Girl Detective

Over at Game Theorist, Joshua Gans writes about the Slate article, “Reading isn’t Fundamental.” Gans believes the article starts well, by noting the concern some parents have seeing other kids read before theirs do. He thinks the article does well to point out that reading is a learned, unnatural skill with many variables. The Slate article, though, goes on to offer suggestions on teaching kids to read, a gaffe Gans adroitly points out:

one would think that the Slate article might be a call for rationality and an alleviation of blame. No such luck. Right away it falls into a standard trap: children learn to read at different rates (a good true fact) and if parents are worried here is a thousand things you can do to overcome it (a bad conclusion).

Gans makes the sharp and useful distinction between reading and communication:

The issue is not ‘love of books’ but ‘love of communication’ and reading is just a part of that. You need to read to communicate in society and that is the primary consideration.

My own anecdotal experience backs up his analysis. 5+yo Drake has been reading for about a year, but his early reading is not reflective of his communication skills; in fact, they seem to be inversely related. His communication skills right now, especially with peers and in periods of stress and transition, are relatively delayed, and this has resulted in difficulties both at home and at preschool.

I echo Gans’ conclusion to other parents. Don’t push early reading or be overly impressed by it, since it may in fact run counter to the more useful and important skills of general communication. I’d go further to say that playing with kids (something I’m not good at) is likely to be better for development than reading to them (something I do all the time).

Michelle Slatella, in the NYT, on reading like a girl:

But there is one thing I notice my daughters doing when they hang around the house that makes me ache, with a terrible yearning, to be young again. They read.

Or more precisely, they read like I did when I was a girl. They drape themselves across chairs and sofas and beds – any available horizontal surface will do, in a pinch – and they allow a novel to carry them so effortlessly from one place to another that for a time they truly don’t care about anything else.

The link is from Mental Multivitamin, who accompanies it with a (qualified) book recommendation. Mmv wonders, “Can you still read like a girl?”

Still? I never _stopped_ reading like a girl: one book at a time, fiction preferred because of its transporting qualities. I’m a more critical reader than I was as a girl, and more selective. But I’m no less ardent. I often distinguish between books I love, especially ones that aren’t necessarily great, and ones that are good, even great, but that I don’t love.

At Gurulib, I have a record of most of the films I saw last year in my library; just click on 2008 movies.

I can hardly believe I’m writing this, but I think I need to cut back on movies. I saw a lot of middling ones last year, and I’d rather spend time writing. We’ll see how that hope plays out in ‘09. Again, I’d like to watch more from our home library and Tivo, rather than getting them all from the public library.

A few favorites:

Of 2008: Wall E, Dark Knight, Iron Man, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Hellboy II, and Mamma Mia! (critics be damned!)

On DVD from 2007: Across the Universe, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, Diving Bell and the Butterfly, In Bruges

Last New Year’s Eve we watched Roman Holiday, this one we watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, from our Audrey Hepburn box set. It’s a fractured love story between Hepburn and George Peppard, two young dreamers who take money from older people in exchange for sex. Hepburn is charming and loopy. Her fashions in this film, by Edith Head and Hubert de Givenchy, established her to this day as an icon. Peppard is handsome and stern as the struggling writer, by turns her complement and her reflection.

There’s a lot to enjoy and appreciate about the film, but I have trouble with it, too. Mickey Rooney’s Mr. Yunioshi is beyond painful to behold and had to have been in poor taste, even then. Hepburn’s rendition of “Moon River” is too saccharine for my tastes, as is the subplot with the cat, and the ending. Most troubling to me, though, are Peppard’s claims that he loves her and she belongs to him.

Paul Varjak: I love you.
Holly Golightly: So what.
Paul Varjak: So what? So plenty! I love you, you belong to me!
Holly Golightly: [tearfully] No. People don’t belong to people.
Paul Varjak: Of course they do!
Holly Golightly: I’ll never let ANYBODY put me in a cage.
Paul Varjak: I don’t want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!

This, more than anything, prevents me from perceiving the movie as romantic; to me it’s an odd little film. I wonder if my impression comes closer to the spirit of Truman Capote’s story than to the polished package of its Hollywood marketing.

