Girl Detective

1. 2yo Guppy demands something impossible, like mac and cheese that isn’t cooked, or complains when he’s given something he asked for, like milk, since what he really wanted was orange juice.

2. I say no; Guppy begins to scream and tears spurt from his eyes.

3. 4yo Drake covers his ears and yells, “Ow, ow, he’s hurting my ears!”

4. I calmly tell Drake to leave the room. He refuses and begins screaming to drown out Guppy.

5. I lose my mind. Then _I_ leave the room till I can think again.

6. Lather, rinse, repeat.

People tell me that ages 5/7 are when it gets easier. I can but hope.

I vet my books pretty carefully. I read reviews. I listen to advice from like-minded readers. I usually know a thing or two about them before I begin. I try not to recommend a book till I’m finished, because the ending can make a difference–consider Smilla’s Sense of Snow, or the books of Neal Stephenson. I only read one book at a time. So I rarely don’t finish a book. I try only to start books I’m likely to want to finish.

But a few years ago, after slogging resentfully through about two thirds of Life of Pi, one of my librarian friends, Rock Hack, told me about Nancy Pearl’s Rule of Fifty. If a book didn’t “have” me by page fifty, put it down. Life is short; books are plentiful. There is little reason to read without enjoyment.

And so it was with Bolano’s Savage Detectives, a novel about poets in 70’s era Mexico City. The main character was passive and uninteresting to me. He was surrounded by a throng of characters I could barely keep track of. I realized that reading it was work, and unrewarding. So at page 81 I put it down.

The book was on many of last year’s best-of lists. I’ve read more than one review that says it’s not only a good book, but an important one. All those could be true. What I know is that I wasn’t enjoying it, or learning from it. I put it down, and started something else. I feel much better now.

I was perplexed when I saw The Facts in the Case of the Departure of Miss Finch, written by Neil Gaiman and illustrated by Michael Zulli. It looked like a nicely produced hardcover graphic novel, typical of Dark Horse, a publisher of upscale, quality books. Yet something didn’t feel right, and it was the $13.95 price tag. Nice HC GNs are usually $20 and up. This one was thin, though. Once I read it, I understood. This was not a graphic novel, or even a graphic novella. It was a graphic short story, gussied up in hardcover and given a price about double what it would be if the book had been released like most one-shot stories, in a perfect-bound softcover for $6.95.

Enough geeking about the packaging though. The story starts off clumsily, I thought, with three friends eating sushi, talking about the end of some event involving a woman they call Miss Finch. Then the narrative is picked up by one of the three, years later. This double flashback didn’t work for me: end of event, years after end of event, beginning of event. When I finally got myself situated in time, though, I really enjoyed the story. It’s vintage Gaiman, based on an old prose short story of his, beautifully and evocatively painted by Zulli, one of Gaiman’s collaborators on Sandman. Dark, adult, fantastic, odd and funny, it’s a quick, enjoyable read.

Worth $13.95 in HC, though? Methinks not, though I don’t begrudge the creators my money. Gaiman and Zulli are both local, so some of it is staying in my community.

Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler has been on my shelves over ten years, and through three or four different domiciles. I purchased it because Neil Gaiman used it as a reference for his Sandman collection, World’s End. I finally committed to reading the Calvino. While very good, and important, it was a tough, and not often enjoyable, read.

The conceit is fascinating. A man and woman reader begin a book, then are interrupted at a point of suspense. In numbered chapters, they try to find out more about the book, and it leads them on a less-than-merry chase. Alternating with chapters of their quest are first chapters of the books they find that are supposed to be the same, but instead have a different set of male female characters, different title, different setting, different country of origin, and different style. Each introduces you to a situation, then pauses at a conflict. The overall affect is deliberately frustrating. Further, many of the number chapters are told in second person, addressing the reader. This was sometimes unnerving, as Calvino seemed to be looking out of the book and into my life:

The kitchen is the part of the house that can tell the most things about you: whether you cook or not (one would say yes, if not every day, at least fairly regularly)….whether you tend toward the bare minimum or toward gastronomy (your purchases and gadgets suggest elaborate and fanciful recipes, at least in your intentions; you may not necessarily be greedy, but the idea of a couple of fried eggs for supper would probably depress you)

The first sensation this book should convey is what I feel when I hear the telephone ring; I say “should” because I doubt that written words can give even a partial idea of it…my reaction is one of flight from this aggressive and threatening summons, as it is also a feeling of urgency, intolerableness, coercion that impels me…rushing to answer even though I am certain that nothing will come of it save suffering and discomfort.

