Movies No One Saw: Upside Down

I recently watched on Netflix a movie you probably haven't heard of: the fantastical 2012 vehicle starring Kirsten Dunst and Jim Sturgess called "Upside Down." Worldwide, it made just over $22 million, not even half of it's $60 million estimated budget. When I saw the trailer way back then,  the visuals of two mirrored worlds looked dazzling, and it reminded me of my own idea nuggets of upside-down worlds, but the story was billed as a love story of the opposing worlds variety. (Get it? They literally live on two different worlds.) I didn't have much hope for the story going in. And... I was right.

The basic story is this: Adam (Jim Sturgess), always curious, climbs a mountain and meets a girl on the other side. (You see, somehow they can climb high mountains without any hiking gear and don't pass out if they're at the top too long). They fall in love with each other (though we skip that part), but some bad dudes chase Adam down the mountain. As he was guiding Eden (Kirsten Dunst) back into her world when they found him, he has to let go of the rope, and she falls and hits her head. He screams, and she's presumed dead. Then his aunt's house gets burned down for some reason.

Flash-forward to ten years later. Adam seems okay, and is working on some sort of anti-aging cream using the mystical pink bee pollen wisdom gained from his maternal line. This cream lands him a job at Transworld, where he's learned is Eden's place of work and she is alive and well. He befriends an "Up Top" worker named Bob, and befreinds him. With his help, he gets a meeting with Eden. When he meets her, he finds out she has amnesia as a result of her head injury. (Thank goodness she didn't die though, right? Even though her head was like, bleeding pretty bad and it was the top of a friggin' mountain.)

So begins a hazardous quest to court her and win her heart. Why is this complicated? Well, for one, the two worlds, Up Top and Down Below, are like the First and Third Worlds. Up Top is prosperous at the expense of Down Below, and treats the people of Down Below as inferior. Casual interaction is strongly discouraged (Yet Bob practically yells at him in their cubicle scenes together). Also, everything, literally everything, in these two worlds are oriented to their homeworld's gravity. Even when Adam sneaks into the Up Top floors, his pee still goes in the Down Below direction. How could this work? Why is it such a big deal if someone from Down Below "infiltrates" Up Top? It's not like he can stay very long. (How does he stay in Up Top? Using weighted metal from Up Top's world, as they are oriented to Up Top's gravity.)

Even though the weights keeping him in Up Top are liable to burn up, he continues to sneak through to get to his lady love, and half-assedly courts her. Eventually, though, she learns the truth, and remembers Adam and their teenage fling. They reunite on the mountain where they met, but not for long. After a disorienting chase scene, and the seemingly definitive defeat of Adam, we get the tidy, happy ending, and a tentative solution to the opposing gravity problem, that we all were hoping for.

This movie is a prime example of how important story is for a movie to really work. "Upside Down" has a great concept: two different worlds with two different gravities? Sounds cool. It looks cool, and there are some eye-popping visuals, especially when we have the contrast of Up Top's and Down Below's orientations. The scenery looks absolutely gorgeous, especially the mountains, even if the whole teal/orange contrast is overused. There is at once a sense of magic, and science fictional elements.

Aimee Bender's "The Color Master:" a Three-Part Review, Part Three

The third and final section of this underwhelming collection was...maybe not the best, but I enjoyed every story in this section, up until the very end. It seems that the theme of this collection is primarily unsatisfying endings that make no sense.

I really enjoyed the story "Wordkeepers," a kind of fabulist tale of modern-day distraction, even if the narrator was exasperating. I identified more with his love interest, who insisted upon correct grammar and complete sentences, fighting back against this new realm of easy forgetfulness, but the subject matter was topical and the ending was actually satisfying in its own way--a rarity in this collection.

The next story was the title story and the star of the collection, "The Color Master," was indeed one of the best stories in this collection. The setting was odd, as it was at once fairy-tale and modern-day Europe (a fantastic facsimile, more like) and there wasn't much world-building--not that I would expect any from a literary short story. But the process of choosing colors (as the Color Master did) and the vivid descriptions of color, as well as a well-threaded fairy tale plot in which the protagonist grows into her own and the kingdom is saved, were all expertly woven and a delight to immerse myself in. The final line, though, left me going "huh?", because even though I figured the story of "Donkeyskin" referred to the deposed king, why is the story "hers"--i.e. the Color Master's? Because she knew what was happening all along? Or is the Color Master the "her"? Once again I found the ending needlessly confusing whereas throughout the rest of the story I had been able to follow along and pick up the thematics pretty well. So either I'm not "getting it" or it's just plain nonsense.

