Hosted at Délaissé, starting tomorrow, with no time limit. I'm not sure if I'm in or not (the last time I joined a read-along I chickened out), but it's a great opportunity for those of us who have never read this classic.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Monday, 27 August 2012
A number of people, including my sister and the good people at Createspace, are probably beginning to feel I'll never publish this poetry book. Today I resubmitted it, for the third time. "It's the last time, I promise!"
Apart from page numbers, general formatting was pretty easy. Things got unpleasant when I had to deal with the finer aspects of formatting style. I'm happy to get free classic literature on my beloved Nook STR, and as long as there are no typos I could care less about format details. Alas, as most people don't feel the same way, I'm trying to abide by the majority of formatting rules...
Widows and Orphans
You can imagine the surprise when my mom pointed out something called Widows and Orphans. I must have met hundreds of these on the Nook; I am immune to them. And logically, to me widows and orphans are preferable, as opposed to pages that aren't nice and square-looking.
Nevertheless, not to appear illiterate/unaware, I eliminated all of them, except one widow that was hard to avoid and doesn't look very offensive. I dream of a day when square pages will become in vogue, and, indeed, if I publish a novel I may do just that. (The negative effects are definitely more noticeable in a poem, though.)
Hyphens and Hanging Indentations
Hyphens, hyphens, more hyphens.
Hanging Indentations are supposed to occur when a line(s) of a poem is too long. It goes to the next line and is slightly indented. For example, in Wordsworth's "Star-Gazers":
Then I went back later and thought...you know, as my mom also pointed out, some of these hanging indents only contain one word. And that does bug me, more than widows and orphans. So I changed that, too (except for one, in which it would have looked worse for there to be two words).
It's the last proof, really! I believe it this time. :)
Apart from page numbers, general formatting was pretty easy. Things got unpleasant when I had to deal with the finer aspects of formatting style. I'm happy to get free classic literature on my beloved Nook STR, and as long as there are no typos I could care less about format details. Alas, as most people don't feel the same way, I'm trying to abide by the majority of formatting rules...
Widows and Orphans
You can imagine the surprise when my mom pointed out something called Widows and Orphans. I must have met hundreds of these on the Nook; I am immune to them. And logically, to me widows and orphans are preferable, as opposed to pages that aren't nice and square-looking.
Nevertheless, not to appear illiterate/unaware, I eliminated all of them, except one widow that was hard to avoid and doesn't look very offensive. I dream of a day when square pages will become in vogue, and, indeed, if I publish a novel I may do just that. (The negative effects are definitely more noticeable in a poem, though.)
Hyphens and Hanging Indentations
Hyphens, hyphens, more hyphens.
Hanging Indentations are supposed to occur when a line(s) of a poem is too long. It goes to the next line and is slightly indented. For example, in Wordsworth's "Star-Gazers":
What crowd is this? what have we here! we mustI thought hanging indentations were an e-book error--I didn't know they were the rule (is that funny or sad?). So I added them.
not pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,
Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's
waters float.
Then I went back later and thought...you know, as my mom also pointed out, some of these hanging indents only contain one word. And that does bug me, more than widows and orphans. So I changed that, too (except for one, in which it would have looked worse for there to be two words).
It's the last proof, really! I believe it this time. :)
Up until now, Aronnax and his friends have led a relatively quiet life on the Nautilus, deeply engrossed in scientific studies and the wonders of the underwater world. This incident comes as a bit of a shock, a reality check nobody wanted. Had the previous chapters been nothing but a "rip-roaring adventure", maybe this wouldn't have been such a big deal; however, as it is, the contrast makes it horrifying.
The key to a good sea-story epic is, pardon the pun, the "calm before the storm". The Old Man and the Sea (Hemingway) and Moby-Dick (Melville) display the same brooding calm, before anything exciting happens. What makes this technique (if it even be intentional) so appealing is its reality. Most of us could liken our lives to a sea voyage, a daily routine that hardly ever changes, yet when something happens, the effect it creates is almost surreal.
One more "storm": I'm three chapters into Part II, and Ned Land has just saved Nemo's life while Nemo was trying to protect a pearl fisher from a shark attack (the plot is really picking up). The stakes are higher in the Disney movie, and I find it interesting that movie!Ned's reaction is "Why did I do that?!", as opposed to book!Ned's "I owed it to you". Though I believe in his benevolence/heroism in both versions, it's hard to believe he would say what book!Ned said.
I should add that I'm really enjoying this translation. There are a number of anachronistic word choices (some of which are rather funny), but somehow it works well in this particular book...I'm not sure I'd want to read it any other way!
I'm also starting to remember a lot of scenes from when I read it before. Like the part where Aronnax freaks out at the idea of hunting sharks, and Ned and Conseil disappoint him by being ok with it. XD The hunting trip on the island was also pretty hilarious. This also led me to look up "coconut crab" on Wikipedia, which I do NOT recommend for the faint of courage.
Thursday, 23 August 2012
But I forgot. We're dealing with very bookish characters here. Professor Aronnax, a marine biology expert who jumped at the chance of hunting for a legendary, gigantic narwhal. Conseil, a self-motivated student whose favorite habit is to classify things constantly. The Nautilus provides the highlight of their studies--which is practically everything they live for.
