Tenth Doctor—I Didn’t Want Him to Go

**Due to recent misinterpretations of some one post from this blog, a disclaimer is now apparently necessary.  If this is your first visit to The Scratched Camera, please read the introductory post and discover, for yourself, that every typed word that follows is unabashedly my opinion and mine alone.  In said introductory post, which, shockingly, I did not simply type up for my own good health, I state that we all read events and characters with our own baggage in mind; no one observes with a perfectly clear lens—hence the name The Scratched Camera.  Therefore, it is completely your will to disagree with any material that follows, just as it is my will to agree and advocate for what is mine.**  ~End, irritating obligatory disclaimer~

Tenth Doctor—I Didn’t Want Him to Go

            In my limited New Who viewing experiences, I have noticed a trend with the regeneration of the Doctor.  Generally speaking, the new incarnation of the same man with a different face and personality will be notably the opposite of his predecessor.  In the case of Nine and Ten, one has no hair and the other has great hair is a very serious, somber man who suffers from PTSD due to his actions in the Time War; the other, while still feeling the sharp sting of his double genocide, has allowed his close companionship with Rose Tyler to lighten the burden, freeing him to become a completely different man. 

            The Tenth Doctor is animated, witty, chatty, brazen—although, the British and me, who am I kidding? would call him cheeky.  Typically, he’s relatively buoyant.  However, it should be noted, not every aspect of previous incarnations magically disappear with regeneration—Ten still holds a bit of Nine’s anger below his skin, if only tightly-lidded.  He will give anyone a chance, firmly believing that everyone is important and has the potential to pave their own path.  However, if you make the mistake of betraying him once, all his mercy is gone and he is suddenly almost as unforgiving as Nine was at his default setting.  Harriet Jones, Prime Minister can attest to this—six words was all it took Ten to destroy her political career.

            Ten has Rose Tyler to thank for his new empathetic abilities.   His new persona was born out of his love for Rose; you can see her influence all over him.  David Tennant, in an interview about The Christmas Invasion, stated that there was a line in the original script that indicated his new southern English accent was the result of an imprint from his time with Rose, and his developing affection for her. 

Nine’s accent—a distinctly thicker Northern English brogue—had been just one of several barriers that had existed between him and his companion, most of which are rectified with this new incarnation.  If we can accept that it was Davies’ intention for the Doctor’s accent to change due to Rose’s influence, we can then carry this over into other aspects of the regeneration.  Several times Mickey and Jackie make a point of commenting on Nine’s age in comparison to Rose.  This is not an irrational complaint—the age difference between Eccleston and Piper is eighteen years, placing him distinctly in a fatherly type position as opposed to the romantic vibe the characters seemed to be projecting.  Tennant and Piper, on the other hand, have eleven years between them; while this is still a decently steep age difference, Ten’s vivacious personality allows him to feel much younger than Nine. 

I find it interesting that, despite the fact that the Doctor is literally hundreds of years old, both Smith and Jackie immediately comment on the age constraint, a criticism that only becomes more frequent after they learn the truth about his age.  Truthfully, he’s several hundred years too old for her—not to mention the fact that he will never truly age or die, or so we thought at the time.  However, as soon as Tennant enters the scene, the age issue is no longer an issue at all.  I think the sudden approval of those surrounding the pair makes an interesting statement on society’s expectations for age in a relationship, not to mention society’s superficiality, as I believe the sudden wave of approval was certainly tied to the fact that David Tennant is distinctly more attractive than Eccleston, but that’s another argument for another post. 

            Nine was a project for Rose.  He was so miserable after the Time War, having developed a particular hatred for himself due to his necessary actions.  Tyler, being naturally a very compassionate individual, puts the Doctor back in touch with the race he truly cares for, reminding him of his inherent affection for humans.  By the time Nine regenerates at the close of series one, the Doctor is a bit more at peace with himself, however his sass would never quite fade, following him straight into Ten’s first big speech in The Christmas Invasion. 

            Series one and, therefore, by association, the Ninth Doctor were my first Doctor Who experiences.  I won’t deny that there were times I had to push through the somewhat lagging first series, at times forcing myself to watch.  However, I was fortunate enough to have a close friend who insisted I not only watch series one, but reassured me it would pay off in the end. 

            She had, of course, been correct.  I don’t think you can truly appreciate the complexities of Ten—particularly in terms of his relationship with Rose—without first viewing Nine’s reign on the TARDIS. 

            While I won’t deny that I teared up at Eccleston’s “you were fantastic and…you know what?  So was I,” I was beyond eager for Tennant to make his entrance.  I had been introduced to him almost eight years prior to my initial viewing of Doctor Who, when he played Barty Crouch Jr.—and, in the process, added yet another name to my rather long list of attractive villains I’m unashamedly a fan of—in Goblet of Fire.  However, I was still measurably wary; his few seconds in The Parting of the Ways—which is ironically the title of the chapter Crouch Jr. receives his Dementer’s Kiss in Goblet of Fire—wasn’t enough to give me much of an indication as to how the regeneration process could change things for his adventures with Rose. 

            I patiently sat through The Christmas Invasion, in which Tennant spends the bulk of his time in a comatose state.  Another friend, one which I got hooked on Doctor Who—because, let’s be honest, that’s just what we Doctor Who fans do—and actually very much enjoyed Nine, was gingerly (get it?) distrustful of Ten.  I assured her the Christmas special would persuade her.  I remember distinctly receiving a message from her while she viewed The Christmas Invasion for the first time, which read “how is he supposed to convince me in this episode if all he does is sleep through it?”  I responded with a simple “just you wait.”

            I was, of course, anticipating Ten’s big speech towards the end of the Christmas episode to win her over—and Tennant didn’t disappoint.  I clearly remember my own first viewing of the scene, my mouth agape and rough chuckles escaping my mouth, creating a most certainly unattractive visual.  I didn’t care in the slightest as he threw out a quote from The Lion King, much to Rose’s—not to mention my—delight. 

            A Doctor well versed in the foray of popular human culture wasn’t something I was familiar with—although I’m told Four and Five excel at it as well.  I had expected a certain level of sass—although, I won’t deny that Ten took this to new levels with a blatant charisma that Nine, as much as I have grown to like him, just wasn’t capable of.  His ability to turn one question—“Am I…ginger?”—into a conversation that was inherently flirtatious impressed me.  This was a Doctor I could see claiming as mine. 

            The questions Ten asks as he continues to delay the Sycorax are marvelous, especially to someone like me who had no background knowledge on what it meant to regenerate.  He wants to know what sort of man he is now—well, rude and not ginger, obviously.  He has the memories of all his previous selves, but he knows he isn’t the same man he was as Nine, who certainly never had the moxy to ask if he was sexy before blatantly winking at Rose. 