Finally, the copyeditor in me must point out that it’s Tiffany, not Tiffany’s. I’m surprised that they didn’t insist on the correction.

2009 is off to a promising start in books with Emmanuel Guibert’sAlan’s War, a comic-book memoir of a U.S. G.I. during and after WWII. Originally published in French, the new English translation is in a typically spiffy edition from First Second books.

Guibert met Cope in Europe. As their friendship grew, Cope told his war stories to Guibert, who felt compelled to transform them into a comics narrative. Guibert’s black and white art is deceptively simple looking, but it contains a great deal of atmosphere and emotion. Cope is a likable everyman, and his memories unfold in spare vignettes, though many of them loop back and reappear later. As Guibert hoped to make clear from the title, the book is not a history of the war, but one man’s experience of it.

At the age of 18, like all young Americans, I was drafted.

I took some exams. I got a perfect score on the radio operator aptitude test.

And then they put us on a train.

Cope’s optimism, resilience, adaptability, and ability to make friends all make for a touching and engaging personal history.

Thanks to Minneapolis’ Oak Street Cinema, which used to show it each holiday, The Shop Around the Corner became a favorite holiday movie for me. It’s a sharp romantic comedy starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan, directed by Ernst Lubitsch, who claimed it was the best movie he ever made. It’s infused with hallmarks of his style, such as sophistication, style, and sexy (but not sexual) humor–these were part of what became known as “the Lubitsch touch.”

Stewart and Sullavan are bickering co-workers at a small shop in Budapest. Each is in love with the idea of love, and so is blind to it when it actually appears. Stewart is cute and charming, and the movie builds to a conclusion I couldn’t help but smile at. This movie lifts the spirits. See it if you haven’t, yet.

Later remade as You’ve Got Mail, which I’ve deliberately left unseen. Why remake something so fabulous?

I kept track of the books I read this year at Library Thing and on Visual Bookshelf at Facebook. I didn’t pay much attention to numbers, but I read about a book and a graphic novel a week. I make the time. I take the time. I leave things undone, all so I can spend time on one of my favorite things: books. A few favorites:

Published in 2008: Disquiet by Julia Leigh, The Likeness by Tana French, Little Brother by Cory Doctorow, My Name is Will by Jess Winfield, Will by Christopher Rush.

Published in ‘07, but I read them in ‘08: Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson, The White Darkness by Geraldine McCaughrean, Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris

Re-reading and appreciating the classics: Crime and Punishment, Hamlet, Jane Eyre, Persuasion

Graphic novels: anything by Eddie Campbell, Too Cool to be Forgotten by Alex Robinson, Chiggers by Hope Larson, Fables.

Cory Doctorow, a writer for the site Boing Boing, has written a solid young-adult techno-thriller for geeks in Little Brother. If that makes it sound like it’s for a narrow audience, it’s not. Marcus is a teen hacker who lives in San Francisco and likes playing online games with his friends. When SF is hit by terrorists, though, he’s picked up as a suspect by the Department of Homeland Security and bad things happen to him, his family, and the city.

Then the door at the back of the truck opened and there was fresh air–not smoky the way it had been before, but tinged with ozone…The man who came in was wearing a military uniform. A U.S. military uniform. He saluted the people in the truck and they saluted him back and that’s when I knew that I wasn’t a prisoner of some terrorists–I was a prisoner of the United States of America.

Marcus decides to fight, though, which raises the tough question of whether subverting authoritarians makes life more or less safe, in general and from terrorism.

Well paced, with concise and understandable explanations for non-geeks, this is a thoughtful provocative novel about the problems of privacy and free speech. I was strongly reminded of Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, as well as the work of Bruce Schneier; both are named in the bibliography. Little Brother also reminded me of Godless by Pete Hautman.

It contains a few unsurprising YA tropes, like the geek boy intimidated by the sexually aggressive girl, withholding and later revealing key information to parents, a weaker sidekick/buddy, and a cool, outsider adult who helps. Also, there were were a handful of editing errors that slowed my reading–was his mother’s name Lillian, or Louise? But overall, it’s a rousing story about civil rights and ethics in the internet age.

