Starring: Kate Beckinsale, Chloë Sevigny, Xavier Samuel
Directed By: Whit Stillman
Written By: Whit Stillman, from the novella Lady Susan by Jane Austen
Amazon Studios, 2016
PG; 92 minutes
5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
Because, honestly, I do love Jane Austen. So I was probably going to love this movie no matter what.
I haven't read Lady Susan, a sad omission on my part. But that made it all the more fun to watch this film and have no expectations aside from wanting to see some costumes and hear some witty period banter. Both of which Love & Friendship delivers.
The story is relatively simple. Lady Susan is a widow who must remove herself from the home of friends after she is accused of, let's say "unladylike conduct" with a married gentleman. She goes to her late husband's brother to stay with his family and has designs on one Mr. Reginald DeCourcy though his family does not approve. When Lady Susan's own daughter Frederica is shipped home from her boarding school wires become all the more crossed. Lady Susan wants Frederica to marry the addlepated Mr. Martin but Frederica resists.
I cannot do it justice. The whole of it has a lot of moving pieces and there are so many characters they are introduced, wink-like, with title cards. But it all adds to the fun, and the wit is definitely there. Beckinsale does remarkably well as Lady Susan, and Tom Bennett is a highlight as the the lackwit Mr. Martin.
Certainly it's worth finding a local arthouse and seeing this surrounded by others who will comprehend and laugh at all the jokes. But even if you can't find it playing near you, I'm sure Amazon will have it streaming before long. If you enjoy Austen and her ilk, and if you have no trouble keeping up with some rapid dialogue, this one is for you.
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
6.01.2016
12.07.2015
The Story Behind the Story of Peter
I was given the opportunity to write an article about my inspiration for The Fall and Rise of Peter Stoller for the literary magazine upcoming4.me. Click here to read it!
6.14.2015
Books: The Art of the English Murder by Lucy Worsley
It probably requires someone who both likes history and literature—particularly detective stories—to really appreciate this book, but as I am such a person . . . I really enjoyed it.
Worsley works her way through the literary history of crime stories from the kinds of pamphlets and broadsides that came out with news of murders and hangings, on through Gothic literature, the "Golden Age" of detective stories (i.e., Agatha Christie), and finally touching on the decline of same in favor of the rise in thrillers. At the same time, Worsley parallels all this with true crime stories that inspired the kinds of writings that were popular at any given time. She reflects on the draw of Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors and the general psychology behind why we love death (and the more gruesome the better).
Engagingly written and filled with interesting tidbits, I sailed through this book, often choosing to read rather than get any of my own work done. Now I'm only sorry that I've finished it and so don't have an excuse to procrastinate any longer.
Worsley works her way through the literary history of crime stories from the kinds of pamphlets and broadsides that came out with news of murders and hangings, on through Gothic literature, the "Golden Age" of detective stories (i.e., Agatha Christie), and finally touching on the decline of same in favor of the rise in thrillers. At the same time, Worsley parallels all this with true crime stories that inspired the kinds of writings that were popular at any given time. She reflects on the draw of Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors and the general psychology behind why we love death (and the more gruesome the better).
Engagingly written and filled with interesting tidbits, I sailed through this book, often choosing to read rather than get any of my own work done. Now I'm only sorry that I've finished it and so don't have an excuse to procrastinate any longer.
6.08.2015
Ursula K Le Guin v Amazon
Cross posted from PepperWords.
A Facebook post sent me to this essay by Ursula K Le Guin about how Amazon promotes a disposable culture.
The argument goes more or less like this: Amazon [and other publishers] are now solely interested in the next big best seller. They don't care if the books themselves are any good; they only care whether the books will sell. It's a lowest common denominator kind of market, really. Le Guin likens it to fast food and sweets. People love the taste, and these things are cheap besides, but are these aren't the makings of a good diet.
She's got a point. And I think there are a number of cultural problems in the same vein, but that's another discussion altogether.
Really, churning out only what people "want" to read leads to a homogenous literary culture, and one that, again, is high in calories and low in mental nutrition. There's a place for those kinds of books, of course, but we need a diversified "diet." We need literature, a wide variety of it. Instead, what we get these days are basically different toppings but it's all pizza underneath.
Meanwhile, as far as Le Guin's essay goes, I'm mostly surprised at how many of the commenters (a) profess to love Ms. Le Guin then (b) go on to tell her she's wrong.
A lot of the commenters admit to being self-published through Amazon, so one might cite bias. They argue, not entirely incorrectly, that Amazon allows more voices versus fewer because it gives everyone a voice (via self-publishing). So maybe it's the traditional publishers that are serving up such poor menus. After all, these are the ones who want only more of the same stuff because it's that "same stuff" that sells. (And based on my experience in trying to sell a very different kind of book, I'd say there's merit to that argument; I've been told flat out my manuscript is "great" and "well written" but, the agents say, "I can't sell it.")
Still, Le Guin's essay appears to largely target marketing. Yes, Amazon allows anyone and everyone to publish his or her masterpiece, but it does little to nothing to promote good literature. Because in the end it is a commercial company mostly interested in its bottom line. And this is true of all other publishers as well. In this day and age, none of them want to take risks on something new or different, on an unknown author. They swear up and down they LOVE debut authors, but really, they only love the ones they believe can be the next big hit. Not even a modest hit. Not a steady seller. No, this is: go big or go home.
But again, I think cultural issues are to blame for most of this. The root is in what is being demanded by readers. Most readers seem to want . . . Well, whatever is selling these days. The market doesn't leave room for narrow channels, those few readers who like a very small and specific genre. While television has increasingly gone narrower and narrower as channels split so that there's something for everyone (history buffs, people who like cars, cooking, soap operas, etc), publishing has gone the other way. We have fewer "channels" and those channels (publishers) are inclined only to choose "shows" (books) that appeal to wide audiences. Because that's how they make money: selling books. They aren't in it for the art. [I've had this same discussion re the tidal wave of blockbuster movies and the hope that eventually we'll all be sick of them and clamor for something else. But as long as we keep going to see those movies, and as long as those movies keep making billions of dollars, that's what studios will make.]
Ms. Le Guin can bemoan the lack of audience for better books—if more people were demanding them, maybe they would get published. She can equally bemoan that publishers and big corporations like Amazon won't publish and promote better, smaller books—if they did, maybe those books and authors would develop bigger platforms. But no one is willing to put in the time and effort, or wait that long for results. As she points out, it's all about get the book up the charts then toss it aside and make space for the next big thing. Books, ahem, no longer has as much of a shelf life.
And neither, it seems, do actors or musicians . . . Again, I would argue that our pop and celebrity culture chews up and spits out much faster than ever before. We are voracious but nothing sticks to our ribs. Sure, Amazon and publishers contribute to this because it's good for their businesses—to say they should change "for the good of the people and the sake of our culture" is like asking a hungry bear not to eat a fish because "that isn't nice to the fish"—and they will continue in this way until our demands change. But will that ever happen? Until we rally at large for lasting works of art (be it in words, music, or movie form), why should they give us any such thing?
A Facebook post sent me to this essay by Ursula K Le Guin about how Amazon promotes a disposable culture.
The argument goes more or less like this: Amazon [and other publishers] are now solely interested in the next big best seller. They don't care if the books themselves are any good; they only care whether the books will sell. It's a lowest common denominator kind of market, really. Le Guin likens it to fast food and sweets. People love the taste, and these things are cheap besides, but are these aren't the makings of a good diet.
She's got a point. And I think there are a number of cultural problems in the same vein, but that's another discussion altogether.
Really, churning out only what people "want" to read leads to a homogenous literary culture, and one that, again, is high in calories and low in mental nutrition. There's a place for those kinds of books, of course, but we need a diversified "diet." We need literature, a wide variety of it. Instead, what we get these days are basically different toppings but it's all pizza underneath.
Meanwhile, as far as Le Guin's essay goes, I'm mostly surprised at how many of the commenters (a) profess to love Ms. Le Guin then (b) go on to tell her she's wrong.
A lot of the commenters admit to being self-published through Amazon, so one might cite bias. They argue, not entirely incorrectly, that Amazon allows more voices versus fewer because it gives everyone a voice (via self-publishing). So maybe it's the traditional publishers that are serving up such poor menus. After all, these are the ones who want only more of the same stuff because it's that "same stuff" that sells. (And based on my experience in trying to sell a very different kind of book, I'd say there's merit to that argument; I've been told flat out my manuscript is "great" and "well written" but, the agents say, "I can't sell it.")
Still, Le Guin's essay appears to largely target marketing. Yes, Amazon allows anyone and everyone to publish his or her masterpiece, but it does little to nothing to promote good literature. Because in the end it is a commercial company mostly interested in its bottom line. And this is true of all other publishers as well. In this day and age, none of them want to take risks on something new or different, on an unknown author. They swear up and down they LOVE debut authors, but really, they only love the ones they believe can be the next big hit. Not even a modest hit. Not a steady seller. No, this is: go big or go home.
But again, I think cultural issues are to blame for most of this. The root is in what is being demanded by readers. Most readers seem to want . . . Well, whatever is selling these days. The market doesn't leave room for narrow channels, those few readers who like a very small and specific genre. While television has increasingly gone narrower and narrower as channels split so that there's something for everyone (history buffs, people who like cars, cooking, soap operas, etc), publishing has gone the other way. We have fewer "channels" and those channels (publishers) are inclined only to choose "shows" (books) that appeal to wide audiences. Because that's how they make money: selling books. They aren't in it for the art. [I've had this same discussion re the tidal wave of blockbuster movies and the hope that eventually we'll all be sick of them and clamor for something else. But as long as we keep going to see those movies, and as long as those movies keep making billions of dollars, that's what studios will make.]
Ms. Le Guin can bemoan the lack of audience for better books—if more people were demanding them, maybe they would get published. She can equally bemoan that publishers and big corporations like Amazon won't publish and promote better, smaller books—if they did, maybe those books and authors would develop bigger platforms. But no one is willing to put in the time and effort, or wait that long for results. As she points out, it's all about get the book up the charts then toss it aside and make space for the next big thing. Books, ahem, no longer has as much of a shelf life.
And neither, it seems, do actors or musicians . . . Again, I would argue that our pop and celebrity culture chews up and spits out much faster than ever before. We are voracious but nothing sticks to our ribs. Sure, Amazon and publishers contribute to this because it's good for their businesses—to say they should change "for the good of the people and the sake of our culture" is like asking a hungry bear not to eat a fish because "that isn't nice to the fish"—and they will continue in this way until our demands change. But will that ever happen? Until we rally at large for lasting works of art (be it in words, music, or movie form), why should they give us any such thing?
6.05.2014
Books: Grown-Ups Who Read YA
So this Slate article is being much circulated on my Facebook feed. Most of my reader and writer friends are up in arms over it, but . . . at the risk of having things hurled at me . . . I kind of agree.
Not wholly. Provisionally.
I think it's sometimes fun to escape into YA books. But as an adult with real life adult dealings, I also spend time reading literature that features people my age and/or older. This is because I cannot, at my age, live on a steady diet of teenage drama and angst. And I sort of distrust anyone who can.
That sounds . . . stuck-up or something, but I'm only being honest. I've found in dealing with a wide swath of readers that adults who read only YA aren't generally equipped to deal with the pressures of adulthood, or else they actively avoid and deny them. These are the people who want to be young forever—sure, who doesn't?—and will in fact pretend it isn't happening. They foster drama in their own lives and make other adults miserable because, hey, get over it.
I get the draw of YA. While for a teen the stories speak to current experience, for an adult they're kind of a break. YA books are sweet, simple; the problems of the characters seem small compared to the responsibilities of adulthood. In a YA book, chances are there will be a solution, a happy ending, some hope. That's because young adults have their whole lives ahead of them and are looking for stories about others who also have their whole lives ahead of them. They can do anything, go anywhere. They are standing on a brink, all options open until they make a choice.
For adults, though, reality sets in. Choices have been made and our lives reflect those choices. Life single, life married, life married with kids, life divorced, life widowed . . . Jobs, bills, aging parents, grown siblings, illness. Adult literature is piled with all these for a reason: it's meant to speak to adult experience just as YA books speak to young adult experience. Here there are not always pat answers or endings. Here there is not always hope or satisfaction.
Look, I don't read a whole lot of "literature." I prefer genre stuff (mysteries, some romances). Because like a lot of adults, I don't necessarily want to read about people whose problems are just as bad or worse than mine. But I also don't read a lot of YA either. Because while I can enjoy the lightness of it, can even wax nostalgic for my first love or whatever, I can't entirely relate. Like Ruth Graham, author of the Slate article, I end up rolling my eyes at the page.
So. I think there's room for adults to read and enjoy young adult literature. I think there are a lot of good YA authors putting out a lot of great writing. But I think adults should not only read YA. Their brains should stretch past high school romances; their thoughts should be bigger and deeper than that. And maybe you'd argue, "So long as they're reading, who cares what they read?" Well, the writers of adult literature care. Though you'll notice many have gone and started YA series (looking at you, Jasper Fforde). Instead of encouraging adults to read YA, maybe we should encourage young adults to graduate to bigger and [sometimes] better books.
Not wholly. Provisionally.
I think it's sometimes fun to escape into YA books. But as an adult with real life adult dealings, I also spend time reading literature that features people my age and/or older. This is because I cannot, at my age, live on a steady diet of teenage drama and angst. And I sort of distrust anyone who can.
That sounds . . . stuck-up or something, but I'm only being honest. I've found in dealing with a wide swath of readers that adults who read only YA aren't generally equipped to deal with the pressures of adulthood, or else they actively avoid and deny them. These are the people who want to be young forever—sure, who doesn't?—and will in fact pretend it isn't happening. They foster drama in their own lives and make other adults miserable because, hey, get over it.
I get the draw of YA. While for a teen the stories speak to current experience, for an adult they're kind of a break. YA books are sweet, simple; the problems of the characters seem small compared to the responsibilities of adulthood. In a YA book, chances are there will be a solution, a happy ending, some hope. That's because young adults have their whole lives ahead of them and are looking for stories about others who also have their whole lives ahead of them. They can do anything, go anywhere. They are standing on a brink, all options open until they make a choice.
For adults, though, reality sets in. Choices have been made and our lives reflect those choices. Life single, life married, life married with kids, life divorced, life widowed . . . Jobs, bills, aging parents, grown siblings, illness. Adult literature is piled with all these for a reason: it's meant to speak to adult experience just as YA books speak to young adult experience. Here there are not always pat answers or endings. Here there is not always hope or satisfaction.
Look, I don't read a whole lot of "literature." I prefer genre stuff (mysteries, some romances). Because like a lot of adults, I don't necessarily want to read about people whose problems are just as bad or worse than mine. But I also don't read a lot of YA either. Because while I can enjoy the lightness of it, can even wax nostalgic for my first love or whatever, I can't entirely relate. Like Ruth Graham, author of the Slate article, I end up rolling my eyes at the page.
So. I think there's room for adults to read and enjoy young adult literature. I think there are a lot of good YA authors putting out a lot of great writing. But I think adults should not only read YA. Their brains should stretch past high school romances; their thoughts should be bigger and deeper than that. And maybe you'd argue, "So long as they're reading, who cares what they read?" Well, the writers of adult literature care. Though you'll notice many have gone and started YA series (looking at you, Jasper Fforde). Instead of encouraging adults to read YA, maybe we should encourage young adults to graduate to bigger and [sometimes] better books.
6.03.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 41–48)
Whoa, what?
And things were going so well . . .
Mr Crawford goes to Portsmouth to see Fanny. He notices that her health is suffering for lack of good food and fresh air, and he entreats her to let him take her home to Mansfield. But though Fanny is slowly thawing, she continues to have reservations about Crawford (probably at least in part biased by the knowledge that her beloved cousin Edmund loves Miss Crawford). And so despite wanting very much to return to Mansfield, Fanny declines Crawford's invitation.
Crawford leaves and Miss Crawford writes to Fanny. With every letter from Miss Crawford or Edmund, Fanny lives in exquisite pain of hearing her fears realized: that they are engaged. And yet there is never any such news. Painful enough, one supposes, to have to read Edmund's rhapsodic ramblings of Miss Crawford's sterling nature tarnished only by the influences of bad society. Ugh.
At this point it seems things must have a predetermined end. Fanny will eventually accept Crawford and Edmund and Miss Crawford will "hook up." Right? Because though Fanny is an excellent observer, surely many of her conclusions are colored by her own feelings, particularly those she has for Edmund?
But no! The plot twists! For one, Tom (eldest son of Sir Thomas) suffers an injury that may be life-threatening! Could it be that Edmund will inherit Mansfield? Will that remove the last of Miss Crawford's obstacles? (And if it did . . . Isn't that almost worse for Edmund? To be accepted only on the strength of a dead brother's legacy? Not wanted enough for himself—he is not enough for Miss Crawford, she must have the money and lifestyle too.) A letter from Miss Crawford to Fanny suggests that Miss Crawford's mind runs exactly on such lines, reaffirming Fanny's suspicions of Miss Crawford's singularly mercenary nature.
And then! That old flirtation between Mr Crawford and the now Mrs Rushworth springs forth anew! Indeed, they run away together! Such shame on the family . . . And now there is no question of Fanny marrying Crawford or Edmund marrying Miss Crawford. The connection must be severed. Fanny is upheld again.
Miss Crawford blames Fanny in part for the drama. If she'd simply agreed to marry Mr Crawford, none of this would have happened. But one must wonder how much worse it might have been if Fanny had married him, how much more miserable she might have been. Because who is to say that Mrs Rushworth and Mr Crawford wouldn't still have had an affair? And they'd have been thrown together so much at family gatherings that it would have been that much easier. Would Mr Crawford's love for Fanny—if it's to be believed he really did love her—been stronger than his vanity? Would Mrs Rushworth have succeeded in wooing him anyway? If only to soothe her own vanity and pride at having her inferior cousin chosen by the man she loved?
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
But the game of What If? has no place in the real world of fiction.
Finally, Julia elopes with Tom's friend Yates. Though in the bigger scheme of things, this is hardly irreconcilable.
In the aftermath of family ruin, Fanny is fetched from Portsmouth back to Mansfield, and she brings along Susan as well. Paradoxically, Fanny's greatest happiness is nested in the deterioration of the Bertrams. She is treasured now in contrast to her cousins who have failed the family. She is safe now from any fear that Edmund might marry Miss Crawford. Nor is she frowned upon for having refused Mr Crawford; instead it appears as great good sense on her part. And so while she is sensible of the sad situation, she is quite satisfied with the outcomes. The pride of the Bertrams heralded their fall. Fanny's enduring humility lifts her up.
Tom survives, and not only that but becomes a much better person for having come through such personal peril. Julia and her husband are welcomed back into the fold of the family. Maria is sent abroad to live in disgrace under the care of Mrs Norris (of whom Mansfield is well rid). Edmund nurses his broken heart and hopes and eventually comes to see the kind of woman he's searched for all along has been right in front of him. He and Fanny are happily married and Susan takes Fanny's place as Lady Bertram's companion.
All's well and all that jazz.
And good things come to those who wait. Patience pays off. Good is rewarded in the end. &c. &c.
And things were going so well . . .
Mr Crawford goes to Portsmouth to see Fanny. He notices that her health is suffering for lack of good food and fresh air, and he entreats her to let him take her home to Mansfield. But though Fanny is slowly thawing, she continues to have reservations about Crawford (probably at least in part biased by the knowledge that her beloved cousin Edmund loves Miss Crawford). And so despite wanting very much to return to Mansfield, Fanny declines Crawford's invitation.
Crawford leaves and Miss Crawford writes to Fanny. With every letter from Miss Crawford or Edmund, Fanny lives in exquisite pain of hearing her fears realized: that they are engaged. And yet there is never any such news. Painful enough, one supposes, to have to read Edmund's rhapsodic ramblings of Miss Crawford's sterling nature tarnished only by the influences of bad society. Ugh.
At this point it seems things must have a predetermined end. Fanny will eventually accept Crawford and Edmund and Miss Crawford will "hook up." Right? Because though Fanny is an excellent observer, surely many of her conclusions are colored by her own feelings, particularly those she has for Edmund?
But no! The plot twists! For one, Tom (eldest son of Sir Thomas) suffers an injury that may be life-threatening! Could it be that Edmund will inherit Mansfield? Will that remove the last of Miss Crawford's obstacles? (And if it did . . . Isn't that almost worse for Edmund? To be accepted only on the strength of a dead brother's legacy? Not wanted enough for himself—he is not enough for Miss Crawford, she must have the money and lifestyle too.) A letter from Miss Crawford to Fanny suggests that Miss Crawford's mind runs exactly on such lines, reaffirming Fanny's suspicions of Miss Crawford's singularly mercenary nature.
And then! That old flirtation between Mr Crawford and the now Mrs Rushworth springs forth anew! Indeed, they run away together! Such shame on the family . . . And now there is no question of Fanny marrying Crawford or Edmund marrying Miss Crawford. The connection must be severed. Fanny is upheld again.
Miss Crawford blames Fanny in part for the drama. If she'd simply agreed to marry Mr Crawford, none of this would have happened. But one must wonder how much worse it might have been if Fanny had married him, how much more miserable she might have been. Because who is to say that Mrs Rushworth and Mr Crawford wouldn't still have had an affair? And they'd have been thrown together so much at family gatherings that it would have been that much easier. Would Mr Crawford's love for Fanny—if it's to be believed he really did love her—been stronger than his vanity? Would Mrs Rushworth have succeeded in wooing him anyway? If only to soothe her own vanity and pride at having her inferior cousin chosen by the man she loved?
Woulda, coulda, shoulda.
But the game of What If? has no place in the real world of fiction.
Finally, Julia elopes with Tom's friend Yates. Though in the bigger scheme of things, this is hardly irreconcilable.
In the aftermath of family ruin, Fanny is fetched from Portsmouth back to Mansfield, and she brings along Susan as well. Paradoxically, Fanny's greatest happiness is nested in the deterioration of the Bertrams. She is treasured now in contrast to her cousins who have failed the family. She is safe now from any fear that Edmund might marry Miss Crawford. Nor is she frowned upon for having refused Mr Crawford; instead it appears as great good sense on her part. And so while she is sensible of the sad situation, she is quite satisfied with the outcomes. The pride of the Bertrams heralded their fall. Fanny's enduring humility lifts her up.
Tom survives, and not only that but becomes a much better person for having come through such personal peril. Julia and her husband are welcomed back into the fold of the family. Maria is sent abroad to live in disgrace under the care of Mrs Norris (of whom Mansfield is well rid). Edmund nurses his broken heart and hopes and eventually comes to see the kind of woman he's searched for all along has been right in front of him. He and Fanny are happily married and Susan takes Fanny's place as Lady Bertram's companion.
All's well and all that jazz.
And good things come to those who wait. Patience pays off. Good is rewarded in the end. &c. &c.
6.01.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 33–40)
Mr Crawford will not take "no" for an answer, no matter how many different ways Fanny tries to say it. And she gets no help from Edmund who, while acknowledging he wouldn't want her to marry against her wishes, says he does wish she wished to marry Mr Crawford. Could there be anything worse than having the person you love say they wish you'd marry someone else? Well, there's the fact that Edmund is in love with someone else too. That's pretty heartbreaking for Fanny as well.
Fanny is rescued two-fold from all the pressures of Mansfield—that is, the hopes she'll come to her senses and accept Mr Crawford, and the hateful pressure of having to hear Edmund rhapsodize over Miss Crawford—by (a) Mr Crawford and his sister going to London, and (b) a visit from William. Together, Fanny and William plan to go to Portsmouth where William's sloop is docked and where the Price family lives. Fanny hasn't been "home" in some eight years or so.
As Bartok says: This can only end in tears.
For one thing, Fanny has been brought up so differently. And for another, she has been absent so long that there really is no place for her in the family. It might have been all right if William had been able to stay and ease her into the household, but upon their arrival in Portsmouth, William is informed his ship is almost ready to leave. He must go.
Fanny struggles to fit into the Price family but she is used to quiet and the place is noisy. She is used to order and the place is highly disorganized. She is used to propriety and in the Price home there is none; her father drinks and swears, people yell through the house, the children misbehave, and the servants can hardly be bothered to do their work.
In one person, however, Fanny finds some comfort: Her sister Susan. At first Susan appears too strident and temperamental, but Fanny comes to understand it is only because Susan struggles against the very things that upset Fanny and shows her frustration in ways Fanny never would. Susan does not scruple to speak out and tell her brothers, her little sister, the servants what they should and shouldn't do. To no avail. And so Fanny shows Susan how to sit quietly up in their shared room, away from the bustle, thus removing themselves from the very stimulants that strike them the wrong way.
Meantime, Fanny has word that Edmund has gone to London himself. Now Fanny lives in dread of the news that Edmund and Miss Crawford will officially be engaged . . .
Fanny is rescued two-fold from all the pressures of Mansfield—that is, the hopes she'll come to her senses and accept Mr Crawford, and the hateful pressure of having to hear Edmund rhapsodize over Miss Crawford—by (a) Mr Crawford and his sister going to London, and (b) a visit from William. Together, Fanny and William plan to go to Portsmouth where William's sloop is docked and where the Price family lives. Fanny hasn't been "home" in some eight years or so.
As Bartok says: This can only end in tears.
For one thing, Fanny has been brought up so differently. And for another, she has been absent so long that there really is no place for her in the family. It might have been all right if William had been able to stay and ease her into the household, but upon their arrival in Portsmouth, William is informed his ship is almost ready to leave. He must go.
Fanny struggles to fit into the Price family but she is used to quiet and the place is noisy. She is used to order and the place is highly disorganized. She is used to propriety and in the Price home there is none; her father drinks and swears, people yell through the house, the children misbehave, and the servants can hardly be bothered to do their work.
In one person, however, Fanny finds some comfort: Her sister Susan. At first Susan appears too strident and temperamental, but Fanny comes to understand it is only because Susan struggles against the very things that upset Fanny and shows her frustration in ways Fanny never would. Susan does not scruple to speak out and tell her brothers, her little sister, the servants what they should and shouldn't do. To no avail. And so Fanny shows Susan how to sit quietly up in their shared room, away from the bustle, thus removing themselves from the very stimulants that strike them the wrong way.
Meantime, Fanny has word that Edmund has gone to London himself. Now Fanny lives in dread of the news that Edmund and Miss Crawford will officially be engaged . . .
5.31.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 25–32)
And so Edmund and Miss Crawford can come to no agreement, though there is love on each side. Or whatever passed for love in Regency society. It's so strange, when you think about it. Interactions were limited by propriety, and I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but it's very little to go on when one is thinking about spending the rest of one's life with a person.
There is a ball at Mansfield, too, before William is scheduled to leave. And then Mr Crawford is kind enough to take William to London so that William won't have to go by post chaise or whatever. (To us it's the difference between taking a private car instead of having to ride a public coach.) It turns out Mr Crawford's big plan is to introduce William to his uncle, who is an admiral, and thus promote William's seafaring career. All, it would seem, so as to win Fanny over.
In fact, when Mr Crawford returns from London and is able to bring Fanny the great good news of William having been made a lieutenant, he wastes no time declaring himself and his intentions on the coattails of Fanny's joy and gratitude. But of course Fanny does not love Mr Crawford. She doesn't even trust him because she's seen the way he played with her cousins' affections. And she can hardly believe someone as low as she can have ignited any kind of passion or change in such a man as Mr Crawford appears to be.
When Fanny's uncle, Sir Thomas, hears Fanny's refusal of Crawford, he thinks her willful and ungrateful for such a chance as might never come her way again. And looking at it from Sir Thomas' POV, one could see it must appear really strange. Most girls would jump at such a chance, wouldn't they? But Sir Thomas is logical while Fanny ruled at least in majority by her heart—she has intellect, too, to be sure, but her mind tends to run along her heart lines. And she is not "most girls."
Meanwhile, Edmund has gone off to take orders and Miss Crawford has decided in his absence that she does love him, even if he is a clergyman. She only hopes he hasn't fallen in love with someone else while he's been away. Though, if a man's love is so easily removed and re-fixed based on whomever is nearest him, you probably don't want to marry that guy anyway.
There is a ball at Mansfield, too, before William is scheduled to leave. And then Mr Crawford is kind enough to take William to London so that William won't have to go by post chaise or whatever. (To us it's the difference between taking a private car instead of having to ride a public coach.) It turns out Mr Crawford's big plan is to introduce William to his uncle, who is an admiral, and thus promote William's seafaring career. All, it would seem, so as to win Fanny over.
In fact, when Mr Crawford returns from London and is able to bring Fanny the great good news of William having been made a lieutenant, he wastes no time declaring himself and his intentions on the coattails of Fanny's joy and gratitude. But of course Fanny does not love Mr Crawford. She doesn't even trust him because she's seen the way he played with her cousins' affections. And she can hardly believe someone as low as she can have ignited any kind of passion or change in such a man as Mr Crawford appears to be.
When Fanny's uncle, Sir Thomas, hears Fanny's refusal of Crawford, he thinks her willful and ungrateful for such a chance as might never come her way again. And looking at it from Sir Thomas' POV, one could see it must appear really strange. Most girls would jump at such a chance, wouldn't they? But Sir Thomas is logical while Fanny ruled at least in majority by her heart—she has intellect, too, to be sure, but her mind tends to run along her heart lines. And she is not "most girls."
Meanwhile, Edmund has gone off to take orders and Miss Crawford has decided in his absence that she does love him, even if he is a clergyman. She only hopes he hasn't fallen in love with someone else while he's been away. Though, if a man's love is so easily removed and re-fixed based on whomever is nearest him, you probably don't want to marry that guy anyway.
5.30.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 17–24)
We're now roughly halfway through the book (there are 48 chapters; I checked, not because I was bored and wanting to be done, only because I was curious and wondering whether 8-chapter increments would come out even).
The amateur theatricals had to be given up because Sir Thomas came home. The personal dramas continue.
Maria went ahead and married Rushworth out of a kind of spite when Mr Crawford decamped. Julia went with the Rushworths on their honeymoon. That sounds weird to modern-day readers, but based on what I've read from that era, it wasn't so uncommon. An older, well-situated sister might be able to give a younger sibling a hand up in society, help her find a suitable marriage. Not that Julia couldn't have done—the Bertrams are not low—but it must be nice for her to have a wider field to hunt. So to speak.
Tom has gone off, too, which leaves Fanny and Edmund at home. Fanny accidentally becomes a sort of friend to Miss Crawford, thus facilitating that young lady's and Edmund's connection. Poor Fanny! Caught between enjoying society (even in small scope) for the first time and having to watch Edmund and Miss Crawford work at one another! But I think Fanny would say it's better to know than not know. She'd rather see for herself and judge what their feelings might be than sit at home and wonder what Edmund and Miss Crawford might be saying to or doing with one another.
As for Edmund and Miss Crawford, well, as Edmund comes closer to taking orders (he means to be a clergyman), Miss Crawford becomes increasingly irritated with him. She does not want to marry a clergyman, but she does want to marry Edmund. It cannot be much of a love that can be dictated to by something like income and profession, can it?
And then Mr Crawford returns and decides to take a run at Fanny. Just for a lark. Because she's such a hard nut to crack and unlike her cousins seems indifferent if not averse to him entirely.
But! All Fanny's attention is soon taken up with the fact her beloved brother William, a midshipman, has returned to England and been given leave to visit at Mansfield. And her animation, her show of feeling, captivates Mr Crawford. Now he's sure he must win Fanny over, and he uses kindnesses toward William to do it.
And there's where things stand for the moment.
The amateur theatricals had to be given up because Sir Thomas came home. The personal dramas continue.
Maria went ahead and married Rushworth out of a kind of spite when Mr Crawford decamped. Julia went with the Rushworths on their honeymoon. That sounds weird to modern-day readers, but based on what I've read from that era, it wasn't so uncommon. An older, well-situated sister might be able to give a younger sibling a hand up in society, help her find a suitable marriage. Not that Julia couldn't have done—the Bertrams are not low—but it must be nice for her to have a wider field to hunt. So to speak.
Tom has gone off, too, which leaves Fanny and Edmund at home. Fanny accidentally becomes a sort of friend to Miss Crawford, thus facilitating that young lady's and Edmund's connection. Poor Fanny! Caught between enjoying society (even in small scope) for the first time and having to watch Edmund and Miss Crawford work at one another! But I think Fanny would say it's better to know than not know. She'd rather see for herself and judge what their feelings might be than sit at home and wonder what Edmund and Miss Crawford might be saying to or doing with one another.
As for Edmund and Miss Crawford, well, as Edmund comes closer to taking orders (he means to be a clergyman), Miss Crawford becomes increasingly irritated with him. She does not want to marry a clergyman, but she does want to marry Edmund. It cannot be much of a love that can be dictated to by something like income and profession, can it?
And then Mr Crawford returns and decides to take a run at Fanny. Just for a lark. Because she's such a hard nut to crack and unlike her cousins seems indifferent if not averse to him entirely.
But! All Fanny's attention is soon taken up with the fact her beloved brother William, a midshipman, has returned to England and been given leave to visit at Mansfield. And her animation, her show of feeling, captivates Mr Crawford. Now he's sure he must win Fanny over, and he uses kindnesses toward William to do it.
And there's where things stand for the moment.
5.28.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 9–16)
In which amateur theatrics are occluded by personal dramas.
I have to say, reading this bit felt very familiar, and now I'm wondering if I haven't read this book before after all, or at least part of it.
Anyway, Fanny continues to be a wallflower, the sympathetic and moral entré for readers to use as a spyglass into the doings of Mansfield Park, its inhabitants and environs. I can't like Edmund as much now due to suspect motives. Either he is being blatantly untruthful about his reasons for finally joining the play or he lacks self-awareness, and neither of those is appealing in a person's character. Though he is kind to Fanny . . . He is no kinder to her than he would be to anyone, I don't think? At first I was going to say he wouldn't go out of his way for her, but he has done . . . And yet, I think he would have done for anyone. Edmund acts on his convictions in that way. If Fanny were a family pet (and she is kind of like one), he'd do the same.
It is not surprising that Fanny is so fond of Edmund anyway. I had a cousin who was nice to me, too, and felt very attached to him throughout childhood. Idolized him, really. As an only child, my cousins were the closest I had to siblings, and this cousin was a definite favorite. Because like Fanny I was bookish and quiet and shy, and this cousin—though like Edmund he never went too far out of his way—was always really nice to me. Made sure when his parents bought him a teddy bear that I got one too. That kind of thing.
But, that said, I could almost prefer someone like Tom who, even if his character is not especially savory, he is never anyone other than he asserts himself to be. There is something to be said for honest dealings. Tom is, I suppose, all surface, which would make for bad company in the long term (that is, he'd be useless for intellectual conversation), but if you just want to go out and have fun and not have to think too hard, Tom is your man.
Then there are types like Mr Crawford who toys with the people around him (particularly the women), tiptoeing along the borders of propriety. Hmm. And his sister is the antithesis of Fanny.
In any case, it's a vivid mixture of personalities. I find, the more I read, I can't entirely like anyone. But that's life. We have friends, people we like, and yet there are always things we don't like, even about the people we like . . . If that makes any sense. I suppose good friends are the ones with the least to dislike and it goes out from there. It's all relative. If, for example, Fanny had her brother William with her, would Edmund pale in comparison? Fanny is only attached to Edmund because, relatively speaking, he is the kindest to her and the one nearest in temperament. If there had been anyone else kinder or quieter, she'd have gravitated in that direction. Ha! Maybe people are planets, pulling one another in and turning in orbits around one another.
I have to say, reading this bit felt very familiar, and now I'm wondering if I haven't read this book before after all, or at least part of it.
Anyway, Fanny continues to be a wallflower, the sympathetic and moral entré for readers to use as a spyglass into the doings of Mansfield Park, its inhabitants and environs. I can't like Edmund as much now due to suspect motives. Either he is being blatantly untruthful about his reasons for finally joining the play or he lacks self-awareness, and neither of those is appealing in a person's character. Though he is kind to Fanny . . . He is no kinder to her than he would be to anyone, I don't think? At first I was going to say he wouldn't go out of his way for her, but he has done . . . And yet, I think he would have done for anyone. Edmund acts on his convictions in that way. If Fanny were a family pet (and she is kind of like one), he'd do the same.
It is not surprising that Fanny is so fond of Edmund anyway. I had a cousin who was nice to me, too, and felt very attached to him throughout childhood. Idolized him, really. As an only child, my cousins were the closest I had to siblings, and this cousin was a definite favorite. Because like Fanny I was bookish and quiet and shy, and this cousin—though like Edmund he never went too far out of his way—was always really nice to me. Made sure when his parents bought him a teddy bear that I got one too. That kind of thing.
But, that said, I could almost prefer someone like Tom who, even if his character is not especially savory, he is never anyone other than he asserts himself to be. There is something to be said for honest dealings. Tom is, I suppose, all surface, which would make for bad company in the long term (that is, he'd be useless for intellectual conversation), but if you just want to go out and have fun and not have to think too hard, Tom is your man.
Then there are types like Mr Crawford who toys with the people around him (particularly the women), tiptoeing along the borders of propriety. Hmm. And his sister is the antithesis of Fanny.
In any case, it's a vivid mixture of personalities. I find, the more I read, I can't entirely like anyone. But that's life. We have friends, people we like, and yet there are always things we don't like, even about the people we like . . . If that makes any sense. I suppose good friends are the ones with the least to dislike and it goes out from there. It's all relative. If, for example, Fanny had her brother William with her, would Edmund pale in comparison? Fanny is only attached to Edmund because, relatively speaking, he is the kindest to her and the one nearest in temperament. If there had been anyone else kinder or quieter, she'd have gravitated in that direction. Ha! Maybe people are planets, pulling one another in and turning in orbits around one another.
5.26.2014
Books: Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (Chapters 1–8)
I went to Half Price Books the other day and picked up a couple of used copies of Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey. You see, I've read Pride & Prejudice, and Emma, and Sense & Sensibility. And I've subsequently seen various film and/or television adaptations of these. But I have not read nor seen Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, or Persuasion. And while Persuasion was the one I was most interested in, HPB did not have a copy. Surprising! But I bought the other two.
I'm now eight chapters into Mansfield Park. I like it. But then I've liked everything by Jane Austen so far, so it's not surprising that I like this one too. I do feel sorry for Fanny. She's a bit of a ninny, but I think it's only the situation that makes her thus; I get the strong feeling she was quite capable in her life before being remanded to Mansfield, and it's only in the uprooting and transplanting that she's become stunted, a bit wilted. She's a sensitive thing, and I'm glad for Edmund who, though not quite as attentive as he could be, is more so than most.
I do not quite follow Fanny's health issues, the need to horseback ride and the difficulties with too much walking? I have to take Austen at her word there. Maybe it is because I walk quite a bit and suffer ill health when I don't walk . . . I can walk all day quite heartily, have been known to wear my companions out with walking. Jogging I can't suffer, but walking pleases me no end. And of course riding, too, when I get the chance. Though what I really enjoy is swimming. Don't get to do that nearly enough.
Anyway, all that aside, poor Fanny is so often neglected and overlooked and undervalued, I do feel bad for her. And Austen is so good at drawing characters. One knows exactly what type of person each of these characters is, all the little subtleties of personality show so clearly through Austen's prose. They've just made a party to Sotherton, and Fanny is of course delighted to be invited, but one wonders how she will do in company when so far she has always been left out? Don't ruin it for me, mind. I'm so enjoying reading it.
Fanny's fallback position seems to be to keep to herself, and she's often enough left to herself that this seems to be preferable on all fronts. But surely something must come along to prompt or motivate her? The whole book cannot be about Fanny sitting back and watching everything happening around her. Can it?
Or maybe I'm bringing too modern a sensibility to the story. Maybe Fanny watching all the goings-on is exactly what this book is. I guess I'll find out.
I'm now eight chapters into Mansfield Park. I like it. But then I've liked everything by Jane Austen so far, so it's not surprising that I like this one too. I do feel sorry for Fanny. She's a bit of a ninny, but I think it's only the situation that makes her thus; I get the strong feeling she was quite capable in her life before being remanded to Mansfield, and it's only in the uprooting and transplanting that she's become stunted, a bit wilted. She's a sensitive thing, and I'm glad for Edmund who, though not quite as attentive as he could be, is more so than most.
I do not quite follow Fanny's health issues, the need to horseback ride and the difficulties with too much walking? I have to take Austen at her word there. Maybe it is because I walk quite a bit and suffer ill health when I don't walk . . . I can walk all day quite heartily, have been known to wear my companions out with walking. Jogging I can't suffer, but walking pleases me no end. And of course riding, too, when I get the chance. Though what I really enjoy is swimming. Don't get to do that nearly enough.
Anyway, all that aside, poor Fanny is so often neglected and overlooked and undervalued, I do feel bad for her. And Austen is so good at drawing characters. One knows exactly what type of person each of these characters is, all the little subtleties of personality show so clearly through Austen's prose. They've just made a party to Sotherton, and Fanny is of course delighted to be invited, but one wonders how she will do in company when so far she has always been left out? Don't ruin it for me, mind. I'm so enjoying reading it.
Fanny's fallback position seems to be to keep to herself, and she's often enough left to herself that this seems to be preferable on all fronts. But surely something must come along to prompt or motivate her? The whole book cannot be about Fanny sitting back and watching everything happening around her. Can it?
Or maybe I'm bringing too modern a sensibility to the story. Maybe Fanny watching all the goings-on is exactly what this book is. I guess I'll find out.
4.22.2014
Books: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
They say there is a "moment" for bibliophiles and authors . . . Something—a book, usually—sparks something within them, and it is a moment they always remember, a kind of literary turning point, I suppose. What it accomplishes is a personal matter; some say, "That was when I knew I wanted to be a writer" and some say, "That was when my world view changed" or something of that ilk. For me, it's very difficult to articulate—and that's saying something given my job is to articulate. I'm not sure what exactly shifted, but something did.
I've been reading and writing since I was three. I taught myself out of sheer boredom. My parents are both avid readers themselves, and I'm an only child; there simply wasn't much to do besides read or write and draw. Well, and listen to the stereo. I did a lot of that, too.
And I loved to read, and I loved to write. I don't know that I thought I would be "a writer," but I was pretty sure I would always write, even just for my own amusement or to share stories with my friends.
But anyway, my sophomore year of high school I got very, very ill. This was right before the mid-term break. And I was home in bed, drifting in and out of drug-induced delirium. Seriously, I was pretty damn sick. (That's me; I'm healthy as a horse until I'm not, but when I'm sick, I'm really sick.)
I was determined to try and keep up with some of my schoolwork though. Exams were coming and I didn't want to have to make up a bunch of stuff. And for Lit class we had a reading list; we could choose books from it and then we'd take a test on whichever book we'd chosen to read. Rebecca was on that list.
I'd enjoyed a lot of Victoria Holt's gothic stuff, and reading the description of Rebecca, I thought it was much the same kind of thing. I'm not even sure where I got the copy of the book I ended up reading; it was a yellowed paperback with a pinkish cover. It might have come from the used bookstore my mother and I frequented, or maybe from the library—they had a section in the back corner filled with donated old paperbacks that were free for people to just take, no need to return them. A kind of lending library or swap or something. Many of my paperbacks came from there.
If you don't know the story of Rebecca, well, there are lots of sites that can summarize it for you. In short, it's a gothic novel about a woman who becomes Maxim de Winter's second wife and is haunted by his first wife, the titular Rebecca, who died tragically. It's a fantastic book in its own right, but read it while very ill and hopped up on goofballs, and it's amazing.
So while I can't say Rebecca made me want to become a writer or anything . . . It left a definite impression on me. Maybe because of my age at the time (I was 15), maybe because I was semi-delusional and living on crackers and Sprite (toast when I was feeling adventurous), maybe just the weird cycle of reading a bit, falling asleep, waking up and reading some more . . . The fog in my head matched the fog in the protagonist's mind, and in some strange way it was like living in the book.
I now own a really nice hardbound copy of Rebecca, but I do still wonder where that tattered old paperback ever got to. And I never did read it again, either. I've wanted to, but something in me refuses to taint my original experience. So when in a Gothic Lit class at uni we were required to read Rebecca, I did not. I simply worked to remember what I could of the story and that served.
It's a great book, though. For anyone who hasn't read it, I highly recommend it.
I've been reading and writing since I was three. I taught myself out of sheer boredom. My parents are both avid readers themselves, and I'm an only child; there simply wasn't much to do besides read or write and draw. Well, and listen to the stereo. I did a lot of that, too.
And I loved to read, and I loved to write. I don't know that I thought I would be "a writer," but I was pretty sure I would always write, even just for my own amusement or to share stories with my friends.
But anyway, my sophomore year of high school I got very, very ill. This was right before the mid-term break. And I was home in bed, drifting in and out of drug-induced delirium. Seriously, I was pretty damn sick. (That's me; I'm healthy as a horse until I'm not, but when I'm sick, I'm really sick.)
I was determined to try and keep up with some of my schoolwork though. Exams were coming and I didn't want to have to make up a bunch of stuff. And for Lit class we had a reading list; we could choose books from it and then we'd take a test on whichever book we'd chosen to read. Rebecca was on that list.
I'd enjoyed a lot of Victoria Holt's gothic stuff, and reading the description of Rebecca, I thought it was much the same kind of thing. I'm not even sure where I got the copy of the book I ended up reading; it was a yellowed paperback with a pinkish cover. It might have come from the used bookstore my mother and I frequented, or maybe from the library—they had a section in the back corner filled with donated old paperbacks that were free for people to just take, no need to return them. A kind of lending library or swap or something. Many of my paperbacks came from there.
If you don't know the story of Rebecca, well, there are lots of sites that can summarize it for you. In short, it's a gothic novel about a woman who becomes Maxim de Winter's second wife and is haunted by his first wife, the titular Rebecca, who died tragically. It's a fantastic book in its own right, but read it while very ill and hopped up on goofballs, and it's amazing.
So while I can't say Rebecca made me want to become a writer or anything . . . It left a definite impression on me. Maybe because of my age at the time (I was 15), maybe because I was semi-delusional and living on crackers and Sprite (toast when I was feeling adventurous), maybe just the weird cycle of reading a bit, falling asleep, waking up and reading some more . . . The fog in my head matched the fog in the protagonist's mind, and in some strange way it was like living in the book.
I now own a really nice hardbound copy of Rebecca, but I do still wonder where that tattered old paperback ever got to. And I never did read it again, either. I've wanted to, but something in me refuses to taint my original experience. So when in a Gothic Lit class at uni we were required to read Rebecca, I did not. I simply worked to remember what I could of the story and that served.
It's a great book, though. For anyone who hasn't read it, I highly recommend it.
8.08.2013
Books: Pretentious Literature about Pretentious Literature
At least, that's what I've managed to understand from the first 28 pages of Jeffrey Eugenides' The Marriage Plot. So don't hold me to it because I've barely read any of the book. But even just starting, so many things pop out at me, reminding me why I seldom read contemporary "literature." (Love old stuff. But anything after about 1950, with a few exceptions, is a no for me.)
So The Marriage Plot is, thus far, about Madeleine Hanna, who in 1982 is about to graduate from Brown University. That alone [Ivy League setting] is worth one Pretentious Point. That she calls her parents Daddy and Mummy . . . Two more Pretentious Points. That Eugenides insists on referring to Madeleine's parents as Phyllida and Alton? Double points because of his using their first names and giving them such pretentious first names. Also, Madeleine's friend Mitchell Grammaticus. Yeah, what is he, a gladiator? Another point for that one.
Madeleine's manufactured angst over (a) having broken up with her boyfriend Leonard—and let me just add that no college girl has ever dated a guy named Leonard and felt any amount of serious affection for him; Leo, yes, Leonard or Lenny, no, not even in 1982—and (b) not being sure what to do with herself after graduation . . . Sigh. With all the pretentious buildup around her, to have the story boil down to this is rather rote. And being that her parents have money anyway, and her mother has suggested she could move home, I'm not sure where Madeleine's problem really lies. Sure, no one wants to move home after college. And Madeleine is mourning the fact she was supposed to be moving to the Cape with Leonard. But not having met Leonard (well, only just having met him in one of Madeleine's classes—remember, I'm only on page 28), it's hard to feel sorry for her because as a reader, I don't know what she's lost. A guy with a really awful name, maybe. Or a sweet house on the Cape, I guess, but I haven't seen that either, so I don't know. ::shrug::
And now I'm stuck with Madeleine in some lit crit classes that are apparently early, literature-based versions of all the film studies classes I took back at uni. So I know all that pretentious shit because I waded through it with the usual spectrum of professors—the Marxists; the one crazy guy trying to sell his own new angle (it was called "omniphasim" and I have no idea if it ever went anywhere); the professor who ran his class like it was an afternoon talk show, running through the aisles with a microphone . . . I didn't buy all of what was put in front of me, but I'll say it was all interesting in one way or another, fun stuff to chew over at the coffee houses (sometimes in French when we wanted to be pretentious). It's the kind of environment where you're led to believe things like "the silent agenda in non-narrative television" might really matter. Except when you get out into the world, it doesn't. Or maybe it does, but not in any way that can get you a job.
Anyway. As for The Marriage Plot, I'll continue reading for now, partly because I have nothing else to read at the moment, and partly to see how many points it can accumulate before I can't stand it any longer.
So The Marriage Plot is, thus far, about Madeleine Hanna, who in 1982 is about to graduate from Brown University. That alone [Ivy League setting] is worth one Pretentious Point. That she calls her parents Daddy and Mummy . . . Two more Pretentious Points. That Eugenides insists on referring to Madeleine's parents as Phyllida and Alton? Double points because of his using their first names and giving them such pretentious first names. Also, Madeleine's friend Mitchell Grammaticus. Yeah, what is he, a gladiator? Another point for that one.
Madeleine's manufactured angst over (a) having broken up with her boyfriend Leonard—and let me just add that no college girl has ever dated a guy named Leonard and felt any amount of serious affection for him; Leo, yes, Leonard or Lenny, no, not even in 1982—and (b) not being sure what to do with herself after graduation . . . Sigh. With all the pretentious buildup around her, to have the story boil down to this is rather rote. And being that her parents have money anyway, and her mother has suggested she could move home, I'm not sure where Madeleine's problem really lies. Sure, no one wants to move home after college. And Madeleine is mourning the fact she was supposed to be moving to the Cape with Leonard. But not having met Leonard (well, only just having met him in one of Madeleine's classes—remember, I'm only on page 28), it's hard to feel sorry for her because as a reader, I don't know what she's lost. A guy with a really awful name, maybe. Or a sweet house on the Cape, I guess, but I haven't seen that either, so I don't know. ::shrug::
And now I'm stuck with Madeleine in some lit crit classes that are apparently early, literature-based versions of all the film studies classes I took back at uni. So I know all that pretentious shit because I waded through it with the usual spectrum of professors—the Marxists; the one crazy guy trying to sell his own new angle (it was called "omniphasim" and I have no idea if it ever went anywhere); the professor who ran his class like it was an afternoon talk show, running through the aisles with a microphone . . . I didn't buy all of what was put in front of me, but I'll say it was all interesting in one way or another, fun stuff to chew over at the coffee houses (sometimes in French when we wanted to be pretentious). It's the kind of environment where you're led to believe things like "the silent agenda in non-narrative television" might really matter. Except when you get out into the world, it doesn't. Or maybe it does, but not in any way that can get you a job.
Anyway. As for The Marriage Plot, I'll continue reading for now, partly because I have nothing else to read at the moment, and partly to see how many points it can accumulate before I can't stand it any longer.
7.09.2013
Movies: Much Ado About Nothing
Starring: Alexis Denisof, Amy Acker
Directed By: Joss Whedon
Adapted By: Joss Whedon from the play by William Shakespeare
Lionsgate, 2012
PG-13; 109 min
5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
Okay, so I'm biased. I love Shakespeare to begin with and Joss Whedon besides. It would be my ideal great time to invite a bunch of people over for a weekend and say, "Hey! Let's do some Shakespeare! Whaddya say?" Some of my friends would even go for it. Maybe. If I got them drunk enough first.
If you're wondering, Whedon kept the original Elizabethan English dialogue, and in this adaptation it plays to wonderful effect. The actors manage to make it all very conversational, though I couldn't help wondering how many takes were involved in getting it right.
The black and white works well too. Color might have been too jarring, and the monochrome lends a nostalgic feel even though the setting is contemporary. The one thing that seems weirdly out of place, then, is the insistence on Hero being "a maid," since we see Beatrice and Benedick in a liaison at the start of the film. Why is it okay for Beatrice but not Hero? I suspect the gist is meant to be that in this take Claudio is actually protesting Hero's perceived infidelity rather than her lack of virginity, but since so much of the original play hinges on Hero's maidenly reputation—to the point that she is "ruined" and better off dead if not a virgin—the juxtaposition is a bit discordant. But I think it would have been worse to attempt to change the text to suit a more modern sensibility, so one must simply go with the story.
Not so long ago I watched the David Tennant/Catherine Tate version of this play, which was also made more modern, though (if I'm remembering right) set in the 80s rather than now. I'll say that I enjoyed Act II, scene iii with Tennant and the paint a bit more than Denisof's garden antics, but the music in Whedon's was better. Green apples to red, however, when you consider that Whedon also amputated a certain amount of text to give the movie a more viewer-friendly running time, and that he was working for film while Tennant and Tate were on stage.
I suppose the bottom line is I really enjoyed this movie. The cuts Whedon made work well to make the story accessible to less Shakespeare-savvy audiences (though purists may fuss), and the adaptation as a whole is pretty solid. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to prune some Twelfth Night, stock some wine, and start sending out e-vites . . .
Directed By: Joss Whedon
Adapted By: Joss Whedon from the play by William Shakespeare
Lionsgate, 2012
PG-13; 109 min
5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
Okay, so I'm biased. I love Shakespeare to begin with and Joss Whedon besides. It would be my ideal great time to invite a bunch of people over for a weekend and say, "Hey! Let's do some Shakespeare! Whaddya say?" Some of my friends would even go for it. Maybe. If I got them drunk enough first.
If you're wondering, Whedon kept the original Elizabethan English dialogue, and in this adaptation it plays to wonderful effect. The actors manage to make it all very conversational, though I couldn't help wondering how many takes were involved in getting it right.
The black and white works well too. Color might have been too jarring, and the monochrome lends a nostalgic feel even though the setting is contemporary. The one thing that seems weirdly out of place, then, is the insistence on Hero being "a maid," since we see Beatrice and Benedick in a liaison at the start of the film. Why is it okay for Beatrice but not Hero? I suspect the gist is meant to be that in this take Claudio is actually protesting Hero's perceived infidelity rather than her lack of virginity, but since so much of the original play hinges on Hero's maidenly reputation—to the point that she is "ruined" and better off dead if not a virgin—the juxtaposition is a bit discordant. But I think it would have been worse to attempt to change the text to suit a more modern sensibility, so one must simply go with the story.
Not so long ago I watched the David Tennant/Catherine Tate version of this play, which was also made more modern, though (if I'm remembering right) set in the 80s rather than now. I'll say that I enjoyed Act II, scene iii with Tennant and the paint a bit more than Denisof's garden antics, but the music in Whedon's was better. Green apples to red, however, when you consider that Whedon also amputated a certain amount of text to give the movie a more viewer-friendly running time, and that he was working for film while Tennant and Tate were on stage.
I suppose the bottom line is I really enjoyed this movie. The cuts Whedon made work well to make the story accessible to less Shakespeare-savvy audiences (though purists may fuss), and the adaptation as a whole is pretty solid. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to prune some Twelfth Night, stock some wine, and start sending out e-vites . . .
5.29.2013
Books: The Legend of Harry Potter
I am currently reading my seven-year-old son the Harry Potter books, one chapter at a time, each night before bed. I've read them all before, of course, but it's something else to see it through the eyes of a young child, or at the least someone much younger than I was when I read the books myself—someone within the target demographic, I suppose, though the Harry Potter franchise certainly shattered the idea that kids' books were only for kids.
The other day, Alexander said to me, "Well, some say Harry Potter was real and some say he wasn't."
Pause.
Me: "Um, no. He wasn't real."
Alexander: "But that's how it is with legends, you know. Some people think they really happened and some say they're just stories."
Me: "Okay, yes, but Harry Potter is really just a story. He's not a legend."
Despite continued conversation on the subject, I'm not certain my son is convinced Harry Potter didn't (or doesn't) exist. Or, at the very least, that there isn't a Hogwarts somewhere in the world, and that when he turns ten or eleven, an owl will arrive with a letter for him. Universal Studios would blow his mind.
It's funny because Alexander is an extremely rational child, very serious. We discuss things like string theory, and he has already decided to go to CalTech (as soon as possible, in fact, as he was asking the other day if they'd take him at age fourteen . . .) But he's also still a child, and willing in that way of children to accept things like magic and dragons as a natural part of the world. These things are, to him, very possible and believable. Even when string theory is not. (Vibrating strings? Sure, okay. Prove it.)
In any case, I'll continue to enjoy reading these books to him for as long as he'll allow it. He could read them for himself, of course, but he likes that I do all the voices. We've read The Hobbit (and then he re-read it again on his own), and some Judy Blume, and after Harry Potter, Alexander wants to do The Lord of the Rings . . . Not sure I have the stamina for those, though. I suggested Frankenstein, thinking to get in some old-school classics, but for whatever reason my young scientist is very, very bothered by that story and refuses to hear it. Maybe I'll try some Diana Wynne Jones on him (Chrestomanci is a favorite of mine) . . . Gotta get it all in now, while he'll let me. Though I can console myself with the fact that there are yet two more little ones waiting in the wings, and they'll be over Dr. Seuss soon enough and ready for legends of their own.
The other day, Alexander said to me, "Well, some say Harry Potter was real and some say he wasn't."
Pause.
Me: "Um, no. He wasn't real."
Alexander: "But that's how it is with legends, you know. Some people think they really happened and some say they're just stories."
Me: "Okay, yes, but Harry Potter is really just a story. He's not a legend."
Despite continued conversation on the subject, I'm not certain my son is convinced Harry Potter didn't (or doesn't) exist. Or, at the very least, that there isn't a Hogwarts somewhere in the world, and that when he turns ten or eleven, an owl will arrive with a letter for him. Universal Studios would blow his mind.
It's funny because Alexander is an extremely rational child, very serious. We discuss things like string theory, and he has already decided to go to CalTech (as soon as possible, in fact, as he was asking the other day if they'd take him at age fourteen . . .) But he's also still a child, and willing in that way of children to accept things like magic and dragons as a natural part of the world. These things are, to him, very possible and believable. Even when string theory is not. (Vibrating strings? Sure, okay. Prove it.)
In any case, I'll continue to enjoy reading these books to him for as long as he'll allow it. He could read them for himself, of course, but he likes that I do all the voices. We've read The Hobbit (and then he re-read it again on his own), and some Judy Blume, and after Harry Potter, Alexander wants to do The Lord of the Rings . . . Not sure I have the stamina for those, though. I suggested Frankenstein, thinking to get in some old-school classics, but for whatever reason my young scientist is very, very bothered by that story and refuses to hear it. Maybe I'll try some Diana Wynne Jones on him (Chrestomanci is a favorite of mine) . . . Gotta get it all in now, while he'll let me. Though I can console myself with the fact that there are yet two more little ones waiting in the wings, and they'll be over Dr. Seuss soon enough and ready for legends of their own.
4.09.2013
Random Associations
Do you ever link two things in your mind in some inexplicable way? Well, usually there is an explanation. Maybe they are two things you encountered or learned around the same time. Maybe you saw a movie and heard a song around the same time and so that movie and song are forever bonded in your brain, even though the song was never featured in the movie and has nothing really to do with it. You hear the song and think of the movie anyway.
Like, for me, this painting by Caspar David Friedrich is forever linked to Frankenstein. I have this idea the image was used on the cover of one of my high school literature textbooks and some excerpt of Frankenstein was inside and now these things have become co-mingled in my mind. Which is pretty impressive since I've never read any of Frankenstein, not even the excerpt from my lit text. But I had an interest in Byron, and I naturally associate him with Frankenstein, and I had this vague idea the man in the painting might look a bit like Byron, or dress like him anyway, and . . . Well. There you have it.
Not sure what made me think of that today, though. Brains are funny things.
Like, for me, this painting by Caspar David Friedrich is forever linked to Frankenstein. I have this idea the image was used on the cover of one of my high school literature textbooks and some excerpt of Frankenstein was inside and now these things have become co-mingled in my mind. Which is pretty impressive since I've never read any of Frankenstein, not even the excerpt from my lit text. But I had an interest in Byron, and I naturally associate him with Frankenstein, and I had this vague idea the man in the painting might look a bit like Byron, or dress like him anyway, and . . . Well. There you have it.
Not sure what made me think of that today, though. Brains are funny things.
4.08.2013
Books: The Heavy and the Light
I have a terrible habit of starting books and then abandoning them for long periods of time before going back to finish them. Sometimes this is because I get busy, but a lot of times it's because the book isn't the right "weight" for how I'm feeling at any given time.
I'm moody, maybe, and easily affected by the weather and the seasons. The kind of thing I'll read on a plane might not be the same kind of thing I'll read in a hotel room. What I want to read while sitting out on my deck is different from what I want when soaking in a bubble bath (yes, I read in the bath). So I end up with a stack of two to four books that I'm working through at any given time. And my Goodreads profile looks like a scattering of literary orphans.
Some months ago, for example, I started Smiley's People. I'm more than halfway done but kind of got bored with the story (which is strange, since I also think it's better than some of the others I've read in this series) and decided to pick up The Dante Club. I've been really enjoying that one, but it's a bit gruesome and gives me really strange dreams if I read it right before bed, so . . .
Okay, time out. Let me take a moment to explain this other of my habits. I really like Regency romance novels. A lot of romance publishers don't even have Regency lines any more, they just lump them in with "historical fiction" nowadays, but for a long time Regencies were popular enough to have their own branding. So every now and then I'll go on eBay and find some huge lot of old Regency romance paperbacks and buy it. Because I like having these kinds of light fare on reserve. These books are good for a quick read, for sitting outside in the sun, &c. And I know they won't give me nightmares before bed!
So anyway, at this point I went to my box of reserves and drew out two titles: A Perfect Arrangement by Ellen Rawlings (Diamond, September 1992) and Kenton's Countess by Janeane Jordan (Harlequin Regency, June 1992). Both equally silly and just the right kind of thing for quick snatches of time and/or breaks between writing and laundry and dealing with the children.
They say if you've read one Regency romance you've read them all, but I think you'd need to read about four to get a full picture of the possibilities. There are the ones that take place entirely in the country, the ones that take place entirely in London, those that start in the country and move to London, and those that start in London and "retire" to the country. Then there are ones where the girl's family has a lot of money and others where the girl's family is genteel but poor. (The men are pretty much always wealthy.) It's common to have spiteful siblings and/or a deceased parent. And a lot of time is spent describing people clothes, their hair, their horses and carriages (curricles, phaetons, and so forth). I once started to write a Regency romance myself but never finished it. Maybe I should dig that old project up . . .
The Dante Club is a historical of another stripe, seeing as it is set in Boston shortly after the end of the Civil War and features as its main characters very real historical figures. I've read bits and pieces of Dante, am pretty sure I was supposed to read all of it at one point (what with a minor in Classical history, which included Milton and Orlando and Spencer's The Faerie Queene among other things—none of which I read all the way through, though I've happily read Homer, Ovid and Virgil many times over, as well as any number of the Greek and Roman historians) . . . We have some Doré prints from Dante and Milton, in fact; they hang in the guest bath to keep anyone from lingering too long.
But anyway, The Dante Club doesn't really require a working knowledge of Dante; the author does a nice enough job of filling the reader in without it being too obvious. Still, I have the feeling I might be having more fun with the story if I did know Dante. It is, in short, a literary murder mystery, somewhat graphic in its details of the murders being committed. I'm sure I'll get back to the book sooner or later, since I am at least curious about how it end (don't tell me!).
And as for Smiley, well, I'll come back around to him too at some point. His is not really summer fare, but maybe come fall or winter . . . When the sky lowers and the days grow heavy, that's when I feel the need to pick up the weightier books, as if I were a librarian squirrel laying away a stash in preparation for colder days. But for now I'll enjoy the sun. And the semi-ridiculous tales of Regency misses and their handsome, aristocratic suitors.
I'm moody, maybe, and easily affected by the weather and the seasons. The kind of thing I'll read on a plane might not be the same kind of thing I'll read in a hotel room. What I want to read while sitting out on my deck is different from what I want when soaking in a bubble bath (yes, I read in the bath). So I end up with a stack of two to four books that I'm working through at any given time. And my Goodreads profile looks like a scattering of literary orphans.
Some months ago, for example, I started Smiley's People. I'm more than halfway done but kind of got bored with the story (which is strange, since I also think it's better than some of the others I've read in this series) and decided to pick up The Dante Club. I've been really enjoying that one, but it's a bit gruesome and gives me really strange dreams if I read it right before bed, so . . .
Okay, time out. Let me take a moment to explain this other of my habits. I really like Regency romance novels. A lot of romance publishers don't even have Regency lines any more, they just lump them in with "historical fiction" nowadays, but for a long time Regencies were popular enough to have their own branding. So every now and then I'll go on eBay and find some huge lot of old Regency romance paperbacks and buy it. Because I like having these kinds of light fare on reserve. These books are good for a quick read, for sitting outside in the sun, &c. And I know they won't give me nightmares before bed!
So anyway, at this point I went to my box of reserves and drew out two titles: A Perfect Arrangement by Ellen Rawlings (Diamond, September 1992) and Kenton's Countess by Janeane Jordan (Harlequin Regency, June 1992). Both equally silly and just the right kind of thing for quick snatches of time and/or breaks between writing and laundry and dealing with the children.
They say if you've read one Regency romance you've read them all, but I think you'd need to read about four to get a full picture of the possibilities. There are the ones that take place entirely in the country, the ones that take place entirely in London, those that start in the country and move to London, and those that start in London and "retire" to the country. Then there are ones where the girl's family has a lot of money and others where the girl's family is genteel but poor. (The men are pretty much always wealthy.) It's common to have spiteful siblings and/or a deceased parent. And a lot of time is spent describing people clothes, their hair, their horses and carriages (curricles, phaetons, and so forth). I once started to write a Regency romance myself but never finished it. Maybe I should dig that old project up . . .
The Dante Club is a historical of another stripe, seeing as it is set in Boston shortly after the end of the Civil War and features as its main characters very real historical figures. I've read bits and pieces of Dante, am pretty sure I was supposed to read all of it at one point (what with a minor in Classical history, which included Milton and Orlando and Spencer's The Faerie Queene among other things—none of which I read all the way through, though I've happily read Homer, Ovid and Virgil many times over, as well as any number of the Greek and Roman historians) . . . We have some Doré prints from Dante and Milton, in fact; they hang in the guest bath to keep anyone from lingering too long.
But anyway, The Dante Club doesn't really require a working knowledge of Dante; the author does a nice enough job of filling the reader in without it being too obvious. Still, I have the feeling I might be having more fun with the story if I did know Dante. It is, in short, a literary murder mystery, somewhat graphic in its details of the murders being committed. I'm sure I'll get back to the book sooner or later, since I am at least curious about how it end (don't tell me!).
And as for Smiley, well, I'll come back around to him too at some point. His is not really summer fare, but maybe come fall or winter . . . When the sky lowers and the days grow heavy, that's when I feel the need to pick up the weightier books, as if I were a librarian squirrel laying away a stash in preparation for colder days. But for now I'll enjoy the sun. And the semi-ridiculous tales of Regency misses and their handsome, aristocratic suitors.
3.24.2013
Movies: Les Misérables
Starring: Hugh Jackman, Russell Crowe, Anne Hathaway
Directed By: Tom Hooper
Written By: William Nicholson, Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Herbert Kretzmer (screenplay); Alain Boublil & Claude-Michel Schönberg (musical); Victor Hugo (novel)
Universal, 2012
PG-13; 158 min
4.5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
Let me start by saying I've never seen the musical.
As a freshman in Honors English Lit, we were required to read the novel (unabridged), and I hated it, so I steadfastly have avoided seeing the stage version. My thinking always having been, God, why put myself through it again?
I have many friends in theatre, and many who love Les Miz. But no arguments they could make in favor ever swayed me.
Now, though, having seen the film . . . I might like to see it on stage.
So what convinced me to see the movie if I hated the book and wouldn't go see the musical? Honestly, the trailers I saw last year made me want to try it. And then it kept winning awards, so I figured I really had to see it then.
I had managed over the years to forget (or block) most of the subtleties of the story. I remembered that Jean Valjean got thrown in prison for stealing bread, and I remembered he came out and made good for himself and adopted Cosette. And that he was still being pursued by Javert, though I couldn't remember why exactly. (I also remembered that one of the school projects regarding the book had us casting a potential film, and my group had chosen Patrick Stewart for Jean Valjean. But Jackman was good, too.)
Somehow, though, I'd managed to forget the whole bit with the Revolution (though I knew the story took place during that time) and the barricade and Marius and so on. And really, that was the least interesting bit of the film, too, though I understand that on stage the production is amazing.
Truth is, Les Misérables is pretty depressing. Not because of the central story, which (without giving too much away) leaves a viewer with hope and a bit of faith—something I don't really remember feeling when having read the book, but then again we've also just seen how I don't remember a huge chunk of the story either—but the setting, which for Hugo was the world as he lived it, was a bit dismal. I mostly sat through the film realizing how comfortable I am in my life, and being grateful I don't have to worry whether or not I can feed my children. By whatever Providence, I was lucky or blessed enough to be born and raised, and to live in a country—and in a strata—that at least has enough. And there are still such huge parts of the world, and also people right here in my own nation, who are not so lucky.
In that sense, then, Les Miz can make the viewer a bit uncomfortable (assuming the viewer is at all introspective and/or self-aware). That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it's also not why most people go to see a movie or musical.
Of course, if they're going to see something that in effect is named "The Miserable Ones," they've probably asked for it.
The film itself, then, is quite an accomplishment. Mostly very beautifully done, though the matte paintings in the background were a tad distracting. The singing was . . . uneven. I wanted Javert to be more forceful. I felt like Russell Crowe couldn't quite commit himself to playing the role of "bad guy." But the thing about Javert as a character is, he doesn't think he's the bad guy. Not until the end. He thinks he's the hero. So I wanted more conviction from Crowe, particularly when singing those solo numbers.
Jackman did a lovely job, and Hathaway owned her few minutes on screen. I was less impressed with Seyfried and Redmayne as Cosette and Marius.
I think themes of faith in God (Valjean) and faith in the law of man (Javert) are interesting ones to explore. But I also think the reduction here of the complexities of the French Revolution are kind of a shame. There was so much more to it than simple class warfare. I won't go into a history lesson here, but my father's family left France just in time to keep their heads from getting cut off, so . . . I'll admit I may have some personal bias in the issue.
Also interesting is how Marius drops his revolutionary ideas and goes back to being happily wealthy once all his friends die and he has a rich bride on his arm. Um . . . So faith, yes, but also money. After all, Valjean gained his faith after the bishop was kind to him . . . But he still took the silver and used it to start a new life. The more things (and people) change, the more they stay the same, eh?
Jean Valjean was a good man to start with, trying to save his sister's son by stealing bread to keep them from starving. And he becomes a better man once he has the funds to help others more overtly. But maybe Javert isn't entirely wrong either, since Valjean does change his stripes—but only by painting over them.
I didn't mean for this write-up to become an essay, so I'll sum up by saying it was a solid movie that gives anyone with enough interest something to think about and discuss. And it was a good enough movie to somewhat diminish my early hatred for the source material.
Directed By: Tom Hooper
Written By: William Nicholson, Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schönberg, Herbert Kretzmer (screenplay); Alain Boublil & Claude-Michel Schönberg (musical); Victor Hugo (novel)
Universal, 2012
PG-13; 158 min
4.5 stars (out of 5)
_______________________________________________________
Let me start by saying I've never seen the musical.
As a freshman in Honors English Lit, we were required to read the novel (unabridged), and I hated it, so I steadfastly have avoided seeing the stage version. My thinking always having been, God, why put myself through it again?
I have many friends in theatre, and many who love Les Miz. But no arguments they could make in favor ever swayed me.
Now, though, having seen the film . . . I might like to see it on stage.
So what convinced me to see the movie if I hated the book and wouldn't go see the musical? Honestly, the trailers I saw last year made me want to try it. And then it kept winning awards, so I figured I really had to see it then.
I had managed over the years to forget (or block) most of the subtleties of the story. I remembered that Jean Valjean got thrown in prison for stealing bread, and I remembered he came out and made good for himself and adopted Cosette. And that he was still being pursued by Javert, though I couldn't remember why exactly. (I also remembered that one of the school projects regarding the book had us casting a potential film, and my group had chosen Patrick Stewart for Jean Valjean. But Jackman was good, too.)
Somehow, though, I'd managed to forget the whole bit with the Revolution (though I knew the story took place during that time) and the barricade and Marius and so on. And really, that was the least interesting bit of the film, too, though I understand that on stage the production is amazing.
Truth is, Les Misérables is pretty depressing. Not because of the central story, which (without giving too much away) leaves a viewer with hope and a bit of faith—something I don't really remember feeling when having read the book, but then again we've also just seen how I don't remember a huge chunk of the story either—but the setting, which for Hugo was the world as he lived it, was a bit dismal. I mostly sat through the film realizing how comfortable I am in my life, and being grateful I don't have to worry whether or not I can feed my children. By whatever Providence, I was lucky or blessed enough to be born and raised, and to live in a country—and in a strata—that at least has enough. And there are still such huge parts of the world, and also people right here in my own nation, who are not so lucky.
In that sense, then, Les Miz can make the viewer a bit uncomfortable (assuming the viewer is at all introspective and/or self-aware). That's not necessarily a bad thing, but it's also not why most people go to see a movie or musical.
Of course, if they're going to see something that in effect is named "The Miserable Ones," they've probably asked for it.
The film itself, then, is quite an accomplishment. Mostly very beautifully done, though the matte paintings in the background were a tad distracting. The singing was . . . uneven. I wanted Javert to be more forceful. I felt like Russell Crowe couldn't quite commit himself to playing the role of "bad guy." But the thing about Javert as a character is, he doesn't think he's the bad guy. Not until the end. He thinks he's the hero. So I wanted more conviction from Crowe, particularly when singing those solo numbers.
Jackman did a lovely job, and Hathaway owned her few minutes on screen. I was less impressed with Seyfried and Redmayne as Cosette and Marius.
I think themes of faith in God (Valjean) and faith in the law of man (Javert) are interesting ones to explore. But I also think the reduction here of the complexities of the French Revolution are kind of a shame. There was so much more to it than simple class warfare. I won't go into a history lesson here, but my father's family left France just in time to keep their heads from getting cut off, so . . . I'll admit I may have some personal bias in the issue.
Also interesting is how Marius drops his revolutionary ideas and goes back to being happily wealthy once all his friends die and he has a rich bride on his arm. Um . . . So faith, yes, but also money. After all, Valjean gained his faith after the bishop was kind to him . . . But he still took the silver and used it to start a new life. The more things (and people) change, the more they stay the same, eh?
Jean Valjean was a good man to start with, trying to save his sister's son by stealing bread to keep them from starving. And he becomes a better man once he has the funds to help others more overtly. But maybe Javert isn't entirely wrong either, since Valjean does change his stripes—but only by painting over them.
I didn't mean for this write-up to become an essay, so I'll sum up by saying it was a solid movie that gives anyone with enough interest something to think about and discuss. And it was a good enough movie to somewhat diminish my early hatred for the source material.
9.22.2012
Television: Parade's End (Episode 5/5)
How awful.
It would have been so much better if Christopher had died in the war. I really don't think it was right to reward Valentine's ridiculous, school-girl idea of love by getting to be Christopher's mistress at the end of it all. I realize Sylvia was spiteful, but she had a right to be in my mind. And the fact that Christopher gets to have his cake and eat it too? Just goes to show the gender bias. Every man wants a happy-go-lucky little young thing that fawns over him. None want to take on the work that is required to handle a real woman. Sylvia ends up being slandered, used, and tossed aside. Too bad since Rebecca Hall was the one bright spot, the actress seeming to be the only one of the entire cast who knew what she was doing and why; even though her character was not meant to be sympathetic (at least, I'm sure she wasn't, in order to cop the "happily ever after" for Christopher and Val), Hall's fantastic turn made Sylvia compelling and sympathetic nonetheless, leaving Christopher's and Val's actions—already wrong, even if you expect me to believe their love was "true"—to look downright inhumane. Look, I'm no moralizer, but this just turned my stomach.
In the end, I hated the whole thing. The way it finished out made me sorry I wasted my time on it.
It would have been so much better if Christopher had died in the war. I really don't think it was right to reward Valentine's ridiculous, school-girl idea of love by getting to be Christopher's mistress at the end of it all. I realize Sylvia was spiteful, but she had a right to be in my mind. And the fact that Christopher gets to have his cake and eat it too? Just goes to show the gender bias. Every man wants a happy-go-lucky little young thing that fawns over him. None want to take on the work that is required to handle a real woman. Sylvia ends up being slandered, used, and tossed aside. Too bad since Rebecca Hall was the one bright spot, the actress seeming to be the only one of the entire cast who knew what she was doing and why; even though her character was not meant to be sympathetic (at least, I'm sure she wasn't, in order to cop the "happily ever after" for Christopher and Val), Hall's fantastic turn made Sylvia compelling and sympathetic nonetheless, leaving Christopher's and Val's actions—already wrong, even if you expect me to believe their love was "true"—to look downright inhumane. Look, I'm no moralizer, but this just turned my stomach.
In the end, I hated the whole thing. The way it finished out made me sorry I wasted my time on it.
9.03.2012
Television: Parade's End (Episode 2/5)
Okay, I really do just have to say I don't see how even one woman could be in love with this Christopher fellow, much less two. (We are supposed to believe both his wife and that girl are in love with him, aren't we?) He's such an insufferable sop. Perhaps knowing what's coming is part of my problem, as I can't countenance that kind of misbehavior. I understand his wife was unfaithful, but she's begun to rectify that, and two wrongs and all that.
In any case, I made this episode much more entertaining by pretending it was all about doughnuts. If you take all those lingering shots of people's expressions (particularly Cumberbatch's, but others' as well), and imagine they are reacting to doughnuts—or a lack thereof—it makes the whole thing really quite fun to watch. Perhaps I'll carry on in the next episode by pretending the entire war is over doughnuts. Or maybe I'll imagine Hugh Laurie and Rowan Atkinson showing up in the trenches. That could be a good time.
Then again, I get the sense we might not actually see much of the war itself in this. Which is fine because (a) I don't much like war shows/stories, and (b) this Christopher stands to be the Worst. Soldier. Ever. . . Gag. He's already the worst husband and/or would-be lover and probably father or whatever, so . . . Why is there a whole five-hour show about him exactly?
Or maybe the real question is, why am I watching it?
Well, that's easy. I'm watching it for the doughnuts.
In any case, I made this episode much more entertaining by pretending it was all about doughnuts. If you take all those lingering shots of people's expressions (particularly Cumberbatch's, but others' as well), and imagine they are reacting to doughnuts—or a lack thereof—it makes the whole thing really quite fun to watch. Perhaps I'll carry on in the next episode by pretending the entire war is over doughnuts. Or maybe I'll imagine Hugh Laurie and Rowan Atkinson showing up in the trenches. That could be a good time.
Then again, I get the sense we might not actually see much of the war itself in this. Which is fine because (a) I don't much like war shows/stories, and (b) this Christopher stands to be the Worst. Soldier. Ever. . . Gag. He's already the worst husband and/or would-be lover and probably father or whatever, so . . . Why is there a whole five-hour show about him exactly?
Or maybe the real question is, why am I watching it?
Well, that's easy. I'm watching it for the doughnuts.
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