            Through series two, Ten and Rose grow very close, largely in part to the newly extended version of the list of their commonalities.  They grow further reliant on each other as the series progresses, eventually reaching the point where they both simply accept that Rose will be with him forever, despite Ten’s continued protestations and reminders that forever for her will not be forever for him. 

            This integration has cataclysmic consequences, all of which come raining down upon both of them at the end of series two.  Due to frequent trips in and out of a parallel universe, Rose is forced through a vortex with the rest of her family and lands in Pete’s World, where she will supposedly reside for the rest of her life. 

            The separation is strenuous on Ten’s sense of self.  While his personality will always hold a gregarious gob quality to it, he will never again be as ecstatic or optimistic about humans, or races in general, in his post-Rose reality.  He certainly never proceeds to an Eleven-like disregard for the preservation of a species, but he only becomes progressively less forgiving from this point forward. 

            Add the Doctor’s loss of the Master at the end of series three and the result is a distinct melancholy.  The Face of Boe had assured Ten he was not alone in this world—a fact which had eventually proven true, only to have his status as the last of his kind reaffirmed once again as the Master dies in his arms, refusing to regenerate. 

            Series three also carries the weight of Martha’s unrequited affections for the Doctor—feelings he can clearly see, but does not return and, therefore, decides it would be better to instead mention Rose repeatedly attempt to ignore them in the hopes that it will not become an issue.  He is, of course, incorrect, resulting in Martha’s exit at the end of the series, adding more misery to the Doctor’s growing heap. 

            If the pain caused by Rose’s expeditious exodus from the Doctor’s life was a 10/10 on his scale of emotional turmoil, the horrendous ordeal of his loss of DonnaNoble could easily ring in an eight.  While there is no romantic inclination between Donna and the Doctor, (thank god.  Martha made me beyond tired of that scheme) he does still consider her his closest friend—someone he could rely on in a world full of people with ulterior motives and hidden agendas. 

            It wasn’t just the fact that he lost Donna that plagued him.  It was the manner in which he lost her—forced to rid her of all her best memories, in which she starred as the most important woman in the whole universe—that truly bothered him.  He saw a beautifully brilliant potential in Donna that everyone else—her grandfather excluded—seemed eager to neglect, or worse yet—scorn. 

            The Stolen Earth/Journey’s End two-parter, while ravishingly riveting in terms of reunions, holds a hidden heartbreak in its depths.  Everyone gets an almost happy ending—Rose spends her life with the wrong Doctor, Donna is content but never happy as she fails to see her full potential, and the Doctor settles his companions into less than ideal arrangements—particularly from his point-of-view (that look of pain as Rose and Weird-Hand-Doctor (otherwise known as TenToo) share the kiss they never really got to experience kills me every time)—while simultaneously resolving himself to a life of reclusion once more.  As if his lack of anything remotely close to a happy ending isn’t enough, there is the turmoil he experiences on his path towards there, as he is forced to witness the soldiers he has morphed his companions into—Jack and Martha with their bombs, Rose with her gun and Donna with her Time Lord Lady brain and technological fighting power.  As Davros oh-so elatedly points out to him, he has created in them the very thing he hates most—a human with a gun and no common sense.  Although this is not strictly true, you can see the pain the revelation that anything remotely close to this has happened registers on his expression immediately. 

            After this round of losses, Ten only goes further off the deep-end.  The Doctor we are exposed to in the bulk of the specials that take place between series four and five is barely even recognizable as Ten.  By The Waters of Mars, gone are his joking comments and sarcastic attitude.  Certainly, in the start of the episode, his excessive excitement is still in place as he realizes just who he’s talking to.  But, by the end of the special, when he has decided he is above the laws of time and, therefore, has the authority to decide who should die and who should live, I ache for the Ten I fell for—the Doctor who (get it?) naively enjoyed his adventures with Rose Tyler in series two. 

            His disastrous decision-making, which leads to Adelaide Brooke’s suicide, is not excusable, however neither is it beyond understanding.  Everything and everyone he has ever cared about in his Tenth (Eleventh?  Damn War Doctor) incarnation has been taken from him.  And now, on top of all of his loss, he’s being told it is his time to regenerate. 

            In regards to his regeneration, he refuses to go down without a fight—an approach that fails to shock me, as that is generally his default procedure.  He puts off his reunion with the Ood, specifically because he knows that will be the end of this face—the face and the personality he quite prefers to the roulette that is regeneration. 

            As he continues to fight, he continues to lose.  The End of Time reintroduces both the Master and a general population of Time Lords, in the process potentially ridding the Doctor of the perpetual loneliness that has occupied him since series three; although he isn’t necessarily elated at their renewed presence.  And he’s correct to be wary; just as he and the Master begin to understand each other, they must eliminate the Time Lords who, in turn, take the Doctor’s eternal enemy with them, stripping him once again of all that could potentially hold a connection for him in the world. 

            Regardless of this final loss, he is alive and intact, if a bit injured.  For the smallest of moments, he allows himself to feel joy at the prospect that he had survived the ordeal.  The Ood were wrong, he assures himself, as he smiles that bright smile. 

            Tap, tap-tap-tap.  Wilf knocks.  All along the audience had assumed it was the Master’s drumbeat that would be Ten’s undoing, not the polite request from an elderly man for a door to be opened.  But the second the knock comes, Ten’s relief drops instantly.  Tears are back in his eyes as he turns towards Wilf’s precarious position and quickly explains the predicament, through technobabble that will undeniably bewilder Wilfred. 

            But he gets the gist—trapped and dead are now his labels.  However, Mott knows the Doctor far too well to think he will simply allow him to retain his fatal position.  We see one final display of the new Ten I’m not-so fond of, as he vindictively curses that he could’ve done more—so much more, if given the chance.  He damns Wilfred as insignificant—unimportant—when in comparison to himself, the Lord of Time. 

Had he allowed Wilf to die in his place, I strongly believe Ten wouldn’t have continued to hold the title of most popular New Who Doctor.  But, alas, finally the expletives escaping his mouth crash upon his ears.  Ten’s eyes drift to Wilfred as he reminds himself that this—a meager human being—is more important than him.  He has other lives, other chances; Wilfred Mott, grandfather and sole support system of his very best friend in the entire universe, does not.  No one, he reaffirms, is unimportant—especially not Wilfred Mott.

            Wilfred tries, of course. He pleads, begs, the Doctor to allow him to take his place—insists that he’s had his time.  No, the Doctor persists, he’s had his.  Before Mott can protest again, the Doctor gives him his final warning, enters the chamber and absorbs the radiation in the grandfather’s place. 

