I’ve been thinking a lot about narrative ‘canon’ recently. I’ve also written and rewritten this blog post a couple of times, to try and make sure I actually touch on how I feel about it (my perspective is…not unambiguous), and why – but I think I finally have it. So, without further ado, this is a short breakdown of ‘canon’ as it is understood in fiction today – and of why it is important, and when it is not.
It’s maybe worth defining and clarifying just what ‘canon’ is from a fictional perspective, as it is a surprisingly recent invention. Wiktionary gives us this as the third definition of ‘canon’: “The works of a writer that have been accepted as authentic.” A few entries later, we get this alternative definition: “Those sources, especially including literary works, which are considered part of the main continuity regarding a given fictional universe.”
This latter definition is likely the more familiar one, but it arises directly from the first. According to Wikipedia (yes I know, these are not excellent sources and I’m coming back to talk more about Wikipedia later…sue me), the first usage of the word “canon” to refer to a corpus of fiction was in discussions of the various stories dealing with Sherlock Holmes. Here, the word was foremost used in its first meaning – the roaring success of the detective transformed him into an early franchise, with novels and plays from numerous authors being published.
Such third-party works were naturally of greatly varying quality, and were only sometimes produced with the permission or even awareness of Doyle and his estate. Clearly, not every fictional work written about Holmes could thus belong to the ‘true’ canon – but some works were indeed authorised by the estate, and/or accepted by many fans as being true to the spirit and tone of the originals. Further, Doyle himself wrote a number of short stories and/or drafts, the former often being as gifts or for special occasions, thus creating further space for doubt and debate as to what “truly” belonged to the canon of Sherlock Holmes. Hence, the question of canonicity in Holmes was hotly and eagerly discussed by devotees, with a myriad of positions forming.
However, these early fans of Doyle’s detective also found, in dissecting and debating the stories of their hero much as Sherlock himself might have done, that there were some significant problems in assembling a consistent internal history for Holmes and Watson, even when limited to the published primary sources of Doyle, including:
- Conflicting or contradictory information in the narrative (see John Watson’s migratory war wound, for example)
- A lack of internal chronology from story to story in published order (seasons flit by, Watson is married or not or married again)
- Clear omissions or changes acknowledged as such by “Watson” in his narrative, for the sake of protecting clients and their affairs
Hence, the question of what texts made up the canon of Sherlock Holmes grew to encompass the closely related question of what was canon in Sherlock Holmes. If you are already a devotee of Holmes and of these questions, then I need say no more – and if you are not, then this explanation will suffice. Unsurprisingly, as one of the first significant modern franchises, Sherlock Holmes also became an early and definitive example of questions of canon….in both senses of the word.
Currently, that earlier understanding of of ‘canon’ is less problematic. The general agreement is that an author, showrunner or creator has some say over canon, as do the owners of the IP…hence, a property like Star Wars can dictate works of canonic veracity by virtue of saying that they are canon, as well as ‘alternative’ histories that fall out of canon (such as the recent and occasionally excellent Visions). Adding to this is the concept of ‘headcanon’, usually understood to mean a subjective and personally preferred interpretation of a franchise’s canon…again, Star Wars’ Great EU Purge when Disney bought it provides a good example of how some fans may turn to headcanon and alternative canons when ‘their’ canon is dismantled or discarded.
It is with the second that I am concerned – though it is not a problem of definition or understanding. Rather, I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel about canon…and why I think I care about it rather less than some. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Last night, my wife and I went to see the latest Fantastic Beasts film – look, we’re ‘90s kids, don’t judge us. It was honestly better than the previous entry, too, though by no means a great film or story – but this isn’t a review of The Secrets of Dumbledore.
Rather, during the film, I noticed a few things that irritated me, that momentarily cast me out of the story. In no particular order:
- Near the start of the film, a younger (though adult) Minerva McGonagall drops in to see Mr Dumbledore and Mr Dumbledore. It’s a cute cameo and makes sense on the surface, as they are just outside Hogwarts. Yet what is she doing there? Dumbledore is the Transfiguration teacher until after Riddle’s graduation from Hogwarts, in the early ‘40s…so McGonagall cannot be a teacher at the moment. Is she doing a Wizard PhD with Dumbledore? Maybe, but we’ve never heard of such a thing before. Does she live nearby? Possibly, but it’s odd for her to be running errands. In short, it’s a cameo in service of being a cameo, rather than in any aid of logic or consistency…it is not impossible for her to be there, but it is less likely than the film wants us to believe.