I enjoyed the ten beginnings of the stories. Like the readers in the book, I was loathe to quit them just as I was going deep. With both the stories and the characters of readers, Calvino frustrated my desire for a story, as well as my attempts to like the characters, since he took pains to make them all different, yet the same, and all readers, just like me.

This is a book about how we read, why we read, and our desire for stories and character. It’s brilliant stuff, but too often purposely dissatisfying–intellectual with a dearth of emotional attachment.

Snow showers, that is. Seriously, can we get a break in the weather? The last batch of snow finally melted, and it was starting to feel like spring. Then today it’s in the 30’s, and snowing.

I know; I know. Griping about weather is a lowest common denominator of discourse. My apologies. But it’s been getting to me for a while. I have trouble dealing with my own mood swings. Balancing them with Mother Nature’s is a drag.

I’ve been thinking in despair that nothing in the house is safe anymore. Yesterday I went into 4yo Drake’s room and found a pocket knife in his bed. I whisked it away, but didn’t notice the toothpick and tweezers missing–I found those at two different times later in the day.

Last night, when I went up to bed, I found my jewelry box on my bed. I went into Drake’s room. He was asleep, and beside his bed were two pair of earrings, a pendant and a zirconia stud. I feel like I’m back in middle school, and living with my pesky little sister. (Written with all due affection, since she now is a generous lender of her own stuff, rather than just a “borrower” of mine.)

As we set off, late again, for music class this morning, I lamented, “Drake, if you listened, we’d be on time. You didn’t, and we’re late. How can I help you learn to listen?”

Drake replied immediately, and matter of factly, “Go to the Learn to Listen Shop, Mom.”

The PBS Complete Jane Austen finished Sunday with the second part of a new, 3-hour adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. Much stronger than the other new adaptations of Persuasion, Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey, SS08 benefited from its extra 90 minutes of screen time. It was able to do justice to the story and to characters that the other, shorter adaptations simply couldn’t manage. It does, though, have the tough circumstance of comparison to both the popular book and Ang Lee’s popular 1995 film adaptation.

SS08 opens shockingly, with a steamy love scene. Outraged, I thought, “That’s not in the book; they’re sexing this up on purpose!” A few seconds later I recalled who the couple must be, and that this scene WAS part of the book, though not told in present-tense detail. Interesting, I thought, but pointless to all who have read the story, and even all who are somewhat familiar with Austen’s books, which all include an initially charming guy who turns out to be a cad; in SS it’s Willoughby. And Willoughby, in this new adaptation, is so obviously oily and up to no good that it’s a mystery why Marianne falls for him, and why no one else suspects him.

I’ll skip to what I liked first. Hattie Morahan was absolutely wonderful as Elinor. Sympathetic, believable, vulnerable, and strong. David Morrissey as Colonel Brandon was likewise quite good. He ably captured the quiet, steadfast, tormented older man who’s had his heart broken, and has no pretty illusions.

I’d forgotten why SS was my least favorite Austen novel, and in a well-drawn but painful sequence SS08 reminded me why. Marianne, while often foolish and trying, is talented and spirited. After she is dumped by Willoughby and rescued by Brandon, she slowly grows to love the latter. For all his upright nice-guy-ness, though, Brandon is nearly twenty years her senior, and he’ll have a muffling effect on her exuberance. SS08 captured this in a scene where Marianne enters his dark library, sits down at the pianoforte, wipes a hand across the top–affection, or dusting?–and proceeds to play a slow, dark tune in minor key. The interior scene is interpolated with one of her going outside to see Brandon, who has unhooded his hawk, set it “free” to fly, then called it back and snared its feet. In the book, Austen attempts to gloss over their differences by saying that they will be good for one another, but I think some of bright, dynamic Marianne will be lost forever in that safe, stable marriage. That may have been Austen’s point, but it doesn’t endear the story to me.

My other reservations about SS08 are minor, but they accumulated. The mother’s character is muddy–instead of foolish like Marianne she comes off as merely stupid. Dan Stevens as Edward Ferrars seems to be doing an impression of Hugh Grant from the ‘96 film. Likewise Claire Skinner as Fanny Ferrars Dashwood seems to be doing a Miranda Richardson impression. There’s far too little of Mr. Palmer, and I missed his snarky comments. There were far too many moody shots of water crashing on rocky shores. And, as with the other new adaptations, WHY OH WHY the shaky, hand-held camera? That’s gotten tired in action movies; there’s absolutely no call for it in Victorian England!

At the end, I found it a mixed bag. Some excellent things, some good things, several bad things. Worth watching on television, but I would not buy the DVD. For more commentary, see Austenblog, and Maureen Ryan’s The Watcher.