            His fight still isn’t concluded.  My Ten is back as he continues to evade the strong pull of regeneration, visiting each of his companions one last time—giving Donna a wedding present, saving Mickey and Martha, negotiating a date for Jack, and, finally, stopping in for one last look at the girl who worked at a shop—the girl who saved his life far more times than he can count.  He sees her, groans in pain as he asks her what year it is.  The disappointment on his face as he realizes he’s failed—he’s come too soon—breaks my heart.  She doesn’t recognize him and it devastates him.  The Doctor shakes it off, insisting on cherishing this one last reward as he gives her one last Rose-smile and tells her he feels certain she’ll have a great year.  One great year, indeed. 

From Gary King to Nicholas Angel:  Is Ten a good role model?  Ten is not perfect, as demonstrated by his destructive viewpoints towards the end of his time.  He is, however, a much better role model and example than Nine,—or Eleven, for that matter—who, upon our first introduction, seems very angry and aloof.  Ten, directly after the cooling influence of Rose, has become far more compassionate—firmly believing that all people and races are equal and important.  Preservation of people and races is, therefore, a high priority for Ten, one he never really loses sight of, even in the darker period of his later days.  This value and respect for all forms of life is an exceptional example to set, one I think more people could use an exposure to.  However, this does not mean he allows anyone and everyone to walk over him—he is no pushover and could never be described as gullible.  He has faith in all who surround him, until they betray him, at which time, that Nine deep sense of right and wrong and desire to extract punishment exposes itself once again.  This combination creates an exceptional mixture and sets an extraordinary example of how to toe a particularly pressing line successfully.  Everyone is important, but none are beyond retribution—“no second chances.  I’m that sort of a man.”  And an exceptional one at that.

Role Model Rating:  9/10

From Peter Parker to Spider-Man:  Is Ten relatable? Ten is social—always talking, always joking, always with a smile on his face, even if it’s a facade.  This automatically inclines us to like him—a fact proven as he is consistently voted the most popular Doctor, topping Four as the previous favorite.  To me, his popularity isn’t based purely on his Rose-smile and his cheeky remarks.  Above all, he suffers.  This makes him relatable—seeing a brilliant man like the Doctor suffer from hardships and loss just like we do humanizes him, despite his alien origins.  Sarah Jane counters his argument that he is the loneliest man in the universe by stating the fact that he has the biggest family in the universe.  But, at the end of the day, his family leaves; they each have a life to get back to.  Eventually, the annual family Christmas party must come to an end and we must split ways once again for another chunk of time. The case of his more permanent sense of loss isn’t beyond our reach either. We may not lose as intensely as the Doctor does, but we each have lost someone—either through death, betrayal or some other form of injustice.  Ten’s holier-than-time mentality towards his end deducts from his resonance as relatable, but it cannot steal all of his credit.  As he continues to grasp at straws to prove he can control at least one thing in his life, he discovers it is akin to grabbing at smoke—his grasps for control in a virtually uncontrollable reality is, at its very core, powerfully familiar to those stuck travelling through every day life, the slow way, sans a Police Public Call Box. 

Relatability Rating:  7/10 

Jean Grey—Mutants are Not the One’s Mankind Should Fear—Except Maybe the Phoenix (Requested)

**Due to recent misinterpretations of some one post from this blog, a disclaimer is now apparently necessary.  If this is your first visit to The Scratched Camera, please read the introductory post and discover, for yourself, that every typed word that follows is unabashedly my opinion and mine alone.  In said introductory post, which, shockingly, I did not simply type up for my own good health, I state that we all read events and characters with our own baggage in mind; no one observes with a perfectly clear lens—hence the name The Scratched Camera.  Therefore, it is completely your will to disagree with any material that follows, just as it is my will to agree and advocate for what is mine.**  ~End, irritating obligatory disclaimer~

Jean Grey—Mutants are Not the One’s Mankind Should Fear—Except Maybe the Phoenix (Requested)

            As I said at the start of my Natasha Romanoff post, (I mean that literally.  Click on the link and you’ll see I copied what follows right out of there) I’d like to preface this post with a specific disclaimer.  In all my nerdy habits, I’m afraid I can’t count comic books amongst them.  I have never read a comic book in my life, despite the deep devotion I feel towards superheroes.  That being said, this post will focus on the film adaptation versions of Jean Grey/the Phoenix. 

            I’ve always felt a steadfast affection for Jean; I won’t deny that she was certainly an influence behind giving my protagonist the particularly vague shade of red hair she possesses post-power acquisition.  I was ten years old when the original X-Men movie was released and, therefore, at a rather formative age.  Even once Harry Potter crash-coursed into my life approximately a year later, uprooting a lot of the previous role models I had held in high esteem in the process, Jean held a grip on my soul. 

            Perhaps this is because we are left with a lot of unanswered questions at the end of X-Men in regards to her character.  For those of us who hadn’t read the comics, we saw hints of a deeper potential in Jean, but very little proof of it.  In a group of exceptional beings, Jean remains rather undistinguished in her first go around in 2000. 

            But I firmly believe the mystery of her wasn’t all that inclined me towards Dr. Jean Grey.  She was intelligent—a quality she displayed during the debacle with the senator.  Her defense that not all mutants are harmful because “after all, the wrong person behind the wheel of a car can be dangerous,” blew my ten-year-old self out of the water (excuse the pun, accidentally uttered in reference to Jean’s extraordinary actions at the close of X2) in admiration.  Grey also has the attention of suitors—most notably Logan, who caused even ten-year-old me to giggle in appreciation—but she isn’t necessarily affected by their attention.  Certainly, she recognizes the advances, perhaps even feels something in response, but this, to me, never seemed to be a large priority to her.  She chose to disregard or overlook Logan’s attention, on the grounds that, typically, they had far bigger problems at hand. 

            In some way, her resistance towards Logan made her markedly more fascinating to me, even in my youth.  This characteristic has continued to draw me towards Jean in my repeated viewings, succeeding in drawing my particular attention in a post-Twilight world, where strong heroines who don’t worry themselves with their male suitors are few and far between. 

            There is a particular line she delivers to Logan in an attempt to assuage him and reassure the Wolverine of her commitment to Scott—a commitment that, while earning my respect for her loyalty, confuses me to no end.  James Marsden is attractive; Hugh Jackman is a god.  “Girls flirt with the dangerous guy, they don’t bring him home; they marry the good guy.”  This quote has always intrigued me, as I find the good guy/bad boy debate an interesting one—one I look forward to further exploring on the men’s side of these posts.  There are so many couplings of the good guy/bad boy dichotomy—Dean/Jess, for that matter—Dean/Sam, Angel/Spike (who is which depends on an episode-by-episode basis), to name a few.  Jean contributes Scott/Logan to this list. 