- At the end of Fantastic Grindelwalds: The Crimes of Beasts, a shocking, game-changing twist is revealed – Dumbledore has a secret brother! And he’s dark and moody and evil! Only…for it to turn out that he’s a secret nephew in this latest film. From a narrative perspective, it is unclear if this was always the intention of the screenwriters, or if they back-pedalled to a less outlandish origin for this film. From an internal perspective, it is equally unclear why Grindelwald would tell such a falsehood – he does not seem to utilise it in any meaningful way, other than by sending Credence to kill Albus…which he seemingly would have happily done anyway, given the former’s closer relationship to Grindelwald. It is, in short, a shocking revelation given for the sake of being shocking, and with no real purpose or intent to follow it up.
- Speaking of Dumbledore and his shifting history…we have previously been told the sad story of his sister’s death, killed when a spell rebounded during a furious and passionate magical brawl between Albus, Aberforth, and Gellert.
‘…I pulled out my wand, and he pulled out his, and I had the Cruciatus Curse used on me by my brother’s best friend – and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us were duelling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she couldn’t stand it –’
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 28, ‘The Missing Mirror’, by J.K. Rowling
The colour was draining from Aberforth’s face as though he had suffered a mortal wound.
‘– and I think she wanted to help, but she didn’t really know what she was doing, and I don’t know which of us did it, it could have been any of us – and she was dead.’
However, in the film, Albus tells Newt that Grindelwald “simply laughed” at the argument between the brothers, and never drew his wand. It’s a frustrating change, for several different reasons. Now, Ariana dies not in a furious, complicated and emotionally charged fight between three very different men, but in a bizarre altercation between brothers – less a tragic accident and a clash of complex moral perspectives, more bone-headed stupidity.
Reread that passage again – in the book version, Aberforth is trying to reason with Albus and Gellert, Gellert is using violence and force to achieve his goals, and Albus is supportive of those goals yet unwilling to go to the same lengths as Gellert. It is really good. The revisited version sees Albus and Aberforth forgetting their words and ideologies and aiming to (presumably) at least incapacitate or maim each other – which in turn erodes our understanding of these characters.
Further, the reason for the change is painfully clear – since the magic blood amulet with the power to generate a movie’s plot must have been made before Albus and Gellert fell out with each other, it is now impossible for them to have fought when Ariana died. The script, alas, has too little regard for its audience – rather than finding a less ‘convenient’ reason for Dumbledore to be unable to directly fight Grindelwald (the latter is too highly thought of, or the former fears his power and favours subterfuge over war) or to at least explain the locket’s nature better (perhaps it was made prior to but not ‘activated’ until after their argument), the writers are content to rewrite previously established events so as to make some sense of the current situation. It is, in other words, a change made to the canon merely for immediate narrative convenience, relying upon a lazy and disengaged audience.
- Oh, and finally, Grindelwald is riding around in a Wizard car…a good 60 years before the genial and curious Arthur Weasley will be thrilled to tinker with such an exotic Muggle invention.
The last in particular feels nitpicky, and I hope to be able to assure you that it is not. I did not walk into Secret Beasts: Dumbledore’s Fantastic with the intention or hope of finding errors and canonic fumbles…I suspect that had I done so, I would have found many more.
Rather, these were moments and points that genuinely removed me from the spell of the story for a moment – stumbles that drove my consciousness from Faerie to the dim lights of a cinema screen.
Yeah, and you thought I was done with On Fairy Stories….but it is highly pertinent to such questions. So, let us return once more to my favourite of Tolkien’s essays.
Tolkien does not refer to “canon” in the essay – written but a mere fortyish years after Baker Street’s most famous tenants took residence, it was still not a broadly used term in its modern sense. What Tolkien does refer to, though, is the “inner consistency of reality” – the need for Story to make sense within its own bounds, that events, concepts and actions ought to be guided by the internal logics of the story itself. Only when such inner consistency is attained can sub-creation be achieved.
