The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
(1988)
Written by Douglas Adams

There are many authors who can lay claim to being funny. Most can, really, so long as we are operating within the broadest parameters of "funny" and "comedy." There are many authors who can lay claim to planning out large-scale stories, and can claim to doing it well enough. There are few authors who can claim to being funny and scale-capable. Precious, precious few. And Douglas Adams was one of them. Not only was he capable of making you laugh, and of telling a big story, but he did both brilliantly.

First, the stories. The stories in all of his books, from Holistic Detective Agency to each of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxys, are airtight, and wondrous concoctions. Without giving away much of what happens in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul (as you will remember, I tend to avoid summaries), I was astonished by the dept owed to it by American Gods. There are a few more-than-passing resemblances between the two books, including a proclivity for Odin. I would go so far as to say Gaiman would not have conceived the same tale without having devoured Adam's book more than a few times. They aren't identical, not hardly, and Gods is, of course, heavier, but still, the flavour is undeniably there, the building blocks, the genes, are present in Tea-Time. And it's a comedy!

Which brings us to the humour. God, the humour. Most books defined as "comedies" are not outright hilarious; they usually have plots with absurdist touches, or occasional bits of laughter. This book, like all of Adam's authorial output, had me in, as they say, stitches, and often. Every page bore a laugh, a real laugh, with serious wit at its root. Adams is the writer Terry Pratchett wishes ever so terribly that he were, though Prachett himself is no slouch, and that should give you an idea as to how funny this book is. There were times I had to stop reading and recover, I was laughing so hard. That's something you can say about precious few books.

Grade: A

Odds and Sods and Moving Ons

I apologise, loyal readers (a term I use to amuse myself more than anything else), I am in the midst of a relocation; the physical part is complete, and I have moved into my new apartment, but we don't have internet yet, and I don't want to talk about it.

Point is, it will probably be another week or so before I post again. I just wanted to keep you all informed. No one likes being left out of the loop.

The Pillowman: A Proper Review

The Pillowman
(2003)
Written by Martin McDonagh

My last review of The Pillowman was effective enough in describing my praise, but I think it did a lousy job getting across my deeper appreciations, and I would to redress the work, if I may, and do it right this time.

The Pillowman, on the surface, is about the interrogation of Katurian, a writer suspected of killing several children. He is questioned by Tupolski and Ariel, two policemen working for a totalitarian regime. To reveal much more of the plot would be to do it a disservice, as always seems to be the case with McDonagh. His stories simply go somewhere new, and finding out where is half the joy of experiencing his work for the first time.

The Pillowman is also the story of Katurian's stories, several of which are meted out to the audience. The occasions where Katurian addresses the audience directly, narrating as one of his stories is acted out behind him, are hypnotizing. The stories are simple, but the language with which McDonagh conveys them is magical; there isn't a better word than hypnotizing, I don't think, to adequately convey their quality. All of them sound somehow vaguely familiar, yet manage to stay engaging and even exhilirating.

The conclusion of the play, once it happens, seems inevitable; Of course, you'll say to yourself, there wasn't really any other choice. It had to happen this way. But that makes the getting there all the more entrancing, knowing that the ending is coming, is charging, straight for you, and there's no way to get out of its path.

Grade: A+

Travelogue

Over the past week, I've traveled extensively by train and less extensively by ferry; the moment a ferry ride becomes extensive is also, by coincidence, the moment you are traveling by boat. I passed most of the time on the rails in conversation, but I did manage to read The Colour of Magic, by Terry Pratchett. It's the first of his Discworld series of books, published back in 1983, and it is very funny, in that dry, Pratchetty sort of way. Some of you may recall how much I enjoyed Good Omens, the book he cowrote with Neil Gaiman. The Colour of Magic is not half as great as Good Omens, but it seems alright with that. It was, after all, his first book, and authors seem to be the one creative force you can always rely on to improve with age. I have the next book in that series, The Light Fantastic, on my shelf, and I look forward to reading it.

Grade: B

Despite the interference of winds, or, perhaps, to spite the interference of winds, I spent the ferry ride from New Jersey to Delaware engrossed in Martin McDonagh's The Pillowman, a startling piece of work which has solidified McDonagh a place amongst my favourite writers. I need to read this play again (and probably again) to really get a grip on it, but the manner in which McDonagh allows his characters to drive the plot and the humour is utterly remarkable. I'm basing this not just on The Pillowman, but also on In Bruges, a movie which felt not like it had plot points to get to, but characters to enjoy. McDonagh's sense of humour is a dark one, but it always works because it is character-based. He takes chances with his writing, but you never feel as though he's lost his way. McDonagh's work proves that following the nature of your characters should be the golden rule of writing. I cannot recommend this play enough.

Grade: I am disinclined to post a grade until I have reread the play

For those who would like to know, I am now reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. It's a bit longer, so I wouldn't expect a review for a while. The prose is astonishing, and based on what I've read, I'd encourage you to pick it up.