            With this line, she presents a sort of honesty that isn’t frequently shown in women in media, especially when it concerns men.  Typically, women are portrayed as coy and mysterious and, while I would definitely agree that the writers preserved the mystery involving Jean’s whole other identity, they, at least in this one line, finally gave the audience a woman who could speak her mind and not feel ashamed of it.  She’s bluntly informing Logan that, while it may be interesting to entertain the idea of him, she has made a commitment to stay with Scott, one she can’t turn on just because he holds an appeal to her. 

By admitting this, she is conceding that she does have feelings for him, thus placing her precariously close to a potential for a love triangle.  Women in love triangles are typically meant to fret throughout the bulk of their movie/television show/novel/series of novels over who they should be with; the triangle has been known to frequently be their only main plot (I guess girls in love aren’t allowed to have a To Do List?).  With this quote, Jean refuses to fall victim to that stereotype.  She can acknowledge that she has feelings for Logan that she shouldn’t, but she refuses to fall into a triangle situation with him and Scott. 

            As someone who prides herself on blunt honesty, even if the truth has the potential to hurt the recipient, Jean’s candor is a breath of fresh air for me, particularly when applied to a male, as, for some reason, writers often seem hesitant to allow women to be honest with men in favor of a propensity towards mystery instead.  Often, the only exception to this is the Triple F—or Fronting Feisty Female, a woman who is honest enough to forcefully tell a man he’s doing something wrong, but fails to do enough right to save herself, relying on the supposed ‘wrong’ man to do the saving in the end. 

            Jean doesn’t fall into the Triple F category fortunately, as she is strong enough to assert herself to the men in her life, demanding respect, but also earning it as her powers allow her to save the X-Men on several occasions.  Grey’s sacrifice at the end of X2 saves everyone on the X-Jet as the dam collapses.  Her efforts with Scott and Logan in X-Men saves Rogue and the attendees of the banquet, all of whom would’ve been killed without her quick thinking.  These instances only become more common as more factors of the Phoenix awaken. 

            According to Bryan Singer, the director of X-Men and X2, (and the soon to be released Days of Future Past) as announced in the X-Men commentary, Jean’s attempts to direct Cerebro in the original movie are what started the process of awakening the Phoenix.  Her attempts to grasp at powers she should be in possession of, but due to Professor X’s preventative measures, she isn’t, stirs something in her subconscious, in the process, breaking down some of her mental walls. 

            The Phoenix is an entirely separate persona from Jean.  When she was very young, as a potentially limitless Level 5 mutant, Professor X placed psychic blocks in her mind, which prevented her from ever fully grasping her potential for power.  Her repressed abilities revolted, creating a new personality, which referred to itself as the Phoenix. 

            I have mixed feelings on Professor X’s actions.  I understand his desire to protect a young child from hurting herself or others merely because her powers were beyond her control.  On the other hand, I can’t help but think, had he simply taught her how to control her powers from the start, perhaps he, along with countless others—Jean included—would’ve made it to see the end of Last Stand. 

            Last Stand is, by far, Jean’s movie.  In a sense, she is an antagonist of the film, something I remember troubling my sixteen-year-old self at the time of its release.  However, as I’ve aged, I’ve seen that Jean’s potential paths were numbered.  Her fate was, in a way, sealed—a fact that allows me to resume my previous compassion for and approval of the character. 

Regardless of her allegiance, no one can deny that Jean is a strong female in the final film of the original trilogy.  She feels a deep sense of betrayal from Professor X’s actions—to the point where she blames him for Scott’s death; had he taught her to control her powers instead of repressing them, she can’t help but think, Scott may still be with them. 

            That isn’t to say she takes no responsibility for the death of her husband.  Jean, of course, feels immeasurably guilty for killing the man she loved, as shown with her breaking down at the mere mention of his name.  The anger the Phoenix feels combined with Jean’s guilt for both Scott and Professor X’s deaths results in a driving motivation that eventually leads the Phoenix to destroy almost everything in her path.

            The Phoenix has an amazing potential, one I don’t think we really even saw the full spectrum of in Last Stand.  Even Magneto appears to fear her, almost cautiously tiptoeing around her at times.  However, that doesn’t stop him from releasing her at the attack on Alcatraz, where she does an impeccable amount of damage in a very short amount of time—destroying a lab, the X-Jet and countless humans and mutants in the process.

            In the end, only Logan, with his mutant ability to heal can bring her down.  He approaches her slowly, in measureless pain as he watches Jean—a woman I truly believe he has loved for quite some time, despite his bad boy status—attempt to disintegrate him over and over, only to fail as he manages to heal just in time.  Finally, he reaches her, begs her to stop.  Something in her snaps, Jean resumes the reigns for the briefest of time—just long enough to beg him to end it.  He knows what she’s requesting, but it isn’t a request he wants to grant.  Grey continues to prod; her powers are now completely out of control as she destroys everything surrounding them, to the point that Logan can no longer dissent.  He tells her he loves her one last time, before extracting his claws and stabbing Jean.  The final piece of her puzzle slips back into place and, for one shining moment, the woman standing in front of him is comprehensively, unconditionally his Jean as she smiles gratefully to him, finally at peace.  I’m sure Jean, wherever she may be post-Last Stand, detests the damage she inflicted, but is exceedingly thankful to Logan for preventing her from further spread of devastation.  Perhaps, she might think, bad boys aren’t such a bad decision after all. 

From Bella to Katniss:  Is Jean a good role model?  Jean’s telepathy and telekinetic powers in X-Men are really just starting—almost like driving a sport’s car in first gear in the middle of an empty highway.  Even in her version of first gear, Jean is a very strong woman, if a bit insecure and shaken by the questions surrounding her powers.  She manages to save her fellow superheroes several times, even the males.  But her superpowers aren’t the only strength in her possession.  She’s obviously intelligent, as a successful doctor, setting an excellent example that women can flourish in a lab coat, no matter what one chooses to do while in the coat at hand.  Grey has two attractive men seeking her attention and, while it is a factor for her, it isn’t her only factor, particularly as she progresses and her internal struggle with the Phoenix deepens.  In fact, despite this struggle, which is already waging war by the end of X2, she manages to sacrifice herself for the sake of her fellow X-Men, including all of those on the X-Jet, as she uses her immense abilities to simultaneously lift the jet, hold up a tidal wave ready to overtake her and communicate telepathically with Professor X to say goodbye.  While typical, everyday humans don’t often face a struggle in which they are forced to sacrifice themselves for the sake of others, I do think that the message of Jean’s actions is clear.  She has an acute loyalty to these people that insists she see this through—no matter how difficult it may be or how many superhuman obstacles she must tackle at once.  Failure is not an option to her, indicating that she has a solid moral conscience as well.  While Jean is perhaps not as dazzling as the Black Widow, she holds her own, which is far more than some heroines can say. 