The mental power of image-making is one thing, or aspect; and it should appropriately be called Imagination. The perception of the image, the grasp of its implications, and the control, which are necessary to a successful expression, may vary in vividness and strength: but this is a difference of degree in Imagination, not a difference in kind. The achievement of the expression, which gives (or seems to give) “the inner consistency of reality,” is indeed another thing, or aspect, needing another name: Art, the operative link between Imagination and the final result, Sub-creation.
…………..
To make a Secondary World inside which the green sun will be credible, commanding Secondary Belief, will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks. But when they are attempted and in any degree accomplished then we have a rare achievement of Art: indeed narrative art, story- making in its primary and most potent mode.
On Fairy Stories, by J.R.R. Tolkien
It is difficult to find a more compelling argument for the importance of internal canon’s convincing and rational development in Tolkien’s writings – and he further goes on to describe precisely the phenomenon that plagued me through Fantastic Secrets (albeit earlier in the essay):
Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the story-maker’s art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called “willing suspension of disbelief.” But this does not seem to me a good description of what happens. What really happens is that the story- maker proves a successful “sub-creator.” He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is “true”: it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it, while you are, as it were, inside. The moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken; the magic, or rather art, has failed. You are then out in the Primary World again, looking at the little abortive Secondary World from outside.
OFS
I cannot imagine a clearer explanation for why I felt the way I often did during Harry Potter and the Secrets of the Beasts. By rewriting and ignoring its own world’s established rules and logics, the film forced me, against my own will, to see it for what it is…lights and sounds projected onto a screen in some semblance of order; rather than allowing me full or lasting entry into what it should have been – a compelling and convincing Secondary World.
“It accords with the laws of that world….the moment disbelief arises, the spell is broken.” These are strong words, and it may well seem that I am winding up at this point to deliver a passionate and zealous text in loving favour of canon.
I am going to do no such thing. I am going to argue against canon and its importance.
Obviously, canon and narrative logic are both important – for I have wasted too many words already on arguing for it to now claim otherwise! Yet it is also my contention that, ironically, overmuch importance is placed on them in the minds of many people. See, it is my feeling that ‘canon’ has for today’s audience become confused with ‘quality’, or at least ‘enjoyableness’. And, as I mentioned before, I have a suspicion that Wikipedia may well play a part in this…or at least, the culture of Wikipedia and like-organised sources of information.
Actually, this is not wholly fair – for social medias, Twitter and Facebook, also play their part in the emphasis of canon and its overwhelming importance. For with wikis, blogs, fansites and so on, it is possible to gather overwhelming amounts of information on virtually subject imaginable, with so little effort that it becomes a mockery. Catalogues and reams of facts, each more tantalising than the last; “Did you know” lists catering to curate and inform millions of people about the hidden clues, meanings and characters contained in the latest blockbuster.
And this information serves a purpose, if a strange one. It serves the purpose of making sure that you, dear believer, are a ‘real’ fan. It can be a vicious, strange cycle, for such lists and videos exist to make one panic that one does not know ‘enough’ to enjoy a new work of fiction. So, it becomes necessary to study and learn, to gather yourself the information that the sub-creators did not deem necessary to include in their secondary world. And, by the time you have invested enough time into learning all this information, to make sure you can definitely be a real fan – then surely you have sunk such a cost into it that you must be a real fan, for what was the purpose otherwise?
This is all sounding very cynical and grim, and I can lessen both…at the risk of seeming somewhat hypocritical. For I do not believe that there is anything fundamentally wrong or evil about wikis, nor about fans sharing and enjoying such information. I do both, and frequently. I am myself a curious person with a worryingly keen memory for fictional events, such that I warrant I know more about Luke Skywalker than I do about many worthy and notable real people.