A few things I’ve said to the kids that didn’t come out right the first time:

“Toilet paper isn’t a toy…um…toilet paper isn’t for playing with.”

“Hammers aren’t for hitting…um…hammers aren’t for hitting PEOPLE.”

Me: Markers are for drawing on paper, not yourself. Why did you do that?

4yo Drake: To make myself pretty.

Me: Drawing on yourself doesn’t make you pretty.

Drake: But, Mom, you draw on yourself with blush and eyeliner.

Me: Um, well, you’re right. But those are for the face. Markers are still for paper. PAPER.

Added fifteen minutes later, when I went to check on strange noises coming from the TV room.

Me: Drake, what are you doing?

Drake: Mom, NOTHING! (Points to the cars lined up in front of the VCR.) It’s the CARS. They’re telling the orange one to come out. She shouldn’t be in there.

Me: (Deep breath) The cars are right. She shouldn’t be in the VCR. She could break it, or get lost. (Pointing at one of the cars) Guido, please tell the orange car to come out.

I went back and forth on whether to watch Becoming Jane. If I could advise my past self, I would say to skip it. I find Jane Austen’s six complete novels well written and engaging; they draw me through from beginning to end and keep my interest. Alas, I can’t say the same for this piece of historical fiction. The movie about the woman who wrote such timeless books, and her own possible romantic entanglements, manages to be quite dull. There are some good points, especially a scene between Jane and her mother, but overall this was a poorly done pastiche, with a little of Austen’s life, a little of her plot points, and a lot of made up stuff. Austenblog has a thorough and very fair review of the DVD. I think Becoming Jane was interesting to contrast with the recent PBS Miss Austen Regrets, which looked at the same themes and characters from the end of Austen’s life. In my opinion, it was the better film of the two, though not perfect, either.

It’s March 31st
Heavy, wet snow inches up
When will we see spring?

The Guthrie Theater’s recent run of Jane Eyre was so well received that the show was brought back, and is running through Sunday March 30. I didn’t attend the first run because of a middling review, but couldn’t resist the second run’s media blitz and high praise.

The production had many good things about it, especially the lead performances and chemistry between Stacia Rice as Jane and Sean Haberle as Rochester. Also strong were supporting performances by Charity Jones as Bertha and Barbara Bryne as Mrs. Fairfax. The latter character was so funny and significant that she stood out in this stage version as she has not yet done in the book, for me.

The Wurtele Thrust Stage of the new Guthrie was well utilized. The sets were spare, fitting for the severe settings of the story. My seat was high up and stage right, but the view was excellent. While I saw rather more of the back of Rochester’s head than I would have liked, Haberle has an impressive head of hair, and I got compensating views of Rice’s expressive face. I thought her severe hairline well suited to the character of Jane, until I saw her from the side and noticed the bump where the actress’s real hairline was covered. Unfortunately for me, this brought to mind a Ferengi, hardly a beneficial mental image during Jane Eyre.

And there, my praise ends. I understand that details of the story must be cut or compacted to get the audience home before midnight. I missed many of my favorite scenes, such as Jane in the red room. I was disappointed in the staging decisions of others; I would very much have liked for Jane to have thrown a ewer of water on Rochester in his burning bed, if only for the sight of Haberle in a wet nightshirt. And I questioned a few of the casting decisions. Adele was a pale, freckled redhead, as was Blanche Ingram. I thought Bronte’s imagery of Adele as a blue-eyed blond and Blanche as a dark-skinned brunette were strong influences in my experiences of their characters in the book.

All of those quibbles I might have forgiven, but others went too far for me. While the burr of northern England and Scotland was a good reminder of the story’s setting, the accents came and went. Worst of all was St. John Rivers, whose accent often seemed more French than Scottish. With his characterization, this reduced him to a clown, rather than a proud, headstrong man to be pitied. Diana and Mary were simpering and played for laughs, not the intelligent, dignified characters of the books. The greatest problem I had, though, was that Bronte’s strong, beautiful prose has been changed in several places, and for no good reason. Several of my favorite lines were changed, most notably St. John’s statement while he proposes to her that Jane is “formed for labour, not for love,” and Rochester’s exclamation when he realizes Jane has come back to him, “what sweet madness has seized me”.

I am left with the question of why adapt works for the stage and screen if it is necessary to remove so much that is good about them. Perhaps this was enjoyable to those who hadn’t read the book at all, or for a long time. Perhaps it will inspire people to seek out the book. Those are all fine things. But I’m coming to the conclusion, based on this and on the Masterpiece Austen adaptations, that I am not the target audience. I am too familiar and have too much affection for the source material to appreciate adaptations for themselves. And yet, I know I’ll continue to see them, if only for the brief moments that they bring to life wonderful parts of the books, like the humor in Jane Eyre that is so often overlooked in its reductive description as a dark, gothic tale.

Few things are more pitiful than the thin, constricted croup-y wail of 2yo Guppy, who is usually robust in both body and voice. I think this is his third bout this winter. I’m hoping we may again be well, and have uninterrupted nights, until whatever the next crisis is.

Before I had kids, I assumed that sleep deprivation was something that was terrible at the beginning, and that got better and eventually disappeared. I didn’t expect it to come and go, waxing and waning like the moon over the years. No wonder so many mothers have sleep disorders.

Seven Deadly Words of Book Reviewing (link from Bookslut and Morning News.)

Stretching for the fanciful – writing “he crafts or pens” instead of “he writes”; writing “he muses” instead of “he says or thinks” – is a sure tip-off of weak writing.

Harris mentions one of my personal non-favorites, limn, at the end, but he missed brio. It’s a musical term hijacked by the pretentious. I’ve only seen it in book blurbs, never actually IN a book, and I’ve never heard it used in conversation.

While I agree with Harris, I must shamefacedly admit to using his deadly words in reviews on this blog. I am duly chastened.

While pregnant with now-4yo Drake, I read about possible links between vaccines and autism. I also read about negative effects of vaccines. So I did my own research. I asked not one doctor, but several. From the doctors and from the research, I found no hard science that proved vaccines to be harmful. Again and again, the proven, duplicated studies showed that vaccines were effective not only in preventing diseases in individuals, but in populations. And mercury-containing thimerosol is no longer used as a preservative in children’s vaccines, and hasn’t been in some years.

This NYT article reports an outbreak of measles in California, where many parents have exercised their right not to vaccinate. My research, but also my own medical history, led me to choose to vaccinate my kids.

When my sisters and I were young, my father chose not to vaccinate us for mumps. He was trained in pediatrics, and didn’t feel the vaccination was effective. For my sixth birthday, I got mumps. I have vivid sensory memories of heat, and pain. Family pictures show me smiling feebly in front of a cake with huge cheeks. I had no party that year. A month later my sister Ruthie got mumps, just in time for her 4th birthday. Dad promptly got 2yo Sydney vaccinated. She was the only one of us not to get mumps.

This story is an anecdote. It’s not statistically significant. But along with the science, it’s part of why I think not vaccinating kids is short sighted. I also find it troubling that parents would choose to subject their kids to a chicken pox or measles “party”. Yes, there’s _some_ good science behind that–getting the virus would build a stronger, more natural immunity than that from a vaccine. But suppose you’re a kid–would you choose to be deliberately exposed to something that means high fever, severe discomfort, and possibly serious complications, up to and including DEATH?

Not me, and therefore, not my kids.

Entertainment Weekly’s article ( part of which is here) on the Indiana Jones movies said, “Relive Raiders.” I did, and I enjoyed it. It also said, “Stop Underrating the Sequels”:

Doom is one of cinema’s greatest sequels–and one of Spielberg’s most underrated efforts–precisely because it’s so black and daring.

Fair enough, I thought so I revisited Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.. I had only ever seen Doom once, in the theater 24 years ago. I didn’t like it then, but things change. Alas, I feel about the same as I did the first time I saw it; Doom is overlong and repetitive, plus Kate Capshaw is a shrew.

Karen Allen’s Marian was hardly portrayed as a strong woman in Raiders–yes, she owned her own bar and won a drinking contest, but she also trusted a monkey who betrayed her, failed to escape from the villain, and spent much of the film shouting for Indie to save her. Capshaw’s Willie Scott was even worse; hardly the characterization I’d hope for from a future husband. She was shrill, foolish, greedy for diamonds, and worried about breaking her nails. Some critics believe this role killed her career.

EW is right that the dark humor and daring child-labor plot are points in the film’s favor, as are its winks at the Bond films, given that Spielberg had initially envisioned this series along that line. What sinks the film are its tired stereotypes and poor filmmaking. There’s too much repetition, e.g., cutaway shot after shot of alligators chomping down bad guys at the end. Also, its timing is off. The underground mine ride toward the end goes on so long that I went through all the Kubler-Ross stages of grief:

1. Denial: this isn’t so bad; it’s kind of fun
2. Anger: why is this going on so long; why can’t it end?
3. Bargaining: maybe if I stare at the ceiling and yawn, it will end
4. Depression: nope, still there. I wonder if this was conceived from the get go to be a ride at Universal Studios?
5. Acceptance: oh, thank goodness, the scene is over. I’ll never have to watch it again.