Role Model Rating:  6/10

From Lorelai to Wonder Woman:  Is Jean relatable?  As I mentioned with Natasha, it can be difficult for superheroes to be relatable—hence the placing of Wonder Woman on this scale.  However, typically, once we look past the superhuman abilities, there’s a very human relatability to be found—thus the term superhuman.  While we may not all have Hugh Jackman fawning over us, we can appreciate why he has set his sights on Grey.  Jean is sensible, logical, with her feet on the ground—she is a doctor, after all.  She isn’t quite as headstrong as a lot of the characters I’ve covered, but what she lacks in flair, she makes up in sensibility.  Jean internalizes a lot—she isn’t necessarily a big talker—as she often struggles with a personality at war with itself.  While we don’t all have a separate personality as a result of our mentor repressing part of our superhuman ability, there are some who know how it feels to struggle against a part of yourself that you can’t control or, perhaps, an aspect of your personality that you intensely hate and wish you could reign in.  This aspect, ever-so present in Jean, isn’t covered very often by popular media, for reasons I can’t quite fathom.  Perhaps the image of someone in a less than healthy mental state troubles the general public and, therefore, creators tend to shy away from it.  Either way, Jean isn’t the only one to suffer against a dislike of some part of her personality, myself included, and, therefore, undeniably earns the human part of her superhuman title. 

Relatability Rating:  6/10 

Bella Swan—Redefining Sacrifice, A Good Way to Die, in the Place of Someone I Loved

**Due to recent misinterpretations of some one post from this blog, a disclaimer is now apparently necessary.  If this is your first visit to The Scratched Camera, please read the introductory post and discover, for yourself, that every typed word that follows is unabashedly my opinion and mine alone.  In said introductory post, which, shockingly, I did not simply type up for my own good health, I state that we all read events and characters with our own baggage in mind; no one observes with a perfectly clear lens—hence the name The Scratched Camera.  Therefore, it is completely your will to disagree with any material that follows, just as it is my will to agree and advocate for what is mine.**  ~End, irritating obligatory disclaimer~

Bella Swan—Redefining Stupidity Sacrifice, A Good Way to Die, in the Place of Someone I Loved

Much like with Katniss Everdeen, when I contemplated the parameters for my role model scale, only one name came to me for the absolute low:  Bella Swan.  I have very little respect for the character, the bulk of the supporting characters in the series, or the series itself, for that matter.  The writing is rubbish—there’s little plot beyond the love triangle.  The minimal action-based plot could’ve easily been accomplished in one book, not four. 

            Regardless, I will do my best to keep snide comments directed towards the lack of credibility of the series to a minimum.  Instead, I will attempt to focus on Bella’s less than shining example as a heroine. 

            The series starts with Bella’s move from Phoenix to Forks to reside with her father.  With the move comes a sudden increase in popularity—but particularly amongst the males of the school.  This, according to Meyer, was modeled on her own experience of moving from high school to college, wherein her “stock went through the roof.”  This revelation, to her, appears to represent that “beauty is a lot more subjective than you think.” 

            Her second quote on the matter implies to me that, by showing Bella’s instant popularity with the males of Forks, she’s attempting to make some form of a grand statement—believe you’re attractive, and others will begin to think so too; in turn, this confidence will earn you the attention of those around you.  I’m not really interested in whether or not this is true.  What is far more interesting to me is that the statement seems to imply that, in order for Bella to know she’s attractive and worthy of any attention from guys, she had to have a sudden influx of external attention forced upon her. 

            This, of course, is absolute nonsense.  No girl should require attention from a man to feel important.  Herein lies Bella’s first strike against her—other characters—cough, Hermione, cough—teach us to look inward to find our value and beauty.  Swan, and by association Meyer, teach us to look outwardly towards to the approval of others. 

            While I had no knowledge of Meyer’s quotes on the issue prior to the completion of this article, this particular part of plot had never quite sat well with me from my own readings.  I could appreciate the existence of “new kid syndrome,” where anyone new to a school is instantly fascinating for approximately the next week.  I could even appreciate the fact that Bella didn’t seem very receptive to the attentions—the fact that she had resisted had, at first, been promising to me.  However, the whole scheme is overplayed—the boys are just too overzealous and the girls just too jealous to be realistic.  It never sat well with me; it felt like, despite Bella’s obvious disapproval, she still fed off of the attention.  Meyer’s commentary on the situation now confirms my concerns were justified.

            This should have served as an indicator of things to come.  I read the first few novels in the series long before they went viral.  There were not even whispers of Team Edward or Team Jacob at the time and, therefore, I had no idea just what I really should’ve been preparing myself for. 

            I survived Twilight with a few numbered complaints.  I certainly wasn’t satisfied with the character, by any means, but she wasn’t quite the ridiculous heap she would become in New Moon.  She seemed obsessive, certainly, but I had met my fair share of teenage girls that weren’t far off from her in terms of relationships. 

            I want to preface this by saying I, by no means, disapprove of obsessing.  That would be rather hypocritical of me, as I quite enjoy obsessing over characters, television shows, movies, novels—analyzing, turning the material over from every angle, combing through every layer in an attempt to understand the writer’s message as fully as possible, to receive every potential implication they could be sending to me. 

            That being said, there is a distinct difference between obsessing over written material—in the sake of seeking new knowledge—and obsessing over a significant other.  When someone obsesses over a significant other—in the way Bella does—they seek to learn everything about that person, to the point where they start compromising their own personality traits and quirks to take on some of the other person’s.  In the process of their acquiring this information, they alienate their friends and family, choosing instead to spend all their time with the new significant other.  Soon enough, the new significant other is the only person in their life.  In the case that the significant other grows tired of the leech relationship and leaves, the character is left with nothing but a shell of their old selves.  When you no longer know where you begin and the significant other ended, how do you go about putting your original self back together?

            This is precisely what happens to Bella towards the start of New Moon.  Swan gets a paper cut, causing Jasper to lose control, attacking and narrowly failing to kill her unfortunately.  Seeing the danger he’s put Bella in yet again, Edward finally decides to leave.  Knowing she will never accept his attempt to protect her, he decides instead to tell her that he no longer loves her.  The Cullens will be leaving Forks immediately, never to return. 

