I cannot recommend this book and this film enough.
A Monster Calls is a story by Patrick Ness in which a young boy named Conor is visited by a monster composed out of a yew tree. The monster proves not to actually threaten his life but forces him to listen to three stories that are supposed to help him. In the meantime, in his waking hours around other people, we see that the boy is trying to take care of his ailing mother, and dealing with resentment and bullies at school. Each night when he is home, then, the monster tells a cathartic fable that opens up another world and perspective.
In the film, the fables are gorgeously animated like moving watercolor, despite the darkness the stories hold with themes of grief and corruption. The first story, a medieval fairytale, is my favorite.
What I love about each of these stories besides the animation (and illustration) style is how they force us to see things differently. In the first story, there is a clear villain and hero, an evil queen and a young prince–until we learn how the monster stepped into the story and saved the one we called villain. Because she may have been twisted and flawed, but actually not the one responsible for the evil we assigned to her.
The monster asks us to consider how we have jumped to our conclusions during the story, our own prejudices of who should be punished. The monster reveals how easily we assume certain figures to be evil and certain figures to be good, when most people are in-between. How easily we let popular “good” people get away with murder, and assign strange but actually innocent people to punishment they do not deserve.
Another story the monster tells shows a parson and an apothecary at odds, one wielding power over the other, until one day the tables are turned.
Through parables, the monster also asks us to consider the impact we have on other people’s entire lives, that a long time of ruin and fickle change of heart cannot make up for. The monster warns us direly that people cannot be expected to forgive at the flip of a switch after irreversible damage, especially when forgiveness is only asked for out of the perpetrator’s own gain.
And faith, he emphasizes, must be intentional, rather than only for desperation–or else faith could be meaninglessly thrown away to anything halfheartedly.
But then comes a time when it’s Conor’s turn to tell his story, and the monster demands he speaks “the truth.” In the midst of everything crumbling into oblivion and Conor screaming, scrambling to carry a weight more than a child can feasibly carry, we finally hear Conor verbalize his worst nightmare. Then everything in surrender is quiet. In response, the monster also asks something surprising of us: to have grace for ourselves.
The villains in our own stories, sometimes, is ourselves, and we dehumanize our own selves.
Most people are somewhere in-between, and thoughts consume us or tempt us every day. We can think horrible things that we feel horrified about and do not act on. We can feel angry in our grief, and hurt, and sad, and bittersweet. We can do our best to protect ourselves and our loved ones and hold them together, and sometimes it doesn’t work out the way we want them to, so we fall apart.
There’s someone else I think of who also tells parables for us to learn from.
Jesus told many stories to get people to see things a new way. Parables of people perceived as enemies actually being kind and healing, parables of people perceived as rude/stupid/unforgiveable actually being beloved and welcomed back. Jesus pulled twist endings on people and often convicted them to ask themselves how they would “go and do likewise.” Even for the Good Samaritan parable, he was answering a question with a question: instead of narrowing down “Who is my neighbor?” he turned the question around to ask “Which of these was a good neighbor? Go and do likewise. I’m telling you to be a good neighbor to everyone.”
Similarly, the monster tells fairy tales that pull twists to ask the child to reexamine his own mental cruelty towards others–which really stem from himself. The monster forces the child to confront his own nightmare and put it into a story, to really think about the truth and speak it.
At last, the monster tells the child to live in grace. That the world is fallen and cruel, that actions have consequences, but also that he is not asked to sacrifice himself in the midst of it all. That his thoughts will return again and again, the survivor’s guilt, the trauma, the instrusive thoughts, the demons–but he has actual agency for himself. That he is not to blame when he wishes for an end of pain and can only think the rawest of contradictory thoughts. The monster is asking him to be held, and sleep, and trust that there is time. The monster asks him not to do harm to himself in his rage. The monster reminds him he is deserving of rest, of emotions, of life. The monster promises him it will be hard, but he is free if he can learn to speak the truth. If in the midst of conflicting emotions he can hold steadfast to things that are true.
Well-meaning christian circles have tried to address mental illness, depression, and suicide but sometimes without holding space for rest. At times, sometimes exhausted people are pushed to keep fighting a battle as if a moment of rest risks “backsliding” into doubt and sin. And yet, we find that in the Old Testament, Elijah gets so depressed he wants to die, and he is never even condemned for it, but God sends him ravens and tells him to eat. We find that the story of Jonah ends with angst and anger, that Jonah would rather die than see mercy shown others. Even when he is raging like a child, he is given a plant for a certain amount of time in the shade, and a gentle message of perspective, that if he cares so much for a plant, can he not care as much for people?
Perhaps the character of God holds more space for rest in the shade, asking us to take this one day at a time, to listen, and to turn from this restless world of battles to rest in a picture of grace.
Jesus works similarly to the monster in A Monster Calls, even as they come from different belief systems. They both do not back down when it comes to conviction and confrontation. They both scared people. They both spoke truth that made people uncomfortable–and they both, very surprisingly, saved people more than punish them.
They both spoke into humanity, held space for grief, told stories, and surprised those they came to save. They didn’t come to destroy, nor fix everything here and now so that death never happens. Death will happen. But they came to speak life and rest into the child who feels trapped in darkness and blame. They came to show another way.
All in all, A Monster Calls evokes the imagination and reminds us of the power of storytelling, of even fairytales, in helping us navigate our realities, convict ourselves, but then also forgive ourselves. “Many things that are true feel like a cheat. Farmer’s daughters die for no reason, kingdoms get the princes they deserve, and sometimes witches merit saving.
“Quite often, actually. You’d be surprised.”
P.S. The parables can even be watched standalone for some thought-provoking reflection:
First story:
Second story: