Obviously I read this the week it came out, but I haven’t had time to actually write it up. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write it up. Why not? Because it’s been the most hyped tome since Jesus’ boys penned a little tract called “The New Testament.”
Maybe you’ve heard of it?
Is Potter Jesus? No. Anyone who blows a character out of proportion like the throngs of pre-teens at Barnes and Noble in Union Square needs to know this: fiction = lies. That said, there is some truth to the connection that these people (and lets’ be honest folks: there were some slightly “elder” folk in the midst) have with the characters. And that’s a testament to the genius that is J.K. Rowling.
I’ve had this argument with my more literary-minded friends before, thinking that they’re just kid-books. Or, worse yet, “sci-fi/fantasy” books. Hell, when I talked to my geek/nerd friends when the first books became popular in the U.S., they thought it was the gayest thing in the world to read Harry Potter (because it was “wack; not like The Lord of the Rings – there’s a great episode of “South Park” that echoes this sentiment).
Here’s the problem with both arguments. To begin: What’s wrong with science fiction or fantasy? How much of great literature actually falls under this category? Oh, that’s right, a whole bunch. Shall we do a little list of authors?
Orwell
Bradbury
Asimov
Tolkien
Verne
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
How about perhaps more of a stretch:
William Golding
Toni Morrison
James Joyce
Cormac McCarthy (who just won the Pulitzer)
Philip Roth
Fantastical elements are part and parcel of much of these latter authors' writing, and yet they aren’t classified in a specific “genre” so as not to denigrate their attempts. But it’s there nonetheless.
Magic is magic, boys and girls.
And there’s nothing wrong with that! In the September 2007 issue of Harper’s, an essay from Ursula Le Guin (a canonical sci-fi author – and I love the idea of canonical sci-fi) makes this point abundantly clear when she writes:
“Could he [Michael Chabon] not see that Cormac McCarthy – although everything in his book (except the wonderfully blatant use of an egregiously obscure vocabulary) was remarkably similar to a great many earlier works of science fiction about men crossing the country after a holocaust [speaking of his prize-winning novel, The Road] – could never under any circumstances be said to be a sci-fi writer, because Cormac McCarthy was a serious writer and so by definition incapable of lowering himself to commit genre?”
I’m not saying she thinks that McCarthy holds that opinion, but it’s pretty clear she thinks that the people who read him believe he isn’t “science fiction.” Le Guin’s highly sarcastic essay points out quite clearly the nature of the literary community, in it’s pedestal-placement of “high literature,” as totally ignoring the fact that if you’re going to sneer at “genre,” make sure your Ivory Tower isn’t built on it in the first place!
Moreover, by immediately placing something in a category, you are immediately shutting down any sort of constructive and objective facilities you might have. Considering that the first Potter book, The Sorcerer's Stone, is essentially a mystery novel that incorporates magic shows that it doesn’t easily fit into any genre, per se. It also helps that Rowling is an incredible writer.
Is “incredible” or “genius” too grand of terms? Maybe. But consider these two things: She’s a billionaire and you can read one of her 750 page novels in a day.
I don’t think I’m stretching those words too much.
What makes her so successful? Obviously, I wish I knew the formula, because then I’d be living in a castle in Scotland, too (although, I don’t actually have a desire to live in a castle in Scotland, but if that’s where all the billionaire authors hang out, that’s where my U-Haul will be pulling up to). Instead, though, you can point to a number of things. First, ease of reading. This is fiction at its best, because it is eminently readable. The sentences are not overly complex, the dialogue is natural and flows well, the explanations are short and yet provide information to complex ideas, and the story moves quickly.
Second (and obviously tied to the first) is that it works as YA literature – which I’ve discussed a few times. By being readable and appealing to a wide age-group, she created an audience virtually unparalleled in literature. Think of it this way: Ulysses, often considered the greatest novel ever written, is read by very few people, and understood by even less. You virtually can’t read it for deep understanding without guidance. On the flip-side, an 11-year-old girl can read Harry Potter, and not only get through it without difficulty, but probably give an adult insights they hadn’t even thought of. I’m sorry, but that’s genius.
I recently was speaking with my friend, and she asked me where I thought Potter would rank alongside The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. I honestly think they will surpass them in terms of literary stature. They have characters that are more readily identifiable. The stories don’t carry any blatant religious overtones or subtexts. And, in an age of instant access, children are growing up with these books. People about to have children are reading these books. And millions and millions of copies are circulating, as well as concurrent movies (something Lewis and Tolkien did not have the luxury of). They have the immediacy of being in the minds of a huge audience, and they have a universality that shouldn’t have any trouble enduring. I love Lewis, and I appreciate Tolkien (I like the story, but I’m not thrilled with the execution), but I think Rowling has taken their tradition and brought it to a whole new place. Because unlike Lewis, her seven books tell one story, and unlike Tolkien, she wrote a populist text.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is an excellent finale to an excellent series. I think it satisfies everything that a fan could want, despite some protestations I’ve heard to the contrary. Rowling was unafraid to make strong decisions regarding characters (some die). Better yet, she answers the questions raised by the series (especially books 5 and 6), and she ends it in a way that leaves very little possibility for there to be more in the Potterverse.
And that’s a good thing.
Imagine you have the ability to write a winning lottery ticket whenever you want. But imagine doing so would destroy something beautiful each time. That’s what Rowling has the ability to do. By ending the last book the way she does, though, she pretty much closes down any future Harry Potter novels. What this means is that there won’t be any Superman IIIs or Batman and Robins or Rocky Vs. In other words, beloved franchises were ruined because of the desire to make more money. It may be over, and that may be sad, but it means the story is complete, and in time I think that’s for the best. I’d rather read all seven and be upset that there’s no more than read an eighth book and hate it.
Like I said, she’s a genius. And I’m willing to go toe-to-toe with anyone who disagrees.
I’m sure I can find a couple of people who might back me up.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
The Long and Intersting Blog of Dave
Have you ever picked up a book, read it, put it down and gone: What the hell did I just read? And, more importantly, did I like it?
Welcome to my recent book-choice, The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil. With almost no background and/or context, George Saunders (a man who knows how to throw down a title like it’s nobody’s business) throws the reader into a world in which two countries battle each other for sovereignty of Inner Horner. Here’s where it gets weird.
You see, Inner Horner is tiny – it has a population of six, and when the land settles due to geological reasons, they all of a sudden find parts of their bodies on Outer Horner land.
So Phil declares they are being invaded, and takes matters into his own hands.
Part of the problem with him taking things into his own hands is that it’s not quite clear if Phil has hands. You see, all the inhabitants of Inner and Outer Horner are weird amalgamations of machine and organic beings. For instance, Phil’s brain is some sort of rack and not too securely. When it occasionally falls out, it causes Phil to go from a logical being to a pedantic megalomaniac. He rapidly gains control of Outer Horner and is well on his way to destroying Inner Horner when things just as quickly turn on him.
The novel is short, being only 130 pages long with illustrations. But it is also a complete novel: the characters are developed, the setting is defined, the conflict is introduced, and the resolution isn’t forced. Although probably considered a novella, it is not a short story – there is a complete progression here that feels more extensive than a simple short story. For instance, there’s more than just scenes, there are distinct acts. They’re just very, very short.
And the thing is, for all its “weirdness,” it’s also completely hysterical. The President alone is worth reading, being the perfect combination of 1850s political cartoonishness, gasbag, and senility. All the characters are so ridiculously over the top, but considering they are half-robots, half-men who live in a world that seems to have a population of 20, that’s not exactly a huge surprise.
As a fun, quick read, I definitely say check it out. The ending is a bit of a disappointment (a little too easy, in my opinion), but overall, I think it’s solid. Maybe not a classic, but certainly a book you’ll be glad to read.
About 10 years ago, one of the best rappers released an excellent album, Internal Affairs. Pharoahe Monch has probably some of the best flow of any rapper, and a word-play that complements that flow to create innovative rhymes that aren’t simply guns, drugs, and ho’s. Unfortunately, his best song on that album, “Simon Says,” just so happened to sample the theme from Godzilla. And, in the best hip-hop tradition, apparently he didn’t get the permission, and so he kind of got sued . . . a lot. Enough, so, that all the success his album had was pretty much washed away.
It also made it so that he had trouble getting a record label willing to sign him, and so one of the great rap artists sat on the bench for a long time. Yes, he did some collaborations – such as “Oh No” with Mos Def and Nate Dogg, “Ya’ll Know the Name” with The Executioners, and “My Life” with Styles P.
But now he’s finally been able to get back in the drivers seat, and if album titles are any indication of what the artist is feeling, than Desire is probably pretty apt.
While it doesn’t have the break-out single that “Simon Says” was, it is an overall solid album. With excellent production and his ability to craft rhymes, he is assuredly back. Maybe he won’t ever be the commercial, Hot 97 success that Jay-Z or TI is, but for those who appreciate artistry, pick up Desire.
On a much different musical note (I’d say about an F-Sharp . . . ba dum dum – that’s like a four-hit music-pun combo), I just want to mention I also recently got Sara Bareilles’ self-titled album. She’s kind of hard to classify, musically, with a kind of Fiona Apple/Sara McLachlan feel, but I think it’s good that she doesn’t fit into a particular mold. I won’t say the whole album is fantastic – the songs are good, but they’re not all incredibly innovative. They are folk-rocksy and indy-rocksy (I’m digging this “rocksy” word), but not exactly exciting.
Except for a few stand-outs. Foremost is the first song on the album, “Love Song.” With such a creative title, you might be ready to dismiss it, but the music is fantastic, and the lyrics show the beautiful, beautiful irony in naming it “Love Song.” It’s quickly making its way into the I-listen-to-this-song-too-much-I’m-going-to-hate-it territory.
On a map, it’s right next to Wyoming.
In addition to “Love Song,” “Bottle It Up” and “Love on the Rocks” (might be a theme here . . .) have definite single potential. But it’s clear that “Love Song” is not just Bareilles’ best song, but I’m going to say one of the best songs this year.
Go ahead – disagree with that in an objective manner.
Welcome to my recent book-choice, The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil. With almost no background and/or context, George Saunders (a man who knows how to throw down a title like it’s nobody’s business) throws the reader into a world in which two countries battle each other for sovereignty of Inner Horner. Here’s where it gets weird.
You see, Inner Horner is tiny – it has a population of six, and when the land settles due to geological reasons, they all of a sudden find parts of their bodies on Outer Horner land.
So Phil declares they are being invaded, and takes matters into his own hands.
Part of the problem with him taking things into his own hands is that it’s not quite clear if Phil has hands. You see, all the inhabitants of Inner and Outer Horner are weird amalgamations of machine and organic beings. For instance, Phil’s brain is some sort of rack and not too securely. When it occasionally falls out, it causes Phil to go from a logical being to a pedantic megalomaniac. He rapidly gains control of Outer Horner and is well on his way to destroying Inner Horner when things just as quickly turn on him.
The novel is short, being only 130 pages long with illustrations. But it is also a complete novel: the characters are developed, the setting is defined, the conflict is introduced, and the resolution isn’t forced. Although probably considered a novella, it is not a short story – there is a complete progression here that feels more extensive than a simple short story. For instance, there’s more than just scenes, there are distinct acts. They’re just very, very short.
And the thing is, for all its “weirdness,” it’s also completely hysterical. The President alone is worth reading, being the perfect combination of 1850s political cartoonishness, gasbag, and senility. All the characters are so ridiculously over the top, but considering they are half-robots, half-men who live in a world that seems to have a population of 20, that’s not exactly a huge surprise.
As a fun, quick read, I definitely say check it out. The ending is a bit of a disappointment (a little too easy, in my opinion), but overall, I think it’s solid. Maybe not a classic, but certainly a book you’ll be glad to read.
About 10 years ago, one of the best rappers released an excellent album, Internal Affairs. Pharoahe Monch has probably some of the best flow of any rapper, and a word-play that complements that flow to create innovative rhymes that aren’t simply guns, drugs, and ho’s. Unfortunately, his best song on that album, “Simon Says,” just so happened to sample the theme from Godzilla. And, in the best hip-hop tradition, apparently he didn’t get the permission, and so he kind of got sued . . . a lot. Enough, so, that all the success his album had was pretty much washed away.
It also made it so that he had trouble getting a record label willing to sign him, and so one of the great rap artists sat on the bench for a long time. Yes, he did some collaborations – such as “Oh No” with Mos Def and Nate Dogg, “Ya’ll Know the Name” with The Executioners, and “My Life” with Styles P.
But now he’s finally been able to get back in the drivers seat, and if album titles are any indication of what the artist is feeling, than Desire is probably pretty apt.
While it doesn’t have the break-out single that “Simon Says” was, it is an overall solid album. With excellent production and his ability to craft rhymes, he is assuredly back. Maybe he won’t ever be the commercial, Hot 97 success that Jay-Z or TI is, but for those who appreciate artistry, pick up Desire.
On a much different musical note (I’d say about an F-Sharp . . . ba dum dum – that’s like a four-hit music-pun combo), I just want to mention I also recently got Sara Bareilles’ self-titled album. She’s kind of hard to classify, musically, with a kind of Fiona Apple/Sara McLachlan feel, but I think it’s good that she doesn’t fit into a particular mold. I won’t say the whole album is fantastic – the songs are good, but they’re not all incredibly innovative. They are folk-rocksy and indy-rocksy (I’m digging this “rocksy” word), but not exactly exciting.
Except for a few stand-outs. Foremost is the first song on the album, “Love Song.” With such a creative title, you might be ready to dismiss it, but the music is fantastic, and the lyrics show the beautiful, beautiful irony in naming it “Love Song.” It’s quickly making its way into the I-listen-to-this-song-too-much-I’m-going-to-hate-it territory.
On a map, it’s right next to Wyoming.
In addition to “Love Song,” “Bottle It Up” and “Love on the Rocks” (might be a theme here . . .) have definite single potential. But it’s clear that “Love Song” is not just Bareilles’ best song, but I’m going to say one of the best songs this year.
Go ahead – disagree with that in an objective manner.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
I Don't Buy it . . . And Neither Should You
I guess I wanted to know what the fuss was all about. I also think I wanted to maintain my project of expanding my horizons and engaging the "Great Texts.” So I bore down, took Beloved out of the library, and did my darndest to finish it. I had to fight off the temptation of “Welcome Back Potter” and, I’ll admit, the chick-lit styling known as The Manny. But I persevered, and I made my way through Morrison’s opus.
Should it be called an opus?
I have to say, I’m not quite there yet. But it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, either. I think a great deal of my antipathy concerning the book was that everyone I knew who read it thought it was such a fantastic book. With that much hype, my natural reaction is to be skeptical: If it’s so good, why haven’t I read it yet (What? Is that a completely illogical and immature question?)? Since that’s the attitude I’m trying to rid myself of, I took a deep breath and waded in.
One thing that immediately stands out is the language. Say what you will about the story (and you know I will; just be patient), but Morrison is writing poetry in novel form. It’s impossible not to notice that she is playing around with the words and sentence structure so that at the end you have a lyrical book. Probably the best example of this is when, towards the end, you have the chapters from the point-of-view of the main characters. Not surprisingly, it is Beloved, as the ethereal, is-she-real character, who has the most poetic chapter. Another good example is the power of names themselves: Beloved, Baby Suggs, Denver, Stamp Paid, the Pauls – stories are being told every time a character graces the page.
While I appreciate the uniqueness that this play on language brings, it also makes for cumbersome reading. When you mess around with syntax, you scream at the reader to PAY ATTENTION, for good or for ill. If your goal as a reader is to do close readings – which this book pretty much insists upon – then this is fine. But that means that the book is almost invariably a text book – it simply is not meant for pleasure reading. Sure, people may be excited by the writing, may revel in Morrison’s skills, but does that translate into enjoyment? Do they love the book because they find it pleasurable to read? I can’t think anyone does. Since the vast majority of readers are casual readers, than how great is a book that is anything but casual?
Again, though, I don’t want to come off as simply negative. Because there are moments (moments) where the story captures you. For all the hifalutin’ notions, Beloved is still at its heart a ghost story. The blending of the slave narrative and the supernatural combine to make a powerful impact. There is a profound use of setting, the house being as much of a character as anyone. The Clearing, Denver’s green room, Sweet Home, the prison camp – Beloved is a story of trying to find home and doing anything to preserve it. Morrison, as a craftsman, is certainly a master.
Her mastery just didn’t connect with me. I’ll be the first to acknowledge if I don’t “get” something – and maybe I don’t get it. But for those who do “get” it: isn’t the story incredibly repetitive? Yes, it’s a story about reliving the past and “rememory,” but I get it: Sethe had her milk stolen! The impact of such acts gets diminished with each retelling. Even Sethe killing her children gets told more than once. Maybe the idea is to say that, with all that, there was something even worse that cannot be described, but that feels like a reaching interpretation.
Finally, the story itself didn’t impress me. I don’t remember thinking to myself: ooh, what happens next? Instead, all I can remember is that I said I was going to read this book, so I’m going to finish this book. And I simply refuse to get in a tizzy over something I didn't care if I finished.
So, sorry, but no glowing recommendation for Beloved.
But I'd love for someone to change my mind.
Should it be called an opus?
I have to say, I’m not quite there yet. But it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, either. I think a great deal of my antipathy concerning the book was that everyone I knew who read it thought it was such a fantastic book. With that much hype, my natural reaction is to be skeptical: If it’s so good, why haven’t I read it yet (What? Is that a completely illogical and immature question?)? Since that’s the attitude I’m trying to rid myself of, I took a deep breath and waded in.
One thing that immediately stands out is the language. Say what you will about the story (and you know I will; just be patient), but Morrison is writing poetry in novel form. It’s impossible not to notice that she is playing around with the words and sentence structure so that at the end you have a lyrical book. Probably the best example of this is when, towards the end, you have the chapters from the point-of-view of the main characters. Not surprisingly, it is Beloved, as the ethereal, is-she-real character, who has the most poetic chapter. Another good example is the power of names themselves: Beloved, Baby Suggs, Denver, Stamp Paid, the Pauls – stories are being told every time a character graces the page.
While I appreciate the uniqueness that this play on language brings, it also makes for cumbersome reading. When you mess around with syntax, you scream at the reader to PAY ATTENTION, for good or for ill. If your goal as a reader is to do close readings – which this book pretty much insists upon – then this is fine. But that means that the book is almost invariably a text book – it simply is not meant for pleasure reading. Sure, people may be excited by the writing, may revel in Morrison’s skills, but does that translate into enjoyment? Do they love the book because they find it pleasurable to read? I can’t think anyone does. Since the vast majority of readers are casual readers, than how great is a book that is anything but casual?
Again, though, I don’t want to come off as simply negative. Because there are moments (moments) where the story captures you. For all the hifalutin’ notions, Beloved is still at its heart a ghost story. The blending of the slave narrative and the supernatural combine to make a powerful impact. There is a profound use of setting, the house being as much of a character as anyone. The Clearing, Denver’s green room, Sweet Home, the prison camp – Beloved is a story of trying to find home and doing anything to preserve it. Morrison, as a craftsman, is certainly a master.
Her mastery just didn’t connect with me. I’ll be the first to acknowledge if I don’t “get” something – and maybe I don’t get it. But for those who do “get” it: isn’t the story incredibly repetitive? Yes, it’s a story about reliving the past and “rememory,” but I get it: Sethe had her milk stolen! The impact of such acts gets diminished with each retelling. Even Sethe killing her children gets told more than once. Maybe the idea is to say that, with all that, there was something even worse that cannot be described, but that feels like a reaching interpretation.
Finally, the story itself didn’t impress me. I don’t remember thinking to myself: ooh, what happens next? Instead, all I can remember is that I said I was going to read this book, so I’m going to finish this book. And I simply refuse to get in a tizzy over something I didn't care if I finished.
So, sorry, but no glowing recommendation for Beloved.
But I'd love for someone to change my mind.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Do You Believe in Magic?
Gee, what could this post be about?
Actually, it's not exactly what you think, but pretty darn close.
I’m sure Warner Brothers was waiting for this to feel legitimate, so I’m sorry I kept you waiting: Go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Like the end of one of the first seven days of Genesis: it was good. Just to let you know – there won’t be any spoilers in my review. I don’t think it’s necessary, and since I’m telling you to go see it, it seems pointless to then tell you about specifics.
It’s possibly the best of the five movies, mostly because the acting of the children has continued to improve in each one (with perhaps the exception of Emma Watson, who plays Hermione a bit too stiff. Some of her reactions and emotional displays come off as forced, and you can tell she’s acting instead of being reactive. Still, I think that’s a matter of a director working with his/her actors and getting the right shots – some of my criticism of Watson’s acting is that the scenes go on too long, making her reactions appear unnatural – such as when she and Ron are laughing after Harry’s encounter with Cho). What’s incredible is that these children (all relative – if not complete – nobodies before these movies) are surrounded by a who’s who of British actors – all of them in essentially bit-roles. Amongst the Oscar winners are Ralph Fiennes, Maggie Smith, and Emma Thompson, and the other names are just as impressive: Robbie Coltrane, Alan Rickman, Jason Isaacs, Michael Gambon, David Thewlis, Gary Oldman, and newly-cast Helena Bonham Carter (I’m realizing that as I write these names, they may not all jump out as being recognizable, but I guarantee you’ve seen them in movies other than Harry Potter). Also newly cast in bigger roles are Imelda Staunton as Dorothy Umbridge (who she plays perfectly), and Evanna Lynch as Luna Lovegood, who I thought was brilliant (although, like the casting of Emma Watson as Hermione, is probably prettier than the book implies, but that’s Hollywood). Considering the limits of the script, the actors do a very good job.
It is those limits that I’ve been hearing about so much in complaints about the movie, although more the fact that the movie is not “true to the book.” This is false. The movie is incredibly true to the book, in that it does what it can with what it has (in other words, time and money). While it is a fact that the movie cuts out great swaths of the story Rowling wrote, the essential conflict is kept intact and done so in a satisfying manner. When you are trying to condense 700 pages into a two-and-half hour movie, cuts have to be made. I agree it is a shame that elements of character development are left out either partially or completely – why Harry is so angry, Ron and Quidditch, Neville and his parents, Chang and Cedric – almost all of those aspects are brought into the movie in one way or another.
More importantly, despite what people say, you can’t make a longer movie. Sure, hard-core fans may sit through a four hour film, but such a movie would alienate a less-devoted but no less curious majority, let alone casual viewers. I don’t know if I’m the completely accurate in my assessment here, but it seems to me that: 1) people can’t sit through four hours of movie, 2) don’t have four hours to watch a movie, and/or 3) simply aren’t interested enough to watch a movie for four hours. A four hour movie would be financially a poor decision (an answer I know never satisfies fans, but it is reality, folks), and I question the ability to add a number of the missing elements and make an interesting movie (oooh, Harry’s studying for O.W.L.S!).
I’ve discussed my adherence to my man McLuhan’s idea of “the medium is the message,” and as such, I find it necessary to point out: films are not live-action novels. They are two different mediums, and therefore can do things that that the other can’t do. People approach how they interact with the mediums differently, the mediums give information differently, and the technology that produces and disseminates them are different. A movie can’t include everything a novel can because it would then be too much.
You can’t bookmark a movie (remembering that movies are produced to be seen in movie theatres, not on DVD players).
What everyone should be happy with is that the movie maintains the inherent Harry Potterness that Rowling wanted, while keeping the movie (and the movies – remember this is a piece of something larger, too) in a coherent, forward-moving, direction. If you keep that firmly in mind, the movie is very satisfying. Heck, the scenes with Luna are worth the price of admission alone.
If you want to see comparisons of the movie with the book, check out this site. Although not set up as well as I would hope, the analysis is spot on (this will spoil the movie, if you haven’t seen it): Geeks of Doom – Harry Potter 5
And here’s the same for Goblet of Fire: Geeks of Doom – Harry Potter 4
In other Potter news: haven’t read the last book yet, but I did just pick it up. So you have something to look forward to (although I have another book I’m reading before I get to it, so you might have to wait).
Just a reminder: “Psych,” “Eureka,” and “The Closer” are a couple of weeks into their seasons, and they might be the best shows on television, so check them out.
“Psych”: USA, Friday, 10 p.m. (Eastern Time, of course. Might as well be Only Time).
“Eureka”: Sci-Fi Channel, Tuesday, 9 p.m.
“The Closer”: TNT, Monday, 9 p.m.
Another reminder: Carlos Mencia is still not funny. He's not a "Mexican Dave Chappelle." He's kind of an idiot.
And not funny.
Did I mention that?
Actually, it's not exactly what you think, but pretty darn close.
I’m sure Warner Brothers was waiting for this to feel legitimate, so I’m sorry I kept you waiting: Go see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Like the end of one of the first seven days of Genesis: it was good. Just to let you know – there won’t be any spoilers in my review. I don’t think it’s necessary, and since I’m telling you to go see it, it seems pointless to then tell you about specifics.
It’s possibly the best of the five movies, mostly because the acting of the children has continued to improve in each one (with perhaps the exception of Emma Watson, who plays Hermione a bit too stiff. Some of her reactions and emotional displays come off as forced, and you can tell she’s acting instead of being reactive. Still, I think that’s a matter of a director working with his/her actors and getting the right shots – some of my criticism of Watson’s acting is that the scenes go on too long, making her reactions appear unnatural – such as when she and Ron are laughing after Harry’s encounter with Cho). What’s incredible is that these children (all relative – if not complete – nobodies before these movies) are surrounded by a who’s who of British actors – all of them in essentially bit-roles. Amongst the Oscar winners are Ralph Fiennes, Maggie Smith, and Emma Thompson, and the other names are just as impressive: Robbie Coltrane, Alan Rickman, Jason Isaacs, Michael Gambon, David Thewlis, Gary Oldman, and newly-cast Helena Bonham Carter (I’m realizing that as I write these names, they may not all jump out as being recognizable, but I guarantee you’ve seen them in movies other than Harry Potter). Also newly cast in bigger roles are Imelda Staunton as Dorothy Umbridge (who she plays perfectly), and Evanna Lynch as Luna Lovegood, who I thought was brilliant (although, like the casting of Emma Watson as Hermione, is probably prettier than the book implies, but that’s Hollywood). Considering the limits of the script, the actors do a very good job.
It is those limits that I’ve been hearing about so much in complaints about the movie, although more the fact that the movie is not “true to the book.” This is false. The movie is incredibly true to the book, in that it does what it can with what it has (in other words, time and money). While it is a fact that the movie cuts out great swaths of the story Rowling wrote, the essential conflict is kept intact and done so in a satisfying manner. When you are trying to condense 700 pages into a two-and-half hour movie, cuts have to be made. I agree it is a shame that elements of character development are left out either partially or completely – why Harry is so angry, Ron and Quidditch, Neville and his parents, Chang and Cedric – almost all of those aspects are brought into the movie in one way or another.