            Bella had several options at this juncture.  I had expected some form of heartbreak to be involved—I may look for admirable strength in my role models, but that does not mean I am cold-hearted and malevolent.  I can appreciate that she is young and may not know how to properly adapt to a situation like this yet.  We all make mistakes with relationships, particularly when we are young; I was not immune to it, and, therefore, it would be hypocritical for me to expect Bella to be.  I may have made my fair share of dependent mistakes in my teens; I had not, however, under any circumstances, ever felt so defeated as to lie in a ball on the forest floor.  To me, this required a new sort of low.

            My respect for Swan at the close of Twilight had been approximately a 5/10.  With this move, within the first one hundred pages of New Moon, that rating plummeted to maybe a three, if I were feeling generous. 

            I had expected her to feel love’s keen sting, as Dumbledore would say; she wouldn’t be a realistic character if she didn’t.   But, as she lowered herself to the forest floor, curled herself into a ball and proceeded to get herself into a state of hypothermia, I saw a disgustingly weak and feeble-minded girl.  Surely, simply because her boyfriend had left her, that didn’t mean her entire life was over—that she should surrender and settle for sacrificing her life?  I fully expect Bella would still be out in that forest, long dead from freezing to death, had it not been for Charlie finding her and forcing her to return home. 

            When Ron leaves in Deathly Hallows, Hermione is devastated.  She chases after him, calling for him to return, yelling that they need him to complete the search for Horcruxes (see what I did there?  Bella’s biggest worry is who to flirt with this week—the werewolf or the vampire.  Hermione’s got shit to do and a world to save).  When she can’t find him, she doesn’t curl into the fetal position in some random forest in rural England—she returns to the tent, knowing that Harry, Ginny, Luna, Neville and any other number of people, need her to keep her wits in check. 

            This isn’t to say she doesn’t feel the intense pain of his loss.  As I said in my post dedicated to Granger, had she failed to feel the heartache and, dare I say it, even show it on occasion, it would’ve made her character appear closed-off and, therefore, very difficult to relate to. 

            Swan takes this extreme to the opposite end of the spectrum.  She feels the pain too acutely—to the point where it prevents her from functioning.  After this, I can never see her as a character worthy of my respect.  The action tells me that the only concern is her love life, that she has no further goals or ambitions.  It isn’t that this makes Bella unrealistic—in fact, I’ve met several woman who are far more like Swan than Granger.  It is that it sets a horrible example for an entire generation of young female readers, in an essence undoing all the good Granger set in motion.  

            If her nap on the forest floor didn’t prove this, her course of action to follow it certainly does.  After months—literally months, just check the pages in the middle of New Moon for confirmation—of depression, she manages to dig herself out, albeit in a mopey and pouty sort of way.  Shortly after exiting her hole, she has an experience where she suddenly thinks it’s a good idea to approach a dangerous group of thugs.  While she makes the approach, she suddenly hears Edward’s voice. 

            From the moment she first heard him I knew Bella was doomed.  My respect for her was at a three, following the forest issue.  Once she heard his voice as a result of placing herself in danger, I knew that three wouldn’t be holding much longer. 

            And I was right.  In the following chapters, she does some impeccably stupid things—from leading on flirting with a werewolf shape-shifter (my bad, I know people who actually like this book are adamant on this) to jumping off a cliff and nearly drowning in the process. 

            This sends a message dangerously similar to Romeo and Juliet—true love even if it’s with a vampire is totally worth killing yourself for.  This is, of course, disgustingly false.  I hate that Meyer has taken it to this level—driven Bella to the point where she is desperate enough just to hear his voice that she will literally jump off a cliff. 

            Cullen returns and strikes a deal with Swan, as she is now insisting he make her a vampire.  Honestly, I’ve heard of clinging—we’ve all suffered from it at one time or another, but Bella’s drive to force Edward to handcuff himself to her for an eternity takes it to a previously unheard of proportion.  To me, her motivation is just that—it was never about the strength or power that came with the position.  The events at the beginning of New Moon shook her confidence in the relationship—in short, she wanted to make sure he couldn’t get away again.  By insisting to be turned, she’s essentially insuring that he can never leave her. 

            While this is not inherently true—ask Spike and Dru how that whole “eternity” thing worked out for them—that is not my biggest issue with it.  Several times, Edward refuses to turn her.  Finally, in Eclipse we learn his reasoning.  He believes vampires are inherently soulless and, therefore, are not privileged to make that climb up the stairway to Heaven at the last curtain call, a point that Spike and Angel could certainly validate.  He explains this to Bella and, shockingly, she doesn’t care in the slightest.  She, much like the bulk of teenagers, isn’t overly worried about the state of her soul; she can look no further than her impetuous need to be a vampire and, therefore, secure herself a position next to Edward for the remainder of her days.  Although, Buffy, at the same age as Bella, certainly knew better…

            Knowing this, Edward is forced to strike a deal with her—he will only turn her if she will marry him first; he is, after all, a century-old gentlemanly vampire.  Bella, hot off the depressing presses of the failed marriage of her parents, hates the idea of it.  Although, why she’s okay with changing her entire being for the promise of forever and yet bulks at the idea of just slapping another title and ceremony on it puzzles me to no end.  Personally, I think the anti-marriage issue is Meyer attempting to add some personality and insecurities to Bella without fully thinking through the repercussions it would have on the character’s motivations.  Rookie mistake, really.  But, alas, I digress.  Also, ever the reputation-driven teenager, she’s concerned others will think the only reason they’re getting married is because she’s pregnant (they wouldn’t necessarily be right, but they aren’t necessarily wrong either). 

However, she agrees, but only with the added contingency that he’ll have sex with her while she’s still a human and that he will, of course, turn her very shortly after.  This sets Cullen into a panic—he thinks it would be far too easy for him to lose control and accidentally kill her while they’re being intimate.  He expresses these concerns, only to see Bella brush them off (research indicates some call this avid faith in his restraint.  I call it stupidity).  Finally, he adds one final amendment—they must be married before they sleep together, and then he will turn her after.  Alas, he’s a real gentleman…who could quite possibly kill you during sex. 

            Some would probably call this compromise.  I would counter that it’s a series of compromising beliefs, on both their parts.  Bella detests the idea of marriage, but agrees to do it in the hopes that it’ll guilt him into turning her.  Cullen isn’t innocent here either—he mentions marriage, knowing it is something she’s not necessarily for, in the hopes that it’ll rattle her enough to get her to change her mind on the issue entirely.  They’re both playing a dangerous game here, one, in my opinion, they both lose.  They try to find an arrangement to make them both happy and, in the process, don’t really make either one happy.  Personally, I believe, one day, post the bizarre pregnancy and blood gushing hysterics of Breaking Dawn, they’ll stumble themselves into a Spike and Dru caliber break-up.  Or, perhaps, I just wish for it.  And, maybe for Buffy to come along and stake the lot of them. 

From Bella to Katniss:  Is Bella a good role model?  The events that follow the above agreement don’t necessarily help or hurt Bella.  At this point, my approval rating is averaging a 0/10 for Swan, so it would take something pretty exceptional to bring it back.  That being said, it would also take something pretty exceptional to lower it any further.  Their marriage and honeymoon, and the possible consequences, were all covered in enough detail in New Moon to satisfy me; I could’ve done without Eclipse and Breaking Dawn entirely—in fact, I read no more than two hundred pages of Breaking Dawn before I finally caved and refused to go any further—right around the time Jacob imprinted I had enough.  That being said, Bella’s portrayal up to that point was abysmal when it comes to serving as a good role model for a young adult audience—certainly appalling enough to yield proper evidence for her role model rating.  She encourages girls to obsess over their significant others, inspiring them to build their life around that person, disregarding the importance of any others.  She spurs on the belief that, to be in love, you must be willing to place your life on the line for it to be true—going so far as to risk her life repeatedly just to hear Cullen’s voice.  There’s also this sense of the submissive about Bella that bothers me.  There is no denying that Cullen wears the pants in this relationship—his mentioning of the marriage is just one example of his capacity for manipulation.  This is made worse by the fact that there are very few things Cullen suggests that Swan doesn’t instantly agree to.  In short, as I said above, she actively works to unravel any form of positive influence Granger has had on society.  One critic worded this nicely, claiming that Swan gets what she wants and discovers her worth “by giving up her identity and throwing away nearly everything in life that matters.”  As an alternative, there was a critic for Entertainment Weekly who said we “may wish she had loftier goals and a mind of her own, but these are fairy tales, and as a steadfast lover in the Disney Princess mold, Bella has a certain saccharine appeal.”  I hate to break this, but these are not fairy tales—millions of girls have read these words and followed these examples; I don’t, therefore, think it is too high of a demand to request a heroine in possession of, at the very least a brain.  And, last I checked, even Disney Princesses could survive without a Prince.  Bella could use a little Merida in her life, really.

Role Model Rating:  0/10

From Lorelai to Wonder Woman:  Is Bella relatable?  As much as it physically pains me to admit this, I’ve met a disgusting number of women who seem to build their lives around similar ambitions to Bella.  No, they do not all wish to be turned into vampires—although a surprising number of them actually do.  They do, however, wish for nothing more than a husband.  In the incredibly wide-open world we are privileged to live in today, any woman who’s sole hope in life is to find a husband is, at the very least, unimaginative.  These are the same women who, when you ask them what they do for a living, will respond along the lines of “I’m an executive.  For now.”  At first I would make the mistake of asking if the job was temporary, only to discover these women only intended to work until they got married.  My flustered stuttering in response, while undeniably amusing to anyone who may have witnessed it, was a pure reaction to my utter shock upon first hearing this.  My mother, for all of her faults, is a hard worker.  It had never occurred to me that you could just stop working because you’d found your ball-and-chain.  The very thought of it seemed preposterous—what on earth would you do all day?  Alas, I’ve had this conversation several times in my life, and it only seems to become more common as I grow older.  This would appear to assign a certain level of relatability to Swan, as, while she may not be enthused at the thought of marriage, she seems adamant on latching herself to Cullen for all of eternity.  Meyer has also described her as a bit of an everyday girl, average—nothing too exceptional in any category.  However, several critics made a point of mentioning her conversion to a vampire removed any power of relatability the character may have previously held.  From the little that I read of the process before dropping the book entirely, I would have to say I agree.  There is also a characteristic of desperation about Bella that seems just a touch out of our reach; some may relate to her need to have a man by her side, but even she undeniably takes clingy to new levels. 

Relatability Rating:  2/10

Luna Lovegood—I Wish I Was Just as Sane as She is (Requested)

**Due to recent misinterpretations of some one post from this blog, a disclaimer is now apparently necessary.  If this is your first visit to The Scratched Camera, please read the introductory post and discover, for yourself, that every typed word that follows is unabashedly my opinion and mine alone.  In said introductory post, which, shockingly, I did not simply type up for my own good health, I state that we all read events and characters with our own baggage in mind; no one observes with a perfectly clear lens—hence the name The Scratched Camera.  Therefore, it is completely your will to disagree with any material that follows, just as it is my will to agree and advocate for what is mine.**  ~End, irritating obligatory disclaimer~

Luna Lovegood—I Wish I Was Just as Sane as She is

            Luna Lovegood has the equally exquisite and exclusive ability to care very little for the opinions of those who surround her.  It was this quality that originally drew me towards her character upon my original read through of Order of the Phoenix.  At the time, my teenage self was knee-deep in a not-so temporary rebellious turn and, as such, found much to relate to in Luna Lovegood. 

            Luna has a deep sense of fearlessness, which allows her to push through mockery, unafraid to speak her mind, even if that means being made fun of at the hands of her peers.  At fifteen or sixteen, I felt similarly to Luna—a bit of an outcast who occasionally said weird, nerdy things that no one else seemed to understand—and, prior to my introduction to Lovegood, felt very alone in my sentiments.  It is very uncommon to find someone who genuinely does not care about what other people have to say; to discover a character that shared this philosophy with me was a breath of fresh air.  Not to mention, someone with her predisposition towards Chucks.

            At fifteen, I saw Luna and thought I had her instantly figured out.  I saw her disregard for the opinions of others, honed in on it, and made the mistake of thinking that was the essence of her character.  While this is a very important aspect of what makes Luna unique, it is only the tip of her iceberg. 

            Rowling has described Luna as a sort of “anti-Hermione.”  Hearing this in my teens while reading the fifth book, I rejoiced.  At the time, I still intensely disliked Granger, seeing her as too stuck in her own ways.  Rowling’s declaration that Luna was designed to be a sort of opposite to Hermione confirmed that I had even more in common with the character than I had originally thought. 

            Shockingly, at the meager age of fifteen I wasn’t nearly as analytical as I am today.  I read Granger and saw a character with brilliant shining intelligence and who sought to make sure everyone knew they were inferior to her.  Luna represented a different sort of intelligence, one that was far more attainable, and one that she didn’t feel the need to force upon everyone else.  In short, in the terms of this blog, I found Luna distinctly more relatable than Granger. 

            The above statement probably sounds preposterous when you think on the likes of Nargles and such.  Yes, she said some very strange things, but she never once feared the response she would receive.  She knew others laughed at her, but she had the courage to stick to her principles, and that alone made her happy enough to disregard any chortling she may suffer in return.  Her secure indifference served as an inspiration to me. 

