The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
The first night of reading this book, I put in my bookmark, turned off the light, and lay in the dark with a little smile on my face.
It takes a fair amount of clobber for a book to drive someone to tears. It takes a whole lot more to stuff them full of joy peas and happy beans. Have I ever known a book to fill me with giddy delight before? Not because it was funny, or clever, but because it was lovely.
When Clare first met Henry, she was six and he was thirty-six. When they married, she was twenty-two and he was thirty. Henry suffers from a disorder that makes him chronologically unstable; at times of high stress, when started, when doing nothing at all, he is flung about in time. Thus, Clare has known Henry all her life, yet when finally they meet in the present, she is a total stranger to him. From childhood, she knows that he's the love of her life, her future husband - he told her. It's inevitable. And while there's a wonderful, glorious, warm, tizzy, funny-in-the-tummy excitement as the time comes when they meet in the present and start their life together properly, there's also a creeping despair, as the forces that drove them together must tear them apart, as it has done, over, and over, again. There lives are so intricately intwined that imagining them apart, unreachable, the mind shies away.
For me, I fell in love with their relationship, particularly from Clare's perspective. To know someone so long, so intimiately is incredibly alluring, and holds all sorts of promises of comfort and trust, especially trust when one's partner has a habit of vanishing for unknown times to unknown times (to, as it turns out, your past, to watch over you as you are growing up, and going through those growing pains).
What extraordinary and yet normal lives they lead.
I can see why this book isn't in the speculative fiction section of any book stores (none that I've seen). Although genetically triggered time travel is an incredible science fiction, it isn't the heart of the book. Clare and Henry's beautiful and bizarre relationship fills every nook and cranny, and the time travel is incidental, a strange circumstance that while central, is almost an after thought when set next to the couple. It dominates their lives, but they're normal people. Henry vanishes just as partner's leave for work. It happens.
It's a wonderful look at relationships, all sorts of relationships. It occured to me, around the half-way point, that if I stopped writing protagonists who were hermits in extreme isolation, I could have this effect as well, all these dynamics, all these moments.
I think I rather like love stories.
Yet, I wasn't satisfied with the end. Did she live, or did she wait? No hint is given. Perhaps I am meant to decide, and after knowing them for a whole book, I'm inclined to think she waited, and waited, and waited. When married to a time traveler, who knows when he'll appear. But that outcome irks me to no end. Her entire life, all of it. When I flipped the last page, my first thought was that Niffenegger was rushed, or afraid, or just couldn't bear to go any further in that territory. It felt like a betrayal of sorts, given how all Clare's horrible and beautiful days had been laid bare before hand.
Alas, such a story can only be followed by mourning. It's already too late for me to meet my own time traveler.
Verdict: this story got under my skin, into my blood, and moved me. It's a beautiful thing, and you do yourself a disservice by not having it in your life.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Light by M. John Harrison
This book was an unexpected present from the Rju, although not surprising. I'd had the book on my list for some time, so I jumped on it pretty quick.
Now, what to say about it?
I have no coherent thoughts about the book, because I'm not entirely sure what it is. Is it science fiction which has stepped into the land of literature? Or is it science fiction cleverly disguising itself as literature, when in fact it has pulled the wool over my eyes and is merely pretentious?
In trying to decide which of these the book was, I had to ask myself a further question: what do I know of science fiction OR literature? Answer: not as much as I should.
This in turn led me to ponder what being 'widely read' really involves.
I don't think, in the general sense, that I am widely read. I read a lot, but I don't often stray from the outer rim of the genre. I stick my nose in non-fiction semi-regularly, and enjoy it. I occasionally bump into other (by other I mean non-genre) books that have tickled my fancy, and I enjoy them too. But all of these books have one very important thing in common; I like them. Me. I don't feel the urge to dig up classics or what is considered high literature for the sake of being able to say I've read them. I've been too long in deciding to read only what I like, and I have no motivation to break that habit.
You could say, I've very widely and thoroughly read in the Sir Tessa Likes This genre.
But then, for those who are widely read, what does that mean? Does that mean skimming the surfaces of a whole lot of different pies without ever getting a good taste, without ever digging deep enough to find the genre books which defy the genre? Does being widely read just mean being able to say I've read one set group of authors whom the collective deem great?
I have no answers. I just read what I like.
And I did like Light. The writing was clean, crisp, and uncluttered. The three seperate streams were fascinating in their own ways, and I was particularly interested to see how they would entwine, given the centuries between them. Although I had no fondness of Kearney, his predicament kept me going, if only to find out exactly what the Schrander was. Seria Mau and the K-ship the White Cat was a strange entity to get a hold on, if only because physics kept getting in the way. I never took physics, and have no love of maths. While I was very interested in the ship, I was intimidated by the science behind it. Ed Chainese, well, I felt for him. Of all three plotlines, I was most interested in his. Perhaps because he was the most human of the three, he was just a guy with the world out to get him.
As for the over-arching message...beats me. I've yet to figure out exactly what it is that the Kefahuchi Tract represents, other than possibility. Mystery. That which drives us on. It is odd that those who were seen as fit to breach the Tract's mysterious were those who sought to escape life, who ran from everything, themselves, their past, their present. Seria and Ed spent most of their lives in tanks, dreaming.
I don't know that that is a good sign for the human race. Nor do I find any comfort in knowing the purpose of the human race.
Perhaps it is enough that the next step was taken, into the beginning.
Verdict: An interesting read, to say the least. Make up your own mind about it.
This book was an unexpected present from the Rju, although not surprising. I'd had the book on my list for some time, so I jumped on it pretty quick.
Now, what to say about it?
I have no coherent thoughts about the book, because I'm not entirely sure what it is. Is it science fiction which has stepped into the land of literature? Or is it science fiction cleverly disguising itself as literature, when in fact it has pulled the wool over my eyes and is merely pretentious?
In trying to decide which of these the book was, I had to ask myself a further question: what do I know of science fiction OR literature? Answer: not as much as I should.
This in turn led me to ponder what being 'widely read' really involves.
I don't think, in the general sense, that I am widely read. I read a lot, but I don't often stray from the outer rim of the genre. I stick my nose in non-fiction semi-regularly, and enjoy it. I occasionally bump into other (by other I mean non-genre) books that have tickled my fancy, and I enjoy them too. But all of these books have one very important thing in common; I like them. Me. I don't feel the urge to dig up classics or what is considered high literature for the sake of being able to say I've read them. I've been too long in deciding to read only what I like, and I have no motivation to break that habit.
You could say, I've very widely and thoroughly read in the Sir Tessa Likes This genre.
But then, for those who are widely read, what does that mean? Does that mean skimming the surfaces of a whole lot of different pies without ever getting a good taste, without ever digging deep enough to find the genre books which defy the genre? Does being widely read just mean being able to say I've read one set group of authors whom the collective deem great?
I have no answers. I just read what I like.
And I did like Light. The writing was clean, crisp, and uncluttered. The three seperate streams were fascinating in their own ways, and I was particularly interested to see how they would entwine, given the centuries between them. Although I had no fondness of Kearney, his predicament kept me going, if only to find out exactly what the Schrander was. Seria Mau and the K-ship the White Cat was a strange entity to get a hold on, if only because physics kept getting in the way. I never took physics, and have no love of maths. While I was very interested in the ship, I was intimidated by the science behind it. Ed Chainese, well, I felt for him. Of all three plotlines, I was most interested in his. Perhaps because he was the most human of the three, he was just a guy with the world out to get him.
As for the over-arching message...beats me. I've yet to figure out exactly what it is that the Kefahuchi Tract represents, other than possibility. Mystery. That which drives us on. It is odd that those who were seen as fit to breach the Tract's mysterious were those who sought to escape life, who ran from everything, themselves, their past, their present. Seria and Ed spent most of their lives in tanks, dreaming.
I don't know that that is a good sign for the human race. Nor do I find any comfort in knowing the purpose of the human race.
Perhaps it is enough that the next step was taken, into the beginning.
Verdict: An interesting read, to say the least. Make up your own mind about it.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Sunshine by Robin McKinley
Mental note: no matter how good a book is, and how cold you are, do not spend six hours on a hard as nuts wooden chair just because it is next to the heater. You'll pay for it, oh boy will you pay for it.
I first encountered Sunshine through Mabs, who said quite truthfully that it would leave me with a craving for cinnamon rolls, and that it was wuuuuuunderful. That's how he said it, "wUUUUUUUUNderful" packed with glee.
I popped out the end of the book and thought, "That was wUUUUUUUUUNderful, and NOW I WANT CAKE."
Alas, there was no cake.
Sunshine is a twenty-something year old baker, who works horrendous hours at her family coffee shop. Horrendous hours. It's a good thing she loves her job, the shop, and the people there, and it sounds like she does her job very well. I can't help but wonder exactly what Bitter Chocolate Death tastes like, or the Death of Marat for that matter.