The third story, "A State of Variance," was not particularly memorable, a story of a legacy of freakish symmetry and finding love and happiness in the opposite. In a way, though, the story starts out one way--a woman who can no longer sleep for more than an hour and thusly experiences dream states while awake--and then turns into the story about a too-symmetrical young man's hangups and his dealings thereof. Interestingly, she didn't get too much into the boy's dad, and the trend of not naming characters continues.

The fourth story, "Americca," was one of the more interesting ones, and contained plenty of echoes of Lemon Cake: an ordinary family encounters some extraordinary small occurences. But unlike in Lemon Cake, the inexplicable giving mysteriously stops after a while, and happens only once more. One of the most difficult things to pull off in a short story is the flash forward--in this story it would be revealing whose voice it was all along--and this story is not an example of such a device being well-done. The voice was not quite that of an adult (in fact she's a child for most of the story) but all of a sudden she is 27 and crying over some delicious curry, presumably because it was the last gift and it will never be given again? Didn't work for me. I'm not a fan of the title, either. Otherwise, though, Bender's usual talent was on form.

The final story in the collection, "The Devourings," stood out in that it's a very fairy tale type story. For one, it has ogres and honest-to-God magic in it. This is also one of the top five best stories in this collection. From the single narrative of a woman in love with an ogre springs forth two narratives related to devouring, and like the concluding events of the story, neatly wraps in on itself. It's a nicely put together, if strange, story that lends itself more to the Brothers Grimm school of fairy tales than it does to what most people are familiar with. (Then again, most people won't be reading this book)

In the end, the collection had mostly okay stories, and some good ones, as well as a few bad ones. I did not enjoy this collection as much as her first, and I'm starting to think Bender is getting too comfortable with a certain formula. It seems that even experienced writers forget that the formula doesn't always work, and you got to mix it up a little bit to keep your stories fresh and prevent writers' atrophy. I give it 2.5 stars out of five.

Aimee Bender's "The Color Master": A Three-Part Review, Part 2

So, after a disappointing first part, I didn't hold much hope for the rest of the collection. But, I bought the damn book, so I kept on reading. Luckily, the second section improved in quality overall.

"The Fake Nazi" started off as a quite compelling and expertly constructed story, revolving around a man who believed he was a Nazi--even though he wasn't. Through three different people--the man himself, his brother, and a curious legal clerk--we learn more about the strange psyche of this man and the intersection of coincidence and fate. But then, when the legal clerk visits the man's brother at his apartment, she...lets him feel her up on her visit? It was another example of sexism and objectification in a story in this collection that I can't tell if it's showcasing a character's internalized mentality or the author's own.

"Lemonade" is an overall good story--Bender really got the voice and psychology of this insecure and somewhat strange teenage character down to a T. The thing was, though, that at first I thought they were 13, 14 years old--but later it is revealed that they are old enough to drive. (so, 16?) And they use cell phones--so we're talking the year at the earliest is like, 2006. (mayyybe a couple years ealier, maybe) They live in LA. And they're hanging out at a fucking mall? They did some paltry shopping there, but like, nobody goes to malls anymore if they have their fucking driver's license, except maybe to go shopping, I guess. And the voice of the narrator especially seemed so young--I guess because she's a little naive compared to the other characters? And again, the ending was kind of "meh" for me.

"Bad Return", which is another story about two young-ish female friends who are very different from each other, is much more interesting. This also has a scene between a young woman and an old man, but it doesn't get sexual, thank God: instead, it becomes a faintly magical and creepy encounter that brings the protagonist to a profound conclusion about her friend. Perhaps it's more conventional than the other stories, but I certainly enjoyed it.

The next story, a short one, "Origin Lessons," was absolutely fantastic. It captures the students' insatiable questioning and curiosity and the professor's increasing difficulty in being able to explain the origins of the universe. Though I wasn't sure how old the kids were at first, and again, with the ending, the traditionally feminine imagery, that I keep hating for some reason. But this one I liked a lot.

The last story in this section, "The Doctor and the Rabbi," also deals with big questions, asked by a very specific character. I thought it was cool the rabbi was a woman (I wasn't sure rabbis could be women), and this story is expertly crafted, intertwining big questions and personal revelations, teetering on the edge of being "profound on purpose" (a made-up term for something I often loathe in literature) but not going too far.