More importantly, despite what people say, you can’t make a longer movie. Sure, hard-core fans may sit through a four hour film, but such a movie would alienate a less-devoted but no less curious majority, let alone casual viewers. I don’t know if I’m the completely accurate in my assessment here, but it seems to me that: 1) people can’t sit through four hours of movie, 2) don’t have four hours to watch a movie, and/or 3) simply aren’t interested enough to watch a movie for four hours. A four hour movie would be financially a poor decision (an answer I know never satisfies fans, but it is reality, folks), and I question the ability to add a number of the missing elements and make an interesting movie (oooh, Harry’s studying for O.W.L.S!).
I’ve discussed my adherence to my man McLuhan’s idea of “the medium is the message,” and as such, I find it necessary to point out: films are not live-action novels. They are two different mediums, and therefore can do things that that the other can’t do. People approach how they interact with the mediums differently, the mediums give information differently, and the technology that produces and disseminates them are different. A movie can’t include everything a novel can because it would then be too much.
You can’t bookmark a movie (remembering that movies are produced to be seen in movie theatres, not on DVD players).
What everyone should be happy with is that the movie maintains the inherent Harry Potterness that Rowling wanted, while keeping the movie (and the movies – remember this is a piece of something larger, too) in a coherent, forward-moving, direction. If you keep that firmly in mind, the movie is very satisfying. Heck, the scenes with Luna are worth the price of admission alone.
If you want to see comparisons of the movie with the book, check out this site. Although not set up as well as I would hope, the analysis is spot on (this will spoil the movie, if you haven’t seen it): Geeks of Doom – Harry Potter 5
And here’s the same for Goblet of Fire: Geeks of Doom – Harry Potter 4
In other Potter news: haven’t read the last book yet, but I did just pick it up. So you have something to look forward to (although I have another book I’m reading before I get to it, so you might have to wait).
Just a reminder: “Psych,” “Eureka,” and “The Closer” are a couple of weeks into their seasons, and they might be the best shows on television, so check them out.
“Psych”: USA, Friday, 10 p.m. (Eastern Time, of course. Might as well be Only Time).
“Eureka”: Sci-Fi Channel, Tuesday, 9 p.m.
“The Closer”: TNT, Monday, 9 p.m.
Another reminder: Carlos Mencia is still not funny. He's not a "Mexican Dave Chappelle." He's kind of an idiot.
And not funny.
Did I mention that?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
United We Fall
I’m sure he had the best intentions when he wrote The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, but I’m not quite sure what those were. Michael Chabon, who most people probably know because of Wonder Boys (a decent book that was made into a movie), should definitely be known for writing the ambitious and fantastic novel, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Not only did the latter book win the Pulitzer (which I’m not sure is necessarily as big a deal as I’ve always thought, but in this case I certainly concur that a deserving book won – and I’m sure the people at Columbia University are breathing sighs of relief for my endorsement), it was simply one of the more well-conceived books of our time. A grandiose claim? Perhaps, but with all the elements Chabon brings into play in Kavalier and Clay – from comic books to World War II, Jewish mysticism to escape artists, homosexuality to magic – never once is there a moment that doesn’t work. For anyone who wants to write their own ambitious piece, remember: It’s not page count that matters, but how those pages add up to a whole. Kavalier and Clay, intermingling historical elements with Chabon’s imagination, is a complete book. It’s also funny and sad, touches upon very interesting topics that have both broad and narrow appeal, and doesn’t waste characters or characterization. What’s really cool is that they made a comic book based on the comic-book character the characters in the book create (The Escapist). It proves that Chabon is a skilled writer and storyteller.
Perhaps some of it left him when he wrote The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. Although not a terrible book by any stretch – there are some genuinely funny and innovative things going on with this book – it lacks something that is hard to ignore: connectivity. Essentially a murder-mystery, more elaborately a book of growth and redemption, its ambition is commendable. That said, the ambition is also its downfall, because it puts the reader so far from a zone of comfort that it is often quite hard to extricate oneself from the lack of information to get at the actual story. Hence, connectivity.
While I know one could always point out that this is a plot-heavy argument, I have two responses for such a person:
1) It should be a plot-heavy criticism. Say what you will concerning the role of the novel, this book is a piece of commercial fiction. Chabon is writing for a living and therefore needs to always be considering markets and audiences (more so audiences; it’s up to the publisher to consider markets). Luckily for him, he is an established author and can sell books on his name alone (see Stephen King and pretty much any Romance author). But that doesn’t mean people will like the book -- or that it’s any good.
2) First readings are always for plot. Anyone who says otherwise is either getting paid to read for something other than plot or has a motive behind their reading that eludes me. That is not to say you can’t read beyond plot on the first reading, but no matter what your ultimate goal is in getting something out of the book, the first time must include comprehension, and that means plot.
So what makes Policeman’s Union so disconnected? The fact that it takes its alien-ness for granted. Now, I don’t begrudge for Chabon for treating his readers with respect regarding their intelligence, but there are limits to that, and he goes beyond them. The book, set in Alaska in what seems like the present (your never quite sure what the exact date is), is at the same time not our present; it is an alternate history. So while it is Alaska, it is not Alaska the state, but a territory – in this case, a specifically Jewish territory composed of refugees from World War II (hence “Yiddish” Policeman).
But Chabon only gives us bits and pieces of this alternate history. This wouldn’t be so bad if that was the only “new” feature we have to deal with – sometimes it’s nice that the narrator doesn’t take time to explain things the characters take as a matter of course. Alas, the other features make this lack of information problematic, because we are now asked to not only accept the new history, but in doing so, get passed the mix of languages and cultures Chabon throws at us. Names and terms have a habit of blurring and in the end, perhaps worst of all, we’re not exactly clear about all the mysteries that are brought up.
And for a mystery novel, that’s egregious.
Read it; try it out. Maybe I’m being critical because I’m coming from a place of high expectations. But I think Chabon didn’t get it right on this one and I cannot recommend buying it, at least not in hardcover (and with paperbacks running about eight bucks, probably not that either).
I do Highly Recommend Kavalier and Clay, though.
Perhaps some of it left him when he wrote The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. Although not a terrible book by any stretch – there are some genuinely funny and innovative things going on with this book – it lacks something that is hard to ignore: connectivity. Essentially a murder-mystery, more elaborately a book of growth and redemption, its ambition is commendable. That said, the ambition is also its downfall, because it puts the reader so far from a zone of comfort that it is often quite hard to extricate oneself from the lack of information to get at the actual story. Hence, connectivity.
While I know one could always point out that this is a plot-heavy argument, I have two responses for such a person:
1) It should be a plot-heavy criticism. Say what you will concerning the role of the novel, this book is a piece of commercial fiction. Chabon is writing for a living and therefore needs to always be considering markets and audiences (more so audiences; it’s up to the publisher to consider markets). Luckily for him, he is an established author and can sell books on his name alone (see Stephen King and pretty much any Romance author). But that doesn’t mean people will like the book -- or that it’s any good.