            There was, of course, an aspect to Luna’s anti-Hermione attributes that I completely missed in my teens.  Luna makes her decisions and evaluations based solely on faith.  This makes her an eternal optimist, in stark contrast to Granger’s drastic realist tendencies. 

            Part of me suspects I refused to see this blind optimism on the part of Lovegood, purely on the account that it would serve as a severe disconnect between Luna and myself.  I have never, and will never, be described as an optimist, not by myself nor by anyone who even remotely knows me. 

            While this realization certainly places me in the Hermione side of the column, (a fact I rejoice at now, although fifteen-year-old me would probably clutch dramatically at her chest if she knew I said that) it is undeniably one of my favorite things about Luna.  She would believe anything someone would tell her, just on the principle that she wants to believe.  Give her a cause to fight for, and she’ll join it whole-heartedly.  While I believe her support of Harry on the matter of Voldemort’s return after the debacle in Goblet of Fire is partially out of her loyalty to Harry, she also firmly wants to believe in things, particularly something that appears to be a bit of an underdog. 

            This faith combined with her fierce sense of loyalty to Harry once he shows her appreciation, as opposed to the typical ridicule she is subjected to, results in a character who will—and eventually does—follow Harry into battle.  Every opportunity he presents, she jumps at.  She joins Dumbledore’s Army right away, needing next to no proof from him to sign her name on the list.  Luna follows Harry to the Department of Mysteries, despite the fact that there is a very immanent sense of danger.  Finally, she is one of three or four who respond to the call of the D. A. coins to join the Battle at Hogwarts, fighting on the front lines right next to Potter to protect her home. 

            Luna doesn’t possess much in the tally of friends or possessions.  Her shoes frequently get stolen, along with several of her other valuable—not to mention necessary—possessions.  She does, despite appearances and an apparently perpetual look of bewilderment, possess an keen intelligence, enough to solve the riddle required to enter Ravenclaw common room, a puzzle that puzzled me to no end, indicating to me that, were I sorted into Ravenclaw, I’d never get to sleep in my own bed. 

            But the issue of friends is what I wish to focus on.  Prior to her introduction to us in Order of the Phoenix, we don’t know of many friends she had.  Ginny apparently talked to her on occasion, as they were in the same year.  Ron knew enough to tactlessly throw out her nickname—“Loony Lovegood,” honestly, couldn’t they at least be a little more creative?  However, once Harry in a sense adopts her, things are just never the same. 

Harry, much like several other protagonists, has a way of inspiring loyalty in those who surround him.  Luna is, by nature, loyal; but she holds a particular sense of loyalty to Harry, for being the first to welcome her with open arms.  The Gryffindors who follow Harry into the Department of Mysteries and the Battle of Hogwarts are, of course, loyal—it is, after all, in the description of their house.

            Fealty is not an assumed trait in Ravenclaws.  In fact, they’ve been shown to be quite faithless when the logic doesn’t add up for them.  This being said, as soon as Luna showed her potential to stay true to Harry, the Gryffindors immediately accepted her as one of their own.  Ron may still part the occasional questioning glances her way whenever she spouts some of her father’s discoveries, but he, and all the other Gryffindors, consider her their friend from early fifth year onward. 

            The feeling was mutual.  When we see her bedroom in the seventh book, I very nearly cried.  On her walls, she has painted depictions of Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Ron, linked together with the word friends written repeatedly.  It wasn’t until this point that I realized truly just how lonely she had been prior to her introduction into the Trio’s close circle.  While I have no doubt that she drew a sense of contentedness from her willingness to stand by her principles and her ability to disregard the hurtful comments of others, she was still, as we all are, seeking some form of an acceptance. 

Unlike most others, however, she simply was not willing to compromise her own sense of self in order to receive a favorable reception at the hands of her peers.  This provides Luna with a unique sense of self-motivation that is nothing but admirable.  But, who knows, perhaps it wasn’t her doing at all.  Perhaps, we should blame it on the Nargles.

            From Bella to Katniss:  Is Luna a good role model?  Luna does not follow logic as strictly as some of her fellow housemates may, but she does actively seek new knowledge—the very trait, which I suspect won her a spot in Ravenclaw to begin with.  This gives Luna a sense of open-mindedness we could all—Granger included—learn from.  However, sometimes, in the course of these discoveries, she can mutter some pretty drastically insane statements, that inherently seem to lack any sense of logic.  Regardless, whatever we may think, Luna will, of course, stick to her beliefs, particularly in the matter of beings and objects that seem physically impossible to exist.  With this comes a strong sense of faith and loyalty—to her principles, to her father and, of course, to her friends—an aptitude for allegiance that is, at times, more advanced than those sorted into Gryffindor (Seamus, anyone?).  Loyalty like this isn’t seen very often, a fact which particularly pains me, as I am certainly a Lovegood in terms of my sincerity.  However, the rarity of it does display her as a very satisfactory role model.  It should also be noted that Lovegood has an adamant loyalty to herself—refusing to compromise her personality for the sake of pleasing others.  She is, at her very core, true to herself; with Luna there is no mixed pretenses—what you see is what you get.  This, too, is an exceptional trait that a lot of teenage girls could use in their lives.  Finally, Luna is also adept at toeing a distinctly blurry line—unafraid to speak her mind, but never necessarily rude.  In fact, she often alleviates situations of their potential abrasiveness; for instance, her releasing Harry from speaking to her father due to her immediate ability to read his engagement towards other topics of thought.  Loony Luna may be a bit out of reach for reality, but I can think of far worse examples to set.

Role Model Rating:  7/10

From Lorelai to Wonder Woman:  Is Luna relatable?  She’s acutely intelligent, if in a more indirect—and, therefore, slightly more attainable—way than Granger.  For instance, Luna was able to recognize Harry immediately upon seeing his Polyjuiced self at the wedding of Bill and Fleur, based purely on his familiar facial expression. While her intelligence and loyalty certainly serve her well as a role model, her odd expressions and beliefs work against her in this category.  I’m also not sure many people possess the faith that Luna is capable of.  While I’m sure the majority of people are far more optimistic than I am, I remain uncertain as to whether they could retain the level Luna is capable of.  It seems to me that, were Luna a Muggle, she would be something along the lines of a UFO-seeker, always believing in things that are just on the outside of society’s norms and, therefore, just outside of the general population’s relatability possibilities—although, certainly not out of mine.  While I adore this trait and believe it makes her a sturdy role model, I believe it has the potential to hurt her relatability amongst the superficially based general public. 

Relatability Rating:  5/10