As the story progresses, the layers of normality slowly peel back, and what I had originally thought was this world I sit in, turns out to contain large differences. Primarily the existence of the Others; vampires, weres, demons, angels and the like. That said, they're treated with normality, they're just a fact of life.
Until some vampires get their paws on Sunshine, and her life does what the lives of young and gifted heroines do in these sorts of stories. They get busy.
Intially, my inner editor had a screaming fit when I first started chewing on this book. I don't mind first person narratives, but this was so heavily entrenched in voice, in the speaking voice at that, that sentence structure was an optional extra. Oh, you can hear my hackles raise. On top of that, apparently commas are an endangered species, and we can't use them or we will run out. Forever. These two issues combined together meant that there was at least one sentence a paragraph that I had to read more than once, simply to figure out what was being said. As much as I grew quite fond of the individuality of Sunshine's voice, that isn't cool. I shouldn't get to a point in any book where I skim over any sentence that doesn't make immediate sence and hope it wasn't important. I reached that point pretty early on.
Something as basic as word arrangement is pretty hard to get by, so the story must have rockethed muchly for me to soldier on quite as fanatically as I did. There was a large amount of empathy with Sunshine. Although I'm hardly from an important family and have no amazing talents, I recognised her mindset as being very similar to where I am now. A strong sense of being terratorial.
The Other were fascinating, as all things mysteries tend to be. It was interesting to see the impact on society such beings had, and how predictable society's reactions are. The vampires, however, were somewhat lacking. Constantine was quite enthralling, a well drawn vampire as far as vampires go. I think he's what we wish all creatures of the dark were; scary, but essentially honourable good people deep down. Ahem. But the rest? It didn't feel as though anything new had been tried with them at all. The arch-antagonist, Bo, was one of the most Evil For Evil's Sake villains I've come across in a long time. What his motivations and intentions were, I have no idea. He wasn't a character at all, he was merely a decidedly uninteresting and thus unthreatening plot device. Unthreatening antagonists aren't good things to have.
The final confrontation left a lot to be desired. Unclear, blurry, no real idea exactly what was going on, or where for that matter. I hazard a guess that this is primarily to do with riding in Sunshine's head - she probably had as little idea as the rest of us - but it was very unsatisfying for me. It felt as though McKinley wanted to do horror, lots of dripping splashing splatting horror, and coudln't quite bring herself to. The violence was extreme, but only implied.
But mostly, I think what really glued me to the book was love. The book is packed to the gills with it. I don't mean romantic love, I mean people who look out for each other, take care of each other, give each other muffins fresh out of the oven. It's a wUNderful, warm and embracing book.
Bit like sunshine.
Now...cake.
Verdict: a really nice read, with some fantastic URST and brilliant baking goods. Definitely worth hunting out, especially if your inner editor isn't as anal retentive as mine.
Mental note: no matter how good a book is, and how cold you are, do not spend six hours on a hard as nuts wooden chair just because it is next to the heater. You'll pay for it, oh boy will you pay for it.
I first encountered Sunshine through Mabs, who said quite truthfully that it would leave me with a craving for cinnamon rolls, and that it was wuuuuuunderful. That's how he said it, "wUUUUUUUUNderful" packed with glee.
I popped out the end of the book and thought, "That was wUUUUUUUUUNderful, and NOW I WANT CAKE."
Alas, there was no cake.
Sunshine is a twenty-something year old baker, who works horrendous hours at her family coffee shop. Horrendous hours. It's a good thing she loves her job, the shop, and the people there, and it sounds like she does her job very well. I can't help but wonder exactly what Bitter Chocolate Death tastes like, or the Death of Marat for that matter.
As the story progresses, the layers of normality slowly peel back, and what I had originally thought was this world I sit in, turns out to contain large differences. Primarily the existence of the Others; vampires, weres, demons, angels and the like. That said, they're treated with normality, they're just a fact of life.
Until some vampires get their paws on Sunshine, and her life does what the lives of young and gifted heroines do in these sorts of stories. They get busy.
Intially, my inner editor had a screaming fit when I first started chewing on this book. I don't mind first person narratives, but this was so heavily entrenched in voice, in the speaking voice at that, that sentence structure was an optional extra. Oh, you can hear my hackles raise. On top of that, apparently commas are an endangered species, and we can't use them or we will run out. Forever. These two issues combined together meant that there was at least one sentence a paragraph that I had to read more than once, simply to figure out what was being said. As much as I grew quite fond of the individuality of Sunshine's voice, that isn't cool. I shouldn't get to a point in any book where I skim over any sentence that doesn't make immediate sence and hope it wasn't important. I reached that point pretty early on.
Something as basic as word arrangement is pretty hard to get by, so the story must have rockethed muchly for me to soldier on quite as fanatically as I did. There was a large amount of empathy with Sunshine. Although I'm hardly from an important family and have no amazing talents, I recognised her mindset as being very similar to where I am now. A strong sense of being terratorial.
The Other were fascinating, as all things mysteries tend to be. It was interesting to see the impact on society such beings had, and how predictable society's reactions are. The vampires, however, were somewhat lacking. Constantine was quite enthralling, a well drawn vampire as far as vampires go. I think he's what we wish all creatures of the dark were; scary, but essentially honourable good people deep down. Ahem. But the rest? It didn't feel as though anything new had been tried with them at all. The arch-antagonist, Bo, was one of the most Evil For Evil's Sake villains I've come across in a long time. What his motivations and intentions were, I have no idea. He wasn't a character at all, he was merely a decidedly uninteresting and thus unthreatening plot device. Unthreatening antagonists aren't good things to have.
The final confrontation left a lot to be desired. Unclear, blurry, no real idea exactly what was going on, or where for that matter. I hazard a guess that this is primarily to do with riding in Sunshine's head - she probably had as little idea as the rest of us - but it was very unsatisfying for me. It felt as though McKinley wanted to do horror, lots of dripping splashing splatting horror, and coudln't quite bring herself to. The violence was extreme, but only implied.
But mostly, I think what really glued me to the book was love. The book is packed to the gills with it. I don't mean romantic love, I mean people who look out for each other, take care of each other, give each other muffins fresh out of the oven. It's a wUNderful, warm and embracing book.
Bit like sunshine.
Now...cake.
Verdict: a really nice read, with some fantastic URST and brilliant baking goods. Definitely worth hunting out, especially if your inner editor isn't as anal retentive as mine.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Random ZZZ Report
This morning I dreamed that my home (which while being this house in which I sit now, was also a burned out castle) was besieged. It was raining, most of the walls were shot through, and there was no ceiling.
It was getting desperate, and so we resorted to desperate methods. I folded up a teabag of English Breakfast into a pointed, fed it into my WW1 rifle, and fired. Yes, I shot someone with a teabag. It worked, too. I was very proud of myself.
I'm not even sure who the enemy was.
This morning I dreamed that my home (which while being this house in which I sit now, was also a burned out castle) was besieged. It was raining, most of the walls were shot through, and there was no ceiling.
It was getting desperate, and so we resorted to desperate methods. I folded up a teabag of English Breakfast into a pointed, fed it into my WW1 rifle, and fired. Yes, I shot someone with a teabag. It worked, too. I was very proud of myself.
I'm not even sure who the enemy was.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Batman Begins - moving picture
Well, it's a nice piece of fluff.
I can't claim to be any sort of expert on Batman. I've watched a few episodes, some of the other movies, and read Dark Knight Returns, and that's as far as my travels in the Batman universe have gone. But even with this very limited exposure, Batman Begins is not my Batman, not by a long shot.
Batman is a man whose power lies in all sorts of clever gadgets. He is not a man who learned ninjitsu in the far reaches of frozen Asia, from a secret society of city-destroying righteous fanatics.
Batman's villains are as overly theatrical as he is, and love/hate Gotham so that they'll never be able to leave it alone: they have enormous chips on their shoulders and something to prove, and above all, they are and stay local. Batman's villains are not international secret societies acting for the good of mankind.
It felt as though they'd sold out Batman's roots for the sake of going with popular trends.
And perhaps it is merely Dark Knight Returns speaking (one of the best collections out there), but there is so much that can be explored with Batman. He's anything but a black and white figure, so very complex and close to straying into the evil he's trying to fight. The movies I've seen haven't attemped to play with that. He's always the saviour of Gotham, no matter what his actions.
That said, he did engage in some rather random and wanton destruction in this movie. I'm fairly certain Batman isn't about wanton destruction, especially not against the police, but that's what he did. No way the cops deserved all that. Or the people living in those buildings. As if no one died, pah.
(But the bat mobile was pretty cool. I'll take one for Christmas, thanks.)
It is a pity that no one movie/book/game/anything can be viewed on its own now. Intertextuality plays such an enormous role in life, alas, in Liam Neeson I saw Qui-Gon Jin lecturing Bruce Wayne, especially when he started talking about fear and anger, and not giving in to them.
There was a lot of monologing about fear and anger. It seems every film now must be packed full of seemingly meaningful dialects on some form of philosophy, and it seems that most films that do so fail to have a single clear messege they're trying to present. Rju and I wandered out afterwards and had no idea whether or not fear and anger were good or bad, or allowed one to kill, or not to kill, or...yeah. A rant about the film that I read somewhere said there was no actual dialogue in the film, just speeches, and I'll second that.
And finally, one of those Hollywood 'make it so' wand-waving deals; if a microwave emitter is powerful enough to vapourise all the water around it, then believe me, it's powerful enough to do the same to the water in all the humans near by, too. Don't tell me you can set that thing off, stand next to it, and not feel a thing. Biggest no brainer I've seen.
It's not a bad film, if you don't have any expectations. It's not a film that will stay with you, either.
Verdict: Brain candy is necessary at times. Treat it as such. (Christian Bale needs a better haircut.)
Well, it's a nice piece of fluff.
I can't claim to be any sort of expert on Batman. I've watched a few episodes, some of the other movies, and read Dark Knight Returns, and that's as far as my travels in the Batman universe have gone. But even with this very limited exposure, Batman Begins is not my Batman, not by a long shot.
Batman is a man whose power lies in all sorts of clever gadgets. He is not a man who learned ninjitsu in the far reaches of frozen Asia, from a secret society of city-destroying righteous fanatics.
Batman's villains are as overly theatrical as he is, and love/hate Gotham so that they'll never be able to leave it alone: they have enormous chips on their shoulders and something to prove, and above all, they are and stay local. Batman's villains are not international secret societies acting for the good of mankind.
It felt as though they'd sold out Batman's roots for the sake of going with popular trends.
And perhaps it is merely Dark Knight Returns speaking (one of the best collections out there), but there is so much that can be explored with Batman. He's anything but a black and white figure, so very complex and close to straying into the evil he's trying to fight. The movies I've seen haven't attemped to play with that. He's always the saviour of Gotham, no matter what his actions.
That said, he did engage in some rather random and wanton destruction in this movie. I'm fairly certain Batman isn't about wanton destruction, especially not against the police, but that's what he did. No way the cops deserved all that. Or the people living in those buildings. As if no one died, pah.
(But the bat mobile was pretty cool. I'll take one for Christmas, thanks.)
It is a pity that no one movie/book/game/anything can be viewed on its own now. Intertextuality plays such an enormous role in life, alas, in Liam Neeson I saw Qui-Gon Jin lecturing Bruce Wayne, especially when he started talking about fear and anger, and not giving in to them.
There was a lot of monologing about fear and anger. It seems every film now must be packed full of seemingly meaningful dialects on some form of philosophy, and it seems that most films that do so fail to have a single clear messege they're trying to present. Rju and I wandered out afterwards and had no idea whether or not fear and anger were good or bad, or allowed one to kill, or not to kill, or...yeah. A rant about the film that I read somewhere said there was no actual dialogue in the film, just speeches, and I'll second that.
And finally, one of those Hollywood 'make it so' wand-waving deals; if a microwave emitter is powerful enough to vapourise all the water around it, then believe me, it's powerful enough to do the same to the water in all the humans near by, too. Don't tell me you can set that thing off, stand next to it, and not feel a thing. Biggest no brainer I've seen.
It's not a bad film, if you don't have any expectations. It's not a film that will stay with you, either.
Verdict: Brain candy is necessary at times. Treat it as such. (Christian Bale needs a better haircut.)
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk
(Yes, I really have been eating books this fast.)
What to say about Palahniuk? I love his books. I adore them. They're a wonderfully refreshing and gross mindfuck, and never fail to leave me thinking "Now that's just borked up."
But I don't think he can write a female narrator.
It was half-visible in Diary, a not-quite-lack of connection with the female protagonist. Invisible Monsters is an earlier book, and the not-quite-lack is very much a not-at-all connection with the protag.
It isn't simple that I know he is a male writer. I've digested plenty of books where male writers have written female leads and female writers writing male leads, and I've believed it. But not this time. Taking away the dongle and putting boobs on a person does not make them a woman.
That said, I honestly can't pinpoint exactly what it is he is doing wrong. The voice, the thoughts, the reactions, they all feel distinctly male, yet I can't say why they're not female. This vexes me.
Perhaps it is because there aren't an women in the book at all. Realising that, I couldn't help but wonder about Palahniuk's attitude towards women. Are we all men on the inside? I know that I tend to avoid being any sort of girly girl, but I am hardly masculine, something I also try to avoid being.
To me, this is the weakest of his books, and not just for the above reason. There's a philosophy in each story he tells, some breath-taking ideal that is so wrong its impossible not to find appealing. I don't think he knew entirely what that philosophy was in this case, because I'm not entirely sure what he was trying to say, with the postcards especially. Not as many lines reached out and slapped my mind.
Regardless...wow, this is still a wonderfully fucked up book. So many lives twine together in a terrible knot, with terrible revelations popping up in every chapter, and just when a gobsmacking climax seems inevitable, it goes all wobbly.
Even at his worst, I love me some Palahniuk. If I could concieve a story even half as fucked up, I'd be a happy little munchkin.
Verdict: Do not use this as your introduction to Palahniuk. Rather, wait till you've read at least three others, and know whether or not you'll worship him for life. Then acquire this to fill out your collection. Remember, every author has a worst book.
(Yes, I really have been eating books this fast.)
What to say about Palahniuk? I love his books. I adore them. They're a wonderfully refreshing and gross mindfuck, and never fail to leave me thinking "Now that's just borked up."
But I don't think he can write a female narrator.
It was half-visible in Diary, a not-quite-lack of connection with the female protagonist. Invisible Monsters is an earlier book, and the not-quite-lack is very much a not-at-all connection with the protag.
It isn't simple that I know he is a male writer. I've digested plenty of books where male writers have written female leads and female writers writing male leads, and I've believed it. But not this time. Taking away the dongle and putting boobs on a person does not make them a woman.
That said, I honestly can't pinpoint exactly what it is he is doing wrong. The voice, the thoughts, the reactions, they all feel distinctly male, yet I can't say why they're not female. This vexes me.
Perhaps it is because there aren't an women in the book at all. Realising that, I couldn't help but wonder about Palahniuk's attitude towards women. Are we all men on the inside? I know that I tend to avoid being any sort of girly girl, but I am hardly masculine, something I also try to avoid being.
To me, this is the weakest of his books, and not just for the above reason. There's a philosophy in each story he tells, some breath-taking ideal that is so wrong its impossible not to find appealing. I don't think he knew entirely what that philosophy was in this case, because I'm not entirely sure what he was trying to say, with the postcards especially. Not as many lines reached out and slapped my mind.
Regardless...wow, this is still a wonderfully fucked up book. So many lives twine together in a terrible knot, with terrible revelations popping up in every chapter, and just when a gobsmacking climax seems inevitable, it goes all wobbly.
Even at his worst, I love me some Palahniuk. If I could concieve a story even half as fucked up, I'd be a happy little munchkin.
Verdict: Do not use this as your introduction to Palahniuk. Rather, wait till you've read at least three others, and know whether or not you'll worship him for life. Then acquire this to fill out your collection. Remember, every author has a worst book.
1602 by Neil Gaiman and Andy Kubert
I received this last Monday, an unexpected gift from Mabs, who knows he was naughty, and who also knows my taste in books very well. For instance, he knows I go a great big wobbly over hardcovers, and this is a very nice hardcover. Faux leather, gold embossing, and lovely lovely lovely glossy pages. Seksay book.
(I also know how much it cost. Augh!)
Normally, I don't find the superhero lines particularly interesting. I don't have anything against them, and the collections I have read I've often got quite a kick out of. It is simply that on a base level they don't have that natural appeal to me. But apparently, shifting superheroes back several centuries makes them interesting, and having Neil Gaiman at the helm makes them irresitible.
For that's what 1602 does. Well-known characters from the Marvel universe have been planted in the seventeeth century, playing similar roles to their usual, and responding to the politics of the time as such. Although I can't claim any familiarity with the Marvel universe, it was fun picking out all the known characters and cameos, and snorting at the name alterations.
Although it the story has its roots in London, with Queen Lizzie looking spectacularly bad in her old age, it is, as said in the introduction, a story about the New World. The world is in danger (when is it NOT in danger?), and all confliction factions must eventually come together to save it, and come together on the shores of America. "On the surface 1602 is about Britain in the 17th century. In reality, 1602 is a remarkable work about America, and it is about now." True words, but the bitter Southern Hemispherian in me cried "There's more to the world thank Britain and America! When the ice comes and the Northern Hemisphere is nothing but white, Australia will rule the world and then you'll know about it!" Quite the tangent, but it does get under my skin how little attention or respect the rest of the world is given. (But then, the entire population of Australia is that of Los Angeles. Tangent over.)
While it was quite a satisfying read, I didn't feel much when it came to the relationships between characters. It is blatantly shoved down our throats that Angel likes Grey, and Scotius is a jealous prig, but I never felt any sort of bond between Grey and Scotius, or Angel and Grey for that matter. Fury and Peter shared the same panels because that is what the story dictated, but their parting and future betrayal twanged no heart strings. That said, I did enjoy the interactions between Virginia and her noble savage body guard.
The art was very nice, although it felt still. There didn't seem to be any movement to the images. The colouring was beautiful, and I appreciated that a pattern of two by three panels per page was followed. Design is all very well, but I've come across too many comics that were damn obscure to read.
Sadly, the writing was not invisible. Perhaps it was that Gaiman hasn't written comics for so long, perhaps I am that much more prose-sensitive since Clarion, but there were plenty of instances where I sighed, and thought to myself, "Exposition." Perhaps it is the medium; comics are more inclined that way, but I don't believe it. That said, I doubt many others would bat an eyelid at the same bumps. The story holds together well, and when it came time to close the book, I was content. (If only to see Peter finally bitten. Yes!)
That said...what are the dinosaurs abouts?
Verdict: Very pretty, good solid story, fun game of pick the cameo. A worthwhile addition to anyone's collection.
I received this last Monday, an unexpected gift from Mabs, who knows he was naughty, and who also knows my taste in books very well. For instance, he knows I go a great big wobbly over hardcovers, and this is a very nice hardcover. Faux leather, gold embossing, and lovely lovely lovely glossy pages. Seksay book.
(I also know how much it cost. Augh!)
Normally, I don't find the superhero lines particularly interesting. I don't have anything against them, and the collections I have read I've often got quite a kick out of. It is simply that on a base level they don't have that natural appeal to me. But apparently, shifting superheroes back several centuries makes them interesting, and having Neil Gaiman at the helm makes them irresitible.
For that's what 1602 does. Well-known characters from the Marvel universe have been planted in the seventeeth century, playing similar roles to their usual, and responding to the politics of the time as such. Although I can't claim any familiarity with the Marvel universe, it was fun picking out all the known characters and cameos, and snorting at the name alterations.
Although it the story has its roots in London, with Queen Lizzie looking spectacularly bad in her old age, it is, as said in the introduction, a story about the New World. The world is in danger (when is it NOT in danger?), and all confliction factions must eventually come together to save it, and come together on the shores of America. "On the surface 1602 is about Britain in the 17th century. In reality, 1602 is a remarkable work about America, and it is about now." True words, but the bitter Southern Hemispherian in me cried "There's more to the world thank Britain and America! When the ice comes and the Northern Hemisphere is nothing but white, Australia will rule the world and then you'll know about it!" Quite the tangent, but it does get under my skin how little attention or respect the rest of the world is given. (But then, the entire population of Australia is that of Los Angeles. Tangent over.)
While it was quite a satisfying read, I didn't feel much when it came to the relationships between characters. It is blatantly shoved down our throats that Angel likes Grey, and Scotius is a jealous prig, but I never felt any sort of bond between Grey and Scotius, or Angel and Grey for that matter. Fury and Peter shared the same panels because that is what the story dictated, but their parting and future betrayal twanged no heart strings. That said, I did enjoy the interactions between Virginia and her noble savage body guard.
The art was very nice, although it felt still. There didn't seem to be any movement to the images. The colouring was beautiful, and I appreciated that a pattern of two by three panels per page was followed. Design is all very well, but I've come across too many comics that were damn obscure to read.
Sadly, the writing was not invisible. Perhaps it was that Gaiman hasn't written comics for so long, perhaps I am that much more prose-sensitive since Clarion, but there were plenty of instances where I sighed, and thought to myself, "Exposition." Perhaps it is the medium; comics are more inclined that way, but I don't believe it. That said, I doubt many others would bat an eyelid at the same bumps. The story holds together well, and when it came time to close the book, I was content. (If only to see Peter finally bitten. Yes!)
That said...what are the dinosaurs abouts?
Verdict: Very pretty, good solid story, fun game of pick the cameo. A worthwhile addition to anyone's collection.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
The Vesuvius Club by Mark Gatiss
My goodness, the melodrama!
Lucifer Box is, by day, a painter, and by night, a secret agent for His Majesty King Edward. Breaking and entering, theft, assassination, and saving the world are all part of the job. He's a glorified dandy in imaculately tailored suits, stunningly snobbish, and delightfully decadent. One of the most brilliantly designed characters I've come across.
The Vesuvius Club sees him investigating the death and disappearance of a foriegn diplomant and several prominent geoloigical scientists, taking him to the lovely city of Naples and the slopes of Vesuvius itself. It unfolds that a lot more than relic smuggling is going on, and possibly the entirety of Italy is at stake.
Along the way he encounters such fully-fleshed characters as Joshua Reynolds, the dwarf who runs the secret service and conducts his business meetings in a super secret lavatory; Cretaceous Unmann, a total wet hen; and the Duce, whose tragic history is the stuff of fairy tales. There are carriage chases, femme fatales, secret societies, debauchery, such debauchery, poisonous centipedes, frankenstein-like monsters, mad scientists, and infernal devices in ruined cities.
Yes, all the characters have such fantastic names.
The story harks back to the days of pulp, and is gorgeously written. Lucifer's voice is strong throughout, and ridiculously tongue-in-cheek. It's an irreverance that will seduce you. James Bond wishes he had Lucifer Box's style. Over the top, outrageous, and full of a contagious glee that I was more than happy to dive into. For once, I was content to merely follow the story as it unravelled, and made no attempt to decipher the end myself. It was far more entertainly leaving Lucifer at the wheel. Never a dull moment, despite the many long hot baths he seems to lavish upon himself.
It even came with illustrations, oh joy of joys! I never stopped loving picture books.
It's a book I had immense fun reading, and that should be enough to sell it to any of you. "A Bit of Fluff" subtitles it, and I can't claim it changed my life. But oh, if only there were more stories detailing Lucifer's adventures (just in case Mr Gatiss passes by, hint hint).
Verdict: Ridiculously and fun. Lovely old-fashioned feel to it. Herr Barrow, of all, would enjoy it most.
My goodness, the melodrama!
Lucifer Box is, by day, a painter, and by night, a secret agent for His Majesty King Edward. Breaking and entering, theft, assassination, and saving the world are all part of the job. He's a glorified dandy in imaculately tailored suits, stunningly snobbish, and delightfully decadent. One of the most brilliantly designed characters I've come across.
The Vesuvius Club sees him investigating the death and disappearance of a foriegn diplomant and several prominent geoloigical scientists, taking him to the lovely city of Naples and the slopes of Vesuvius itself. It unfolds that a lot more than relic smuggling is going on, and possibly the entirety of Italy is at stake.
Along the way he encounters such fully-fleshed characters as Joshua Reynolds, the dwarf who runs the secret service and conducts his business meetings in a super secret lavatory; Cretaceous Unmann, a total wet hen; and the Duce, whose tragic history is the stuff of fairy tales. There are carriage chases, femme fatales, secret societies, debauchery, such debauchery, poisonous centipedes, frankenstein-like monsters, mad scientists, and infernal devices in ruined cities.
Yes, all the characters have such fantastic names.
The story harks back to the days of pulp, and is gorgeously written. Lucifer's voice is strong throughout, and ridiculously tongue-in-cheek. It's an irreverance that will seduce you. James Bond wishes he had Lucifer Box's style. Over the top, outrageous, and full of a contagious glee that I was more than happy to dive into. For once, I was content to merely follow the story as it unravelled, and made no attempt to decipher the end myself. It was far more entertainly leaving Lucifer at the wheel. Never a dull moment, despite the many long hot baths he seems to lavish upon himself.
It even came with illustrations, oh joy of joys! I never stopped loving picture books.
It's a book I had immense fun reading, and that should be enough to sell it to any of you. "A Bit of Fluff" subtitles it, and I can't claim it changed my life. But oh, if only there were more stories detailing Lucifer's adventures (just in case Mr Gatiss passes by, hint hint).
Verdict: Ridiculously and fun. Lovely old-fashioned feel to it. Herr Barrow, of all, would enjoy it most.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Jack the Ripper: The Facts by Paul Begg
I grabbed this book with some of my Christmas money, having thumbed it through and found the concept of a book that presents the facts, as opposed to theories, quite appealing.
The book is divided into chapters dealing with each of the murder victims, the people behind the investigation, prominent developements, suspects, and the state London was in at the time. This made it quite easy to dip in and out, and skip the parts that didn't hold my interest. Sections devoted to detailing the lives of suspects who appear to have no motivation or inclination to commit the murders, for instance. I do not believe a petty thief who never even assaulted the officers arresting him had much to do with the Whitechapel murders.
Begg has an easy writing style, although on occasions I dearly wanted to take a red pen to the book and fix up all his instances of information repetition, especially those occuring within a single paragraph. He also has a tendency to get bogged down in the tiny nitty gritty details, which most of the time involved a difference in information between two newspapers. As I do not believe the papers were privy to most of the details in the case, and were often in the habit of making stories up, I found such attention to be more than I was willing to invest.
There are several pages of old black and white photographs, from the victims to the 'Dear Boss' letter, all of which are fascinating and some of which are unsettling. Most of the victims are photographed post-mortem, and the pictures of the scene of Mary Kelly's death are graphic, to say the least. I didn't dwell on them long.
Although I find Jack the Ripper morbidly fascinating, I have no urge to read widely on the subject. Having read this book, written by someone who was not trying to solve the mystery, I've reached the conclusion that no one was at all close to discovering the murderer's identity.
Which is how I wish it to stay.
Jack the Ripper isn't just a murderer anymore; he's become a cultural figure. Even as the murders were being committed, the media stopped treating him as a human, and painted him as a monster, calling him 'ghoulish', 'fiend' and 'demon'. He's moved into the realm of legends, at to attempt to solve the case would be to steal away all the mystery. It no longer matters who did it, only that he changed the world.
Verdict: a good informative read. Worth digging up if you want to learn more on the subject.
I grabbed this book with some of my Christmas money, having thumbed it through and found the concept of a book that presents the facts, as opposed to theories, quite appealing.
The book is divided into chapters dealing with each of the murder victims, the people behind the investigation, prominent developements, suspects, and the state London was in at the time. This made it quite easy to dip in and out, and skip the parts that didn't hold my interest. Sections devoted to detailing the lives of suspects who appear to have no motivation or inclination to commit the murders, for instance. I do not believe a petty thief who never even assaulted the officers arresting him had much to do with the Whitechapel murders.
Begg has an easy writing style, although on occasions I dearly wanted to take a red pen to the book and fix up all his instances of information repetition, especially those occuring within a single paragraph. He also has a tendency to get bogged down in the tiny nitty gritty details, which most of the time involved a difference in information between two newspapers. As I do not believe the papers were privy to most of the details in the case, and were often in the habit of making stories up, I found such attention to be more than I was willing to invest.
There are several pages of old black and white photographs, from the victims to the 'Dear Boss' letter, all of which are fascinating and some of which are unsettling. Most of the victims are photographed post-mortem, and the pictures of the scene of Mary Kelly's death are graphic, to say the least. I didn't dwell on them long.
Although I find Jack the Ripper morbidly fascinating, I have no urge to read widely on the subject. Having read this book, written by someone who was not trying to solve the mystery, I've reached the conclusion that no one was at all close to discovering the murderer's identity.
Which is how I wish it to stay.
Jack the Ripper isn't just a murderer anymore; he's become a cultural figure. Even as the murders were being committed, the media stopped treating him as a human, and painted him as a monster, calling him 'ghoulish', 'fiend' and 'demon'. He's moved into the realm of legends, at to attempt to solve the case would be to steal away all the mystery. It no longer matters who did it, only that he changed the world.
Verdict: a good informative read. Worth digging up if you want to learn more on the subject.
Star Wars (A New Hope) by George Lucas (supposedly)
This book is worse than Splinter of the Mind's Eye. That was like a train wreck: horrible, but I just couldn't stop reading. This was just plain bad, and I had to make an effort to see it through to the end. For a slim book, it felt a lot longer than it was.
It was instructive, however. For some fine examples of over-writing you can't go past this book. "A lung-searing miasma of carbonized component filled the air, obscuring everything." You mean, smoke?
To be honest, there's not a lot to say about the book. It's badly written, and adds nothing to the story that the movie hasn't already shown. It is interesting to see how the history of the universe has shifted since the first film came out. The small backstory given in this book reveals that while Palpatine did name himself Emperor, he then became a recluse, and it is the barons and officials around him who are tearing the galaxy apart and giving the Empire a bad name.
The biggest shift appears to be regarding Anakin's life. In the new movies, he spends hardly any time at all on Tatooine, yet in the books everything appears to indicate he spent a significant portion of his life there, not to mention that everyone was very chummy with him. It's a very different feel.
Other than that, this book really isn't worth your time.
Verdict: Maybe read a few chapters if you want some bad writing. Otherwise there are much better things you could be doing with your life.
This book is worse than Splinter of the Mind's Eye. That was like a train wreck: horrible, but I just couldn't stop reading. This was just plain bad, and I had to make an effort to see it through to the end. For a slim book, it felt a lot longer than it was.
It was instructive, however. For some fine examples of over-writing you can't go past this book. "A lung-searing miasma of carbonized component filled the air, obscuring everything." You mean, smoke?
To be honest, there's not a lot to say about the book. It's badly written, and adds nothing to the story that the movie hasn't already shown. It is interesting to see how the history of the universe has shifted since the first film came out. The small backstory given in this book reveals that while Palpatine did name himself Emperor, he then became a recluse, and it is the barons and officials around him who are tearing the galaxy apart and giving the Empire a bad name.
The biggest shift appears to be regarding Anakin's life. In the new movies, he spends hardly any time at all on Tatooine, yet in the books everything appears to indicate he spent a significant portion of his life there, not to mention that everyone was very chummy with him. It's a very different feel.
Other than that, this book really isn't worth your time.
Verdict: Maybe read a few chapters if you want some bad writing. Otherwise there are much better things you could be doing with your life.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Splinter of the Mind's Eye - Alan Dean Foster
...I was about to put a spoiler warning here, but given this is set in the Star Wars universe, you all know how it turns out anyway.
Being something of a squealy fangirl, seeing Revenge of the Sith pushed all the fangirl buttons and sent me on another little Star Wars tizzy. I say 'little' because I'm not exactly swimming in Star Wars paraphenalia. Have the videos of the first remake of the original three (Han shot first!), Knights of the Old Republic on Xbox, and two books. I couldn't read Sean William's book, because it's the first of three. That left me with this one.
Wow.
The crapitude factor contained within this book is astronomically high, and what makes it all the more worse is that it's that special sort of crap that I just couldn't put down.
Set between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back (you know for years I thought it was The Emperor's Striped Back) it follows Luke and Leia as they crash on a supposedly uninhabited planet, only to find it crawling with Imperial guards (surprise). An absolutely cookie-cutter plot device character called Halla finds them out, and pulls them off to find the Kaiburr crystal, which has special Force properties.
This was before the entirety of the Skywalker family tree was revealed, and so Luke spends a ridiculous amount of time lusting after Leia. At the most ridiculous moments. For instance, they've just been chased by a 'wandrella' the size of a train, and have jumped down a bottomless well to escape it. They're standing on a narrow ledge and the beastie has its head stuck down the well, sniffing around.
Luke felt the warmth of the body next to him and lowered his gaze. Framed in the faint light from above, the Princess looked more radient, more beautiful than ever. "Leia," he began, "I..."
And then you have moments like this:
Now Luke rolled clear and came to a panting stopon her chest. For a long moment they lay like that, suspended in time. Then their eyes met with a gaze that could have penetrated light-years.
And:
Like a missile launcher sighting on its prey, his eyes contacted hers. There was a brief, silent explosion before she looked hurriedly away.
I wasn't expecting the most wonderous prose in the world, but I laughed out loud a lot more than I should have, and at all the wrong moments.
The characterisation for Leia was entirely off. She went from a strong leader to a petulant, brattish, whining little, well, princess. Somewhere, she learned how to do fly kicks, and despite feeling so strongly about the Rebellion, about the evil of the Empire and how Vader needs to be STOPPED, she says "Oh, darn," when she fails to snipe the Dark Lord himself.
Ah yes, Darth Vader. I think this book might have been salvagable if he hadn't shown up. It isn't fair to judge this one story within the entire context of the Star Wars universe, but I am. Luke and Darth's first meeting should have been on Cloud City, and only Cloud City. Having them meet, dual, and Luke actually win, on Mimban, is not good story telling. I mean, hell, if Luke beat him once, he can do it again, right? He even chopped Vader's arm off! By doing so, Darth Vader loses all his credibility. He's no longer the unstoppable force of evil, the great villian that he needs to be.
Ludicrously amusing metaphors, jumping point of view, total lack of any depth to the one original character, a whole lot of random encounters with ugly beasties, and Darth Vader gets his buttocks kicked. It's horrible, and yet so very good.
Verdict: You should all go and read this book. Now. Go on, it'll make you laugh.
...I was about to put a spoiler warning here, but given this is set in the Star Wars universe, you all know how it turns out anyway.
Being something of a squealy fangirl, seeing Revenge of the Sith pushed all the fangirl buttons and sent me on another little Star Wars tizzy. I say 'little' because I'm not exactly swimming in Star Wars paraphenalia. Have the videos of the first remake of the original three (Han shot first!), Knights of the Old Republic on Xbox, and two books. I couldn't read Sean William's book, because it's the first of three. That left me with this one.
Wow.
The crapitude factor contained within this book is astronomically high, and what makes it all the more worse is that it's that special sort of crap that I just couldn't put down.
Set between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back (you know for years I thought it was The Emperor's Striped Back) it follows Luke and Leia as they crash on a supposedly uninhabited planet, only to find it crawling with Imperial guards (surprise). An absolutely cookie-cutter plot device character called Halla finds them out, and pulls them off to find the Kaiburr crystal, which has special Force properties.
This was before the entirety of the Skywalker family tree was revealed, and so Luke spends a ridiculous amount of time lusting after Leia. At the most ridiculous moments. For instance, they've just been chased by a 'wandrella' the size of a train, and have jumped down a bottomless well to escape it. They're standing on a narrow ledge and the beastie has its head stuck down the well, sniffing around.
Luke felt the warmth of the body next to him and lowered his gaze. Framed in the faint light from above, the Princess looked more radient, more beautiful than ever. "Leia," he began, "I..."
And then you have moments like this:
Now Luke rolled clear and came to a panting stopon her chest. For a long moment they lay like that, suspended in time. Then their eyes met with a gaze that could have penetrated light-years.
And:
Like a missile launcher sighting on its prey, his eyes contacted hers. There was a brief, silent explosion before she looked hurriedly away.
I wasn't expecting the most wonderous prose in the world, but I laughed out loud a lot more than I should have, and at all the wrong moments.
The characterisation for Leia was entirely off. She went from a strong leader to a petulant, brattish, whining little, well, princess. Somewhere, she learned how to do fly kicks, and despite feeling so strongly about the Rebellion, about the evil of the Empire and how Vader needs to be STOPPED, she says "Oh, darn," when she fails to snipe the Dark Lord himself.
Ah yes, Darth Vader. I think this book might have been salvagable if he hadn't shown up. It isn't fair to judge this one story within the entire context of the Star Wars universe, but I am. Luke and Darth's first meeting should have been on Cloud City, and only Cloud City. Having them meet, dual, and Luke actually win, on Mimban, is not good story telling. I mean, hell, if Luke beat him once, he can do it again, right? He even chopped Vader's arm off! By doing so, Darth Vader loses all his credibility. He's no longer the unstoppable force of evil, the great villian that he needs to be.
Ludicrously amusing metaphors, jumping point of view, total lack of any depth to the one original character, a whole lot of random encounters with ugly beasties, and Darth Vader gets his buttocks kicked. It's horrible, and yet so very good.
Verdict: You should all go and read this book. Now. Go on, it'll make you laugh.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Friday, April 29, 2005
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - movie
Yessss...I saw it last night, and I'm still undecided about it.
I think the majority of my conflict boils down to the fact that I am somewhat of a purist. The original radio play I have almost memorized (it's been a long while since last hearing it, due to the tapes wearing through), the books I've read many times, and I own the TV series.
Perhaps if there hadn't been a TV series that stayed loyal to the dated british feel of the radio play, that hadn't provided me with all my visual images already, the movie would have faired better.
I already knew I had image conflict from the trailer. The man cast as Arthur Dent looked exactly like Ford Prefect to me, Marvin looked like he was designed by Sony, so did the Heart of Gold for that matter, a Zaphod barely had his extra head and arm feature. But these were fairly easy to shrug off.
For me, the movie swung between clinging slavishly to the original, and diving off in a totally different direction, two polar opposites that kept jerking me around for the duration of the movie. Again, this is probably the purist in me speaking. Having the play memorized means I expect the lines delivered in a certain way from a certain voice.
I did appreciate some of the changes to the story they made. Giving Arthur Dent character developement, and an arc of his own, tied the movie up quite nicely. I was worried about how they were going to do that, seeing as radio plays operate on not having any sort of tie up at all. (SPOILER: and the fangirl in my cheered when he and Trillian had a smooch.)
That said, the rest of the story wobbled and teetered around all over the place. The randomly introduced villian, Humma Kavula, appeared, made threats and bargins and...was never spoken of again. Never saw him again. Not entirely sure what the point was with that one (SPOILER: other than the removal of Zaphod's second head, which I think the script writers thought was too much hassle). The Vogons made much better antagonists, although their bureaucracy swayed between insanely slow and insanely fast. I didn't grasp Zaphod's motivation to get to Magrathea, or why any of the others went along, or exactly why the Magratheans were going ahead with Earth Mark II, given the mice weren't interested in it.
That said, the movie did look good. Jim Henson's studio did a wonderful job on the Vogons, and although they don't look anything like I imagine them, and are ridiculous more than terrifying, they're brilliant. The mass chanting of 'resistance is useless!' made me all sorts of happy. Their ships (whilst not being yellow) were lovely ugly clunky things, and featured the jewel-encrusted crabs and dewy-eyed gazelle-like creatures of their home world. Dead and crushed. I'm not sure that waving a towel at them will have as much effect as it did, but it was amusing to watch.
The factory floor of Magrathea took my breath away. Just gorgeous.
I'm not sure that the most popular selling book in the galaxy would function soley on flash animation. I'm fairly certain they could afford something better.
Fan girl moments included that first twang from the banjo, the whale (Bill Bailey!), and a cameo from the original Marvin the Paranoid Android.
I think...in the end...and I dread to say this, as it is more condeming than saying the film was bad...I think...for me...the film was forgettable. It had its moments, but overall I neither loved it nor hated it, either of which would have left a deeper impression. That won't stop me acquiring the DVD, or seeing the sequel (as if there isn't going to be a sequel) when it comes out, but I think I'll stick to the radio play for now.
Yessss...I saw it last night, and I'm still undecided about it.
I think the majority of my conflict boils down to the fact that I am somewhat of a purist. The original radio play I have almost memorized (it's been a long while since last hearing it, due to the tapes wearing through), the books I've read many times, and I own the TV series.
Perhaps if there hadn't been a TV series that stayed loyal to the dated british feel of the radio play, that hadn't provided me with all my visual images already, the movie would have faired better.
I already knew I had image conflict from the trailer. The man cast as Arthur Dent looked exactly like Ford Prefect to me, Marvin looked like he was designed by Sony, so did the Heart of Gold for that matter, a Zaphod barely had his extra head and arm feature. But these were fairly easy to shrug off.
For me, the movie swung between clinging slavishly to the original, and diving off in a totally different direction, two polar opposites that kept jerking me around for the duration of the movie. Again, this is probably the purist in me speaking. Having the play memorized means I expect the lines delivered in a certain way from a certain voice.
I did appreciate some of the changes to the story they made. Giving Arthur Dent character developement, and an arc of his own, tied the movie up quite nicely. I was worried about how they were going to do that, seeing as radio plays operate on not having any sort of tie up at all. (SPOILER: and the fangirl in my cheered when he and Trillian had a smooch.)
That said, the rest of the story wobbled and teetered around all over the place. The randomly introduced villian, Humma Kavula, appeared, made threats and bargins and...was never spoken of again. Never saw him again. Not entirely sure what the point was with that one (SPOILER: other than the removal of Zaphod's second head, which I think the script writers thought was too much hassle). The Vogons made much better antagonists, although their bureaucracy swayed between insanely slow and insanely fast. I didn't grasp Zaphod's motivation to get to Magrathea, or why any of the others went along, or exactly why the Magratheans were going ahead with Earth Mark II, given the mice weren't interested in it.
That said, the movie did look good. Jim Henson's studio did a wonderful job on the Vogons, and although they don't look anything like I imagine them, and are ridiculous more than terrifying, they're brilliant. The mass chanting of 'resistance is useless!' made me all sorts of happy. Their ships (whilst not being yellow) were lovely ugly clunky things, and featured the jewel-encrusted crabs and dewy-eyed gazelle-like creatures of their home world. Dead and crushed. I'm not sure that waving a towel at them will have as much effect as it did, but it was amusing to watch.
The factory floor of Magrathea took my breath away. Just gorgeous.
I'm not sure that the most popular selling book in the galaxy would function soley on flash animation. I'm fairly certain they could afford something better.
Fan girl moments included that first twang from the banjo, the whale (Bill Bailey!), and a cameo from the original Marvin the Paranoid Android.
I think...in the end...and I dread to say this, as it is more condeming than saying the film was bad...I think...for me...the film was forgettable. It had its moments, but overall I neither loved it nor hated it, either of which would have left a deeper impression. That won't stop me acquiring the DVD, or seeing the sequel (as if there isn't going to be a sequel) when it comes out, but I think I'll stick to the radio play for now.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The Sleeping Beauty Novels - Anne Rice
(I know, lots of overly long posts today. This is the last, promise.)
I would just like to state, for the record, so everyone knows, I did not buy these books. I did not request these books either. If memory serves, they were offloaded onto Mabs and I by his friend, who was to embarrassed to own them after reading them. I'm inclined to follow suit.
The trilogy follows the path of Sleeping Beauty, who is woken not just with a kiss, but with a kiss that came midfuck. That raised all sorts of "that's just wrong" flags, and those flags never went away, but for other reasons. The Prince claims her as his own personal love slave, and takes her back to his mother's queendom, where the training of pleasure slaves is pretty much all they do.
It is branded as erotica.
It isn't.
I learned an awful lot about how to write erotica from reading these books. To begin with, if something is there all the time, all the freakin' time, it fails to be noteworthy, and becomes very mundane. For instance, if the main character of the story is naked for the entire story, I kid you not, and if all the other multitude of slaves around her are also naked, then nakedness means very little. They're not going to be ashamed of their nakedness for particularly long, because they'll get used to it. They, and their masters, are not going to get turned on by nakedness, because they'll get used to it. And what's more, if you have female slaves running vigorously every morning, naked, then their breasts sure as hell aren't going to stay 'high and pert'.
Every problem in the story stems from this one thing; it never stops. The nakedness never goes away, so never becomes special. The spanking (bloody hell) never goes away, so fails to inspire any sort of fear or horniness. Eat breakfast, have a spank, whoopdidoo.
Perhaps I was reading it wrong. Perhaps I wasn't supposed to read it as a story, but read one chapter at a time, as turnedonedness was required. Bullshit.
I've come to the conclusion that the most important thing you have to do in erotica is take a break. Write the biggest, most mindblowing fuck scene in all the universe, but for fuck's sake go write about something else afterwards. Erotic tension is not about throwing boobies in the reader's face, page after page, chapter after chapter. It is about taking it all away, and letting it build up again, from scratch. Having it always there makes it pretty damn boring, and sadly I'm not exaggerating when I say it really was there page after page.
The reader should also care about the characters that're getting booty time. It's very hard to get interested in fooling around if the character's doing the fooling are wet hens. It makes a nice change from the spanking (bloody hell) but I still didn't actually care. Give them some redeeming feature, please. Or better yet, make them interesting.
There are, possibly, three chapters in the entire three books in which I was interested. These chapters didn't involve spanking (bloody hell) or booty time, but character developement. A pity there weren't more.
Lastly, and most importantly...learn to write consistantly. Pick a tense and stick to it. Stop starting every third sentence with 'and'. I know these books were originally slated as first person from the number of 'I' instead of 'she' typos made.
Verdict: read these books if you are a writer feeling down about yourself, because they will make you feel better. I feel great. (Having finally finished the damn books might have something to do with that.)
Otherwise, seriously, there's better erotica out there on the internet. For free.
(I know, lots of overly long posts today. This is the last, promise.)
I would just like to state, for the record, so everyone knows, I did not buy these books. I did not request these books either. If memory serves, they were offloaded onto Mabs and I by his friend, who was to embarrassed to own them after reading them. I'm inclined to follow suit.
The trilogy follows the path of Sleeping Beauty, who is woken not just with a kiss, but with a kiss that came midfuck. That raised all sorts of "that's just wrong" flags, and those flags never went away, but for other reasons. The Prince claims her as his own personal love slave, and takes her back to his mother's queendom, where the training of pleasure slaves is pretty much all they do.
It is branded as erotica.
It isn't.
I learned an awful lot about how to write erotica from reading these books. To begin with, if something is there all the time, all the freakin' time, it fails to be noteworthy, and becomes very mundane. For instance, if the main character of the story is naked for the entire story, I kid you not, and if all the other multitude of slaves around her are also naked, then nakedness means very little. They're not going to be ashamed of their nakedness for particularly long, because they'll get used to it. They, and their masters, are not going to get turned on by nakedness, because they'll get used to it. And what's more, if you have female slaves running vigorously every morning, naked, then their breasts sure as hell aren't going to stay 'high and pert'.
Every problem in the story stems from this one thing; it never stops. The nakedness never goes away, so never becomes special. The spanking (bloody hell) never goes away, so fails to inspire any sort of fear or horniness. Eat breakfast, have a spank, whoopdidoo.
Perhaps I was reading it wrong. Perhaps I wasn't supposed to read it as a story, but read one chapter at a time, as turnedonedness was required. Bullshit.
I've come to the conclusion that the most important thing you have to do in erotica is take a break. Write the biggest, most mindblowing fuck scene in all the universe, but for fuck's sake go write about something else afterwards. Erotic tension is not about throwing boobies in the reader's face, page after page, chapter after chapter. It is about taking it all away, and letting it build up again, from scratch. Having it always there makes it pretty damn boring, and sadly I'm not exaggerating when I say it really was there page after page.
The reader should also care about the characters that're getting booty time. It's very hard to get interested in fooling around if the character's doing the fooling are wet hens. It makes a nice change from the spanking (bloody hell) but I still didn't actually care. Give them some redeeming feature, please. Or better yet, make them interesting.
There are, possibly, three chapters in the entire three books in which I was interested. These chapters didn't involve spanking (bloody hell) or booty time, but character developement. A pity there weren't more.
Lastly, and most importantly...learn to write consistantly. Pick a tense and stick to it. Stop starting every third sentence with 'and'. I know these books were originally slated as first person from the number of 'I' instead of 'she' typos made.
Verdict: read these books if you are a writer feeling down about yourself, because they will make you feel better. I feel great. (Having finally finished the damn books might have something to do with that.)
Otherwise, seriously, there's better erotica out there on the internet. For free.
Asterix Conquers America
"Ah yes, I remember. The cure for amnesia is 30 pounds of pork taken orally."
There isn't any nice way to say it: this move sucks balls. Not in a good way.
It is very loosely based off Asterix and the Great Crossing, which in itself is not one of the better comics, if only because of the total lack of any conflict. Asterix and Obelix go fishing, a storm washes them up on the shores of the North American continent, they make friends with the natives, go home, the end.
The movie spruces it up a little bit, by having them chasing after a roman ship that has kidnapped their druid Getafix, with the intention of catapaulting him off the edge of the world. Good thing the world is round.
This was just embarrassing to watch.
It began as soon as the voices kicked in. The gauls, despite living in France, had pommy cockney accents, and while I don't mind the romans being ridiculously over the top italian, it was a bit painful to watch. Obelix did not sound like a big man - it goes on, and on.
They run into trouble with the natives when they inadvertently piss off the tribe's Medicine Man. He has his revenge by offering them the peace pipe. The dangerous music SWELLS most THREATENINGLY as they're chuffing away, and I don't think I've been preached at so badly in a long time.
And then, my god, the songs. Yes, there was singing, preaching singing about oooooooooohwaaaaaaoooh, we are one people, and we like you, we are one tribe. I shit you not. Both Hamish and I hid our faces with this number came up.
This isn't to say the film doesn't have its moments, but they are such brief moments, flashes which are quickly forgotten in whatever embarassing thing happens next.
Gaul: Halt! Who goes there?
Julius Caesar: A barrel, you fool!
I'll keep it, and I daresay, when I have another Asterix binge, I'll watch it again, but ugh. Stick to the other movies. Please.
"Ah yes, I remember. The cure for amnesia is 30 pounds of pork taken orally."
There isn't any nice way to say it: this move sucks balls. Not in a good way.
It is very loosely based off Asterix and the Great Crossing, which in itself is not one of the better comics, if only because of the total lack of any conflict. Asterix and Obelix go fishing, a storm washes them up on the shores of the North American continent, they make friends with the natives, go home, the end.
The movie spruces it up a little bit, by having them chasing after a roman ship that has kidnapped their druid Getafix, with the intention of catapaulting him off the edge of the world. Good thing the world is round.
This was just embarrassing to watch.
It began as soon as the voices kicked in. The gauls, despite living in France, had pommy cockney accents, and while I don't mind the romans being ridiculously over the top italian, it was a bit painful to watch. Obelix did not sound like a big man - it goes on, and on.
They run into trouble with the natives when they inadvertently piss off the tribe's Medicine Man. He has his revenge by offering them the peace pipe. The dangerous music SWELLS most THREATENINGLY as they're chuffing away, and I don't think I've been preached at so badly in a long time.
And then, my god, the songs. Yes, there was singing, preaching singing about oooooooooohwaaaaaaoooh, we are one people, and we like you, we are one tribe. I shit you not. Both Hamish and I hid our faces with this number came up.
This isn't to say the film doesn't have its moments, but they are such brief moments, flashes which are quickly forgotten in whatever embarassing thing happens next.
Gaul: Halt! Who goes there?
Julius Caesar: A barrel, you fool!
I'll keep it, and I daresay, when I have another Asterix binge, I'll watch it again, but ugh. Stick to the other movies. Please.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Monsters
I heard the fucking thing, and it did sound like a monster. Sounded like something was trying (unsuccessfully) to crunch bones. The sound had size behind it. (My rational half is sure it's just a possum or cat, but can't figure out what the sound actually was.)
It's unfortunate that I only ever hear these night noises whilst on the potty. Small enclosed space and all. Freak out. I'll investigate the backyard tomorrow morning, specifically seeking traces of corrosive slime and whatnot.
Lost
The last half hour I've sat and stared at the wall. Had the overwhelming urge to...something. That's exactly it. 'something'. No idea what. Just a very strong urge to do it.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in the right place, if somehow, in the course of my life, I've gone shooting off in the wrong direction and am miles away from where I'm supposed to be. Just floundering around.
Monsters Redux
Just jumped Hamish on his journey out of the potty. He heard nothing.
The dogs believe me, at least.