“Surprisingly good,” is what my friend The Big Brain said of Role Models, which I’d intended to see anyway, since it stars and was written by one of my boyfriends, Paul Rudd. What could have been a feather light premise–two aimless 30-somethings get arrested and have to mentor two troubled kids–is given more heft through a clever script and charming performances from Seann William Scott, Rudd, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, and Elizabeth Banks. And a dramatic reveal at the end was priceless; I howled. A B movie, but well enough acted and made that the pleasure was only mildly guilty.

Here’s some of what was under the tree for 5yo Drake and nearly 3yo Guppy this year:

325 Knex
100 Lincoln Logs
48-piece giant Tyrannasaurus Rex puzzle
48-piece giant Fairy Tale Castle puzzle
24-piece Giant Fire Truck puzzle
36-piece Pirate puzzle
68-piece Lego Building Toy set
82-piece Lego Rebel Scout Speeder

Total: 731 pieces (I fear for the future. Will we break 1000 next year?)

I am thankful that my thoughtful in-laws took some time on Christmas Eve to thin out the boys’ toys so there’d be room for the new ones. The boys didn’t even notice anything was gone. I’ve already had to do several search and rescue missions for missing pieces–some of the Knex are really tiny! Those were a favorite with all the boys: Drake, Guppy, dad G. Grod, Uncle P, and Grampa,

Growing up, my sisters and I had an LP of Captain Kangaroo Introduces You to the Nutcracker Suite.

From Wikipedia:

A narrated adaptation of the Nutcracker Suite was released as “Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) Introduces You To The Nutcracker Suite”; it is believed that this was produced some time in the 1960s although a copyright date is not available. This work is remarkable for the lyrics that were created as an integral part of the narration.

It was a particular favorite of my sister Ruthie. We listened to it over and over. The lyrics became ingrained in my head. So it was with surprise that, as an adult, I learned that there were no words to The Nutcracker Suite. Captain Kangaroo and team had made up lyrics to tell the story. So now, whenever I hear the strains of one of the most popular holiday arrangements ever, I hear the lyrics from the Overture in my head:

He’s so handsome,
Funny and clever.
I will keep him,
Keep him forever.

Stop! Don’t you
Dare go near him
You will hurt him
Fred . . . for that
Nut you’ve got will
Never fit
Inside his head.

This is NOT a cherished holiday memory for me.

Yet another well-reviewed film from last year that I hadn’t gotten around to, Julian Schabel’s Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a sad, gorgeous film. A high living French magazine editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, suffers a sudden stroke, which leaves him almost totally paralyzed, or with “locked-in syndrome”. He makes small but significant progress, both physically and emotionally, and transcribes a book through blinking his eye. The acting is less the thing than the inventive ways Schnabel uses to convey Bauby’s singular, skewed perspective. Chosen by film critic Michael Phillips as one of the best of 2007, this is a lovely, bittersweet film.

2yo Guppy, crying. I wake, and stumble into his room.

Guppy wails, “I can’t see anything!”

I respond, “That’s ’cause it’s night time, honey. Night is dark.”

He pleaded for a dimmed light; I didn’t feel up to protesting.

At the top of NYT movie critic A.O. Scott’s best list of 2007, 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, is a grim little film about illegal abortion in 80’s Romania. It’s a spare, devastating story of two college roommates and all the unpleasant details they must navigate when the event is set in motion. The acting is understated and moving. The film maintains a constant undercurrent of dread and fear about what happens next. And the story is told simply, with one camera only, highlighting the wrenching story and situations of the characters. Powerful stuff.

I wanted to laugh at Walk Hard. I did a few times, and I enjoyed seeing my boyfriend Paul Rudd as John Lennon. Maybe I saw it on a bad day, but I didn’t find it that funny, or funny enough to endure the stupid parts. Certainly, there was no moment when I laughed so hard we had to pause the movie, as with In Bruges. Not my cuppa, I guess.

Peter Weir’s Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World is a film adaptation of many threads from Patrick O’Brian’s popular Aubrey/Maturin series, which my husband G. Grod is about halfway through reading. I’ve seen the film before, and was again impressed. Weir is a skilled director, the cast, led by Russell Crowe and Paul Betanny, is strong, the story compelling, and the photography of life at sea both beautiful and stirring. I haven’t yet read the O’Brian books, though I intend to. I am glad to have seen the movie on its own, so that the books might improve upon it, rather than detract from it, as happens too often if I read the book first.