So this section was a great improvement. I look forward to reading the next (and final) section...maybe it just keeps getting better? Or do we turn back around to worse?

The Wonder of Childhood and the Wisdom of Experience

Welcome to the weekend, and the end of summer, in which I might get more time to devote to this blog (maybe; I have to admit that lately, other things have taken higher priority). So today, a short post about a short novel: Neil Gaiman's The Ocean At the End of the Lane.

The story follows a boyhood encounter with a mysterious magic world that is full of peril for the mere mortal, leading him to experience a thrilling, strange, and terrifying adventure. It's framed by a middle aged man remembering this period of his life, and the entire story is tinged with a nostalgic atmosphere. It's technically a novel, but flows as smoothly and slowly as a short story.

Neil Gaiman is an experienced writer, and it shows. His language is air-tight, and he paints the secret, forbidden world with vivid detail. I won't give away much here, because I think it should be experienced first-hand, this introduction to this world. Gaiman also captures the psyche of an imaginative little boy wonderfully, full of the curiosity, wonder, and fear of an imaginative seven-year-old. While the story takes place when the unnamed narrator is seven, there is a sense of experience, of darkness, perhaps imposed by the presence of ancient beings, that may appeal more to older audiences--or precocious children. That said, anyone with adequate life experience to understand that things were different "back then" will take some enjoyment from the story.

In some ways, the tale subverts the genre of boyhood adventure, as he becomes scared an powerless the being and forces too great for him to overcome alone. His troubles begin and end with the Hempstocks, a family of women whose origins and existence remain a mystery. Another interesting point is that all the named characters are female, suggesting that it is these characters who are the real actors in the story--the boy is just along for the ride.

That's not to say that the boy's problems were purely fantastical. There's a not-so-subtle implication that his father has abusive tendencies, which is not explored further when the traumatic incident is snipped out of his father's memory. We get a sense of disconnect of the boy from his family, right in the beginning when he's moved out of his own small bedroom into his sister's. While he cares for his mother, he doesn't seem to be close with her at all. In all, the bland family situation, aside from the time when they rent out the boy's room to lodgers, is pretty run of the mill family drama type stuff. It's almost unfair how the boy's adventure seems that much more fantastic, as his family and his own life are so mundane.

Gaiman leaves us with incredible, beautiful, shocking, frightening images from this boy's encounter with the magical realm. I found myself verbally reacting to the turns of events of each chapter as the story revealed that the world of what could be called "magic" can be dangerous and scary, possibly resulting in existential threats. The language is perfectly immersive, the work of a master of his craft, creating a lasting impression on the reader. I finished reading the book about a week ago, and the story still holds fast in my memory. I will definitely read it again at some point.

In The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Gaiman presented a world that is vivid, wonderful, and terrifying that I had never seen before, a world within a world that follows its own logic. and this was the story of one little boy's encounter with it, and his death (or near-death) because of it. Because it is so perfectly constructed, I have to give it 4.5 stars.

Life After Life After Life

So much for the "Summer Reading Series". Apparently my summer got busier than I thought it would be, and the only book I had left unread lying around the house was Kate Atkinson's generally acclaimed new novel, Life After Life. The premise intrigued me, so I decided to pick it up some months back when it was actually new. While it's certainly a riveting story, there isn't a complete and satisfactory follow-through in the concept, and the story was almost too easy to read, lacking enough immersive prose replaced with exposition. (Atkinson is no Murakami, but come on)

This surprisingly breezy novel (considering it's over 500 pages) begins with the death of Ursula Todd, our protagonist. She dies almost half a dozen times in the first 100 pages of the novel, all before reaching the age of ten (except for the intriguing and gut-wrenching first chapter, strategically placed to pull you into the story). Her first few lives start out normal, but end tragically, and the next few, as she makes some unconsious changes in choice and circumstance, she slowly begins to improve her lot--and potentially those of the people she is close to.

But this isn't your usual reincarnation story: Ursula is born on the same date under (almost) the same circumstances in February of 1910, to the same family, living through both wars in most of her lives. She experiences a few horrors in some lives that she manages to avoid in others--but how she does avoid them is neither entirely clear nor consistent. Initially it is this intense, visceral fear that prevents her from making ultimately fatal decisions, and other times it's an unconscious enthusiasm to actively make a different choice than she had before--as if she wants to try something new.