Captain Nemo knew he didn't need to lock them up in a cell. Their lust for knowledge would be their own prison, and the harpooner Ned Land, who still retained a natural thirst for liberty, was outnumbered by two men with the gift of persuasion, rather than force. Conseil put it in plain words: he had no desire to go back to civilization. Professor Aronnax, faced with the first opportunity of escape (to the Indian subcontinent), declares evasively:
And this, after the drugging incident, which caused Aronnax to suspect Nemo of sinking a ship during their unconsciousness!"No, no, Ned. . .Let's ride it out, as you seafaring fellows say. The Nautilus is approaching populated areas. It's going back toward Europe, let it take us there. After we arrive in home waters, we can do as we see fit. Besides, I don't imagine Captain Nemo will let us go hunting on the coasts of Malabar or Coromandel as he did in the forests of New Guinea.""Well, sir, can't we manage without his permission?"I didn't answer the Canadian. I wanted no arguments. Deep down, I was determined to fully exploit the good fortune that had put me on board the Nautilus.
The question remains: ultimately, did Ned save their lives, or did Conseil and the professor save his? It is true that, had it not been for Aronnax and Conseil's presence, Nemo would probably have left Ned to die. On the other hand, had Ned given up on escape, the three (or two) of them would have spent the rest of their lives on the Nautilus and not in "the real world", where they belonged.
Movie!Ned puts it aptly: "I feel like a knife that's just stabbed a friend in the back." However great its scientific treasures, the Nautilus is just that: a prototype for submarine warfare (scarcely preceded by that used in the U.S. Civil War). Aronnax may genuinely believe what he learns on the Nautilus could be used for the greater good--Conseil and he might be willing to give their lives for it--but does it justify his ignoring Nemo's crimes?
Ned may not be a brilliant scholar, but what he lacks in academics he makes up for in common sense. Everyone needs a friend like him, especially those of us whose heads might easily get turned by our individual interests.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
I'm now reading/re-reading the whole thing. I found a splendid Gutenberg translation by F. P. Walters, complete with a Units of Measure table and a first-rate introduction. If you know my reading habits, you know I am highly particular about translations and infamously distrustful of introductions. I can't tell you how many I have seen that are laden with spoilers and/or (worse yet) ideological agenda.
Here is a rare gem, an example of a Good Introduction, and why it is so (my words in bold):
"The deepest parts of the ocean are totally unknown to us," admits Professor Aronnax early in this novel. "What goes on in those distant depths? What creatures inhabit, or could inhabit, those regions twelve or fifteen miles beneath the surface of the water? It's almost beyond conjecture."
Opens with a quote: straightforward, down-to-earth, and catchy.
Jules Verne (1828–1905) published the French equivalents of these words in 1869, and little has changed since. 126 years later, a Time cover story on deep–sea exploration made much the same admission: "We know more about Mars than we know about the oceans." This reality begins to explain the dark power and otherworldly fascination of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas.
Author's life span, original language, date of original publication, date of this translation's publication, connection to the present. Perfection.
Born in the French river town of Nantes, Verne had a lifelong passion for the sea. First as a Paris stockbroker, later as a celebrated author and yachtsman, he went on frequent voyages—to Britain, America, the Mediterranean. But the specific stimulus for this novel was an 1865 fan letter from a fellow writer, Madame George Sand. She praised Verne's two early novels Five Weeks in a Balloon (1863) and Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864), then added: "Soon I hope you'll take us into the ocean depths, your characters traveling in diving equipment perfected by your science and your imagination." Thus inspired, Verne created one of literature's great rebels, a freedom fighter who plunged beneath the waves to wage a unique form of guerilla warfare.
Succinct author biog, inspiration for novel (plus name-dropping for classic lit geeks), reference to other Verne novels, indirect introduction to Nemo.
Initially, Verne's narrative was influenced by the 1863 uprising of Poland against Tsarist Russia. The Poles were quashed with a violence that appalled not only Verne but all Europe. As originally conceived, Verne's Captain Nemo was a Polish nobleman whose entire family had been slaughtered by Russian troops. Nemo builds a fabulous futuristic submarine, the Nautilus, then conducts an underwater campaign of vengeance against his imperialist oppressor.
Version 1 of Nemo, with a hint as to v2's motives.
But in the 1860s France had to treat the Tsar as an ally, and Verne's publisher, Pierre Hetzel, pronounced the book unprintable. Verne reworked its political content, devising new nationalities for Nemo and his great enemy—information revealed only in a later novel, The Mysterious Island (1875); in the present work Nemo's background remains a dark secret. In all, the novel had a difficult gestation. Verne and Hetzel were in constant conflict and the book went through multiple drafts, struggles reflected in its several working titles over the period 1865–69: early on, it was variously called Voyage Under the Waters, Twenty–five Thousand Leagues Under the Waters, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Waters, and A Thousand Leagues Under the Oceans.
Mention of a sequel (always good to know), working titles, plus the agonies of working with a publisher. ;)
Verne is often dubbed, in Isaac Asimov's phrase, "the world's first science–fiction writer." And it's true, many of his sixty–odd books do anticipate future events and technologies: From the Earth to the Moon (1865) and Hector Servadac (1877) deal in space travel, while Journey to the Center of the Earth features travel to the earth's core. But with Verne the operative word is "travel," and some of his best–known titles don't really qualify as sci–fi: Around the World in Eighty Days (1872) and Michael Strogoff (1876) are closer to "travelogs"—adventure yarns in far–away places.
Reaffirms Verne's reputation and hints his books are best read for the adventure, not the science, necessarily.
These observations partly apply here. The subtitle of the present book is An Underwater Tour of the World, so in good travelog style, the Nautilus's exploits supply an episodic story line. Shark attacks, giant squid, cannibals, hurricanes, whale hunts, and other rip–roaring adventures erupt almost at random. Yet this loose structure gives the novel an air of documentary realism. What's more, Verne adds backbone to the action by developing three recurring motifs: the deepening mystery of Nemo's past life and future intentions, the mounting tension between Nemo and hot–tempered harpooner Ned Land, and Ned's ongoing schemes to escape from the Nautilus. These unifying threads tighten the narrative and accelerate its momentum.
Reasons (excellent ones) to read the book.
Other subtleties occur inside each episode, the textures sparkling with wit, information, and insight. Verne regards the sea from many angles: in the domain of marine biology, he gives us thumbnail sketches of fish, seashells, coral, sometimes in great catalogs that swirl past like musical cascades; in the realm of geology, he studies volcanoes literally inside and out; in the world of commerce, he celebrates the high–energy entrepreneurs who lay the Atlantic Cable or dig the Suez Canal. And Verne's marine engineering proves especially authoritative. His specifications for an open–sea submarine and a self–contained diving suit were decades before their time, yet modern technology bears them out triumphantly.
Historic, scientific, and prophetic importance of the book.
True, today's scientists know a few things he didn't: the South Pole isn't at the water's edge but far inland; sharks don't flip over before attacking; giant squid sport ten tentacles not eight; sperm whales don't prey on their whalebone cousins. This notwithstanding, Verne furnishes the most evocative portrayal of the ocean depths before the arrival of Jacques Cousteau and technicolor film.
Lastly the book has stature as a novel of character. Even the supporting cast is shrewdly drawn: Professor Aronnax, the career scientist caught in an ethical conflict; Conseil, the compulsive classifier who supplies humorous tag lines for Verne's fast facts; the harpooner Ned Land, a creature of constant appetites, man as heroic animal.
Atmosphere, interesting characters, and name-dropping most people will appreciate.
SEMI-SPOILERS ahead:
But much of the novel's brooding power comes from Captain Nemo. Inventor, musician, Renaissance genius, he's a trail–blazing creation, the prototype not only for countless renegade scientists in popular fiction, but even for such varied figures as Sherlock Holmes or Wolf Larsen. However, Verne gives his hero's brilliance and benevolence a dark underside—the man's obsessive hate for his old enemy. This compulsion leads Nemo into ugly contradictions: he's a fighter for freedom, yet all who board his ship are imprisoned there for good; he works to save lives, both human and animal, yet he himself creates a holocaust; he detests imperialism, yet he lays personal claim to the South Pole. And in this last action he falls into the classic sin of Pride. He's swiftly punished. The Nautilus nearly perishes in the Antarctic and Nemo sinks into a growing depression.
Like Shakespeare's King Lear he courts death and madness in a great storm, then commits mass murder, collapses in catatonic paralysis, and suicidally runs his ship into the ocean's most dangerous whirlpool. Hate swallows him whole.
I've never in my life compared Holmes to Nemo; these two paragraphs are rather fascinating.
For many, then, this book has been a source of fascination, surely one of the most influential novels ever written, an inspiration for such scientists and discoverers as engineer Simon Lake, oceanographer William Beebe, polar traveler Sir Ernest Shackleton. Likewise Dr. Robert D. Ballard, finder of the sunken Titanic, confesses that this was his favorite book as a teenager, and Cousteau himself, most renowned of marine explorers, called it his shipboard bible.
Connection to real-life heroes in the same genre.
The present translation is a faithful yet communicative rendering of the original French texts published in Paris by J. Hetzel et Cie.—the hardcover first edition issued in the autumn of 1871, collated with the softcover editions of the First and Second Parts issued separately in the autumn of 1869 and the summer of 1870. Although prior English versions have often been heavily abridged, this new translation is complete to the smallest substantive detail.
Good to know.
Because, as that Time cover story suggests, we still haven't caught up with Verne. Even in our era of satellite dishes and video games, the seas keep their secrets. We've seen progress in sonar, torpedoes, and other belligerent machinery, but sailors and scientists—to say nothing of tourists—have yet to voyage in a submarine with the luxury and efficiency of the Nautilus.
Call to action/challenge to read the book, and why it is still worth reading.
F. P. WALTER
University of Houston
Sunday, 19 August 2012
{hosted by Lemon Tree at Half-Filled Attic}
I was a bit turned off by the depressing, first short story in Within the Tides--that is to say, after finishing it, I haven't yet got any further along in the book. However, I love the above quote, spoken by the protagonist. It reminds me of a quote from another author of sea stories:As before, when grappling with other forces of nature, he could find in himself all sorts of courage except the courage to run away.- Joseph Conrad, Within the Tides
“I will have no man in my boat," said Starbuck, "who is not afraid of a whale." By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.
And how striking Starbuck's quote is! How unlike Captain Ahab, who is confident he is afraid of nothing, least of all a whale. Isn't he afraid, though? Is Ahab, in fact, too cowardly to "run away" from Moby-Dick?- Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
Third literary connection: what about Sherlock Holmes (book or TV)? Did it take courage, or cowardice, to "run away" after Reichenbach?
Personally, I think there are times when the smartest thing to do is to distance yourself from a bad situation, one you have no ability to change. It takes courage to give it up, but more importantly, it takes courage to accept the sting to your pride. It's not always possible (unfortunately) to be a hero.
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Of course, I love the Wanderer--he has been on my blog for a long time. I don't get tired of him. This is artistic and psychological brilliance.
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
In a more general sense--I admire people who are hardworking, self-disciplined, humble, kind, patriotic, true to their principles, and trying to lead decent lives.
* * *
Right now I am really (as in REALLY) into Rodrigo's arias from Don Carlos, by Verdi. Without making me cry necessarily, they're certainly tear-worthy. In typical opera fashion, this is sung by a character who is dying with a bullet in his chest. By some baritones, it is sung quietly, but I love how Dmitri Hvorostovsky just suspends all disbelief and sings with gusto all the way through. That is a huge part of what opera is about--living in the moment, making every moment count!
* * *
Right now I am really (as in REALLY) into Rodrigo's arias from Don Carlos, by Verdi. Without making me cry necessarily, they're certainly tear-worthy. In typical opera fashion, this is sung by a character who is dying with a bullet in his chest. By some baritones, it is sung quietly, but I love how Dmitri Hvorostovsky just suspends all disbelief and sings with gusto all the way through. That is a huge part of what opera is about--living in the moment, making every moment count!
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
PLUS new theory: My room is near the (relatively new) roof antenna, maybe that has something to do with it?
I want a new wall clock badly, but I'm afraid to get one. You see, three wall clocks have died in my room. In a row.
Years and years ago, I had a blue flower-shaped clock. The face cracked when I accidentally dropped it. It still worked for a long while, but I ended up getting rid of it and adopting a hand-me-down from my sister. This was a purple clock.
The purple clock lived happily for a year or more on my wall, until one day it acted very strangely, sort of ticking back and forth in one place. I replaced the battery, and it was either then or a battery replacement(s) later that it stopped working altogether. Bye-bye purple clock.
So I bought a new clock with Roman numerals--nothing fancy, but a little more expensive than the purple clock. Roman clock stopped working soon afterwards (probably within 6-8 months). Replaced the battery, to no avail. "Cheap clock, huh?" thought I. "Well, Mom and Dad are getting rid of the living room clock, so that's bound to work."
We have had said living room clock for EONS and MILLENNIA. It's nothing fancy or expensive, either, but it has lasted forever. For sentimental reasons, I love this wall clock. Of course, in my room, its lifespan was comparable to that of its predecessor. Replaced the battery, to no avail (the batteries, I ought to mention, are the same plain old batteries that work fine in every other situation).
I'm seriously freaked out now.
I have two theories, of sorts (neither of which, however, explains the longevity of the flower-shaped clock). Firstly: the wall clocks' location has always been within a yard of my smoke detector. Could it be that the smoke detector's radiation--however small--is actually powerful enough to destroy the mechanisms in cheap wall clocks? I thoroughly examined the relative locations of the smoke detectors and wall clocks in other rooms of the house, and my room is the only one where the two things are somewhat close to each other.
Even this theory falls flat. My smoke detector is perfectly normal, and smoke detectors' radiation is essentially harmless to humans. Besides, the flower-shaped clock lived just fine in the same location in my room, for years and years.
My second theory is that wireless internet has ruined the mechanisms. However, this seems ridiculous, since other people have wall clocks and wi-fi, too, and they apparently don't suffer from this bizarre malfunction.
Right now, I just have a framed picture of HMS Victory where the Clocks used to be. I don't expect to wake up to a shower of shattered glass, but anything could happen, I guess.
Has this phenomenon, or something similar, ever happened to you?
Monday, 13 August 2012
Thursday, 9 August 2012
© Chris Devers
What say you?
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
Captain Ahab is a creepy guy. The Pequod is a creepy ship. Captain Ahab wants to wreak revenge on Moby-Dick, the white whale that severed his leg. But none of the crew--least of all Ishmael, the whaling newbie--none of them know this until they sign on to the job. Now that they're out at sea, they're doomed to follow Ahab to the edge of the world, or however far it takes for him to take revenge on Moby-Dick.
This is one instance where you don't need to read the 600-page book. This movie gets the spirit and essential plot right, with whole lines straight from the book ("I'd smite the sun if it insulted me."). Gregory Peck is worlds better than book!Ahab--his stricken youth is even more poignant, more horrifying. Leo Genn is, by contrast, older and grimmer than book!Starbuck, but he aces the part of a levelheaded family man and conscientious Christian. Ishmael is, well, Ishmael. The cinematography and special effects are pretty amazing for a 50s movie, and overall they've aged well, too.
What makes this movie worthwhile, besides the epic adventure, is its incredible, inscrutable depth. Is Ahab completely evil, completely mad, well-intentioned, or something else? What would you do if you were Starbuck, the second-in-command? What does "doing the right thing" mean when all the choices seem wrong?
When I read the book, I thought Ahab was pure evil, or at least deranged in a sick, sick way. Upon this umpteenth viewing of the movie, I was able to read between the lines more. Yes, Ahab is insane and wicked, but he is a tragic character as well. There are those figments of sanity and regret, which I saw on previous viewings, but then there are his enigmatic lines, in which he views his revenge as a noble cause:
Yet he is but a mask. 'Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since time began; the thing that maws and mutilates our race, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a lung.Book!Ahab rebels bitterly against God, but this Ahab comes across with an additional (perhaps chief) objective: an attempt to crush sin/decay. Yet these two different motives somehow surface as the same actions, hatred, and madness. He hates himself, because he hates what the whale has done to him. His mistake is looking to his own strength for salvation. (Of course, this is only how I see movie!Ahab. Never could fully understand the book-character or what Melville intended him to be...certainly subject to interpretation.)
I'll never get tired of this story--already want to re-read the book! The history and adventure, the irony and contrasts (democratic Americans swearing loyalty to one man?!), and, of course, Ahab and the Whale and the psychology/mystery I can't unravel. Watch it now! :)
Good Mythical Morning Season 2 is HERE!! And Rhett had a bad dream. So did I, last night.
In the first scene/part, I met Thomas Jefferson, who looked like (the much handsomer) Alexander Hamilton. But I knew it was Jefferson, just because, you know? (This happens a lot in my dreams: people don't match their identity.)
The weirder thing was that this was the immortal Thomas Jefferson--that is, he had never died or timetravelled, but survived to the 21st century. Now, some stranger in the dream ruined it all by telling me this was not Jefferson but an impersonator (like, duh, lol). But I only half-believed it. I didn't want to believe it. It was his voice--it wasn't totally ancient or anything, I just knew intuitively that it sounded like the voice of a man who had lived for 250+ years. It's hard to describe, actually. Sort of rich but frail, slight accent of some kind, and strangely addictive. I don't remember what he said. XD
The second scene/part (of the same dream), we were at the beach--Pacific Northwest style, cloudy, bright, and brooding. There was a local myth about strange lights and stuff; of course, everyone thought it was silly, like Bigfoot or something. And then I got freaked out because I saw the lights, in broad daylight too.
So it was a good/bad dream. My theory is, in real life I was all excited about voting for the first time yesterday, so meeting a Founding Father is sort of the idealized symbolism (actually, it would be 10x as amazing). The impersonator part is just realism/irony (sigh).
I'm also excited about going to the Oregon Coast later this month. No explanation for the creepy lights, except that I watched the trailer for Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter yesterday? (Someone on YouTube said Gregory Peck could have been cast as Lincoln, so I had to see what it was like.) Bad idea, apparently...
In the first scene/part, I met Thomas Jefferson, who looked like (the much handsomer) Alexander Hamilton. But I knew it was Jefferson, just because, you know? (This happens a lot in my dreams: people don't match their identity.)
The weirder thing was that this was the immortal Thomas Jefferson--that is, he had never died or timetravelled, but survived to the 21st century. Now, some stranger in the dream ruined it all by telling me this was not Jefferson but an impersonator (like, duh, lol). But I only half-believed it. I didn't want to believe it. It was his voice--it wasn't totally ancient or anything, I just knew intuitively that it sounded like the voice of a man who had lived for 250+ years. It's hard to describe, actually. Sort of rich but frail, slight accent of some kind, and strangely addictive. I don't remember what he said. XD
The second scene/part (of the same dream), we were at the beach--Pacific Northwest style, cloudy, bright, and brooding. There was a local myth about strange lights and stuff; of course, everyone thought it was silly, like Bigfoot or something. And then I got freaked out because I saw the lights, in broad daylight too.
So it was a good/bad dream. My theory is, in real life I was all excited about voting for the first time yesterday, so meeting a Founding Father is sort of the idealized symbolism (actually, it would be 10x as amazing). The impersonator part is just realism/irony (sigh).
I'm also excited about going to the Oregon Coast later this month. No explanation for the creepy lights, except that I watched the trailer for Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter yesterday? (Someone on YouTube said Gregory Peck could have been cast as Lincoln, so I had to see what it was like.) Bad idea, apparently...
Saturday, 4 August 2012
There are paradoxes in this, however. For one thing, the original fairytales weren't so sugary sweet, not all the way through. The Brothers Grimm are famously grim. Hans Christian Anderson is full of pathos. And I remember once reading a particularly ghoulish collection of children's fairytales from Central/Eastern Europe, centered on the dragons and witches and other nice monsters which create nasty obstacles for the good characters (whom I don't remember, unsurprisingly). Greek mythology, occasionally taking a fairytale tone, has also enough pain and sorrow to outweigh the (all too few) happy endings.
The second irony of the traditional fairytale is that most of them originate from time immemorial--that is to say, from the days of medieval and "modern" brutality, where most children lived unsheltered from harsh aspects of life. Death, discrimination, and poor medical care were just a few of those elements. Childhood was very short. "Gritty realism" wasn't simply something children were taught about; they lived in it, because there was no choice about it.
Why, then, did fairytales become what they are?
In order to answer this question, we might consider the idea of an anti-fairytale, a story with a powerful anti-hero/heroine and a decidedly unhappily-ever-after conclusion. You won't have to look far to find an example; the anti-fairytale, as a broad super-genre, has a dominant place in fiction today. For whatever reason--sometimes good, sometimes bad--we avid, informed readers of the 20th and 21st centuries increasingly favor the anti-hero (or sometimes villain) and savor the unhappy ending. It is the book we cannot put down, and the book we think about long after it's finished.
An anti-hero; well, there are at least three kinds of anti-hero. They all begin as more troublesome than heroic. They are further distinguished by the following:
- Makes some good decisions and ultimately succeeds in life
- Makes mostly bad decisions and suffers the consequences.
- Makes some life-changing bad decisions and, by some capricious bit of good luck, conquers all by the end of the volume(s). S/he either suffers no negative consequences, or overcomes them in the nick of time.
Likewise, there are at least three kinds of unhappy, heartbreaking ending:
- Poetically just.
- Poetically unjust.
- Seems to have been written expressly to wring tears from your eyes and accomplish little else. In that case, your emotional response was absolutely all the author wanted.
What does "well-written" mean? In this sense, it doesn't mean a good plot, or good characters, or lots of action. Rather, it means the ability of the author to hold your interest through the sheer power of his/her style and word choice. Newspapers are splendid examples of word choice--every journalist has studied the "right" kinds, until it becomes second nature to favor one synonym over another. Effect or tone are sometimes given preference over accuracy. Novelists are even better at this, in that they can use word choice more subtly, and the reader can only hope to read between the lines after many pages of lines.
The old fairytales, whatever their faults are, were more honest. There is something so matter-of-fact in their style and format you'd think we intellectual readers of the 21st century would appreciate it. They do not hide their meaning under word choice. It's the premise that really matters, isn't it?
Or is it? If there is one strange thing about anti-fairytales, it is the concept that the premise is not nearly as important as the reader's ultimate opinion of the premise. The author works to persuade the reader to feel a certain emotion(s) about a certain premise without allowing the reader the time/space to analyze the premise itself. (I say analyze, not think about--you can have something on your mind for weeks without dissecting it.) It is easy to find a novel which is precisely this kind of anti-fairytale: a twisted premise smoothed over by beautiful, brilliant prose which provokes your emotion and a certain train of conclusions the author wishes you to conclude. A book centered on perverse, even criminal, actions that manipulates your emotions so carefully, so very carefully, turning them into toleration, acceptance, or even sympathy.
Such a book may even be considered a classic. It's not a new idea. But that would be the poisonous apple; that is why there is Snow White.
Friday, 3 August 2012
Another movie with strangulation and a psychopath...hooray. :P Watch the trailer HERE (paragraphs don't work when I try to embed it).
After watching this, I couldn't help but see the following similarity with The Phantom of the Opera:
Edwin = Raoul = spoiled rich kid with good intentions
Rosa = Christine = naive girl
Jasper = Erik = obsessed creepy sneaky old guy with musical talent
Bazzard = The Persian = smart guy who solves the mystery
I rate The Mystery of Edwin Drood (2012) 4 out of 5 stars, but I can't say it is one that I'd rewatch in the foreseeable future.
It was slightly better than I expected (I have not read the book, by the way). Most of the good characters are pretty likeable. All throughout the movie, I kept thinking "Bushy sideburns...neither Edwin nor Jasper looks like a leading man, but at least their hairstyles are accurate!". Many familiar actors/actresses, some from other Dickens adaptations. Nice cinematography. Decent pacing, if a little too choppy. I liked Bazzard, the bored secretary/nice version of Mr Guppy, and Neville Landless a lot (why Rosa prefers Edwin is the biggest mystery).
Could have been longer, overall; I'm so used to looong Dickens dramas that this felt almost incomplete. Also, the Dickensian sense of humor that one expects is greatly missing. There's some, but very little in-between all the gloom and doom. Given the subject matter, I'm not surprised--it reminds me a little of Martin Chuzzlewit, which is the most depressing one I've seen. Chuzzlewit retains some charm and comedy, however, that doesn't show up much in Edwin Drood.
There is way too much repetition of the strangulation scenes (and in front of the altar, no less). It makes the old Poirot episodes look like light viewing. After a while, I concluded the filmmakers were just being plum lazy at the viewers' expense. They could have shot, or edited-in, 5 extra minutes of footage instead of copying & pasting.
The ending (not written by Dickens) was very well-done, and I must say I didn't completely see it coming. It really felt like his style.
The Mystery of Edwin Drood is not quite up to par with Bleak House (either version) and Little Dorrit (2008), though I can see they were striving for that and did match it in certain aspects (e.g. cinematography, casting). Edwin Drood is a bit too depressingly realistic; there's no hint of how such a crime could have been prevented...doubtless, Jasper would have found a way to get drugs, even if opium and laudanum had been illegal in Victorian England. I guess this story (or adaptation?) reminded me more of Thomas Hardy than Dickens, which could be a positive or a negative. Going back to Martin Chuzzlewit--as my mom pointed out, the crime in Chuzzlewit originates from greed. In Edwin Drood, it's the product of a sick, hatred-obsessed mind, which is the main reason this story comes across as darker.
After watching this, I couldn't help but see the following similarity with The Phantom of the Opera:
Edwin = Raoul = spoiled rich kid with good intentions
Rosa = Christine = naive girl
Jasper = Erik = obsessed creepy sneaky old guy with musical talent
Bazzard = The Persian = smart guy who solves the mystery
I rate The Mystery of Edwin Drood (2012) 4 out of 5 stars, but I can't say it is one that I'd rewatch in the foreseeable future.
It was slightly better than I expected (I have not read the book, by the way). Most of the good characters are pretty likeable. All throughout the movie, I kept thinking "Bushy sideburns...neither Edwin nor Jasper looks like a leading man, but at least their hairstyles are accurate!". Many familiar actors/actresses, some from other Dickens adaptations. Nice cinematography. Decent pacing, if a little too choppy. I liked Bazzard, the bored secretary/nice version of Mr Guppy, and Neville Landless a lot (why Rosa prefers Edwin is the biggest mystery).
Could have been longer, overall; I'm so used to looong Dickens dramas that this felt almost incomplete. Also, the Dickensian sense of humor that one expects is greatly missing. There's some, but very little in-between all the gloom and doom. Given the subject matter, I'm not surprised--it reminds me a little of Martin Chuzzlewit, which is the most depressing one I've seen. Chuzzlewit retains some charm and comedy, however, that doesn't show up much in Edwin Drood.
There is way too much repetition of the strangulation scenes (and in front of the altar, no less). It makes the old Poirot episodes look like light viewing. After a while, I concluded the filmmakers were just being plum lazy at the viewers' expense. They could have shot, or edited-in, 5 extra minutes of footage instead of copying & pasting.
The ending (not written by Dickens) was very well-done, and I must say I didn't completely see it coming. It really felt like his style.
The Mystery of Edwin Drood is not quite up to par with Bleak House (either version) and Little Dorrit (2008), though I can see they were striving for that and did match it in certain aspects (e.g. cinematography, casting). Edwin Drood is a bit too depressingly realistic; there's no hint of how such a crime could have been prevented...doubtless, Jasper would have found a way to get drugs, even if opium and laudanum had been illegal in Victorian England. I guess this story (or adaptation?) reminded me more of Thomas Hardy than Dickens, which could be a positive or a negative. Going back to Martin Chuzzlewit--as my mom pointed out, the crime in Chuzzlewit originates from greed. In Edwin Drood, it's the product of a sick, hatred-obsessed mind, which is the main reason this story comes across as darker.
Thursday, 2 August 2012
I feel like such a poser. :P My nail-biting habit has always been, shall we say, more consistent than my use of nail polish. I've had this habit for as long as I can remember, so if you know me, you know I have short and scruffy fingernails, almost like Frodo Baggins's. However, I am trying (once more) to rid myself of this habit...ideally, my nails would be short and neat (long nails are uncomfortable for me). Now that my nails have grown back a little, I also want to find a good, neutral nail polish that I can wear everyday (which might also help break my habit).
evil potion $1 Essence Colour & Go, in #44 'Modern Romance'. My mom and I used to buy good nail polish at the dollar store, and I thought this would be fine. BIG mistake. Maybe I just got a lemon, but this stuff dries so fast you don't have time to even-out the streaks, and the result is pretty hideous. After hours of trying to make it work, I realized it was just not worth it.
So, I decided to try the brand everyone online raves about: Essie (not to be confused with Essence). Spending $8 on nail polish seemed criminally extravagant; still, I had a new horror of buying cheap. I went with #080, a color called "Imported Bubbly"; according to the label, it's made right here in the USA.
Fortunately, this turned out well! This nail polish is easy to apply evenly and the brush strokes don't stand out in a bad way. It is a bit shinier than I expected, and I prefer 1-2 thin coats instead of thick layers. This color is not quite what I was looking for, but it's definitely a keeper. It doesn't take much, either, so I think this will last me a looong time, making the price a lot more reasonable.
Stay tuned for more adventures of a (hopefully former) nail-biting addict. (By the way, is this not the coolest nail polish job ever?! Though I'm a little hesitant about the safety of newspaper ink...?)
So, I decided to try the brand everyone online raves about: Essie (not to be confused with Essence). Spending $8 on nail polish seemed criminally extravagant; still, I had a new horror of buying cheap. I went with #080, a color called "Imported Bubbly"; according to the label, it's made right here in the USA.
Fortunately, this turned out well! This nail polish is easy to apply evenly and the brush strokes don't stand out in a bad way. It is a bit shinier than I expected, and I prefer 1-2 thin coats instead of thick layers. This color is not quite what I was looking for, but it's definitely a keeper. It doesn't take much, either, so I think this will last me a looong time, making the price a lot more reasonable.
Stay tuned for more adventures of a (hopefully former) nail-biting addict. (By the way, is this not the coolest nail polish job ever?! Though I'm a little hesitant about the safety of newspaper ink...?)
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
{I couldn't find a trailer, but there's a 10-minute intro here.}
For book-firsters and fans, it's impossible not to compare this 1997 adaptation with the 1940 Hitchcock classic. I have one gripe with the 1940 version, and that is the very big liberty he took in changing the climax, in such a way that changed the whole nature of the story. I like the book, so that was kind of a big deal to me and one reason I was interested in seeing the "new" version, which sticks closely to the book.
The plot is very simple: anonymous shy girl meets rich older guy--Maxim de Winter--and, on the spur of the moment, they get married to live happily-ever-after at his English estate, Manderley. Enter brooding housekeeper Mrs Danvers, who only adds to the young lady's fears that she can never be as beautiful, accomplished, and upper-crust as Max's first, deceased wife, Rebecca. Rebecca had died in a boating accident, and Max continues to be grieved by memories of her. His new wife, meanwhile, tries her hardest to emulate Rebecca, but things only go downhill from there...
I give this movie 3 out of 5 stars. The book, by Daphne du Maurier, is a brilliantly chilling, heavily psychological ghost story, yet very understated. It's a difficult story to film, I'm sure. Rebecca (1997), while an imperfect adaptation, is a costume drama I'd watch again.
The first thing we noticed while watching this was the music--wow! Composer Christopher Gunning has also written music for Middlemarch and Poirot; you can hear a very short clip of "Rebecca" here, but it doesn't do it justice at all. The theme totally sets the mood for the (moody) plot of Rebecca.
Another thing I loved was the settings/costumes. We guesstimated this takes place in the 20s/early Inter-War Period (the exact year may or may not be mentioned, I forget). Expect to see plenty of cute/interesting/bizarre 20s fashion, and classic cars, and dreamy English countryside.
Casting...oh dear, oh dear.
Geraldine James was very good as the heroine, but less awkward/naive than either the book or Joan Fontaine's portrayal. Maybe she is supposed to be easier to relate to?
Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers was creepy. I don't remember book!MrsDanvers very well, so I can't say anything about accuracy. I seem to think that Mrs Danvers' creepiness is supposed to be more a figment of the heroine's perspective than anything else...time for a reread? In any case, I don't remember Mrs Danvers like a vampire sneaking up on people (I mean, really!).
Charles Dance is an excellent actor. He was brilliant in Bleak House and he's my dream casting for Professor Moriarty (it's a compliment!). However, he is simply miscast as Maxim de Winter. I like a good romance story, including a May-December one, but Max in this version is more grandfatherly than fatherly in age, and he doesn't look like a young fifty-something year-old, either. On top of that, the filmmakers decided to portray him with alarming mood swings, and altogether he comes across as a little bit psycho. Like Mrs Danvers, he makes the viewer feel uncomfortable. Yes, he is more gothic...no, he is not the charming (if melancholy) Max from the book.
This is a key problem. If we don't like Max (and I tried), then the story fails. His charisma is supposed to glue the story together; you are supposed to like him. He is supposed to make you care about Manderley, ask questions about Rebecca, and trust him. Unfortunately, I got tired of him, and for a while the heroine did, too (not good!).
Now, I did like being able to see/hear Rebecca. In fact, I wish she had had more of a role. While some viewers don't like her presence at all, I think that, sort of ironically, it makes sense for her to appear on screen.
Content-wise, there was a scene of violence (strangulation) that was not in the book.
Apart from that, the plot was very loyal to the book. And I really loved the ending in this version (not the very ending, but the "ending" before that). Without mentioning spoilers, I think this is one scene that benefits greatly from CGI--it's quite magnificently dramatic.
Some thoughts on the story itself (spoilery, in white): When Max finds out that Rebecca would have died of cancer in any case--is it supposed to be ironic and depressing, or is it supposed to help him feel he was meting out poetic justice? Also, I did not like the heroine's happy resignation at the end, in this version. I felt, in the book, she was more stunned/horrified by it all, by Max, even.
In summary...I'd recommend this version, overall. It is more-or-less plot-accurate and truer to the spirit of the book. The 1940 version is closer in its portrayal of characters/relationships. Watch them both!
For book-firsters and fans, it's impossible not to compare this 1997 adaptation with the 1940 Hitchcock classic. I have one gripe with the 1940 version, and that is the very big liberty he took in changing the climax, in such a way that changed the whole nature of the story. I like the book, so that was kind of a big deal to me and one reason I was interested in seeing the "new" version, which sticks closely to the book.
The plot is very simple: anonymous shy girl meets rich older guy--Maxim de Winter--and, on the spur of the moment, they get married to live happily-ever-after at his English estate, Manderley. Enter brooding housekeeper Mrs Danvers, who only adds to the young lady's fears that she can never be as beautiful, accomplished, and upper-crust as Max's first, deceased wife, Rebecca. Rebecca had died in a boating accident, and Max continues to be grieved by memories of her. His new wife, meanwhile, tries her hardest to emulate Rebecca, but things only go downhill from there...
I give this movie 3 out of 5 stars. The book, by Daphne du Maurier, is a brilliantly chilling, heavily psychological ghost story, yet very understated. It's a difficult story to film, I'm sure. Rebecca (1997), while an imperfect adaptation, is a costume drama I'd watch again.
The first thing we noticed while watching this was the music--wow! Composer Christopher Gunning has also written music for Middlemarch and Poirot; you can hear a very short clip of "Rebecca" here, but it doesn't do it justice at all. The theme totally sets the mood for the (moody) plot of Rebecca.
Another thing I loved was the settings/costumes. We guesstimated this takes place in the 20s/early Inter-War Period (the exact year may or may not be mentioned, I forget). Expect to see plenty of cute/interesting/bizarre 20s fashion, and classic cars, and dreamy English countryside.
Casting...oh dear, oh dear.
Geraldine James was very good as the heroine, but less awkward/naive than either the book or Joan Fontaine's portrayal. Maybe she is supposed to be easier to relate to?
Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers was creepy. I don't remember book!MrsDanvers very well, so I can't say anything about accuracy. I seem to think that Mrs Danvers' creepiness is supposed to be more a figment of the heroine's perspective than anything else...time for a reread? In any case, I don't remember Mrs Danvers like a vampire sneaking up on people (I mean, really!).
Charles Dance is an excellent actor. He was brilliant in Bleak House and he's my dream casting for Professor Moriarty (it's a compliment!). However, he is simply miscast as Maxim de Winter. I like a good romance story, including a May-December one, but Max in this version is more grandfatherly than fatherly in age, and he doesn't look like a young fifty-something year-old, either. On top of that, the filmmakers decided to portray him with alarming mood swings, and altogether he comes across as a little bit psycho. Like Mrs Danvers, he makes the viewer feel uncomfortable. Yes, he is more gothic...no, he is not the charming (if melancholy) Max from the book.
This is a key problem. If we don't like Max (and I tried), then the story fails. His charisma is supposed to glue the story together; you are supposed to like him. He is supposed to make you care about Manderley, ask questions about Rebecca, and trust him. Unfortunately, I got tired of him, and for a while the heroine did, too (not good!).
Now, I did like being able to see/hear Rebecca. In fact, I wish she had had more of a role. While some viewers don't like her presence at all, I think that, sort of ironically, it makes sense for her to appear on screen.
Content-wise, there was a scene of violence (strangulation) that was not in the book.
Apart from that, the plot was very loyal to the book. And I really loved the ending in this version (not the very ending, but the "ending" before that). Without mentioning spoilers, I think this is one scene that benefits greatly from CGI--it's quite magnificently dramatic.
Some thoughts on the story itself (spoilery, in white): When Max finds out that Rebecca would have died of cancer in any case--is it supposed to be ironic and depressing, or is it supposed to help him feel he was meting out poetic justice? Also, I did not like the heroine's happy resignation at the end, in this version. I felt, in the book, she was more stunned/horrified by it all, by Max, even.
In summary...I'd recommend this version, overall. It is more-or-less plot-accurate and truer to the spirit of the book. The 1940 version is closer in its portrayal of characters/relationships. Watch them both!
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