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blackfrancineNo! I'm kidding; there'll be no singing. I kept trying to work the lyrics for "Kiss Off" into here somewhere because it's been in my head all day. But I failed. OR DID I?
Spike. I don’t know if I can explain even half of the engaging little intricacies of this character. There’s a lot—and so many of his nooks and cranies (heh) have been explored (heh heh) far better than I’ll be able to. I wish I could do him justice—but I’m pretty sure I’d fall short. So, instead, I’m just going to talk about how he makes my shriveled, black, lump-of-coal heart swell to two times its normal size.
Why do I love Spike? Because he’s a kicked puppy. I’ll admit it. Part of my affection stems from the fact that Spike’s continually pushed down—not just pushed down, though--that he’s taunted. That he’s humiliated for sport again and again. In one life and than another and another. The pain—so acute on his face with each humiliation. The shame so profound that he walks knowingly toward his own destruction, then toward the destruction of everything around him. But the pain and humiliation keeps coming. It never gets any easier. In fact, it gets worse. Because no matter what he changes on the outside, no matter how strong or tough or devil-may-care or successful (William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers!—not to mention Spike the martyr, savior of the world) he becomes, there’s something intrinsic to him that seems to attract booted feet, ready to kick. So at his core, he’s still the poet who’ll never be good enough. Never be clever enough, never be posh enough or dashing enough or wealthy enough. At his core, he feels like a failure. And he feels everything so keenly.
And his keen emotions and perception are part of the reason I find it strange that the people around Spike seem to think he isn’t smart. Angel taunts him for being an idiot. Giles frequently makes cutting remarks about Spike’s small brain or burke-ishness. Buffy even calls him incompetent. They all say it so casually and so frequently that Spike himself seems to buy in to it. He believes that he’s an idiot. And that just breaks my freaking heart. Because for the love of Pete. He’s so perspicacious. He has the emotional intuition of a poet and philosopher, and the cunning and shrewdness of a dirty politician. He sees through masks with an ease that the people around him find unnerving. And he notices everything. Glances, lingering touches, tone of voice. He can read people as easily as he can read Byron.
And, sue me, but I’m a firm believer that idiots cannot be funny. (Because of this, I posit that Tracy Morgan is actually an Andy Kaufman-level performance artist/comedic genius—but I digress.) And Spike? Is hilarious. He’s snarky, he’s snipey, he’s full of the mirth and merriment. An idiot is just not capable of that.
In a comment on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ohwaluvusbab ’s 30 Days of Buffy post on Spike (which is glorious—so go read it if you haven’t already), ![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
local_max pointed out that Spike “can be such a big and such a small thinker at once: he can remake himself into the Slayer of slayers and not think to ask Giles for more than $200 for helping him out with his Fyarl problem.” And, recently, as I was thinking about Spike’s sense of humor and how he uses it, localmax’s comment came back to me. And a few things clicked into place. Spike IS a big thinker and a small thinker at once. He’s someone that wants to save the world—all for the love of Man U.
The small thoughts—well, in part they act as a shield to protect him from the big thoughts. The big thoughts—the big feelings-- hurt. They’re what open you up to pain and shame. They’re what leave you exposed and soft. The humor—the jokes—they’re like Man U. And cigarettes. And happy meals with legs. The jokes are the little pieces of pleasure that make it okay to live life closed off. They’re the way of feeling without being bare and raw. The jokes are there because when you feel so much--SO MUCH—sometimes you have to shut it down. Sometimes you have to be able to stop the feelings. And the jokes, they allow that. They allow observation and perception and even emotion and pleasure—all without the risk of pain.
So, I love Spike because he’s funny. Because he makes me laugh. And because he can feel so much and he can still laugh. Because he can endure so much pain—and yet still believe that there’s pleasure and joy to be derived from life. Because he’s the image of a cynical artist—the cynic who’s optimistic to his core.
Spike. I don’t know if I can explain even half of the engaging little intricacies of this character. There’s a lot—and so many of his nooks and cranies (heh) have been explored (heh heh) far better than I’ll be able to. I wish I could do him justice—but I’m pretty sure I’d fall short. So, instead, I’m just going to talk about how he makes my shriveled, black, lump-of-coal heart swell to two times its normal size.
Why do I love Spike? Because he’s a kicked puppy. I’ll admit it. Part of my affection stems from the fact that Spike’s continually pushed down—not just pushed down, though--that he’s taunted. That he’s humiliated for sport again and again. In one life and than another and another. The pain—so acute on his face with each humiliation. The shame so profound that he walks knowingly toward his own destruction, then toward the destruction of everything around him. But the pain and humiliation keeps coming. It never gets any easier. In fact, it gets worse. Because no matter what he changes on the outside, no matter how strong or tough or devil-may-care or successful (William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers!—not to mention Spike the martyr, savior of the world) he becomes, there’s something intrinsic to him that seems to attract booted feet, ready to kick. So at his core, he’s still the poet who’ll never be good enough. Never be clever enough, never be posh enough or dashing enough or wealthy enough. At his core, he feels like a failure. And he feels everything so keenly.
And his keen emotions and perception are part of the reason I find it strange that the people around Spike seem to think he isn’t smart. Angel taunts him for being an idiot. Giles frequently makes cutting remarks about Spike’s small brain or burke-ishness. Buffy even calls him incompetent. They all say it so casually and so frequently that Spike himself seems to buy in to it. He believes that he’s an idiot. And that just breaks my freaking heart. Because for the love of Pete. He’s so perspicacious. He has the emotional intuition of a poet and philosopher, and the cunning and shrewdness of a dirty politician. He sees through masks with an ease that the people around him find unnerving. And he notices everything. Glances, lingering touches, tone of voice. He can read people as easily as he can read Byron.
And, sue me, but I’m a firm believer that idiots cannot be funny. (Because of this, I posit that Tracy Morgan is actually an Andy Kaufman-level performance artist/comedic genius—but I digress.) And Spike? Is hilarious. He’s snarky, he’s snipey, he’s full of the mirth and merriment. An idiot is just not capable of that.
In a comment on
ohwaluvusbab ’s 30 Days of Buffy post on Spike (which is glorious—so go read it if you haven’t already), local_max pointed out that Spike “can be such a big and such a small thinker at once: he can remake himself into the Slayer of slayers and not think to ask Giles for more than $200 for helping him out with his Fyarl problem.” And, recently, as I was thinking about Spike’s sense of humor and how he uses it, localmax’s comment came back to me. And a few things clicked into place. Spike IS a big thinker and a small thinker at once. He’s someone that wants to save the world—all for the love of Man U.The small thoughts—well, in part they act as a shield to protect him from the big thoughts. The big thoughts—the big feelings-- hurt. They’re what open you up to pain and shame. They’re what leave you exposed and soft. The humor—the jokes—they’re like Man U. And cigarettes. And happy meals with legs. The jokes are the little pieces of pleasure that make it okay to live life closed off. They’re the way of feeling without being bare and raw. The jokes are there because when you feel so much--SO MUCH—sometimes you have to shut it down. Sometimes you have to be able to stop the feelings. And the jokes, they allow that. They allow observation and perception and even emotion and pleasure—all without the risk of pain.
So, I love Spike because he’s funny. Because he makes me laugh. And because he can feel so much and he can still laugh. Because he can endure so much pain—and yet still believe that there’s pleasure and joy to be derived from life. Because he’s the image of a cynical artist—the cynic who’s optimistic to his core.