The story is quite interesting and for the most part I was compelled to read further, if only to get to the point where she (spoiler alert) attempts to kill Hitler. The complex characterizations, and the funny way the other characters tend to stay the same no matter how radically their choices differ--and even Ursula, at her core, remains the same--are major virtues in this work. And while I'm no expert, and surely there are anachronisms, Atkinson portrays the particular era that Ursula lives--from the prewar 1910s to the London Blitz--with intricate realism that allows me to be there, not seeing it through a distorted black and white lens.

However, the development and execution of the concept fell short of expectations--of course, it's not that we need answers to everything. There are hints peppered throughout the novel that others experience this sort of recurring lives as well, and we don't need to know if there's a "set" number of lives or if it goes on forever... It was more in the lack of consistency in Ursula's apparent awareness of the phenomenon. At first it seems like she is becoming more aware of her deja vu, but then the oddly standout section "End of the Beginning," where past, present, and future blend together, she seems more confused in general than anything. Not to mention that killing Hitler, even if the fact that it may not alter history all that much, is kind of a cliche at this point--mind you, Atkinson handles this bit quite well. And there didn't seem to be enough moments where she was "aware;" I wanted this to be weirder than it turned out to be.

In the end, Life After Life is a story about a particular woman living in a particular era, and her active explorations in this cross-section of time and space as she tries to "get it right." It's as decent a read as they come...but perhaps not for the summer. Save it for when the weather is colder--this does take place in England, after all. 3.5 stars out of five.

Karen Russell is different, but not too different

I have read Karen Russell before--and found her to be a good writer, generally, but in the end Swamplandia! was not what I had expected--in a bad way. Her second collection of short stories, Vampires in the Lemon Grove, shows off her literary prowess and the depth of her imagination, but she still sticks to a rather traditional formula. Even if she does mix that of the literary short story and that of fantasy/horror. 

While the reviewer on NPR rained praise upon Lemon Grove, even calling it "completely original," I have to disagree on this point. Not to knock this individual, but he is obviously not very well-read--at least in the mix-it-up literary genre of magic realism and suspense. Various stories reminded me of some by Joyce Carol Oates, Haruki Murakami, and some Stephen King, and others, and apparently one of her stories bears similarities to Ray Bradbury's "The Illustrated Man." Again, nothing is ever completely original. You just invite this kind of criticism when you say something's completely original.

Most of the stories of this collection are a worthwhile read, even if a lot of them get a bit draggy because Russell wanted to show off all the research she did on these stories--and considering that this collection takes us to Meiji Era Japan, mid-19th century United States, and the Antarctic Circle, among other unexpected places, she obviously did some. I commend Russell for writing such a wide range of characters and settings, as in each story they felt vivid and real to my mind's eye. The title story is definitely the strongest in the collection, but I also liked "Proving Up", and the final two stories in the collection a lot--even if they were, as I've mentioned, a bit meandering and pensive. The "Barn at the End of Our Term" is arguably the most creative and brisk story in the collection: mysterious, absurd, and a bit profound--which all of the best stories in this collection seem to have in common.

The weakest story was, by far, "Antarctic Tailgating." The entire story was built upon a gimmicky, nonsensical premise, and I couldn't get past the illogistics of it to glean any sort of significant message from the story. "Reeling For the Empire" is quite good, too, even if the visual of the women working there is unclear--as well as their fates. Finally, "Seagulls," for its clever concept and excellent thematic explorations, falls flat with the most stereotypical teenage obsession of sex and losing virginity--just about everything else in the story was very well-done.

Overall, I do not regret purchasing this collection, and will certainly read some of these stories again in the future. I admire Karen Russell's skill and imagination, but she is hardly a trailblazer in the realm of the literary weird. Worth it if you like something a little bit different, but not too diferent.

I rate the book overall a 3.5. out of 5 stars. And though the collection displayed few instances of oppression and stereotyping, I am disappointed that only two of the stories featured female protagonists--a nitpicky comment, I know. At least in one story it was a horse.

1Q84

Slowly but surely, after a month of steady reading, I finished Haruki Murakami's  giant turtle of a novel. It's actually an amazing read--something that I've often found in a lot of long novels, oddly enough. Though the plot swells slowly with every progressive chapter, each page is rich with sensory details and intrigue that pulls me in further to the world with Tengo and Aomame, our two protagonists.

The basic plot of the novel follows the experiences of our protagonists as they enter this alternate version of 1984, and how their journey through this world (dubbed the title by Aomame) brings these two together. Both are drawn into the world unwittingly, and learn of the apparent secrets that few ever come to know: magical "Little People" that are neither good nor evil, two moons hang in the sky, and people who aren't real. It's difficult to explain the intricacies without giving too much away (admittedly, learning as you go along is a part of the fun--and let's face it, a 900+ page novel does not have much re-readability to begin with) but gradually we're drawn from the real world and into this strange magical one--but it's hardly a happy place. Tones of authoritarianism permeate the religion of the Little People, and Tengo and Aomame's most deeply held secrets are found out by complete strangers. People die horribly.

The greatest thing about 1Q84 is how the prose pulls you in so deep you end each chapter gasping for breath. Murakami presents a story so rich in detail, the long slog is more of a scenic route, as with every page we uncover an enticing bit of information about a character or how 1Q84 works as its own world. Each character conceals a fascinating history, full of "aha!" moments where the reader can make connections between the two storylines. The primary challenge of a long novel is keeping the reader interested, and Murakami has no problem with that.

But we don't learn all the answers to all the questions that arise as a result of our visit to this world. This doesn't bother me too much, however. It's fitting that we pretty much know only what Tengo and Aomame know. In fact, the novel ends with the possibility of a sequel, leaving enough unexplored material for another installment. While the point of conclusion may have been somewhat arbitrary (it wouldn't be 1Q84 forever) the novel's long enough that Murakami could have simply decided to stop there. And the ending, while it was great that Aomame and Tengo could finally be together, felt underwhelming. Fo so long we were teased that something major was going to happen--and while Tengo and Aomame finally meeting and escaping from 1Q84 was pretty major, I was expecting something a little more... bombastic? Like the ending of Janacek's "Sinfonietta," which is referenced frequently throughout the novel. Kind of like how in Revolutionary Girl Utena they keep on talking about an impending revolution, but it never happens (though the climax is quite exciting, if confusing because that anime is just one big allegory).  So it really just led to the couple meeting? That's what disappointed me the most.

A few other little things bothered me throughout the novel, though they were quite minor. Well ok, the mystical pregnancy thing put me off at first (and this is why we need a sequel--does the kid have any special powers or what?); that's pretty major. Mainly Murakami's fixation with boobs (and the female body in general) definitely annoyed me; and it was always the women who were objectified--even Aomame, a straight lady, would comment on how nice another lady's boobs were. But it didn't surprise me. There was also a lot of repetition in the beginning--not just to how small or nice a lady characer's boobs were: Tengo's "older girlfriend",  the fact that Tamaru is gay, and Ushikawa is ugly, among other details repeated ad nauseum. This stops mostly in the third part, and I suppose it's helpful to remind readers of important facts in a long story when there's a lot to keep track of, but it was a bit too much. Oh, and the phrase "from the bottom of my heart" popped up in the last three chapters at least twice as many times, appearing nowhere before then (and I HATE HATE HATE that saying! Like, it doesn't even make any sense! If you care so much why do you keep it at the bottom???) though I'll chalk it up to translation goofs, since there's no way the original text literally translates to that super-cliche saying.

But overall, it's an enthralling story. The characters are infinitely interesting, the alternate world intriguing, the love story cute and squee-worthy, the details that tie these together fascinating to find. I would suggest lovers of literature that is immersive, suspenseful, and a little bit weird to take the time to read it--and go slowly. 1Q84 is a lovely place to wander. 4 stars out of 5.

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.

Critical Response Archive: The Aleph

Before postmodern literature gained momentum in the sixties, there were several writers here and there who flouted even the conventions of modernism, the forerunners of the stylistic and conventional trends to come. Jorge Luis Borges’ story collection The Aleph is an example of the prototypical postmodern literature, combining intellectual and philosophical mind-games with artistic skill and innovation. His short stories question the nature of reality and truth, and reveal the nuances of human consciousness.

One of the most notable aspects that ties all these stories together is authorial presence: Borges himself is often called by name, and the main narrator often remains outside of the action, while another character tells the main story, as it occurs in “Ibn Hakkan al-Bokhari, Dead in his Labyrinth” and “Rosendo’s Tale.” Even in the stories where the narrator is present, even among the main action, he can be identified as Borges, which the author gives away in the commentary at the end of the book, revealing the names of characters based on people he had really known. In “The Aleph,” the narrator does go by the name of Borges. This blurs the line between reality and fiction even in the real world, though most presume that no such things as Alephs exist.

