Movie Review: Young Adult

Now, I don't usually go to the movies very often, but for some reason I went a lot this year. I've seen a total of five movies in theatres this year--NEW movies, too. I haven't seen that many new movies in theatres since I was a kid. Maybe not even then: come to think of it, this is probably a new record for me. Anyway, a lot of the movies I saw garnered a lot of hype--Black Swan, Harry Potter, 50/50, and Melancholia were all much-talked-about. I liked them all--with Melancholia being the unequivocally best one of the bunch--but none had surprised me quite like Young Adult did.

Young Adult is the second collaboration between screenwriter Diablo Cody and Jason Reitman, their first being Juno. Juno was cute and quirky, occupying a hyperrealistic world of ultra-hip jargon and unconventional romance. Young Adult, on the other hand, ventures into much more sobering (pun intended) territory. The protagonist of Young Adult, Mavis Gary is a recently divorced (and apparently depressed) thirtysomething woman struggling to write the final novel in the young-adult series that she took over as author. While procrastinating, she comes across an invitation to her high school boyfriend's baby's naming ceremony, and after thinking about it all day, she decides to head back to her hometown to win him back.

It's pretty plain that Mavis is destined for failure early on: in her early encounters with Buddy, he's cheerful and kinda hokey, and while she keeps on discussing the past as if things haven't changed, he clearly has changed, accepting responsibility as a husband and father in what seems to be a pretty solid, egalitarian relationship. As much as the laughingstock nerd-turned-confidante in Patton Oswalt's character warns that she is making a big mistake, Mavis continues down into this marriage-destroying mission until it ends in tears--that being her own.

Mavis' reputation as a Queen Bee is evident through her blindly selfish pursuit of her high school sweetheart, and she's pretty mean to just about everyone but Buddy Slade--unless she's pretending to be nice. Yet she's become a pitiful character, slaving over a YA series that she can't even call her own, drinking heavily almost every night and spending her days watching TV (or else getting done up to see Buddy). It's obvious that she is suffering from depression, alcoholism, or (most likely) both. However, no one but Patton Oswalt's character, even her parents (in a telling scene, Mavis admits outright that she's an alcoholic, with her mother only responding "No you're not"--and not in a nice way), recognizes this. As much of a trainwreck her life becomes, it's hard not to hope that she does learn and grow from the experience. In the end it appears that she gets back on her feet--the novel, at least, is finished--but it's otherwise ambiguous.

Young Adult contrasts sharply with Juno, not only in the darker tone and heightened drama, but also in its realism. Music played a minimal role in creating atmosphere, though one song did serve as a crucial forewarning to Mavis sometime during the film. The dialogue is more natural than clever. Images, which are a large part of the film medium, are repeated and emphasized (such as Mavis lying in bed the morning after with a sleeping shirtless guy, unimpressed). The dialogue was very spot-on for real life, and of course the acting was great--especially by Charlize Theron and Patton Oswalt. Buddy and Beth Slade seemed a little too content and cheerful (at least until towards the end), though perhaps they were exaggerating their contentedness on purpose, as some are wont to do in the presence of exes. The scenes leading up to the final one are painful to watch, especially for those sensitive to secondhand embarrassment. Nor does the ending tie itself up nicely. This is not a typical comedy--in fact, it's more of a comedy-drama (or, as I prefer it, a "tragicomedy"). Which was not what I at all expected.

Cody said in an interview with NPR that she had sought to turn several rom-com tropes on their head--and she accomplished just that. For one, it's just a comedy--I did not think of it as a rom-com in the slightest. The romantic arc is more of the subplot to the real story going on, which is Mavis' desperation to return to the time when she was happiest. The possibilities aren't tied up in a neat little knot at the end--instead, they spread out into the imagination of the audience. Naturally, as someone who has filled in the blanks in many a movie in my head countless times, I like ambiguity when it's done right. While I'm generally lukewarm towards Diablo Cody, I think she's outdone herself with Young Adult. Good on all involved, in fact. I give it a 4 out of 5 stars.

"Downtown Owl": the Humor of Small-Town Strangeness

I'm back! More or less...

Back at the Boston Book Festival, I picked up one of Chuck Klosterman's books (not the new one... you think I'm made out of money?): his first novel, Downtown Owl. The title and premise were intriguing. I started reading it over Thanksgiving, and went from enjoying it thoroughly to being very annoyed with it--though the annoyance lay with the characters and their disagreeable thoughts and actions. Really, the residents of Owl are quite a pathetic bunch. Not to mention that the typeface got on my nerves--which was the same one as his new book. (the REAL reason I didn't buy it; take note, Simon & Schuster!)

The novel mainly follows three characters in the months leading up to an apocalyptic blizzard in a small town in North Dakota: a high schooler named Mitch, a novice teacher, Julia; and an old man, Horace. The three never cross paths, nor do they all die in the deadly storm (only two of them do). Each has their own foibles--Mitch's is depression, Julia's alcoholism, and Horace, resignation--and through their circles we get a glimpse of the foibles of the other residents of Owl, which seem to be pretty much the same problems. While the story is delicately strung with humor, the overarching tone of the tale is one of hopelessness. Ironically enough, the only one left with any hope at the end is the old man, whose life is filled with real sorrow and regret. Perhaps this is why I liked him the most: even after all he'd been through, he still managed to go about life, and as much as he might like to die, he has the will (and wit) to live. Oh, and it takes place in 1983-84--though I don't think it makes much of a difference.

I didn't find Downtown Owl to be nearly as over-the-top as I expected it to be; for the most part, it was as realistic as you'd expect a small-town novel to be, for someone who has never lived in such an isolated area. The most fantastic thing was the intensity of the storm, and that it seemed to have been summoned by sociopathic high schooler Cubby Candy before a fight that was discussed so much its occurrence became an inevitability. And it had the humor of despair, a dark and desperate humor that rarely prompts one to laugh out loud (I did a few times). I was faintly reminded of David Foster Wallace, only less eloquent. Most of the narration came from the characters' minds, who often projected their ideas onto other people (Mitch being the most prominent example, with his animosity towards the football coach). Of the three, Julia was the most pathetic character, a woman who hadn't bothered trying to direct herself in life, and naturally wound up stuck in the middle of nowhere.

The last 40 pages, beginning with a brief glimpse into Cubby Candy's perspective, are when Klosterman really shines as a storyteller: in short increments, we learn the fates of Mitch, Julia, and Horace the night of the storm. In fact, I would have preferred that the novel's entire time progression crawled along that slowly--aside from football season, there was no reason not to start in the middle of winter. (plus the football could have been flashbacks--which it mostly was anyway). There's not much time for navel-gazing, and the events are jarring and idiosyncratically depicted. The old man is the only one who makes it out alive, in an ironic twist, but predictable. (As in: having the old man die at the end is predictable, as he's old, so to have him not die would not; and considering that most of the other characters are young, it's even ironic; and considering the ironic nature of much of the novel, it is therefore predictable--however, the predictability of plot-advancing events has no bearing on the quality of this novel)

In spite of that, the story ends with what I can only call a punchline--possibly. It ends with a fake news clipping about the death toll of the storm, focusing on the most prominent victim: a football player nicknamed "Grendel," and Cubby Candy's foe in the fight that had been so exhaustingly discussed throughout Mitch's part of the book. While the other victims are not named, so it's possible that Cubby died, too, it's also possible that he lived--and therefore won the hypothetical matchup between him and Grendel. He literally killed him. Needless to say, I cracked a smile upon that realization.

I was also reminded of Annie Proulx, though not so much in the writing than of the setting and that one story about the steer (or was it a deer?). Try as I might, I kept seeing the men in the bars Julia frequented as cowboys, even though they weren't. While Klosterman's prose is not similar to Proulx's, the similar settings makes Downtown Owl somewhat like a townie version of Close Range, focusing on the township part of isolated Midwestern life--and more depressing.  Oddly, though, I wasn't bored, certainly not as much as the other characters were, perhaps because of my spectator role in their suffering. Anyway, I commend Klosterman for presenting the dull and hopeless side of such a life, and injecting humor into it was in fact a necessity, and not a choice. I'd say.... 3 out of 5 stars. I'm pretty neutral on this one.

Announcement

Reader, for several reasons that I will not get into here, I have not had the time or the energy to create material that can thusly be posted here. Maybe if/when things work out I'll be back in business.

However, I am currently updating two tumblr blogs that can always use suggestions and contributors.

http://musicalmagical.tumblr.com/

http://reviewsashaikus.tumblr.com/

If you're on Tumblr, follow me! Maybe I'll follow you in return. :)

"After the Apocalypse": A Review

One of the books I bought at the Boston Book Fest was a new release from a local publisher of alternative fiction, Small Beer Press: After the Apocalypse by Maureen F. McHugh. Being a relatively short collection of stories, it was manageable with my busy schedule. Stories of the apocalypse--and the aftermath--always intrigue me, if in a morbid way, so I thought I'd enjoy it. And I must say, I've never read any science fiction like it.

The cover art's cool, too.

It's not just that it's short fiction (most of the sci-fi that I've read has been long-form). McHugh's stories focus on a very small social group of humans, whether it's fragments of a family or a group of diffident individuals, affected by a catastrophic event--an apocalypse of sorts, but more along the lines of Junot Diaz's definition in a Boston Review article published earlier this year. Not the kind of apocalypse you'd expect. In the zombie story, "The Naturalist," zombies have been confined to a small area in Ohio, where they send convicts to be punished. In another story, an avian flu epidemic in Asia decimates China's population, creating ripe conditions for capitalist greed to thrive, at the expense of survivors. In another, a dirty bomb goes off in Baltimore, killing countless civilians and triggering a teenager's dissociative personality disorder. Most of the stories take place in the aftermath of such events as a disease epidemic, economic crash, and terrorist attacks. These are only minor compared to the popular definition of apocalypse. In fact, the only story that comes close to such a definition is the title story, caused by a combo of terrorism, economic disaster, and sweeping electrical failures (all exacerbated by a corrupt and inefficient government, no doubt).

Most of the reader's knowledge of these events is confined to the characters, who are all everyday people, so they'd be hard-pressed to know the whole story behind what happened. They're mechanics, factory workers, store managers, and unemployed--the closest one gets to a career typical of the sci-fi genre is an entry-level computer programmer. In this way, McHugh's stories fit the sci-fi elements neatly into a microcosmic realism. Some stories, like the purely realistic "Honeymoon," are barely sci-fi at all, the events and time period only slightly out-of-sync with contemporary reality. The result is stories that are worthy of just about any literary tradition, challenging the conventional view of the sci-fi genre. These characters are among the most developed and diverse I've found in sci-fi, as  characterization in the genre often takes a back seat to concept. These stories are no more unrealistic than any other work of fiction--just because a deadly chicken disease or sweeping southwestern drought haven't happened, doesn't mean they won't. They certainly can happen, under certain circumstances. Needless to say, this realistic element (due in part to the character-driven nature of the stories and no need for world-building) made the stories incredibly moving and engaging, and I wished some of them were longer. "Special Economics" had nice pacing for the most part, then rushed through the plot towards the end, and I wanted to see more of what happened in "Going to France" (like, why were the flying people going to France, of all places?). Of course, not all the stories charmed me so. A couple of the stories, like "Kingdom of the Blind," got bogged down in nebulous technical jargon that strained my comprehension of the plot, and distracted me from the story. McHugh is sometimes gratuitous with exposition and character description in a way most good writers are not, baldly inserting brief character descriptions that disrupt the flow of the narrative. The averageness of the characters made them interesting, but frustrating for someone who's more interested in their world than they are. Still, I kept reading, interested in the circumstances and how it would all end. Hell, I even cared about some of the characters.

Though there probably should have been at least one other proofreader looking at it, since I found a few embarrassing errors in the text. But since the book's coming from a small indie publisher, it's an unfortunate side-effect of a small budget. Some of the stories I was hard-pressed to define as "apocalyptic"--though it's not just the end of the world. The most literary moment in the collection occurs in the last story, with a July's People-style conclusion. It also sums up all the preceding stories, too, in a way. These characters seek freedom from their suffering, like we all do; it's just that their circumstances compel them to take it up a notch. And that's how fiction makes life more interesting. The apocalypse, whatever its shape or form, is brought to us, as real as any 9/11-style disaster. And as profound.

Overall, I give it 3.5 out of 5 stars, with my favorite stories being "Special Economics," "Useless Things," "The Effect of Centrifugal Forces," and "After the Apocalypse."

Are Books For Hipsters?



This past weekend, I attended the Boston Book Festival, where writers, readers, and thinkers of all most stripes could convene and share thoughts and ideas; learn more about local bookstores, publishers, and nonprofits; and get free stuff. I left the festival with enough reading material to last me at least a month, plenty of free shit, and a lighter wallet. It was a great day, and I had a pretty good time.

But, I noticed something I had noticed at a different event last month (that being a Primus concert). But for some reason I'd never really noticed before.

Man, are these people white.

Courtesy of Hot Guys Reading Books

At the BBF, there were some Asians (both east and south), and maybe a couple black people. All of the presenters at the panels I attended were white (though some people of color presented at other events). And it wasn't just the whiteness that took my notice. It was the similarities between these people that you could identify what type of reader they were. Nonfictioners dressed conservatively, passing for mainstream professionals dressed casual, but not too casual. Most were probably older than 30, and made good money. Younger nonfiction readers (whom I saw plenty of in the line to Chuck Klosterman's book signing) were textbook hipsters, though many could pass for normal on a liberal-arts college campus. Klosterman himself looks kinda like that. I didn't really notice a significant male-female ratio disparity, but plenty of the younger guys had beards. Hipsters cross over into fiction, their favored genre being literary fiction. I'm kinda glad I didn't go to the Jennifer Egan panel (though I do want to read her book), because that was probably overrun with hipsters. There are also nerdy readers, who dress unconsciously and often sport facial imperfections; you find them more often in science-fiction and fantasy circles. There's also the artsy nerds, who pierce their bodies and dye their hair and wear black, and maybe cosplay (if they're more nerdy). These folks were at the graphic novel panel, and maybe at the Steampunk one, too. As for the other people over 30, they basically looked like regular people or professors (or regular professors). Maybe a smattering of artsy or nerdy--I imagine that most people tone down their look as they get older. One thing was for sure: a person wearing Abercrombie and Fitch or (Science forbid) Ecko would look out of place in this crowd.

The predictable makeup of this book-buying demogrphic speaks to the current limits of the written word--or at least, the marketing of it. Plenty of people of color write thought-provoking books, so why weren't more of them featured? Did the organizers of BBF realize they were inviting a whole lot more white people--or maybe other nonwhites theyasked were busy that weekend. Is it really just a symptom of a greater issue in publishing, where whites get all the attention?

I think it speaks to an even greater issue: education. The BBF is a showcase for writers and intellectuals, most of whom have at least a Master's Degree, and have little to no recognition among mainstream readers. Romance, thrillers, horror, and other trashy genres are not represented here. However, these genres (as well as YA, which actually has a place in "higher" literature) are the books most people read, and pay for the more intellectual and artistic ventures. In this way, higher literature is more of a subculture, with a small, concentrated demographic. Just like any other subculture, they adopt a certain way of dressing and talking to identify themselves. These people graduated from liberal arts colleges (or that part of the university), work in academia or publishing, vote Democrat, and hold corresponding liberal views. Obviously, there's a lot of overlap with the hipster population. Though I think the lack of radicals was because they're all at Occupy Boston.

So why are books largely considered to be the realm of the educated? Well, it takes education to read, and more to make sense out of what you read. It takes even more to talk about it in a reasonable, rational manner with others. And the thing is, most people don't get that education, whether it's because they're poor, received little encouragement at home, or are otherwise dissuaded from reading (eg. favoring the instant gratification of TV and video games over books). Most of the BBF attendees were of European or Asian descent, races that are often better-educated than blacks, (and so goes the earning potential) and liberal because, well, we're all smart, and truth has a "well-known liberal bias". Whites, moreso than other races, are encouraged to "follow their dreams," and therefore are more likely to pursue unlucrative artistic careers like writing. (disclosure: this is from personal experience only) Whites also make up the majority of faculty members at many univerisities.

This, of course, all boils down to economics: whites make up the majority of rich people in the US, and therefore are more educated, because they go to better schools and can afford a good college, and therefore are more likely to read for fun. The unfortunate effect is that reading is becoming an elitist activity, especially as the gap between the rich and poor widens, after-school programs get cut, and public libraries closed down. As they say, knowledge is power, and if knowledge becomes less accessible, the possessors of said knowledge grow more powerful. While I doubt that this avid book-reading demographic's going to take over America (money is more powerful), we have to get people interested in reading and writing again, if only to harness untapped critical thinking skills and open people's eyes to the injustices committed towards them and their community every day. Then we can make a change.

So, back to the original question: are books for hipsters? Yes. And everyone else, too.(There's way more non-hipster books out there, trust me) Literature has something for everyone, if you look hard enough.

The Peculiar Whimsy of Bender's Lemon Cake

Aimee Bender is another author that caught my interest back in college, when I was first exposed to her work. Her particular style of magic realism, blending in otherworldly concepts with an otherwise straight-up vanilla (literally) realist narrative, stood out amongst a sea of orthodox, straight realism that is acclaimed by the literary elite. As someone who is fond of the strange and fantastical portrayed as everyday life, I snapped up her first story collection, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt, and quite liked it. When I heard last year that she had a new book out, on my reading list it went. Finally, this weekend I got to read it, and though I'm not a fan of the title (I get its significance, but the wording's just awkward), I enjoyed the novel like any other piece of magical prose.

SPOILERS AHEAD

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake follows Rose, the narrator, as she grows up, from when she first tastes her mother's feelings in her ninth-birthday cake to young adulthood, where she ends up as a chef trainee. This talent for tasting feelings in food is more of a curse than a blessing, however, prompting her to avoid not just home-cooked meals, but a sense of intimacy with anyone. This turns out to be somewhat hereditary, as Rose learns later: her father and brother are already presented as avoidant in nature--she has few meaningful interactions with either of them until towards the end--her father never sets foot in hospitals, and her brother eventually succeeds in avoiding all human interaction by disappearing, intermittently at first, then later for good. But there's no judgement on Rose's part whether each person's way of dealing with this curse (of sensing others' thoughts and feelings, somehow) is the "right" way. In fact, she seems just content at last to have a special connection to them. Her relationship with her mother, meanwhile, also gets stronger with time after her brother disappears, though there will never be true understanding: her mother, after all, is still hollow inside, and she, too, would rather hide it than have to confront that feeling.

Like in many of her stories, the magic of the world--the existence of a sort of emotional telepathy that can be sensed through any part of the body--fits into the narrative, a key facet of the whimsical and haunting prose. The moment when Rose catches her brother half-disappeared gave me goosebumps, and though it wasn't scary per se, it was reminiscent of the quietly scary moments one may remember from a dream--or from reading Goosebumps. Perspective gets a little muddled at times, with a younger voice permeating the point-of-view of an older Rose.

Though Lemon Cake is sprinkled with several common nuclear-family tropes--the depressed homemaker mother, prodigies, workaholic dad, to name a few--they grow organically into their own characters, suiting better to this somewhat unusual story. I also kind of felt that the characters should just get over it, or at least go to therapy--it amazed me that the subject of therapy never came up. It seemed like a logical step, like, maybe something's wrong with their head? The affair storyline never really goes anywhere, and I wonder how Rose's mother kept it under wraps for over five years.

Sentences are often short and blunt, characteristic of someone who's not wordy and tends to conceal emotions. It also makes it easier reading--reading over 50 percent of the book on a bus and 5 hours of sleep, I could not slog through dense paragraphs of ornate prose. The story was often sad in a way, too, with self-imposed isolationism and her family's insularity preventing them from finding a way out of their unhappiness, and closing them off from getting to know new people. Rose's brother, for example, only made one friend in school, and seemed content to just stick with the one. He didn't disappear until after they were separated after high school. The psychological drama that unfolds as a result of this curse is subtle, interpreted by the reader through Rose's sparse narration. The nonexistence of quote marks echoed the deliberately self-reflective tone of the novel. These feelings are pretty exemplary of the American psyche: focus on yourself, or the bubble that you live inside of. Rose adapts to her own curse by turning it into a talent, letting go of the secret and letting others in. She may never be truly happy, but no one ever is, right?

Once you read through the first chapter, Rose's story will have you disappearing into her world. This is a story I will remember for a while. I give it 4 out of 5 stars.

Player Piano: A good, old-fashioned Dystopic comedy

The first thing I ever read by Vonnegut was Breakfast of Champions, which I read last year. By then, he had constructed a layered universe whose rabbit hole split into different stories which sometimes spilled into one another.

*as always, SPOILERS!*

  Player Piano, Vonnegut's first novel, predates the universe, and takes place in an alternate version of the 70s or 80s, as someone in the 1950s imagines it. Far enough in the future that it's difficult to foresee, but not so far that no one in the story remembers the present day. In his pessimistic (dystopic, really) vision of this unspecified time in America's future, machines have taken up all manual labor--and more--from humans, leaving the most high-level jobs for the highly intelligent; specifically, managers and engineers, who are put on a pedestal in this American society. For those who don't make the elite, there is only the Reconstruction and Reclamation Corps (nicknamed the "reeks and wrecks") or the army. 

The protagonist is Dr. Paul Proteus, the son of one of the most successful engineers in recent history, and who had once held the highest level in the land (not the presidency--that at this point is a figurehead position). Like all dystopian protagonists, Paul is unhappy, but can't figure out why, until his old friend Ed Finnerty shows up and exposes him to discontented thinking. Proteus' gradual breakaway from his comfortable life at Ilium Works--and eventual revolution--is broken up by snippets of an Arab tourist and the man who shows him around, uncovering stories of other discontented people they meet on their tour. In the end, the revolution fails, and Paul and his co-horts turn themselves in.

  Player Piano is suspenseful, fast-paced, and bitingly humorous, characteristic of many of his novels. I didn't want to stop reading--though I did for other reasons. The fiction he presents us bears an eerie resemblance to today's reality (machines do more than they did 60 years ago; in fact we rely a ton on machines today--though of the digital variety; Vonnegut's machines are more analog) showing how technology transforms society. More people are unable to find jobs in the private sector, since machines do the job they would have had; therefore, the government gives them jobs and keeps them comfortable (with pension, health care, and even pre-bought furniture) to forestall a revolution.

 What is in place is far from the American Dream; instead, the class system is upheld by intelligence aptitude tests; those who don't pass remain in their class. Paul, as the son of a successful engineer, was set from the start. The biggest thing Player Piano didn't take into account was the advancement of women and minorities--their representations in the novel (as housewives and secretaries and simple-minded and invisible) are strictly retro. So today's world is a bit more complicated. Our new service economy favors what is now known as "women's work." Universal Health Care is a good thing. We have a black president. We're afraid of Muslims. But of course it's fiction, not meant to be a prediction.

  Player Piano is a classically dystopian tale,though a lot funnier than your average read. It gets you thinking about men and machines, and whether all progress--especially mechanization and digitalization--is completely a good thing. We lose contact with other human beings, with the earth from which all life comes--can we regain these connections, or is the damage done? Vonnegut's answer, like many dark comedies, is not a hopeful one. I rate 4/5 because of the cartoonish depictions of women and minorities and the trivialization of American Indians (i.e., blatant racism and sexism). Note that I am giving the novel a high rating, however--I am not super-offended (and it was a different time, after all: one can hardly expect a white dude over 25 to be progressive in the 50s).

Album Review: Scurrilous by Protest the Hero

This is my first crack at a music review, so we'll see how this goes... Disclaimer: as much as I would love it, I'm not a musician (nor can I play an instrument, other than my voice--it counts!!!--though I'm sure I could learn if I tried and had the time/energy) so I'm not going into music-y jargon, since I'm only somewhat familiar with it. Scurrilous, the latest record from proggy metal Canadians Protest the Hero, came out in March this year, so it's not super-new. But I wanted to choose something by an established band that came out this year...and as far as recent music goes I've mostly been listening to relative unknowns for the most part this year, so it's one of the only albums that came out in the past six months that I've listened to a few times. Of course, I'll show the unknowns some love later on...I just need to get a feel for this.

Anyway, the opening anthem, "C'est La Vie," is a frenetic, campy, dance up and down the musical ladder, setting the perfect scene for the tone of the rest of the album. I think that one may just be my favorite, though "Tandem," "Dunsel," "Termites," and campy "Sex Tapes" also exemplify the best of Protest the Hero. The rest of the album flows in much the same vein, a fast-paced journey along the frets of the bassist and guitarist. at moments, the bass, often buried beneath the combined melodies of the two guitars, rises to the top of the track with a frenetic slap rhythm. Rody Walker's vocals often stride the line between clean and screams, matching the smooth/grating sliding scale on the accompanying guitarists Tim Millar and Luke Hoskin's riffs. The 80s-hairmetal vocal flourishes that made Fortress's "Sequoia Throne" stand out from more typical breakdown-heavy metalcore that's sprung like daisies in the past five years or so add an even more flavorful layer to Scurrilous than in their debut. While the guitars are solid and often command more attention than the vocalist, like in many metal bands, they don't spill into sprawling solos that some prog bands often do. Scurrilous's often campy lyrics and vocal style, in addition to the fast pacing of the instrumentals, can invoke the cartoonish, and may be suitable for proggers with shorter attention spans. Prog metal for the internet age! like the guitars up and down the frets, Walker's vocals slide back and forth from the smooth clean singing to the more grating screams, with varying degrees in between. Walker's lyrics also help set the band apart, with such comical verses as the following from "Sex Tapes": "The Jonas generation's got rings wrapped 'round their dicks/The whole world waits with patience for one of them boys to slip" In addition to the clever use of rhyme, the lyrics have come comedy aspect to them, making the music more fun than a bummer (but still awesome) and the vocals create the over-the-top theatricality of the lyrical themes. I daresay it's poetic. The best songs, though, slow down and take a breath. Perhaps because I like the occasional clean vocals in heavy music, but when Walker breaks into full-on melodies and the rhythm slows down, I'm ready to sing myself. There are many hallmark signs that a musician has effectively engaged the listener: headbanging, toe-tapping, air-guitaring or -drumming, lip-syncing, or (in certain circumstances) singing or dancing. Protest the Hero makes me want to do all of these things. Their riffs and refrains are catchy as fuck. There is no question that these guys know their shit: the guitars are so fast I imagine that it would be difficult for an amateur to keep up with them. In another comparison to Fortress, Scurrilous sounds better produced and mixed, lending to a higher-quality, better-blended sound (or maybe it was just my shitty copy of Fortress). Because nothing's perfect (example: the guitars can overwhelm the other musical contributors), I give it a nine out of 10 stars: their best album yet.

Freedom Isn't Free...except at the Library

I have to admit, I decided to read Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, this oft-acclaimed novel by an oft-acclaimed author with much prejudice against it. It was this book that caused a kerfuffle in the literary world and sparked conversation about how women writers are not given their due as men are, even though more women are participating in writing programs these days. So, I kind of resented Freedom at first because it's by a dude, and sounded overrated. Another novel about middle-class white people by a middle-class white dude, hooray.

But I heard some positive things about it (or at least Franzen) from my co-workers, so I decided to put my re-reading of the Harry Potter series on hold, and give this book a shot. I was being unfair about not reading it, anyway.

And...it was well-woven web. Franzen can write an artfully crafted sentence, when he tries. Though at over 500 pages and with very lengthy chapters, it was easy to forget what was happening in the first place. Focusing on character development is an admirable achievement, but sometimes the reader can lost in pointless meanderings.

**WARNING: SPOILERS**

The premise is outlined in the first section, "Good Neighbors," in which we're introduced to the central family of the story: Walter, a rabid environmentalist; Patty, a passive-aggressive housewife; Jessica, their "good girl" daughter; and Joey, the spoiled but charming son. Life is mostly good, until their neighbor gets a new beau and Joey moves in with them. His smothering mother is severely upset (compounded by the fact that he's sleeping with the neighbor's daughter, whom she didn't like very much) and Walter practically bursts a blood vessel about it. This results in about five years of estrangement between the parents and son, with very little interaction between them.

But the real story revolves around Walter and Patty's marriage--a love story, of sorts. It appears at first to mostly have been a one-sided thing, with Patty lusting over Walter's best friend Richard (who of course is a musician...almost nothing is sexier) even before they started going out. Of course, they both cheat on Walter one summer by sleeping with each other. Freedom is, above all else, a character study on this couple and how their relationships and personalities change and affect one another as time goes on. This is obvious because the years before they met are confined not even to one chapter each.

At various points throughout the book, I found each main character to be very, very annoying. Walter was annoying because of his bottled-up rage at everybody, and having the hots for his assistant Lalitha (who in turn was annoying because of course she had the hots for him!), Joey was annoying because he was a selfish prick (though he learns the error of his ways), and Richard--the least annoying of the bunch, for he was cool and more honest than his bff (the second-best character)--annoying for giving in to Patty's advances and fucking everything up. Patty was all-around annoying at almost every turn, redeeming herself at the very end--like, the last chapter the end. I did not understand her appeal. So I didn't like any of them. Yet I stuck with these people for 500 pages, I guess the story was compelling enough. Though I wasn't rooting for Walter and Patty to stay together.

But--oh, man, the buts. Perhaps I was just looking for something to hate, but I didn't like how the main women were all typical, except maybe for Patty. And we get to see her as more than just a housewife and ex-basketball player because a good chunk of the story is told in her voice. All the other female characters are fuzzy and flat: we get most of the input about them from the main characters (e.g: thus, Lalitha is the sexy, earnest, hot-for-her-boss assistant archetype we've all seen before). It also irked me that Joey gets more of the spotlight than Jessica--we get his background and perspective, why not hers? Though now that I think of it, a lot of the characters were pretty cookie-cutter (see descriptions above). I also think Lalitha was totally fridged at the 500-page mark to allow for a nice, clean resolution. Yes, I didn't like her much, but I resent plot twists that pop out of nowhere in what is supposed to be "literary" fiction and not pulp chick lit (which is what this book would be if it wasn't so long and meandering and political).

The ending was...cute. Everyone kind of got what they wanted and found their happiness. Which is...again, cute. Perhaps not the feeling Franzen was going for?

Then there's the premises: a failing marriage, cheating, hypocrisy. Plus the freedom thing. We've seen it before in different incarnations. As I read on, I started to think, I'm not the target demographic for this. And I'm definitely not: this novel is more for college-educated adults in their 30s-50s, and grad students who have gotten over their experimentalist phase. Franzen is probably unpretentious, even down-to-earth, if we are to go by his in-depth portrayals of a "modern" American family (that's still white, middle-class, and patriarchal). This perspective is all too familiar to me, which makes the subject matter somewhat tired. Perhaps it's my youth, but I crave fiction that's new and different, in a way.

Which begs the question...why is the title "Freedom"? What does "freedom" have to do with it? There are several allusions to it in the book, mainly when characters are discussing walking away from marriage, plus the phrase "how to live" pops up frequently. As hard to define "freedom" is, it could be applied to just about everything in this novel--and that's the point. The freedom to fuck up and make up? To leave your spouse, your family, and still hope to come back someday? To do what you want? Probably all of the above. Obviously it's meant to provoke thought. But seriously, reading this book gave me realism fatigue. It's the only way to describe it. I don't want to think about this effing book anymore. 3/5 stars. Back to Harry Potter!

*In addition to realism, I will also be taking a break from book reviews for a little while. Maybe I'll put up some reviews about music, movies, or TV. Stay tuned.*

Beauty Queens is not as it Seems

Every once in a while, an avid reader's got to have some fun. Sometimes (say, during the summer) that means picking out a YA book and spend the weekend lounging in the park or on the beach to read it. This makes YA--and other "easy" genre novels--my summer reads of choice. A couple weekends ago (I've been busy OK) I read Beauty Queens, which hit bookstores this past June. The first thing that's obvious in the first few pages: the title and cover are very misleading.

The basic premise is this: a bunch of girls on their way to the ultimate beauty pageant are stranded on a deserted island after their plane crashes. Needless to say, most of them died. Though since this is a comic novel, the dead pageant girls are killed off in the beginning. That may seem like a Lord of the Flies with shallow, narcissistic girls, but it doesn't quite turn out like that. In fact, the surviving girls all band together and create a small, thriving community on the island. But, it turns out that the Corporation (apparently all real-world corporations combined) is operating a secret lair, of sorts, on the island, and is planning to deal the dictator of a small country weapons in exchange for greater market share.

Part of what makes this novel great is its over-the-top portrayal of advertising, celeb-politicians, and what I call "brand-masking" (the practice of making up a sillier version of a real-world product, place, or person, to avoid lawsuits or just for fun). But these are often staples of comic YA entertainment, camp and all. What really stands out about this novel was its fairly diverse range of characters and the thoughtful, progressive ways in which their issues were addressed. All the surviving girls confronted the limitations society imposed on them because of their gender, and they learned to be more tolerant and comfortable with who they are. There was also very little girl-girl rivalry, even when hot TV pirates were introduced.

Plus, each of the nine main characters (in addition to the five supporting girls) experience significant change/growth as people as a result of this experience, each going beyond what they all learned collectively and according to whatever issues/prejudices they came to the island with. Also, they don't all get boyfriends, and are happy with that. This sort of honest and thoughtful inclusion of feminist issues is not very common in YA lit, and it's great to see a novel that goes beyond the mainstream. The climax/ending are Teen-TV silly, but this is a comedy for teens we're talking about here.

That said, this is a perfect novel for a feminist reader in need of beach reads--or even for someone who could use some entertaining enlightenment (perhaps an aspiring beauty queen?). If YA that pokes fun at the very things that target this demographic are your thing, then you'll also enjoy it. I give it a (fairly generous) 4/5.

Invitation to a Beheading, by Vladimir Nabokov: Initial Thoughts

Vladimir Nabokov, a fellow I've written about before, has quite a broad body of work that extends well beyond Lolita. His work, from what I've read, epitomized the transitional period in the 20th century from the modernists like Joyce and Woolf, to the postmodern writers such as Barth and Pynchon. Nabokov's narratives are thoughtful as they are funny and entertaining, hardly containing self-seriousness in spite of of the grim subject matter. This novel, originally released in Russian in the 1930s, doesn't delve into the worlds of academia and American lovestory road trips, but rather very European themes relating to an absurdly oppressive and classist environment.

The person who is to be beheaded, Cincinnatus, is being held in a castle-like fortress for a vaguely defined crime of the mind. His captors refuse to tell him the date of his execution, and they and all the other characters behave in infuriating ways. But this is not realism, nor a fairy tale... the illogical and inconsistent framework of the world lead us to believe that this is perhaps a dream world--hinted at further with references to two Cinncinatuses. Whether or not the "real" Cincinnatus is imprisoned for a "mind crime", real or imaginary, is unclear in a first read-through. Of course, the dream-world theory seems perfectly logical when one thinks of her own dreams--and how, ironically, things that happen in her dreams often occur outside of her dream-self's control--even inexplicable things like your cell neighbor forming a tunnel through your wall and your in-laws lugging in their furniture with them when they visit. The story is realistic in its representation of surrealism.

One could say that Invitation is somewhat of a cross between Alice and Wonderland (with illogical rules believed to be logical by everyone but the protagonist) and The Trial (with its political themes and veiled critique of the justice system--as well as an unnameable crime). Both pre-date Invitation. Like both of these works, Invitation causes some confusion (after all, most of us are used to reading stories in which the worlds depicted follow some set of logical laws) and probably warrants a second read, ismply due to the strangeness of the world portrayed. I can see how this purely surrealistic structure did not garner a lot of popularity, even while the author was well-established by the time it was printed in English. But, as a fan of surrealism, I did enjoy it, and Nabokov's narrative style is never a chore to read. That was what really set it apart from The Trial--Kafka's grimness was often too deadpan for my taste.

The political themes were subtle; obviously, the bogus imprisonment and beheading-as-entertainment were comments on oppressive European regimes (such as Russia) but the story had a quasi-historical air to it (I kept imagining the characters in late-19th-century garb--plus the fortress seemed a helluva lot like a castle). If you read it, read it for its stylistic merits, and check off another book on your Nabokov reading list.

Hidden Gems: All I Wanna Do (aka The Hairy Bird/Strike)

I've found that Gawker's a really good place to find something new. This goes for just about everything: books, music, movies, TV shows...

While the articles on this site amalgamation do talk about these different forms of entertainment, one can find some interesting recommendations in the comments, which are often far better for the researcher of precious pieces of art that fell out of range of the pop-culture radar (or at least, my pop-culture radar) dominant in one's time.

The other day I uncovered such a discovery: a reference to a movie this commenter dubbed "The Hairy Bird." I was intrigued, especially since one of the movie's stars is Kirsten Dunst (an actor I'm rather fond of) and centers around an all-girl's school (a setting that I am at least intrigued by, if I haven't watched a lot of movies/read a lot of books about girls' schools). I immediately searched for it online, under the name of "Strike! (All I Wanna Do)"... and in the title credits it's called "All I Wanna Do"...with a vaguely pubic peach-colored bird prancing around the names in the cartoon opening. Why it goes by so many titles, I'm not sure...and I'm not really a fan of any of them.



The premise: in the 1960s, an all-girl's school is about to go co-ed due to a lack of funds, and several of the girls object to this change. Thus, they plot to thwart the Board's plans, which include making the boys of the school they're to merge with look like their true selves--that is, assholes.

I liked the movie a lot. It's an adventurous girls' school comedy that endorses empowering, testosterone-free havens of learning for girls--and presents that case in a compelling way. While there are a few tropes typical of this kinds of movie (the girls rebel, there's a prissy stuck-up foil who's picked on by the protagonists, and all wrongs are righted in the end, and rather quickly), All I Wanna Do stood out drastically from a lot of the other high school movies I've seen. Not least because female solidarity and sexuality were central themes.

The cast is, naturally, predominantly female, the teenaged girls are horny (even in 1961!) and not ashamed to admit it. The characters also had other interests besides boys, and most had careers in mind for their post-secondary plans. Dunst's character could be labeled the "mean girl;" but her meanness has a different motive. And in the end, she grows and changes--not a comeuppance. Of course, her status as a "mean girl" is more attributable to her role as a clever mischief-maker than as one of the "popular girls." She and the primary protagonist do become friends, after all. The one characterization I had specific issue with was that of Heather Matarazzo's (of Princess Diaries and Welcome to the Dollhouse recognition), who played a girl who obviously suffered from disordered eating, if not bulimia--and the others, who were supposed to be friends, treated it like it was just some weird diet. Granted, they probably didn't know how bad eating disorders really were in the 60s, but a tad bit of sensitivity would have helped. (On the other hand, her roommate, another not-conventially-pretty character, was much more self-confident)

But what truly shines is the dialogue. In addition to the kooky catchphrases like "up your ziggy with a wa-wa brush", the characters express thoughts pertaining to the larger themes of the movie in realistic ways... even if they came off as a little obvious. I had not really thought about how co-education marginalized women for decades because the boys were too often considered the smarter, more capable, and more valuable members of the classroom, as they were the ones who were expected to go to college and have a career. At an all-girl's school, girls were better able to learn because they weren't being ignored. It made me think, and further sympathize with the protagonists. As stuffy as the girls' school was, they were all up against the man--quite literally.

Plus this movie's really funny. I give it four out of five stars for sheer uniqueness and entertainment value!

What the Death of Borders Means to Me

This past week, former bookstore behemoth Borders succumbed to the inevitable and liquidated its remaining assets, i.e., closing the rest of its stores and going out of business. Now, there were a lot of factors that contributed to its demise--a changing literary landscape, widespread digitalization, the rise of Amazon, egregious mismanagement, etc.--that led the majority of the publishing and bookselliing world to conclude that Borders would not last the year. And these factors have been discussed thoroughly by those more knowledgeable than I, who agree that Borders should just die already.

My personal experience with Borders was not a terrible one--far from it. Though hardly as charming as the numerous smaller, intimate indie bookstores in the Boston area (my current place of residence), it retained the mute, cozy presence of bookstores that I do enjoy. And considering that many of its stores were pretty large, it was easy to just spend hours in the store and get tempted to buy any book I found the least bit interesting. In all, Borders didn't particularly stand out from other bookstores, except that it was huger.

But for most of my life thus far, I haven't lived in a town with a lot of bookstores--at least, not many that I knew of. (for my first sixteen years, I was dependent on my parents for transportation and had restricted access to the internet, so I didn't really know about the indie bookstore gems hidden in the 30-mile radius of my hometown) So for much of my childhood and adolescence, there was only the Waldenbooks at the mall, plus the library. Much later, a Barnes & Noble opened. And not too long after that, the Waldenbooks closed. (gee I wonder why?)


Waldenbooks was its own independent bookstore chain for 50 years before it got bought by K-Mart in 1984, then merged with Borders in 1994, and became an entity inseparable from Borders starting in 2004. So for most of the time I went to this Waldenbooks, it was already a part of Borders. I got rather attached to this store, needless to say. In addition to plenty of picks for my hungry young mind to peruse through, this Waldenbooks had an impeccable selection of manga--which was a godsend to me after my former go-to manga shop (and the place where my otaku phase started) closed. Barnes and Noble's manga offerings, by comparison, were pathetic, especially to a fan of shojo manga (they mostly had shonen manga and more adult stuff). (In other old sad news, TokyoPop, the publisher of some of my all-time favorite manga titles, folded this year, as well) Since I'm usually indifferent to salespeople when I already know what I'm looking for, I liked Waldenbooks because I could find what I was looking for, and even find something new that I didn't even know about. There were more than a few times when I walked out of that store with books that I didn't even know existed when I went in. Waldenbooks was my go-to place to spend my gift money--I hardly ever needed to give it a second thought. When I found out that it closed, I was saddened by the loss, indeed. Though at that point I was only living at home part-time, so it wasn't as big of a deal as the anime store closing was.

So, while Borders never really meant much to me, Waldenbooks did. And Waldenbooks was already dead.

As for what the future holds? Ultimately, I'm glad Borders is dead. I hope that this brings in new indie bookstores to neighborhoods that now will no longer harbor the increasingly obscure niche that is a bookstore, people will patronize their local libraries more often, and indie authors, publishers, and booksellers alike will be able to flourish with one less corporation grabbing for their shallow purses. One unfortunate consequence could be that Amazon grows even larger, putting publishers in a stranglehold and overshadowing the intrepid brick-and-mortar booksellers who just can't compete with Amazon's price gauging. I hope that the death of Borders will help to usher in a new era of publishing, as publishers and booksellers rethink their current models more seriously.

In all, I hope Borders will not die in vain.

Photo cred: Culture Tease and the Carnegie Center blog

More Posthumous Praise for David Foster Wallace

The other day at work I had the pleasure of proofreading an anthology of essays by contemporary writers, thinkers, and journalists, which featured two essays by the one and only David Foster Wallace. I also just recently finished reading his essay collection A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. I've written a bit about him before, and I'd like to expand my thoughts to his nonfiction, which bears a lot of similar characteristics to his fiction--albeit less tangential and unorthodoxically structured.

Wallace is one of those writers whom you like more and more as you get more familiar with their particularly peculiar style (like that great guy who's a little rough around the edges, a new bicycle, or prog-rock bands). The first work of his that I read, I liked enough to read more, and after reading three whole books by him (Infinite Jest, Fun Thing, and Interviews), he's become one of my favorite writers. I read Infinite Jest too early to truly enjoy it, as I think I'd like it better now that I'm more accustomed to Wallace's style. Perhaps I will read it, in bits and pieces, again.

But what's much more remarkable about Wallace's writing is his voice. This is most apparent in his essays, as his fiction isn't always third person. The details he gives in both genres are so intricate and yet so strange and striking as to almost be hyperbolic, making the mundane and generally not very interesting (tennis, state fairs, Caribbean cruises, among others) absurd and extraordinary. Wallace's journalistic style is observational and honest to his point of view. He also meanders from topic to topic, though it all underlies the same basic themes of the essay.

One of the numerous praises included in this edition of the book called Wallace, unimaginatively, "smart and funny"...and that really sums up his narrative voice (though the phrase "clever and humorous" better reflects his writing level). Though the more carefully crafted writing voice is not necessarily indicative of an individual's speech abilities, I can imagine that Wallace would be rather a pleasure to converse with--and it makes me all the more sad that I will not be able to meet him, at least in this life (not that I'd ever have the guts to approach an admirable writer at a book signing or whatever).

What's more (and this is what I was originally getting at) is that his writing voice makes him a person who's so--likable. Part of it is the fact that he does not write himself out of the nonfiction story he's telling (very often because he is experiencing the subject), so we get a lot of his perspective. And I found that I could identify with his various thoughts about a given situation, since he reasoned them so well. And I don't agree with Wallace on all things, by all means. He does acknowledge his privileges and shortcomings (though he doesn't feel entirely good about it), and he's nonjudgmental. Wallace occasionally ribs on a strikingly funny character of a person, and certainly expresses pity for and admits an inability to identify with ordinary folks, but does not accuse anyone of anything. Rather, he almost admires these ordinary people who end up in his essays, as he himself feels like a dysfunctional member of society. Though perhaps they could stand to be a bit more thoughtful (not in a condescending way, though).

It's impossible for me to say whether his writing style was indicative of his true self--one would think that such thoughtful prose would only come from the heart of the writer, as it often is. And from some of the posthumous articles I've read about him, it seems as though it does ring true. There's enough to say about David Foster Wallace to make up an entire dissertation (if someone hasn't already, I'm sure they're on it now that his oeuvre is complete), but for the sake of brevity, I'll stop here. If unusual, funny, and absurdist fiction or nonfiction floats your boat, check out his writing!

Anime Review! Kaitou Saint Tail

Finally, I'm writing about something other than books for once!

For the past few weeks, I've been watching this kinda-sorta obscure mid-90s maho no shoujo (magical girl) anime (distributed by the now-defunct Tokyopop). My main motivation for getting into it was because I read (and liked a lot) the manga, but I never got to read how it ended. So, one day I was bored and wanted to watch something new--and hey, why not find out what happened in the manga with the anime? I had even seen the first few episodes of the anime via VHS, and I liked what I saw: excellent animation, cute character design, and a fascinating setup.

***WARNING: SPOILERS***

Saint Tail is basically a romantic comedy, with a magical girl twist: the titular character is a thief who steals from thieves, using her magic to procure the stolen items and return them to their rightful owners. Her alter-ego Meimi's best friend, Seira, helps investigate new cases, and her crush, Asuka Jr., is intent on pursuing St. Tail.

As I soon found out, there was a reason it remained obscure, quite unlike Sailor Moon, Fruits Basket, and Hamtaro--all girl-oriented anime that made it to American TV. Well, it was...kind of...eh.

Though I was drawn in immediately, the excitement that had been slowly building with the introduction of rivals--and raised stakes--plot development petered out after barely ten episodes, and the next ten were basically filler one-shots. After a few of these filler episodes, I grew bored and impatient, anxious to get back to the real story--i.e. episodes that were actually based on the manga. The Sailor Moon also arguably used filler, but more often to an extent that revealed more about characters that we don't get to know so well in the manga. Some of my favorite episodes in the Sailor Moon anime are episodes that focus on the other Sailor Scouts. I did enjoy some of the filler in Saint Tail, but it was basically the same formula for each episode: there's the initial setup at school that's at least vaguely related to whatever's been stolen, someone comes to Seira with a theft sob-story, Meimi sends Asuka Jr. a calling card, turns into Saint Tail, and successfully steals the item in question. Sometimes Asuka Jr. almost catches her, and sometimes not. Oh, and the bad guy always gets caught. The just-world fallacy that's so pervasive in kids' TV is all over this anime.

But...it's not just the filler. Not just some, but ALL of the characters are woefully underdeveloped. Even Meimi! One could argue that she does developing, "growing out" of Saint Tail and realizing that Asuka Jr. is the most important thing to her (this is a fantasy romantic comedy after all), but we learn hardly anything else about her, other than her magical and athletic talents. Asuka Jr. is smart and wants to be a detective, Seira is a nun-in-training (because, I think, she starting having "sinful" thoughts about one of her female classmates...).

And when things start getting intense (like in the last few episodes), the tension drops too soon. Like in the end. A couple of real thieves who can use magic too show up...then in the end they just, like, leave! WTF??? The stakes get raised, but not high enough! I want my anime to be EXCITING!!! The will-they-won't they bullshit (even will-he-catch-her) gets OLD after a while! And everything was wrapped up too nicely, too quickly, along with a terribly short epilogue. A note to storytellers of all nationalities: epilogues are no good if everyone already knows the answers to the "questions" you "answer" about the main characters' futures. (ahem, JK Rowling...) You don't need to spell it out for us.

In summation, this anime had so much potential...almost Batman potential, with its own set of recurring villains, a mysterious past (we never find out when or why Meimi became Saint Tail), and a tense love story. But the anime either focused too much on the love story, or really nothing at all, and it left me wanting something better. Sadly, I am no longer as fond of Saint Tail as I was in my teens. All style, not much substance, unfortunately. I'll give it a generous 6.5 out of 10. Watch Cardcaptor Sakura instead.

ETA: I originally had an image to go with the post, but some mofo copyright police keeps taking down the ones I use! BUZZKILLS! So I've given up. Just google it if you want pix.

Parable of the Talents: An Analysis/Review

Parable of the Talents, by Octavia Butler, is probably a science fiction novel that you haven't heard of. I hadn't heard of Butler myself until about a year or so ago, and sadly have never read any of her work until now. Alas, many of my favorite writers are dead and gone. Butler, unlike a lot of mainstream sci-fi writers, features a more racially and sexually cast of characters in her stories, and brings up themes critical of the patriarchal establishment. Obviously I was excited to finally read one of her works...and it certainly didn't disappoint.

While I didn't get around to reading the first book (Parable of the Sower), I could follow the story rather well without much background information on the characters and plot. It stands great on its own.