However, I do not do so because I think it necessary, I do so for my own enjoyment. I do not think I am alone in this, indeed, I dare say I belong to the vast majority of people. But I am less sure how conscious, how aware, the majority of people are about these arguments. For me, finding details within the canon of LOTR that, say, illustrate the characters of Boromir and Éomer in some previously unrealised way, is both interesting and worthwhile, but it does not make my enjoyment of these characters ‘better’ (though it may be heightened in some way). And crucially, it is very possible for one to be captured by the spell of LOTR and never be aware of these points of comparison – the narrative is rich with detail, but also qualitative (whether one enjoys its peculiar qualities is another question – suffice it to say that enough do!). And I find it necessary to repeat here – such depth of canon, such rich and carefully constructed fictional histories, do not guarantee that a work of fantasy will be in any way ‘good’.
Indeed, it can lead to poorer storytelling owing to the expectation that a ‘real fan’ will figure it out, and/or enjoy it, and such dreadful sub-creations manifest in one of two ways. Either they will become so obsessed, so oriented toward and in love with themselves and their own mythology, that their stories consist of nothing but ‘canon’. Star Wars has at least veered in this direction with efforts such as Solo, a film I broadly enjoyed, but which was sometimes obsessed more with showing us stuff about Han (where did he get his name? His jacket? His gun?) than with actually telling a story about Han. But such cameos, Easter eggs, extraneous details, are littered over modern film, TV, even literature – and while there is naught wrong with any of these examples in isolation, the problem comes when such attention to canon becomes the focus and not, at worst, an amusing and unintrusive diversion.
Happily, Star Wars also provides us with ample examples of the other modern sub-creative sin – the danger of not providing enough information. Every time a character appeared, a planet was destroyed, or an event was referenced in the Sequel trilogy, and you were later reassured by a true fan that “it makes sense if you have read the tie-in book/comic/played Fortnite”…well, said true fan is not wrong. It may well make sense. But this is not an excuse or a licence for the weaving of sloppy, thin and disengaged narratives. A story should stand on its own two feet, should be capable of welcoming one into its corner of Faerie by its own worth. Those who love the canon and have researched further may recognise the names of the Faerie flowers, but all should be able to see and enjoy their bloom.
Canon is, ultimately, a means to an end, and that end is the successful sub-creation of fiction. It is a purpose and an important one, but it should not be confused with being an end in and of itself. Canon is synonymous not with quality, but with coherence. If it is ignored, as with The Beasts of Dumbledore, then the illusion is revealed as nothing more than smoke. If it is adored, then we find ourselves falling not under the spell of Faerie, but prostrate at the altar of false history. And if it is relied upon as a crutch, then we question whether we should even enter under its spell at all.
Indeed, as a tool, I would contend that the logic of canon can be successfully superseded if and when the narrative demands it for the sake of a dramatically higher purpose (ie, when the temporary suspension of canon heightens the overall spell). Such an example occurs (to my mind) in The Dark Knight. In the film, Joker and his goons intrude on a gala hosted by Bruce Wayne, threatening life and limb of Gotham’s wealthy elite. Fortunately, Batman happens to be nearby and intervenes, coming face to face with his arch-nemesis for the first time. Rather than describe what happens, I think it is actually instructive to watch it:
Following this drama, we cut to the following morning, as Gordon and Dent continue building respect for each other through word and action, each showing that they are invested in the protection of Gotham and will do what they may to aid it. After the fear, the buildup, the confrontation and the release of the previous scene, this scene makes sense as a ‘reset’, as we see our heroes rally in the face of terror. It works well in context as an appropriate transition away from the gala, which is itself masterful in how it heightens and builds to its climax.
Indeed, it is too masterful. For in the chaos, in the tension, in the unravelling heightening of danger and the release of Batman’s saving of Rachel, we have forgotten a surprisingly ‘crucial’ element of canonic importance. What happened to the Joker and his hostage powerbrokers? We never find out. We never get an answer as to whether he just left, whether Batman dashed back up there, whether the police came, whether anyone died…nothing. And were The Dark Knight concerned with its own fabric from which it is cut, then we would be told what happened. Dent, at least, was present and yet is clearly not harmed or captured – but neither does he elaborate upon what happened after Batman crashed out of the scene.