2) First readings are always for plot. Anyone who says otherwise is either getting paid to read for something other than plot or has a motive behind their reading that eludes me. That is not to say you can’t read beyond plot on the first reading, but no matter what your ultimate goal is in getting something out of the book, the first time must include comprehension, and that means plot.
So what makes Policeman’s Union so disconnected? The fact that it takes its alien-ness for granted. Now, I don’t begrudge for Chabon for treating his readers with respect regarding their intelligence, but there are limits to that, and he goes beyond them. The book, set in Alaska in what seems like the present (your never quite sure what the exact date is), is at the same time not our present; it is an alternate history. So while it is Alaska, it is not Alaska the state, but a territory – in this case, a specifically Jewish territory composed of refugees from World War II (hence “Yiddish” Policeman).
But Chabon only gives us bits and pieces of this alternate history. This wouldn’t be so bad if that was the only “new” feature we have to deal with – sometimes it’s nice that the narrator doesn’t take time to explain things the characters take as a matter of course. Alas, the other features make this lack of information problematic, because we are now asked to not only accept the new history, but in doing so, get passed the mix of languages and cultures Chabon throws at us. Names and terms have a habit of blurring and in the end, perhaps worst of all, we’re not exactly clear about all the mysteries that are brought up.
And for a mystery novel, that’s egregious.
Read it; try it out. Maybe I’m being critical because I’m coming from a place of high expectations. But I think Chabon didn’t get it right on this one and I cannot recommend buying it, at least not in hardcover (and with paperbacks running about eight bucks, probably not that either).
I do Highly Recommend Kavalier and Clay, though.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
What's So Great About It?
The cleverness of my titles never ceases to amaze me. But then again, neither do shiny objects.
As I try to make myself more literately well-rounded (and oddly enough, all that sitting around reading might be making me literally well-rounded), I am forcing myself to approach those texts that they foisted off on us as literature during high school. While I do believe it is the mission of high school English teachers to expose their students to things they wouldn’t normally read on their own, certain books have found their way into the curriculum despite the limited connectivity to a teenagers life. Even though I personally can’t stand Catcher in the Rye, the fact that Holden Caufield is a troubled and alienated youth (I was going to write “alienized,” but apparently that lacks a certain wordosity) – in other words, a teenager – there is a protagonist that is readily identifiable. “Readily” is important because we are talking about the toughest, hardest-to-please critics in the world. All they know is like/dislike.
While getting my teaching degree (which I put to such great use as I don’t teach), my professors stressed that questions like “Do you like the book?” or “What do you think of the book?” will bring an immediate and universal response of “It’s boring” (or in slightly “edgier” schools – “It sucks”). This is regardless of whether the kids think it’s true or not. Once “It’s boring” has been disseminated, the game is virtually over. The reason is the same reason for pretty much every action by students: herd mentality, aka “peer pressure.” How is the shy kid who did like the book supposed to argue with the gregarious one who declares it “sucks.” Although the “universality” of this is slightly exaggerated, the point is teachers are taught to save opinion questions until the very end, and utilize levels of questioning when initially engaging the book, because for the most part, high school students do not have the skill-sets to critically analyze literature in a meaningful way – and high school English courses are not necessarily designed for the development of these skills. Please thank your local Congressman for funding “No Child Left Behind” (as espoused by a man who “doesn't read”).
But most books are not Catcher in the Rye(thank God! – seriously, is there a more overrated book? Want to know why Salinger is/was (is he still alive – not sure I care) a recluse? Because he’s afraid people will ask him about his books and realize he’s a hack! Sorry, it’s going to take a lot of convincing to prove his “talent” to me. And I’ve read Catcher a number of times since high school. Ooooh, curses). Therefore, most books we read in high school do not have those readily identifiable traits and/or characters. While in grad school in St. Louis, I noticed that many high schools taught The Awakening, ostensibly because Kate Chopin was originally from Webster Groves, a suburb in St. Louis County. Perhaps “ostensibly” is not the right word; perhaps “blatantly” would be more appropriate. Because that can be the only reason to expect high school students to enjoy that book.
--“But school isn’t about enjoyment; it’s about learning!”
--“Correct, but these students are learning reading is boring.
“Great lesson.”
And here’s the problem: These books were not written for a teenage audience. I’m not trying to belittle the reading level of teenagers, but many of these novels deal with experiences teens simply cannot connect with. In the movies, they would call these “adult situations.” Mind you, sex is it’s own category, and on most teens probably could identify pretty strongly with that.
All that said, and I still believe most of these books are great (or at least, not terrible). Heck, without them, we’d probably never inspire kids to become English majors (I assure you, a dearth of which would be a bad thing, because there is a need for college-educated men and women to work in middle management – and for other reasons as well). On the whole though, they are being read by the wrong people at the wrong time.
“Two wrongs” and all that.
Just like food, the literary palate develops over time. For food, taste buds actually die over time, making the intense flavors that were so disgusting to you as a youth less heinous the older you get. Which is why foie gras, caviar, and truffles are considered delicacies, but kids wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole (unless said delicacies were in a piñata, and the kids weren’t told that before hand). For literature, it’s the opposite: your mind and literary palate expands, whether it’s because of more education or other, less noble reasons.
Such as wanting to impress a girl.
Such was the case with myself and The Great Gatsby (now my title’s starting to make a little more sense). When I read this in eleventh grade, I didn’t think it was actually possible to pen over 200 pages of ennui. Boy was I wrong. Half the book is people sitting around saying how bored and hot they are. While perhaps accurate to a summer on Long Island and New York City (yes, everyone, it’s hot – this is not groundbreaking news), it does not exactly make for captivating scenes.
But then I met a girl who loved Gatsby, and as I thought it might be nice if this girl liked me, I read it again. And, lo and behold, it was a lot better than I thought. In fact, it was actually really good. After being pissed off for a hot-second (because that’s the way I am; when’s the last time you enjoyed being proven wrong?), I simply realized that Fitzgerald, in creating the ennui, is doing so purposefully. The characters are unable to have excitement because their lives have reached a point where excitement doesn’t make sense anymore. With everything possible, adventure is no longer novel. Tom’s affair, Daisy’s rejection of Gatsby in the end, Gatsby’s murder: they are all practically non-events. And the language, while languid, is also very poetic.
That said, I still don’t believe it should be taught in high school. How do you teach “boring is good” to a student whose only desire is to not be your classroom (this last statement is based on education psychological studies – even in the best teachers’ classes, the students, when asked, would rather not be in class than in)? Fitzgerald’s style comes from an era that most kids don’t understand. The dialogue, while almost completely natural, is odd – probably because it’s completely natural. Conversations are non-linear moments for the characters, and they often jump from topic to topic without a care for what the other person is saying. Daisy is such a flighty character, and her whims move her dialogue all over the place. While superb in execution, it can be disorienting for a reader who is generally reading for understanding, and not critically. Character and plot always come first to high school readers, and then it’s up to the teacher to bring in narrative elements into the equation. If the reader has trouble understanding basic elements of the story though, then how are they supposed to understand things like symbolism, imagery, or metaphor?
That’s the crux of my argument. What’s more important to English teachers: getting students to read “classics” or getting students to read? I know many would claim “both,” but I don’t think that’s generally the option. Yes, in certain ideal situations, you can find students you can teach a book like Gatsby to. But even then, I think what you’re getting is committed students and not committed readers. And that’s a shame.
So's the fact that it didn't work out between me and the girl. But that's another story.
As I try to make myself more literately well-rounded (and oddly enough, all that sitting around reading might be making me literally well-rounded), I am forcing myself to approach those texts that they foisted off on us as literature during high school. While I do believe it is the mission of high school English teachers to expose their students to things they wouldn’t normally read on their own, certain books have found their way into the curriculum despite the limited connectivity to a teenagers life. Even though I personally can’t stand Catcher in the Rye, the fact that Holden Caufield is a troubled and alienated youth (I was going to write “alienized,” but apparently that lacks a certain wordosity) – in other words, a teenager – there is a protagonist that is readily identifiable. “Readily” is important because we are talking about the toughest, hardest-to-please critics in the world. All they know is like/dislike.
While getting my teaching degree (which I put to such great use as I don’t teach), my professors stressed that questions like “Do you like the book?” or “What do you think of the book?” will bring an immediate and universal response of “It’s boring” (or in slightly “edgier” schools – “It sucks”). This is regardless of whether the kids think it’s true or not. Once “It’s boring” has been disseminated, the game is virtually over. The reason is the same reason for pretty much every action by students: herd mentality, aka “peer pressure.” How is the shy kid who did like the book supposed to argue with the gregarious one who declares it “sucks.” Although the “universality” of this is slightly exaggerated, the point is teachers are taught to save opinion questions until the very end, and utilize levels of questioning when initially engaging the book, because for the most part, high school students do not have the skill-sets to critically analyze literature in a meaningful way – and high school English courses are not necessarily designed for the development of these skills. Please thank your local Congressman for funding “No Child Left Behind” (as espoused by a man who “doesn't read”).
But most books are not Catcher in the Rye(thank God! – seriously, is there a more overrated book? Want to know why Salinger is/was (is he still alive – not sure I care) a recluse? Because he’s afraid people will ask him about his books and realize he’s a hack! Sorry, it’s going to take a lot of convincing to prove his “talent” to me. And I’ve read Catcher a number of times since high school. Ooooh, curses). Therefore, most books we read in high school do not have those readily identifiable traits and/or characters. While in grad school in St. Louis, I noticed that many high schools taught The Awakening, ostensibly because Kate Chopin was originally from Webster Groves, a suburb in St. Louis County. Perhaps “ostensibly” is not the right word; perhaps “blatantly” would be more appropriate. Because that can be the only reason to expect high school students to enjoy that book.
--“But school isn’t about enjoyment; it’s about learning!”
--“Correct, but these students are learning reading is boring.
“Great lesson.”
And here’s the problem: These books were not written for a teenage audience. I’m not trying to belittle the reading level of teenagers, but many of these novels deal with experiences teens simply cannot connect with. In the movies, they would call these “adult situations.” Mind you, sex is it’s own category, and on most teens probably could identify pretty strongly with that.
All that said, and I still believe most of these books are great (or at least, not terrible). Heck, without them, we’d probably never inspire kids to become English majors (I assure you, a dearth of which would be a bad thing, because there is a need for college-educated men and women to work in middle management – and for other reasons as well). On the whole though, they are being read by the wrong people at the wrong time.
“Two wrongs” and all that.
Just like food, the literary palate develops over time. For food, taste buds actually die over time, making the intense flavors that were so disgusting to you as a youth less heinous the older you get. Which is why foie gras, caviar, and truffles are considered delicacies, but kids wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole (unless said delicacies were in a piñata, and the kids weren’t told that before hand). For literature, it’s the opposite: your mind and literary palate expands, whether it’s because of more education or other, less noble reasons.
Such as wanting to impress a girl.
Such was the case with myself and The Great Gatsby (now my title’s starting to make a little more sense). When I read this in eleventh grade, I didn’t think it was actually possible to pen over 200 pages of ennui. Boy was I wrong. Half the book is people sitting around saying how bored and hot they are. While perhaps accurate to a summer on Long Island and New York City (yes, everyone, it’s hot – this is not groundbreaking news), it does not exactly make for captivating scenes.
But then I met a girl who loved Gatsby, and as I thought it might be nice if this girl liked me, I read it again. And, lo and behold, it was a lot better than I thought. In fact, it was actually really good. After being pissed off for a hot-second (because that’s the way I am; when’s the last time you enjoyed being proven wrong?), I simply realized that Fitzgerald, in creating the ennui, is doing so purposefully. The characters are unable to have excitement because their lives have reached a point where excitement doesn’t make sense anymore. With everything possible, adventure is no longer novel. Tom’s affair, Daisy’s rejection of Gatsby in the end, Gatsby’s murder: they are all practically non-events. And the language, while languid, is also very poetic.
That said, I still don’t believe it should be taught in high school. How do you teach “boring is good” to a student whose only desire is to not be your classroom (this last statement is based on education psychological studies – even in the best teachers’ classes, the students, when asked, would rather not be in class than in)? Fitzgerald’s style comes from an era that most kids don’t understand. The dialogue, while almost completely natural, is odd – probably because it’s completely natural. Conversations are non-linear moments for the characters, and they often jump from topic to topic without a care for what the other person is saying. Daisy is such a flighty character, and her whims move her dialogue all over the place. While superb in execution, it can be disorienting for a reader who is generally reading for understanding, and not critically. Character and plot always come first to high school readers, and then it’s up to the teacher to bring in narrative elements into the equation. If the reader has trouble understanding basic elements of the story though, then how are they supposed to understand things like symbolism, imagery, or metaphor?
That’s the crux of my argument. What’s more important to English teachers: getting students to read “classics” or getting students to read? I know many would claim “both,” but I don’t think that’s generally the option. Yes, in certain ideal situations, you can find students you can teach a book like Gatsby to. But even then, I think what you’re getting is committed students and not committed readers. And that’s a shame.
So's the fact that it didn't work out between me and the girl. But that's another story.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Fly Me to the Moon
Or the stars, rather (but thanks for that sentiment, Blue Eyes).
I mentioned in an earlier post about Nicholas Christopher’s book, The Bestiary, and I stand by my review that it is an excellent book.
It’s just not Christopher’s best.
The novel he wrote before The Bestiary was A Trip to the Stars, and I was blown away.
It’s not the best book I ever read, because it is a bit disjointed. Part of that has to do with Christopher’s use of “natural fantasy,” if that’s such a genre. What I mean is that his writing not only admits to, but embraces that there is such a thing beyond what can be explained. Is it magic? Perhaps. It seems though, that it’s a belief that certain people can find connections with nature that provide insights and abilities that go beyond what we consider “normal.” A practical magic, if you will.