Talents continues the story of Lauren Olamina, who by championing a new religion, Earthseed, is a preacher and a prophet. Unfortunately, as she gathers allies and followers, the fundamentalist Christian cult Christian America rises to power, perpetuating the fear and chaos that has spread throughout the nation. At some point she and her people who live in the humble, isolated community of Acorn are ambushed by these extremists, forcing Olamina into her toughest ordeal yet.

Talents contains a lot of the science fiction elements that I love: dystopia, a hope for extrasolar space travel, strong female characters, and of course, a great story. I read the book in a week. It's a different kind of page-turner from YA--being an adult book, the plot is more grim and the subject matter presented more thoughtfully--but I wanted to keep reading to get to know about the characters and the world they live in.

One of the biggest challenges for sci-fi writers is to present a plausible reality and continuous relevance--and Butler did that magnificently. Butler, like all good dystopian writers, constructed a future that in 1997 seemed all too likely, and that even today could still be our future. Unlike many others, however, Butler presents a "solution", as she called it, should this future become real.

But, there's a lot more to the story than plot. First, the novel's presented in fragments, most of which come from Olamina's journals. The other parts come from her brother, her husband, and her daughter. Though Olamina is a sympathetic character, her dedication to Earthseed is not seen in a very positive light by those closest to her...and her daughter. I sympathized with all of them, considering their various ordeals, but I wanted them to understand Olamina, who, while she was not perfect, was only doing what she thought would advance the human race, what would fulfill her own sense of duty, even if they felt she was wrong. Butler shows how a person working for the greater good may not be seen as so good by her philosophy, a three-dimensional perspective that reflects the complex themes of the novel.

Another aspect of Talents that I enjoyed is the introduction of the notion of a "successor" to Christianity, Islam, etc. As strong as these religions are now, a new, upstart religion could emerge and--with time--overtake them all and become the new most-practiced religion. Christianity and even Judaism were not around for all of humanity, after all. The fact that there is only a god of change makes this religion unique, and ties itself much more nicely with reality than Scientology, another sci-fi religion. Instead of being good in hopes of a rewarding afterlife, Earthseed advocates space travel as a common goal that humanity can strive for, uniting communities and fostering positive change. Butler presents a vision of the future that may be unattainable, but it's nice to think that no matter how tough it gets, the human race will come together, and they themselves will create Paradise on Earth.

Due to its exciting, engaging, and thoughtful approach to character and theme that extends beyond plot progression, Talents is one of the best books of its kind that I have read so far. I recommend it to anyone that wants to read some smart sci-fi that deviates from the norm.

Mockingjay, and the Disappointment of Hurried Good-byes

OK, I finished the Hunger Games trilogy about a month ago (I read Catching Fire and Mockingjay in quick succession). I won't say much about Catching Fire, but like many second-installments, it was better than the first. I loved all the new characters, the new revelations about Haymitch (one of my fave characters), it was just as fast-paced and exciting as the first, and the ending blew me away.

***WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD***

My main gripes came with Mockingjay. Unlike the first two installments, the pacing really slowed down. The entire first part was Katniss hanging out in the underground metropolis of District 13. When it was time to go to the Capitol, I got really into it. The blurring of the lines between the "good" guys and "bad" was also really interesting, and not something you see very often in sci-fi/fantasy stories. Though that perspective brought about some depressing rumination towards the end of the novel... which is where my problems begin.

While I wasn't expecting everyone to live (though I figured Katniss, Gale, and Peeta would live, cuz if one of them died, the love triangle would be too easy to resolve), some deaths I found particularly upsetting in their abruptness: namely, Prim, the whole reason Katniss entered the Hunger Games--and set the entire trilogy in motion--in the first place. The suddenness of it all was like when Fred was killed off in Deathly Hallows, only times 1000. Prim was reduced to a mere plot device in her death, to ultimately challenge Katniss to find the strength to keep on living. I know killing in war is senseless, everyone's a potential casualty, blah-blah-blah, but I felt that was needlessly cruel of Collins to do that, when there wasn't much of a reason for Prim to even be on the front lines in the first place. After all they've been through...you hurt them (physically and emotionally) even more?

That was the main thing. This also happens with less than like 50 pages in the book left to go...and we're at the lowest point. The rest seems kind of rushed, especially once Katniss kills the next president-to-be, Coin. There's a pervasive sense of hopelessness that drags itself throughout the rest of the book, even when we fast-forward through the recovery and reconstruction period and find Katniss settled down with Peeta. Someone pointed out that these last few chapters could have been a whole other book in itself, noting that these very important events were hastily rushed through. Guess that's why JK Rowling killed off Dumbledore in the sixth book... And hey, I wouldn't have minded a fourth one, getting to spend a couple hundred more pages with these characters.

But my main disappointment I guess is with the--er--bittersweet ending. In series where the stakes are so high it's almost impossible to see how one can overcome them, there's often sadness and tragedy. But this ending...was such...a downer. There was all this existentialist musing about how whether humankind should even really be allowed to continue existing, given all the destruction they give each other and the environment. Yet they keep on living...why again? Because the instinct to live is more powerful than the compulsion to kill yourself off?

Also--and this was something I wondered throughout the entire series--is everyone just ignorant, or is Panem really the only country left? Did all the other humans on the planet really get killed off some point in the past? Five-six billion of them? Really? I'm just going to go with ignorance--it's not like Katniss and co. really learned anything in school other than the basics of reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic in addition to the Capitol's propaganda. I sense a brief foray into fanfiction coming on...

But all in all, I enjoyed the series, and like to analyze it almost as much. The series definitely warrants a second read-through...however, I should read some other stuff for a while.

The Allure of Astrophysics

I studied writing, literature, and publishing in college, so I didn't get a whole lot of exposure to math and the hard sciences. The closest I came was the biological and chemistry aspects of environmental science and measurements made in a print-media design class. And I didn't mind so much--math and science weren't boring, but their formulaic consistency (especially as they got more complex) depicts a false representation of a constantly changing world. Could the earth itself ever be as predictable as the sine of 9?

But there's something about astronomy--and physics in relation to astronomy--that always intrigued me. Maybe it was my childhood obsession with Sailor Moon (a pop-culture phenomenon that I am dying to talk about, just waiting for the right time), or the lyrics in some metal songs that refer to astrophysical phenomena, but the planets and outer space, and space-time, have held my interest. Not enough to deter me from my more--er, creative--passions, but present nonetheless. And it's just one of the reasons why this blog can often appear unfocused: my mind is a multi-faceted prism of thoughts, interests, and ideas, so it's difficult to single out any one passion without outright rejecting the others.

Today I got to look through an actual astrophysics textbook (it's my job for the summer), and I wanted to sit down and READ it. At least attempt to make sense of all the formulas and diagrams permeating the book. I am far from incapable of understanding the complexities of astrophysics--last year I read an article by Stephen Hawking, and could follow it quite closely. I want to read more, but it can be hard coming across a relevant article when I lurk around unrelated websites.

I think the primary allure is that of the more neglected portion of my brain, if that's really how mental tasks are divided up. I always think through my writing applying logic and considering certain scenarios--more of a pragmatist than your average fiction writer, perhaps. It's also easier for me to understand astrophysics than other sciences, which I'm less well-versed in: computer science, for example. I know how to work MS Office and Adobe, but I don't really care too much what makes them work (well, maybe a little).

It can be disconcerting (at the very least) to be thinking about the vastness of the universe, and mind-boggling to think about how light perception is not objective, but subjective, and how time and space are interrelated. At the same time I like thinking about it when the subject comes up. It's fascinating to explore these mysteries, and I am totally behind those who do it for a living. Perhaps it's just an intersection between logic and intellectual spirituality.

The thing is, while the universe is fucking awesome and all, I tend to want to focus on stuff that's happening here on earth--and incredible entity in and of itself. And though scientists may have found a planet truly capable of housing life, we got to take care of this one.

Photo credit: Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics. Another cool thing about space: it makes amazing art.

Critical Response Archive: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men

And now finally, just in time for graduation, the final critical response from my postmodernism independent study, featuring one of my all-time fave writers, David Foster Wallace!

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The subject matter of David Foster Wallace’s short story collection Brief Interviews With Hideous Men is nothing new (relationships between straight men and straight women), nor is the dominating perspective (ostensibly white middle-class men). However, the experimental style of Wallace’s prose breathes new life into tired themes and perspectives, taking postmodernist literature to the next stage in its evolution. As a successor to the likes of Robert Coover, Vladimir Nabokov, and John Barth, David Foster Wallace is a natural heir, building upon such techniques as the non-linear linear tale (several stories are annotated tangentially a la Pale Fire), authorial presence and involvement, meta-fiction, and a dry and detached sense of humor. In some cases Wallace literally extends these postmodernist ideas, with long multi-clause sentences and footnotes, keeping the reader from getting too lost in the story and paying attention to his rather exhausting structure of lengthy-but-spare paragraphs and complete sentences. By synthesizing and building upon the style of the canonical postmodernist writers, Wallace continues their legacy and brings postmodernism to contemporary times.