Movie trivia: Russell Crowe learned to play violin for the film. About 27 miles of rope were used for the ship scenes.The rope was made special for the film, since rope of the time laid left, not right, as modern rope does.

There are a few book-based movies coming out, Revolutionary Road and The Road, and one I just saw, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. Once I’d have rushed to read the book first. Now I’m going to try to read the book after. I’ll let you know if the results are promising.

I’m behind. In blogging, especially about books and movies. In responding to email, especially the comments on this blog, though I read and appreciate them all. (OK, not the mean or crazy ones. Or the Russian spam.) In cleaning my house. Doing my laundry, especially the new clothing from Christmas.

But since I’m having a moment of perspective, I think these are good problems to have. I’m seeing more movies and books than I can write about. I’m receiving more email than I’m able to respond to. I have a house, albeit a drafty one, that I can neglect for a bit. I have warm new clothes for me and my boys.

I’m working my way back out of the holiday hole. More posts and replies to comments to come, I hope. May all your problems have positive flip sides.

Julia Leigh’s Disquiet was highly recommended by my favorite book critic, Jennifer Reese of EW, who also chose it as a best book of 2008. I was not disappointed. It’s a short, sharp, painful novella. A woman leaves her abusive husband and returns with her two children to her mother’s chateau in France.

The stone stairs leading to the chateau were wide and shallow and worn like soap. The woman took hold of the doorknocker–it was a large bronze ring running through the nose of a great bronze bull–and weighed it in her hand. Knocked. They waited patiently, and their kind of patience was born more from exhaustion, from abandoning any expectation of easy gratification, than from gracious goodwill. She reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair, to give them both some courage. Knock-knock. And old woman answered. She was wearing her perennial uniform, a black dress and white apron, and her hair, grey now, was curled in a tidy bun. They stared at one another without speaking and between them passed an understanding of the unsung miracle of the door–one moment a person wasn’t there, and the next moment…there.

‘Hello Ida,’ said the woman calmly. ‘It’s me.’

Their homecoming is tempered both by their circumstances and a concurrent tragedy in the family. Leigh’s spare prose is chillingly effective at maintaining a sense of dread, along with a palpable tension between the living and the dead. I was reminded of the work of Muriel Spark and Ian McEwan. Disquieting, indeed.

Every year, I check out a few of the same books from my library branch’s holiday selection. I seek out the classics illustrated by my favorite artists, who include Trina Schart Hyman, Shirley Hughes, James Marshall, and Tomie dePaola. This year, I re-read Dickens’ Christmas Carol to myself, and managed, much to my amazement, to read the entirety of Dylan Thomas’ Child’s Christmas in Wales aloud to both 5yo Drake and 2yo Guppy. They didn’t sit still for all of it, but I repeatedly enticed them back with Hyman’s illustrations. Also, I could tell Drake was drawn to the rolling cadences of Thomas’ prose poem, which was a joy to read aloud.

What I appreciated this year in A Christmas Carol was how secular, not religious, its story was. I liked Dickens’ dry, ironic humor, used to politely skewer certain people or their habits. This contrasted with his rich descriptions:

There were great round, pot-bellied baskets of chesnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars; and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers’ benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people’s mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.

So many commas and semicolons! Dylan Thomas was fond of commas as well:

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed.

Happy holidays to all, and may you enjoy your seasonal favorites as well, be they food, books, family or friends.

On seeing that our new 16 month calendar started with September 2008.

Drake: We have to fast-backward the world.
(This took a while for me to figure out he meant rewind.)
Me: Only Superman can do that, honey.
Drake pauses, thinks: Is Superman real?
G. Grod: Sorry, bud. He’s a story.

Upon learning that the Hot Wheels set he wanted cost $20, more than he had in his piggy bank.

Drake: I need a money Halloween so I can buy the Triple Stunt Starter Set.
Me: Money Halloween?
Drake: Yeah, I go to the houses and instead of candy they give me money.
Me: Sorry, there’s no such thing as money Halloween. Try writing to Santa.

When 2yo Guppy wouldn’t play tackle.

Drake: Mom, we need a new child.
Me, laughing.