The story is about a boy who gets abducted from his adopted family by his true family (a wealthy uncle -- a never-before-used literary device), and decides to stay after being allowed to write a letter to his “aunt.” His new family is extremely wealthy, and he grows up in a world essentially of the Enlightenment. Surrounded by eccentric but learned men and women, the boy, Enzo, enters a world of Zuni spiritualism, memory cathedrals, art and architecture, highly experimental botany, and, as the title implies, astronomy (and astrology).
In the meantime, the book also follows his “aunt,” Mala, who goes through her own very extreme experiences: from being bit by a mind-altering spider to nursing during Vietnam to becoming a mind-reader, it all is a bit of a mind-trip (yes, I just wrote “mind” three times – what are you going to do about it?).
I think why I liked it so much is because although it may not be the greatest story, it is expertly woven – and I do mean woven. This story has so many connections, reconnections, convoluted blood-lines, and zero-degrees-of-separation between almost every major character (and maybe one-degree for the minor ones). There is very little that Christopher writes that he doesn’t use. There are no shotguns on the mantle in this book.
What’s makes his books so impressive is that he clearly takes the time to do the research necessary to know all the folklore, mythology, and science that he incorporates into his stories. Or, at least he does an excellent job of making us believe he did all that research. I personally think he did the research.
I recommend both of these books.
On a very different wave-length, I just finished watching the season of “Flava of Love: Charm School,” and I feel like I have completely nullified any brain-building I’ve done with my viewing of this program.
If ever there was a guilty pleasure, it’s watching stupid, poor people be taught how to be ridiculous, stupid people by a comedian who is somehow trying to teach these girls about pride.
And the whole time you’re wondering why any of these girls listen to anything this woman is saying. I’d say for the prize, but it’s only $50,000 – and yes, only $50,000. Say what you will about how much money that is for some people, it’s still not really life-changing money. And to be degraded and humiliated for the chance to win 50 grand? It just doesn’t seem worth it. But then again, who am I to say if these people can afford to not try for the prize? On paper, though, it doesn’t seem worth it, because even the exposure is not good exposure: it’s infamy. I’ve heard the saying “any publicity is good publicity” (which does not make me special; I'm sure you've heard it too). I just don’t necessarily agree that this show is considered “publicity.”
But hey: any show where the winner is named Saaphyri has to be pretty damn good.
I can’t see myself not watching next year.
I told you that “The Closer” was starting, and it might simply be the best show on television. It’s funny, it’s dramatic, and if you can get past watching Kyra Sedgwick for an hour (I’m sorry, but she’s a little weird looking – not ugly, just very, very different), it’s complete quality.
Watch it! TNT on Mondays at 9:00. Do yourself that favor.
Sorry, not a lot of links today; It's too damn hot (a Fourth of July tradition with my family, unfortunately missed this year due to my being in a car on my way to Texas. There's a drive to kick yourself in the nuts with). And yes, that is Mr. Feeney from "Boy Meets World" (aka, the voice of K.I.T.T. from "Knight Rider") as John Adams. He's obnoxious and disliked, did you know that?
I mentioned in an earlier post about Nicholas Christopher’s book, The Bestiary, and I stand by my review that it is an excellent book.
It’s just not Christopher’s best.
The novel he wrote before The Bestiary was A Trip to the Stars, and I was blown away.
It’s not the best book I ever read, because it is a bit disjointed. Part of that has to do with Christopher’s use of “natural fantasy,” if that’s such a genre. What I mean is that his writing not only admits to, but embraces that there is such a thing beyond what can be explained. Is it magic? Perhaps. It seems though, that it’s a belief that certain people can find connections with nature that provide insights and abilities that go beyond what we consider “normal.” A practical magic, if you will.
The story is about a boy who gets abducted from his adopted family by his true family (a wealthy uncle -- a never-before-used literary device), and decides to stay after being allowed to write a letter to his “aunt.” His new family is extremely wealthy, and he grows up in a world essentially of the Enlightenment. Surrounded by eccentric but learned men and women, the boy, Enzo, enters a world of Zuni spiritualism, memory cathedrals, art and architecture, highly experimental botany, and, as the title implies, astronomy (and astrology).
In the meantime, the book also follows his “aunt,” Mala, who goes through her own very extreme experiences: from being bit by a mind-altering spider to nursing during Vietnam to becoming a mind-reader, it all is a bit of a mind-trip (yes, I just wrote “mind” three times – what are you going to do about it?).
I think why I liked it so much is because although it may not be the greatest story, it is expertly woven – and I do mean woven. This story has so many connections, reconnections, convoluted blood-lines, and zero-degrees-of-separation between almost every major character (and maybe one-degree for the minor ones). There is very little that Christopher writes that he doesn’t use. There are no shotguns on the mantle in this book.
What’s makes his books so impressive is that he clearly takes the time to do the research necessary to know all the folklore, mythology, and science that he incorporates into his stories. Or, at least he does an excellent job of making us believe he did all that research. I personally think he did the research.
I recommend both of these books.
On a very different wave-length, I just finished watching the season of “Flava of Love: Charm School,” and I feel like I have completely nullified any brain-building I’ve done with my viewing of this program.
If ever there was a guilty pleasure, it’s watching stupid, poor people be taught how to be ridiculous, stupid people by a comedian who is somehow trying to teach these girls about pride.
And the whole time you’re wondering why any of these girls listen to anything this woman is saying. I’d say for the prize, but it’s only $50,000 – and yes, only $50,000. Say what you will about how much money that is for some people, it’s still not really life-changing money. And to be degraded and humiliated for the chance to win 50 grand? It just doesn’t seem worth it. But then again, who am I to say if these people can afford to not try for the prize? On paper, though, it doesn’t seem worth it, because even the exposure is not good exposure: it’s infamy. I’ve heard the saying “any publicity is good publicity” (which does not make me special; I'm sure you've heard it too). I just don’t necessarily agree that this show is considered “publicity.”
But hey: any show where the winner is named Saaphyri has to be pretty damn good.
I can’t see myself not watching next year.
I told you that “The Closer” was starting, and it might simply be the best show on television. It’s funny, it’s dramatic, and if you can get past watching Kyra Sedgwick for an hour (I’m sorry, but she’s a little weird looking – not ugly, just very, very different), it’s complete quality.
Watch it! TNT on Mondays at 9:00. Do yourself that favor.
Sorry, not a lot of links today; It's too damn hot (a Fourth of July tradition with my family, unfortunately missed this year due to my being in a car on my way to Texas. There's a drive to kick yourself in the nuts with). And yes, that is Mr. Feeney from "Boy Meets World" (aka, the voice of K.I.T.T. from "Knight Rider") as John Adams. He's obnoxious and disliked, did you know that?
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