A field guide to the many, many intellectual movements that have laid claim to Twilight
TO THE NAKED EYE, IT MAY APPEAR THAT: The Twilight saga is a story about love. And vampires. And family. And abstinence. And racism. And the founding of the Mormon faith. And orphans, in a really weird way.
BUT ACCORDING TO SOME EXPERTS WHO THOUGHT REALLY HARD ABOUT THIS: Twilight is a story about all of these things. And more things.
Since the series' debut in 2005, multitudes of thinkers and scholars have claimed to know the real, profound meaning behind Stephenie Meyer's famous vampire-romance novel series. This tends to happen sometimes when books ignite widespread consumption and discussion: Just run a quick Google search on "The Great Gatsby is a story about" if you need further proof. But the degree to which Twilight has been analyzed, re-analyzed, reframed, and close-read makes it something of a lit-crit Choose Your Own Adventure story.
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So because Breaking Dawn—Part 2, the final film in the mega-selling Twilight movie franchise, comes to theaters this weekend, it might be wise to decide just what strain of liberal arts-y interpretation you subscribe to. Take your pick: Twilight and its sequels are one big story about...
The power (and powerlessness) of women.
It's arguably the most notorious complaint about Twilight: That meek, indecisive teenager Bella Swan may be something of a sketchy role model for its largely teenage, largely female fan base. For instance, in 2010, David Cox of the Guardian expressed some concern in a story called (amazingly) "Twilight: the franchise that ate feminism."
"In a climactic argument, [Bella's two suitors Jacob and Edward] debate what's best for her," he wrote. "As they decide her future she sleeps between them, the epitome of submissive passivity. Bella's fate isn't only dispiriting; it's also deceptive. On the whole, beguilement by a teenage bad boy, however courtly his manner, doesn't lead to eternal love; nor is self-abnegation a reliable route to bliss. It's therefore understandable that some have questioned the merits of Twilight's message for womankind."
That was, of course, not the end of that conversation. Critics, fans, and feminist thinkers have continued to squabble among themselves over how to conceive of Twilight's all-consuming love story between Edward and Bella—as a cautionary tale about the dangers of unbalanced relationships, or as a commentary on the virtue of an unswervingly committed partner. In her essay "Bella and the Choice Made in Eden," from the 2010 essay collection The Twilight Mystique, Susan Jeffers characterized Bella as a quietly complicit abused lover:
[Edward's] behavior toward Bella for the first three books is frightening in many ways. Over the course of the series, he watches her sleep, constantly tells her she is absurd, and tries to control who she sees and who her friends are. This abusive behavior is rooted in his inability to recognize Bella's agency, his inability to acknowledge that she can decide for herself what she needs. His refusal to allow her to become a vampire is further evidence of that paternalism. The three later novels focus both on Bella's becoming a vampire and Edward's dawning recognition of Bella's status as an agent. ... Edward's controlling behavior continues in Eclipse, but he is able to make some meaningful compromises. At the end of Eclipse, he finally says, "I've clung with idiotic obstinacy to my idea of what's best for you, though it's only hurt you... I don't trust myself anymore. You can have happiness your way. My way is always wrong."
Later on, though, Jeffers asserts that Bella might be a somewhat feminist figure after all, in that she "rejects the violence inherent in a patriarchal system" because she "refuses to allow Edward and Jacob to remain rivals, and she engineers circumstances that require them to put their differences aside and work together."
Meanwhile, just a few pages away in the same volume, Lori Branch's "Carlisle's Cross: Locating the Post-Secular Gothic" cast the protagonist as a "post-feminist" heroine who revealed a few unforeseen effects of the feminist movement: "The remarkable phenomenon here is the recognition in Meyer's fiction... of the abjected 'Gothic' desires of our culture. Bella's popularity as superstar Gothic heroine reveals precisely that we as a culture have already travelled a feminist road, and that it has left apparently not a few readers with very particular unfulfilled longings and misgivings."
When creator Stephenie Meyer was asked whether the heroine she'd created was a feminist or an anti-feminist one, she responded on her website with the following:
In my own opinion (key word), the foundation of feminism is this: being able to choose. The core of anti-feminism is, conversely, telling a woman she can't do something solely because she's a woman—taking any choice away from her specifically because of her gender. ... One of the weird things about modern feminism is that some feminists seem to be putting their own limits on women's choices. That feels backward to me. It's as if you can't choose a family on your own terms and still be considered a strong woman. How is that empowering? Are there rules about if, when, and how we love or marry and if, when, and how we have kids? Are there jobs we can and can't have in order to be a "real" feminist? To me, those limitations seem anti-feminist in basic principle.
Other thinkers have identified elements of the Twilight series as clear allegories—and apologias—for the Mormon faith, to which Meyer belongs. According to John Granger's Touchstone magazine article "Mormon Vampires in the Garden of Eden: What the Bestselling Twilight Series Has in Store for Young Readers," the series is a thinly veiled retelling of the formation and survival of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.
While most of Meyer's vampires are dangerous—heartless, blood-atonement-driven religious believers who prey on non-believers—this is not true of the Cullen family, who are the Celestial-life Mormons of the story. (The Volturi, on the other hand, the ancient vampires in Italy who lead and police vampires everywhere, are a thinly disguised Roman Catholic Church, the "Whore of Babylon" to Joseph Smith, Jr., and his nineteenth-century followers.)
Carlisle Cullen was born in the mid-1660s, the same period when historic Mormonism was born in Europe. He became a vampire when he was bitten but not slain by a weakened vampire. His heroic choice to turn away from vampirism and to eat animal rather than human food turns his eyes golden rather than blood red. Over the next two centuries, he learns all he can about medicine and in the mid-1800s becomes a doctor, saving rather than taking human lives. By placing the birth of the Cullen "vision" in the same time and place as the birth of Mormon beliefs (see Refiner's Fire: The Making of Mormon Cosmology, 1640-1844, by John L. Brooke) and by having Carlisle take up medical practice in the 1840s, the same time as Joseph Smith's "restoration" of the gospel in America.
All three books paint the Mormon faith as inherently bloodthirsty, violent, secretive, and abusive to women and non-believers. The Twilight novels, especially Breaking Dawn, can be understood as a response to the challenge they posed to Mormon believers like Mrs. Meyer. In brief, Meyer was inspired to write works in which she addresses and resolves in archetypal story the criticisms being made of Mormonism by atheists and non-believing gentiles.
Twilight is essentially an allegory of one gentile seeker's coming to the fullness of Latter-day Saint faith and life. Bella, though, as Mrs. Meyer's stand-in, is also a modern American woman who struggles with Edward's patronizing misogyny and over-protectiveness. Her mind is the only one in the book not open to him, which serves both as an indication of her reverential reserve towards him as God or prophet and her resistance to being totally subject to him. Though devoted to and in love with him, she sounds notes throughout the series that reflect something like feminism.Bella's life works out happily ever after, but that of another character, Leah Clearwater, the lone female werewolf in the story, stands as a reminder of the isolation and emptiness experienced by an intelligent, gifted woman not tied to a man in this community of believers.
"Orphans" in search of parent figures.