By presenting fantastic events such as universe-viewing, time travel, and legendary weapons in a frank manner, often told from the person who had witnessed the event, Borges takes on three things at once: the denial and revelation of science-defying phenomena by human beings, the flaws in human perception, and the gullibility of memory. In many of his stories, all three are at work: in “The Aleph,” Borges first accepts that he had indeed witnessed it, but later came to question whether it was an aleph, or if he had seen one at all; in “The Other Death,” the men whom the narrator speaks to remember a cowardly Damian, then can’t remember him at all, then remember him as a war hero who died in battle—all due to a possible fluctuation of the time-space continuum as the past was somehow changed, possibly. Above all, Borges tells his fiction like nonfiction, eyewitness accounts of newsworthy events (even if the news media would not have heard of it); and this creates the feel of a true story, or a legend…it may be true, but it probably isn’t. This creates a certain illusory realism within the tone and content of his work.

Critical Response Archive: Strange Pilgrims by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Fairy tales, according to convention, belong to the middle ages, relics of a bygone age that shall be retold and reinterpreted in future centuries. Yet Gabriel Garcia Marquez shows that fairy tales—and original ones, at that—can still be composed, and appreciated by readers. What makes them fairy tales is the timeless, seemingly ancient tone of each of the twelve stories. The stories collected in Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Strange Pilgrims all differ, but they all have a similar unifying feel. Strange Pilgrims is a collection of fairy tales for the twentieth century and otherwise modern era.


Most of these stories would be described as “traditional,” but like Marquez says in his prologue to the collection, these stories have no beginning or end; if they do, it is because of the arbitrary structure of storytelling, not necessarily an inherent element in the story itself. Many stop at the lowest point, with only a slight indication that there may be some hope left, if only because the stories were told in the past tense. Yet the narrator is an outsider to the action, telling the readers what he has learned of other characters, creating a sense of the modern oral tradition of journalistic storytelling.

These twelve stories are like fairy tales in the sense that there is no sense of time in most of them: only a vague sense of the “present,” however that’s defined. Some stories’ ties to a time period are minimal, as in the brief “Light is Like Water,” in which only the existence of electricity and a prize-driven school system restrict the period in which the story takes place. But in others, the time period plays a crucial role, making the tale more akin to folklore and legend: “Maria dos Prazeres” would just not be the same had it not been set in Franco-era Spain, with the clash between fascism and anarchism roaring in the background of the title character’s quiet life. The fundamental struggle between freedom and oppression holds strong for any era, as well as the anticipation of death—which Maria dos Prazeres is waiting for.

Another recurring characteristic of the stories in Strange Pilgrims is their largely mournful and tragic storylines: death and disappearance are among the most prominent of the tragedies that take place within these twelve stories. This differs greatly from the conventional idea of a fairy- or folktale as being a happy story. The characters, like Billy Sanchez in “The Trail of Your Blood in the Snow,” just seem to be chronic victims of misfortune: in the course of a week he loses his wife, and never finds her again, for she has died and been buried in her hometown. But the personal anguish and disappointment that the characters feel are a part of a larger cultural and human consciousness, stemming from the fear of death, and even more profound, losing our loved ones, either through death or otherwise. That resonant element is what has made fairy tales from centuries ago enduring, and what makes these stories endure.

What makes Marquez’s collection of stories unique is not just their timelessness, but also their ties to a specific time and place. “I Only Came to Use the Phone” reads like a wary horror story, one that couldn’t possibly happen today, with the proliferation of cell phones, GPS, and the internet; but in a way, it makes the reader feel that much more for the hapless protagonist’s plight, as we ourselves would feel completely helpless if we were to get in that situation today. “Bon Voyage, Mr. President” seems inspired by true events, since the second half of the twentieth century saw many oppressive leaders come and go throughout the Americas. This strong sense of place creates a folkloric tone, as if the events that take place are quite unique to the time and the place.

The stories in Strange Pilgrims immerse the reader into a world that isn’t quite like our own, full of fantastic happenings like ghosts, clairvoyants, light that literally floods the room, and a magic wind that brings tragedy, yet the emotions that the characters experience resonate long after one has finished reading. With this collection of short stories, Marquez has created a new set of fairy tales, legends, and folklore for the twentieth century; stories that haven’t forgotten about the time and place in which they were conceived and set, but are unlikely to be forgotten by those who read them.