But The Dark Knight is not worried about its logic insofar as it serves the story, and it is confident and competent enough that we do not worry either. Indeed, so effective is the scene that I have not noticed this curious detail of my own accord – it took reading an article which touched on it in passing to realise. And even then, I do not care, and nor have I ever met anyone who cares.
The truth of the matter is that the magic, the art of this scene is sufficient to bind us in its spell, and this is (or should be) the primary aim of subcreation. Not the making of histories and facts for their own sake, for such mechanical invention is pale when drawn against the real. Nay, the mechanics exist only insofar as is necessary to make the machine ‘go’ – if they are insufficient, then the machine will stall or fail to start. And if one loses sight of the machine’s purpose or the machine itself, then it is all too easy to build a whirring, perfect mechanism that does nothing.
To return us to Tolkien, and to close out this worryingly wordy post, I would like to turn to another example that I would present of canon ‘not mattering’ – and this is at least a worthwhile discussion, for it was the inspiration of this blog post. The Dark Knight shows that it is possible to suspend canon in fleeting moments (though a fair accusation could be made that such narrative tricks are illusory and cheap, they are nonetheless effective), but is still ultimately concerned with canon, with understanding the beginnings and endings of things. Sometimes, though, I think that canon is truly unimportant. Sometimes, I do not care about what the ‘right’ or canonic answer is.
Sometimes, I do not care where the Orcs of Tolkien’s Legendarium came from.
This pertains to a recent discussion I had online with ‘E’ (someone who I believe knows rather more about the Legendarium than I do) and stemmed from a perennial question often asked by newer devotees to the cult of JRRT – where, exactly, do Orcs come from?
Zealously, myself and E leapt into the fray with our identical, wholly contradictory answers. For we both know the texts, we both know the tortured history of how Tolkien drafted, discarded, redrafted, and abandoned this very question over and over. From golem-like creatures of mud or stone, to tortured Elves, to wicked spirits entrapped in flesh, to ‘intelligent’ yet not sapient parrot-like animals, to twisted and corrupt Men…Tolkien tried oft to find an answer to this question, an answer was compatible with his theological world-view, his internally composed fictional history, his vision of the nature and manner of Orc-kind, and even his own treatment of the Orcs as individual characters.
E and I knew all of this, and had no disagreement. Where we pitched our battle lines was rather on the question itself. His, entirely reasonable and fair position, was that Tolkien’s latest thoughts on the matter before his death, informed by all his earlier reflections upon Orc-kind, should be read as truth and canon. Orcs, for E, are Men, as this was the last version of the text, and is therefore unlikely to be superseded soon.
My position was rather different, being not in favour of any individual answer. I contended, and continue to contend here (unfairly, for E has not the chance of reply in my domain!) that there is no canon answer to this question. It is, to my mind, perfectly legitimate to have a preferred answer – a ‘headcanon’ if you will, especially if it is sourced from one or more of Tolkien’s several ideas. And for anyone with a serious interest in learning more about the mythology of the Legendarium, it is also essential to know a little about all the answers, and to know how Tolkien’s views of the subject changed and evolved over time.
However, I have also had time to clarify and rethink my position since this discussion – and while it has not changed, it has become better defined to me. In the heat of the moment, I was far more interested in discussing problems of canon, theology, and the relationships of the texts to each other. And to be clear, I do have significant and real problems with the Mannish version (and I believe it likely that Tolkien had at least hesitations on the matter), but this is not the place for such questions. However, I also put forward the argument that I do not think it ultimately matters and that there does not need to be a canon answer….and I stumbled at the question of why this is so.
Now, having reflected upon it, I think I know. It does not matter, because none of these versions belong to a fully sub-created story. Sadly, Tolkien’s Legendarium writings were, for the most part, incomplete, unrevised, or but parts of an unfinished whole. To refer back to his own words from On Fairy Stories, Tolkien assuredly attempted it, and accomplished it…to a degree. But he himself was aware that his Legendarium, outside of The Hobbit and LOTR, was never really ‘completed’, and, I think by association, that it was never really fully sub-created. This is not to say that it is also wholly unsuccessful, for many have been captured by the fragmentary and myriad spells and visions of the Legendarium outside of LOTR! But no single version of the Legendarium was ever fully realised by Tolkien, and he knew that well.
