy unlooked for, is precious to me, is powerful to me, that moment of safety from someone who should hurt you, that moment of mercy from someone who should destroy you. Valjean and Javert at the barricades. Those moments that have to be somewhere in Aziraphale and Crowley's past, where one of them didn't strike despite having the opportunity to. That moment when Richard Kimble has Phillip Gerard injured under his hands, and moves to take care of him instead of let him die. That moment when Heyes and Curry move to walk to their deaths to spare people who were going to sell them. That moment when Roy Batty pulls Deckard back onto the roof. That moment when one of them has their enemy in their power, and doesn't strike. Gods, oh gods, I love those moments so.
But the long version, enemy mine, the version where the situation is extended, where that moment of mercy, whatever its motives, becomes lengthened by the circumstances into actually working together, for however brief a time ...
That version has something a little more. More ... potential, perhaps? Because that version is where enemies are perforce given a window into how the other functions, how the other works, when they have to act in concert, and give each other leeway that they wouldn't before, even if only for a few moments. It's the place where there is, perhaps, most potential for change, for one party or the other to see something, to learn something, that they cannot afterwards ignore. It's ... it's a chance, a window of opportunity, something that draws them close to each other long enough to maybe see ...
For Jack McGee to see the man, 'John Doe', lurking under the Hulk, the man in pain, the man needing help. For Heyes and Curry to see the sheer, uncompromising honour and determination in Joe Simms. For Eric Lensherr and Charles Xavier to be reminded of what they once loved about each other, over and over again. On the darker side, the more dangerous side, the chance for G'Kar to see how weak, how desperate, how frail Londo is, under his bluster. The chance to see weaknesses, to see chinks, to see the squalling, frail things that lurk under everyone's exterior. To see honour unlooked for, mercy unlooked for, but also weakness unlooked for.
Enemy mine gives people who hate each other (or are ideologically opposed to each other) an unprecedented chance at ... at a kind of intimacy, an exploration of each other that the normal course of their relationship would not allow. And for the length of that situation, for the length of the circumstance that brought it about, they cannot act on it, they cannot use what they know against each other, and that creates a sense of potential. A sense of teetering on the edge, of lurking change, of lurking danger. It creates a precipice, over which the rest of the story might fall, or at least the rest of this relationship.
And there are a myriad of ways it can go. My favourite, the ones that get me in the id, the fantasy of human nature, are the ones where the circumstance shows the enemies the other's worth, shows them their honour, their sacrifice, their pain, their courage. But the other ones, the darker ones, when played right, can be so perfectly tragic that you have to respect them. G'Kar refusing to aid Londo in that lift, ready to die rather than help his enemy because it's the only weapon he has left, gods, you have to respect it. You do, you have to. Londo did, somewhere under there. The moments where they come so close, so close to a chance to end this without pain, and then it falls. Then something snaps, and you are left with so exact a picture of all that might have been, and will never be again (Eric and Charles, over and over and over again).
As I said. It's a fantasy of human nature. The idea that, given only the chance to see, even the worst of enemies might know there was something in each other worth saving, worth admiring, some scrap of honour or mercy or courage worth valuing. The idea that if we could only see, we might ... might lay down arms, might understand enough for mercy ourselves. Tangled inside it, that desperate fantasy, that we might be safe, that even those we fear might be moved, somehow, not to harm us. That there is mercy and honour and compassion in the world, enough to spare us, enough to give us a chance. That inside our own natures, there is that same mercy, same honour, same compassion. That in giving it, we create a chance to recieve it. That people are good, that people are merciful, that safety is only a last gasp of understanding away.
And gods, there are days when I need that, so goddamn much. Days when I so desperately want to see Roy Batty spare Deckard just because he wants someone to live. When I want to see Richard Kimble keep Gerard alive just because it isn't in him to let a man die to save his own life. When I want to see Jack McGee realise there is something human and in pain beneath the Hulk's rage, and never again forget it, always afterwards try to save that human thing. There are are days when I just ... when I need that, that hope, that compassion, that chance at mercy. Days when I want stories to tell me that even people with so much hate or fear or duty between them can find moments, even just moments, where it is within them to help each other.
*shrugs carefully* It's a fantasy. It's an id-thing. I know that. But gods, there are days I need it, and more days where I just want it and love it and let it bring me pleasure. *smiles crookedly*
And I'm not sure that was coherent, but we'll leave it so, yes?
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