In conclusion, Entertainment Weekly was wrong. This isn’t a strong sequel. For that, see The Bourne Supremacy, or The Godfather II, or Aliens. Or even The Empire Strikes Back. But you can skip this. Any fun, dark moments are completely overwhelmed by poor character, story and editing choices.

I am finally trying to catch up on my huge backlog of comments, because you are all awesome for writing me, and I am hugely lame for not commenting and replying. I manage a few replies, then get a message from Word Press:

You are posting comments too quickly. Slow down.

So the spirit is willing but the free software is cranky. I’ll try again tomorrow. As always, thank you for commenting, and emailing, and I will try to reply to each one, someday!

There Will Be Blood was part of my pre-2008-Oscar shortlist of films to see before the show. It’s a stunning character study of Daniel Day-Lewis as Daniel Plainview, a self-proclaimed family man and oil man. It’s beautifully shot, in bleak desert sets. There’s fire, gushing oil, danger, death, lies, and betrayal. As impressive as the acting and the visuals are though, the music takes the film to even more impressive heights. There are long stretches with no dialogue, and the music, composed by Radiohead’s Jonny Greenwood, is almost a character as it advances the plot and the film. That the music was disqualified for an Oscar is a travesty. The whole, brought together by director Paul Thomas Anderson, goes over the top at times, but is such a compelling work that I wouldn’t do without it.

Watching the film, though, was a mixed experience. I had a couple in front of me and another beside me that whispered continually, until I asked both at separate times to please stop talking. Both couples did stop talking. As the fifty-ish woman in front of me exited at the end of the film, she hissed, “Bitch!” at me, which took me aback. I know it is off-putting to be shushed, but I paid $7.25 for a matinee, and I asked her politely to stop talking. A reminder, from New York magazine:

Can I talk during the movie? We’d like to say, “No, no, never, no, absolutely not.” But the days of respectful silence are gone. During the pre-film ads, speak as much and as loudly as you like. Whispers and derisive yelps are permissible during trailers. During the feature, you must limit yourself to the occasional whisper. Silence is preferred, but a hushed “Wait–didn’t she die in that car wreck back there?” is okay. There is one exception to these rules: the brilliant, brave comment in the terrible movie. For us, it was at I Know What You Did Last Summer, in a particularly histrionic scene of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s emoting that a guy shouted out “Oscar clip!” and provided the high point of the night.

Perhaps one of you can help me. About ten years ago, I read a good review of a book, probably a mystery title. It was described as either a sequel or an homage to Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White. That’s how I became aware of WiW, and I told myself I wasn’t allowed to buy that new book till I read the Collins book; that didn’t happen until recently. Google searches have turned up nothing. I even emailed Uncle Edgar’s, where I remember seeing and not buying the book. They didn’t know what book I was thinking of.

Here’s what I know, or rather, what I remember, whether correctly or not. It probably came out sometime in the late 90’s or early 00’s. It might have been a New York Time Notable Book of the year, since I subscribed back then. It was related in some way to Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White, so I think it was a mystery. And it may have had a black and yellow cover.

Some girl detective I am. Any ideas, anyone?

Around the time Guppy was born, I spent a fair amount of time participating in online reading challenges. I soon discovered that these interfered with the spontaneity and enjoyment of my reading. Sometimes, though, the challenges are enough in line with what I want to read anyway, or they give enough leeway to choose, that they still draw me. Such was last year’s From the Stacks challenge, which I read about at one of my favorite book blogs, Pages Turned.

I set out the books I wanted to read. Instead of the suggested five, I chose ten–five graphic and five prose novels. I took several pictures, trying to get the book ambience just right. (Does it strike anyone else that the shelf pics of book blogs are something akin to book porn?) I then found I can’t post pictures on my blog, which is just as well. I’m hard put enough to post regularly without something else to obsess nerdishly over. It is also just as well, because of those ten, I read only five. Of those, I loved only one; several of the others I didn’t even much like. Additionally, I veered off my list to read seven others from the shelves, nearly all of which I liked a great deal. (Several of which were quick-read graphic novels, in case this sounds more impressive than it is.)

I am reminded once again that online book challenges aren’t for me. I’ve begun using Gurulib to log my books and my considerable to read/watch/listen titles. My hope for this year (I prefer hopes to goals; I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a simple transposition makes them gaols) is to read two shelf books a month, to continue my library patronage, and to keep book buying to a minimum. I count over 100 shelf books (gulp) so even if I manage my hope, I still will reduce my home stash by less than a quarter. But this is my annual memo to self that I hope to shop and select from the home shelves as I can, rather than haring off after every challenge and alluring coupon.