And this, finally, is why I do not care what the ‘canon’ answer is for the origin of Orcs…because there is no canon. To my mind, canon exists and is important only insofar as it serves a story, powering the machinery of sub-creative art. I am able to enjoy and be bewitched by the Legendarium for the story-telling feats it does achieve, and those are great and deep indeed! But the Legendarium is definitively incomplete and unfinished, as contradictory and disunited as any global mythological tradition. Had Tolkien ever reached a single, definable version that he authorised in some way, then I would feel otherwise, but he did not.
And so, in reading the Legendarium, I am able to be transported to its sub-created reality, especially when reading the more completed tales. But in studying the Legendarium, I think it is impossible to interrogate its canon in the same manner as we can the canon of Sherlock Holmes. We can read the myriad texts critically, we can understand their relationships to one another and how they are broadly congruent, and we can even have our own small preferences for one version of a text or another (I, personally, am partial to the fiery and rebellious, even selfish, version of Galadriel found in the earlier writings). And we can apply a closer lens to The Hobbit and LOTR, as these works are complete, finished, self-sufficient – indeed, my most recent blog post was in some way concerned with just such a close reading.
But it is unfair to the texts of the Legendarium to read them searching for canon, for that machinery was never assembled. Unfair and unhelpful, for as I have argued, canon’s importance is solely to provide internal consistency in support of Secondary Belief. It is tempting to do so, for there is a great wealth of material in Tolkien’s drafts and stories, enough to fill many a fan-wiki. And there is great merit in studying Tolkien’s writings, just as there is merit in studying fairy-tales, Greek gods and Arthurian knights.
But if anyone were to tell me that such-and-such a version of the Arthurian cycle were the definitive, the true, the authoritative version, I would disbelieve them. And I am nonetheless able to fully enter into the secondary world(s?) of Arthur when I read a tale of him and his knights, contradictory and separated though the Welsh, English and French traditions are. And for me at least, it is the same for Tolkien’s Legendarium. There is ‘canon’ insofar as it serves the individual stories, because a story must always have canon and coherence. But there is no ‘authority’, no final version of the whole, because Tolkien himself never provided one, and that is ok by me. To my mind, it is fine to not have an ‘answer’ to what the canon version of a question or an event is, because canon itself is worthless without story.
I guess that’s my conclusion, where I wind up at the end of all this. Studying and analysing canon can be fun, rewarding, invigorating in its own right, as Holmes’ devotees learnt, and there is great value and worth in it. Canon is further important because it lends credence and cohesion to something invented and makes it real – and when ignored or interfered with, it can (even if it does not necessarily) shatter our immersion in a Faerie realm….even if it be as simple and small as seeing a wizard in a car. However, that canon and narrative logic is not supreme, it can be handwaved away or glossed over, if in service of a larger goal. We do not need to see Batman run back up fifty flights of steps to get to the Joker, nor do we need to watch the Joker’s goons fleeing from a police siege. The scene has fulfilled its task and done so admirably, and no more than that is necessary.
And, ultimately, fun though the study of canon, lore, whatever, is fun and can be rewarding, it should not be confused with something that is necessary. Nor should it be identified as making something ‘good’. I think that we’re becoming aware of this, as evidenced by growing frustration with cameos and/or lazy and patchy storytelling. But it is a slow and fragmentary process, and for me at least, trying to strip canon and the need for it back down to its primary purpose is very helpful. And while this post is a fairly meandering, unfocused examination of canon, I hope it is at least useful for you as well, to reconsider and question what canon ‘is’ and what purpose it serves.
For my part, I will remain entertained by canon and lore deep dives without any guilt. But I also don’t want to have to worry about canon, I don’t want to read or watch something to ‘expand my knowledge’, but because I want to engage with and enter into its world in good faith. I think and hope that I have learned to stop worrying and love canon….for what it is, a tool, a cog in a beautiful machine of story. And ultimately, I think that makes it easier to enjoy storytelling if it reaches a high and rare form of secondary creation…what more could I possibly want than that?
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