The most striking thing about Brief Interviews is the non-linearity of the arrangement of the stories, and the interviews of the title story. None of the interviews printed in the book are arranged in a particularly numerical or chronological order, nor are the numbers consecutive. It’s clear that these interviews are the only ones “selected” for publication, since not all of these interviews are featured. These interviews are scattered throughout the text, divided into four parts, fragmenting them. This was definitely intentional, perhaps only for the superficial reason that the particular style of “Brief Interviews” may get tiresome for the reader or because they went on too long. A variant example of this fragmentation is “Octet,” which in fact has only five sections, and the fifth discusses how the eight sections became four among the other facets of the formulation of the story. “Octet” most obviously contains the classic characteristics of postmodernism, referring to itself, explaining itself, describing how its existence as a story came about, disregarding the conventional notions of character and plot altogether. “Adult World (II)” in fact disregards all formal pretense in its structure, reduced to a mere outline of the plot and character developments. Since it’s such a radical change from the preceding story, one might think that Wallace deliberately changed the tone to avoid and flout convention.

Wallace exhibits the detachment from his characters peculiar to postmodernist writers in a new way, writing of them as an unattached observer, with so much focus on detail that people and plot are all but forgotten. He utilizes this technique in “The Depressed Person” (who is referred to as that throughout the story), “Death Is Not the End,” and “Suicide as a Sort of Present.” The observational (though not usually objective) and often scientific language of these and many of the other stories cultivates the humor that pervades within them. In spite of the tragedies many of these characters endure, the reader can laugh due to the absurdly detailed and matter-of-fact voice of the narrator. Of course, the reader feels sorry for these characters, who often come off as victims of their own circumstances or pawns of plot, but in an abstract and distant way. Even the narrators who are an obvious part of the story (as in “Brief Interviews” and “On His Deathbed, Holding Your Hand”) reveal this sort of detachment from the characters they’re interacting with, due in part to their roles as listeners rather than speakers.

Wallace’s satirical and long-winded prose has evolved obviously from the postmodernist writers of the 60s, and his observational narrative style a more modern adaptation of their detachment from their subjects. He took postmodernist literature to new lengths, showing that even a movement that had become old hat could be revitalized and made anew in the face of a new century. After all, literature, like all art forms, always has room to evolve.

Critical Response Archive: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

As more experimental literature entered the literary world, the question of what could be classified as “postmodern” had to be asked when examining these texts. While a novel could be experimental, it did not necessarily make it postmodernist. Jeanette Winterson’s novel Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is one of those novels that some would consider to not belong in the post-modern canon, for though she does some rule-breaking and experimenting that include stories-within-stories and unreal moments in the novel, it’s not so radically deviant from convention like the works of John Barth, William Burroughs, and Donald Barthelme. Yet one could argue that Oranges is postmodern, just in a different way from those canonical authors—after all, postmodernism is a flexible movement.

The most obvious element of experimentation, and the nature of its post-modernism, is the fact that much of the novel could very well be directly lifted from events that happened in her real life, and are nakedly so. Like Winterson, the narrator’s first name is Jeanette, she was adopted by Pentecostal evangelists, trained to become a minister, and she is a lesbian, among other autobiographical similarities. One begins to wonder how much truth lies behind the story—it could all be true, or it could be false; the reader doesn’t know enough about Winterson to draw any conclusions. Since it was published as a novel, one must accept it as fiction, with some facts and a grain of truth behind it. This is quite a contrast to the traditional memoir, which one reads expecting all the events that take place to have actually happened, when they might be exaggerated or even untrue.

And though the novel is basically a straightforward bildungsroman about her coming out and her relationship with her mother (framed within her coming out), there are some peculiarities about the prose—not just her unique writing style—that set it apart from typical autobiographical novels. For one, there are abrupt transitions from one scene to the next, big moments are interrupted tangentially, and in between we have lengthy metaphorical or direct real-world commentaries—an entire chapter, “Deuteronomy”, follows this vein. Images of such things as oranges and demons that would only appear in a carefully constructed reality constantly pop up, instead of being camouflaged in realism, glaringly symbolic of Jeanette’s conflicted identity. One character that pops up only in times of distress is her orange demon, and though this pebble that he gives her exists in the real world, the reader wonders if the demon is real or a hallucination—after all, nobody else could see him. It calls into question the realism of visions: as Jeanette was raised to believe in such visions, she believed the demon was real, even if it was never there at all. Winterson makes no argument that these visions are inconsequential: after all, the fictional Jeanette is compelled by her demon to leave home and stay true to herself.

Winterson also plays with perspective: though the story is obviously told from an adult Jeanette, descriptions of observations and beliefs she held in childhood reflect the point of view of a precocious child, or else a childlike adult—otherwise a person who does not understand the conventions and traditions of the world she grew up in. The reader witnesses her perception of the world develop and change, just as she does from childhood to adulthood. Her particular point of view as a lesbian could be a part of its uniqueness, as that perspective is hardly given a spotlight in serious literature.

In Oranges, Winterson blurs the line between fiction and memoir, fantasy and reality. One could classify her novel as a “fictitious memoir,” since Jeanette’s personal history parallels her namesake’s, though the various details may be exaggerated or fabricated. While Winterson does not deviate from convention to critique fiction, she does critique the memoir, showing that every person’s life story is just that—a story, shaped by his or her perception of the world—though this does not take away from the significance or uniqueness of that story. So in a way, her first novel could be classified as postmodern.

The Hunger Games, and the Art of the Hook

*WARNING: SPOILERS*

So last weekend I read The Hunger Games, uncertain as to whether I would love it or just like it. I got into it after a lot of hype: the folks at my internship raved about it, and I’ve come across a lot of Harry Potter and Twilight comparisons. So when I began reading I wondered: will it be more like Harry Potter (yay) or Twilight (boo)?

Believe the hype.

It has the same edge-of-your-seat story structure that engaged me in Harry Potter and other book series in my youth. For the first time since the Princess Diaries (whenever the last book came out), I read a book in four days of my own volition, and not because I had to read it for a class. The pace picked up really quickly, and before I knew it I was engrossed in the adventure.

Like Harry Potter, The Hunger Games was almost a completely positive reading experience. I got engrossed in the story almost immediately, and there was no shortage of violence, intrigue, and of course romance. It's almost indescribably good. The characters that we got to know were rich and complex, the protagonist Katniss a strong but flawed woman. I teared up when Rue was killed, and was nearly bawling when District 11 gave Katniss the bread as a token of appreciation. (something similar happened in Book 2, which I'm already almost done reading) I can't really remember the last time a new book got me so emotional and excited. Maybe Lolita, which I read back in January... and that was a different kind of reading experience.

However, unlike Harry Potter, I am glad that this world is not possible in reality--and hopefully never will be. In spite of all the violence and gore (which, as a formerly avid video game player of Grand Theft Auto, Super Smash Bros. and the like, I enjoyed in an abstractly sadistic way I guess), this was not glorified or celebrated by the sympathetic characters. In fact, because they are forced to kill to survive, one finds the violence abhorrent. It's the characters that matter most in this YA series.

I was actually surprised at how much romance was actually IN the book, and how quickly we learn of Peeta's love for Katniss. One could almost classify it as a YA romance...with a dystopian twist. It didn't put me off too much...I used to read fantasy/sci-fi stories with a pivotal romantic subplot all the time--though they were shojo manga, not YA prose. How did I get swept into it?

Authors like Suzanne Collins and JK Rowling have some sort of magic touch--a mixture of writing talent, cleverness, and ability to craft a story that has the audience asking for more--that captivates readers so much. I think it's an impossible talent to learn, as it's almost impossible to articulate why these books are so good. It's not the same way that David Foster Wallace or Vladimir Nabokov or Joyce Carol Oates are good writers. Or maybe it is...they're just working with different genres.

All in all, I've found a new obsession. I can't wait to read through the end of Book 2! (I'm already on Chapter 21...) I might even see the movie. The pacing of the book is so brisk it was practically made with a movie deal in mind.I give it a 4.5...and will probably like it even more on a second go-around. But I have plenty more to say about this book: expect more gushing in the coming weeks.