I heard the fucking thing, and it did sound like a monster. Sounded like something was trying (unsuccessfully) to crunch bones. The sound had size behind it. (My rational half is sure it's just a possum or cat, but can't figure out what the sound actually was.)
It's unfortunate that I only ever hear these night noises whilst on the potty. Small enclosed space and all. Freak out. I'll investigate the backyard tomorrow morning, specifically seeking traces of corrosive slime and whatnot.
Lost
The last half hour I've sat and stared at the wall. Had the overwhelming urge to...something. That's exactly it. 'something'. No idea what. Just a very strong urge to do it.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm in the right place, if somehow, in the course of my life, I've gone shooting off in the wrong direction and am miles away from where I'm supposed to be. Just floundering around.
Monsters Redux
Just jumped Hamish on his journey out of the potty. He heard nothing.
The dogs believe me, at least.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Foursight - Peter Crowther (ed)
Novellas are funny things, rare to come across, hard to find a home for. A pity. Once, I thought short stories were just that; stories that were short. But there are some brilliant short story writers out there who show that the medium is so much more than that; a short story is a lot more than a word count.
I thought novellas were everything that didn't fit in either the short story or novel catagory, and once again, I've realised they're a lot more than that. They give rise to a type of story that the others couldn't begin to hold.
Crowther recognises this, and has given these four novellas a home, and I thank him, and hope it continues to launch these projects.
"Leningrad Nights" by Graham Joyce sees us within that great city, in winter. The Nazis lay siege to it, shelling regularly, then randomly, a sort of psychological warfare to keep the city's citizens forever on their toes. There's no food, little warmth to be had, and if death isn't delivered by 'the blind justice of the Whistling Shell', then freezing or starvation are just waiting.
Leo has something of an epiphany (in the form of some opiate laced tea) and roams about the city helping those than he can. Food is in such great shortage, and he provides. They hail him a saint, whilst the other him returns to his frozen uncle to hack off another limb. It's a choice between survival and morality.
I'm never entirely sure whether or not the city is full of doppleganger Leo's, or if it is his method of dealing with the atrocities he commits for the sake of others. Is it the tea?
Beautifully written and an amazing show starter.
"How the Other Half Lives" by James Lovegrove leaps of in a totally different direction (which is a welcome change, as much as Leningrad was enchanting, it was also unremittingly bleak), following a week in the life of William Ian North, a ridiculously rich man who appears to own stocks in the entire world, and his money talks.
He made a deal, 'arrangments', to ensure his success, so naturally he is more than a little upset when things start to go wrong. He isn't supposed to get stuck in traffic, after all, he's William Ian North.
For his happiness, someone else must be utterly miserable. But nature finds a way.
Wonderfully absurd whilst being shockingly grounded. Good stuff.
"Andy Warhol's Dracula" by Kim Newman tells the story of the Father's (Big D) disciple making himself known in the New Country. New York, in this case.
I can't claim to have any sort of knowledge about Warhol, but before reading this I had heard the theory that he was a vampire. Or at least, really, really, really, really wanted to be one. The essay threaded throughout the piece certainly lends credence to the idea. It's interesting to see the intergration of Johnny Pop into the New York scene, and how quickly Warhol latches on to him, being from the old country, having had contact with the Father himself.
And who knew that vampires were drug dealers too?
I can't remember another vampire story in which I wasn't aware that I was reading a vampire story. It lacks the cliches that normally follow vampires around. Terribly amusing.
"The Vaccinator" by Michael Marshall Smith was the weakest of the four, which is a pity because it is the final note in the book. I don't think it was badly written, but in comparison to its company, it doesn't shine as bright. I'm not quite as interested in the Florida Keys as with Leningrad, I prefer vampires to aliens (even if they are booze-guzzling chain-smoking dodgy-arse aliens), and I prefer Andy Warhol to a thug. I think, for me, this story didn't do anything new. Not to mention the heroes failed to save the day. Deus ex machina and all the rest.
I'm glad I have another of Crowther's novella collections waiting for me. Something to look forward to.
Verdict: worth it, so worth it. Novellas are getting to be an acquired taste.
Novellas are funny things, rare to come across, hard to find a home for. A pity. Once, I thought short stories were just that; stories that were short. But there are some brilliant short story writers out there who show that the medium is so much more than that; a short story is a lot more than a word count.
I thought novellas were everything that didn't fit in either the short story or novel catagory, and once again, I've realised they're a lot more than that. They give rise to a type of story that the others couldn't begin to hold.
Crowther recognises this, and has given these four novellas a home, and I thank him, and hope it continues to launch these projects.
"Leningrad Nights" by Graham Joyce sees us within that great city, in winter. The Nazis lay siege to it, shelling regularly, then randomly, a sort of psychological warfare to keep the city's citizens forever on their toes. There's no food, little warmth to be had, and if death isn't delivered by 'the blind justice of the Whistling Shell', then freezing or starvation are just waiting.
Leo has something of an epiphany (in the form of some opiate laced tea) and roams about the city helping those than he can. Food is in such great shortage, and he provides. They hail him a saint, whilst the other him returns to his frozen uncle to hack off another limb. It's a choice between survival and morality.
I'm never entirely sure whether or not the city is full of doppleganger Leo's, or if it is his method of dealing with the atrocities he commits for the sake of others. Is it the tea?
Beautifully written and an amazing show starter.
"How the Other Half Lives" by James Lovegrove leaps of in a totally different direction (which is a welcome change, as much as Leningrad was enchanting, it was also unremittingly bleak), following a week in the life of William Ian North, a ridiculously rich man who appears to own stocks in the entire world, and his money talks.
He made a deal, 'arrangments', to ensure his success, so naturally he is more than a little upset when things start to go wrong. He isn't supposed to get stuck in traffic, after all, he's William Ian North.
For his happiness, someone else must be utterly miserable. But nature finds a way.
Wonderfully absurd whilst being shockingly grounded. Good stuff.
"Andy Warhol's Dracula" by Kim Newman tells the story of the Father's (Big D) disciple making himself known in the New Country. New York, in this case.
I can't claim to have any sort of knowledge about Warhol, but before reading this I had heard the theory that he was a vampire. Or at least, really, really, really, really wanted to be one. The essay threaded throughout the piece certainly lends credence to the idea. It's interesting to see the intergration of Johnny Pop into the New York scene, and how quickly Warhol latches on to him, being from the old country, having had contact with the Father himself.
And who knew that vampires were drug dealers too?
I can't remember another vampire story in which I wasn't aware that I was reading a vampire story. It lacks the cliches that normally follow vampires around. Terribly amusing.
"The Vaccinator" by Michael Marshall Smith was the weakest of the four, which is a pity because it is the final note in the book. I don't think it was badly written, but in comparison to its company, it doesn't shine as bright. I'm not quite as interested in the Florida Keys as with Leningrad, I prefer vampires to aliens (even if they are booze-guzzling chain-smoking dodgy-arse aliens), and I prefer Andy Warhol to a thug. I think, for me, this story didn't do anything new. Not to mention the heroes failed to save the day. Deus ex machina and all the rest.
I'm glad I have another of Crowther's novella collections waiting for me. Something to look forward to.
Verdict: worth it, so worth it. Novellas are getting to be an acquired taste.
Monday, April 04, 2005
And now for something completely different...
(Because I know listening to someone do nothing but whinge is nothing if not annoying) here is a little snippet I came across whilst reading a book on Jack the Ripper;
"...the job done by these women was dangerous because Byrant and May [a match making company] used white/yellow phosphorus, which was banned in other countries because it led to a form of bone cancer nicknamed phossy jaw, which could case the jawbones to rot and glow greenish-white in the dark. Phossy jaw was sometimes immediately fatal, but could be resolved by the agonising and disfiguring surgical removal of the jawbone. (Page 17, Jack the Ripper: The Facts, Begg, P. Robson Books, 2004)
The emphasis is mine. I can't figure out how the jawbone glows, given there's all this flesh in the way. Does it glow through the meat? Wikipedia is not forthcoming, and all other entries on the internet seem to be lifted from that.
...well. I said 'different', I didn't say it wouldn't be morbid.
(Because I know listening to someone do nothing but whinge is nothing if not annoying) here is a little snippet I came across whilst reading a book on Jack the Ripper;
"...the job done by these women was dangerous because Byrant and May [a match making company] used white/yellow phosphorus, which was banned in other countries because it led to a form of bone cancer nicknamed phossy jaw, which could case the jawbones to rot and glow greenish-white in the dark. Phossy jaw was sometimes immediately fatal, but could be resolved by the agonising and disfiguring surgical removal of the jawbone. (Page 17, Jack the Ripper: The Facts, Begg, P. Robson Books, 2004)
The emphasis is mine. I can't figure out how the jawbone glows, given there's all this flesh in the way. Does it glow through the meat? Wikipedia is not forthcoming, and all other entries on the internet seem to be lifted from that.
...well. I said 'different', I didn't say it wouldn't be morbid.
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