Long Roads Home
My husband and I saw Alice in Wonderland this afternoon. It was roughly what we’d expected it to be in terms of deviation from the Englishness and wit of Carroll’s original, but otherwise proved less dark and Gothic than I’d hoped for by way of compensation, especially given the involvement of Tim Burton. The end result was something mixed: neither frightening nor fanciful, childish nor adult, canonical nor a particular twist on canon, and therefore disappointingly defined by what it wasn’t more than by what it was. It was still fun to watch, of course, and being as how I claim membership of those adoring multitudes who will pay to see Johnny Depp at the opening of an envelope, much less in a film where he affects a very attractive Scottish accent indeed, the afternoon wasn’t a total loss. But what irked me about the ending – which, for those concerned about the prospect of spoilers, contains nothing out of the ordinary – is the fact that, after all her adventures in Wonderland, Alice elects to go home.
Take a gander at any number of fantastic stories, and you’ll see a similar theme: protagonists who find themselves transported from Earth to some strange other realm then spend the majority of the narrative struggling to get back where they started, which goal they eventually achieve, and then it’s all over. The Wizard of Oz presents another classic example, as does, to a certain extent, the Narnia series. It’s a well-worn theme, and a potentially satisfying one – and yet, at every single iteration, at every single age, it has frustrated the bejeezus out of me. Why would anyone, when confronted with the marvels of a fictitious realm, one in which they are someone powerful and important; where there are fantastic sights as yet unexplored, and where they frequently find more and sturdier friendships than in their previous lives, choose blithely to turn around and go back to the way things were? More importantly, as more than one person has wondered, how could they proceed to live their mundane lives as though nothing extraordinary had happened to them? I don’t object to the return scenario when there’s a good reason for it, but all too often, it seems, storytellers expect us to choose Earth by default – a form of patriotism wherein we root for day to day reality, regardless of what other wonders we’re shown.
In the original Alice in Wonderland, it’s easy to understand why our heroine wants to return home: instead of friends, she encounters a parade of frustrating, sometimes aggressive characters on her adventures, none of whom particularly try to help or understand her, and whose world proves more frightening than beautiful. Similarly, in The Jungle Books, we understand the need for Mowgli to twice leave the animal world behind: once as a child, when he attempts to learn the ways of man, and again as an adult, when the springtime mating habits of his four-legged friends forces him to realise that if he stays with them, he will be lonely forever. Neither decision is worn lightly, and though it still breaks my heart to hear Baloo, Kaa, Grey Brother’s wolves and Bagheera sing the Outsong of the Jungle, I acknowledge the painful logic of Mowgli’s choice. But in Burton’s film, it is difficult to understand why Alice returns at all, when her reasoning is simply that she cannot stay in Wonderland: she has other things to do. This is despite the fact that the failings of Earth – her arranged marriage, unsympathetic family and limited social options – were all what drove her away in the first place, while the simple and unrealistic removal of these barriers at her return stand as a monument to bad storytelling for the sake of a happy ending.
Consider a scenario in which, having been whisked away to a miraculous new world and offered a place in it, you are confronted with what is, in essence, a sadistic choice: abandon everyone you’ve ever known or loved in your old life forever – no goodbyes, no explanations, no chance to whip home for a few of your favourite things – or lose in perpetuity everything you’ve gained since your arrival, returning to a life where, for fear of being deemed crazy, you can never talk about your experiences. This is no small choice, to be taken lightly as the close to a lengthy adventure: it is heartbreakingly final, the kind of decision which, no matter the outcome, is bound to haunt the decision-maker forever. This is why I so mistrust stories in which the choice to do as Dorothy does and simply click her ruby slippers is taken for granted: adventure over! Let’s go back to Kansas and live in squalor with a pig-farming aunt and uncle instead of learning witchcraft under Glinda or exploring the Emerald City! Easy peasy! Nothing to it! Yes. If you are a crazy person.
The best and most realistic treatment of this dilemma I’ve ever seen can be found in Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. Having traversed the world of London Below, Richard Mayhew decides to try and return to his old life. He leaves his potential love interest, Door, in sadness and regret, on the understanding that they will never see each other again, and walks back into an existence which has actually improved in his absence. It’s not until the end of the day that Richard realises he’s made a mistake, and wants to go back to his new world; the fact that he is allowed a second chance to do so provides for a happy ending, but one which is a thousand times more satisfying for having displayed some element of hard choice and luck, rather than a blithe acceptance of one particular alternative.
So, Trespass readers, you’ve saved a fantasy realm from destruction and have been offered a place in its future. The price: Earth and all it represents are forever off-limits. What do you choose – the new world, or the old? And why?