I will conclude by taking a moment to honour the wishes of my host, Dena; I'd like to note at this time that I am writing this entry in Delaware.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
(2009)
Adapted by Steve Kloves
Directed by David Yates

There is a point where you have to decide if you're going to review a movie of a book as a fan of the book, or as a fan of movies. It is unfair, I think, to approach a film adaptation from the perspective of an ardent bibliophile. They are two very different mediums, and what works in one does not always work in the other. Because I feel the Potter films have been hindered by attempting to include too much from the books, while fans would argue they have not included enough, I look at this as a movie, not adapted from a source, but as its own creation.

There have been two constant sources of strength for the Harry Potter movies; the supporting cast, and the art direction. Filling out all the roles with great British character actors was a masterstroke that has kept the films nothing short of watchable, even in the weakest moments. As the students of Hogwarts have gained their sea legs, the adults have consistently delivered wondrous performances. That continues here, though Radcliffe and company are, fittingly, carrying greater loads. Fortunately, they are all very capable, if not exceedingly gifted, actors, and they do just fine.

The great triumph of this film is the art direction; the Potter films have never looked better. The memories Harry observes through the Pensieve look gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. More impressive is how the art direction has changed, throughout the series, to reflect the darker moods. Hogwarts looked warm and inviting in the first film; it now seems a frightening, isolated place, a masterpiece of gothic construction that finally suggest a mood befitting its period. The scene where Belatrix Lestrange evicerates the Great Hall is astonishing, and I can't recommend the film enough, if only as eye candy.

The only problem I had with this film, and has been a worsening problem as the source material has grown in length, is the pacing. The final twenty minutes were rushed; when the Death Eaters invade Hogwarts and kill Dumbledo- oh, I'm sorry, I thought you knew already. That scene is rushed, and, when the identity of the titular Price is revealed, it passes by as a, "Oh, that's right, I forgot we were curious about that..." It leaves the impression that they disclosed his identity only because to not do so would be a major screenwriting gaffe. The run up is great, the movie navigates the tricks well, and then it just misses the landing. All in all, not bad, but I'm still waiting for an unquestionably great film in this series. They do keep getting better, so I wouldn't be surprised.

Grade: B

Letters From the Wasteland

I'm on a vacation at the moment, doing a whirlwind tour of New Jersey and Delaware; suffice to say I'm not in it for the locations so much as the company.

In the midst of my first train ride, approximately 24 hours of locomotive transport, I managed to get almost no reading done, but I did notice that I am absolutely addicted to a few songs, and they're a pleasantly diverse trio.

First, I spent the train ride learning the words to "Sabotage" by Beastie Boys. Or, at least, I attempted to. I didn't get much past the first verse, but I have that one down pat. I've been listening to more of Beastie Boys in the last few weeks; I'd forgotten how uniformally excellent their music is, particularly from Paul's Boutique on. More intriguingly, I'd forgotten how relaxed most of it is, something that tends to escape your mind when you're most familiar with their singles.

Second, I continued my love affair with Pet Shop Boy's "Can You Forgive Her?," which is possibly the finest song dealing with supressed homosexuality ever written; the other contender for that prize is "The Night I Fell In Love," which is also by PSB, so, either way, they get the trophy. "Can You Forgive Her?" is epic electro-pop, with crashing arrangements and a great, catchy melody. I've been in love with it for two months now, and I show no signs of slowing down.

Third, finally, most crucially, my favourite song in the world right now is "Lisztomania" by French alt-poppers Phoenix. It's got a great melody, enervating guitar lines that come at you from every direction, brilliant train-of-thought lyrics that manage to capture... I don't know what it is, but it's somewhere between the struggle of the creative process and the comfort of a lonely heart. Brilliant, no question about it.

That's about all, for now. I had wonderful company on the first 20 hours of my trip, so I didn't get a lot of reading done, as there was conversation to be had, but I imagine I won't be so lucky the second time around, and will have a number of books to review. I'm about fifty pages from finishing The Colour of Magic, Terry Pratchett's first Discworld book. I also saw Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince last night, I'll review that later today.

On Gaiman

I don't think it's any secret that I've been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman in the past month. In the last three weeks, I've read Good Omens, Coraline, American Gods, and Absolute Sandman, Vol. 4. I just picked up a copy of Stardust, and all of his short story collections, Neverwhere, Smoke and Mirrors, and Fragile Things, are on my immediate short list. I cannot recommend him enough, and he is undoubtedly one of the finest writers we have at the moment.

It's not surprising that I like his work, really. In his books, he has an uncanny knack for prose. He knows how to build suspense, or create a mood, better than just about anyone; Coraline is a Young Adult novella, but I was genuinely creeped out on several occasions. In his more adult works, he draws from an incredible range of wide-reaching mythologies, finding ways for them all to interact and work as one, cohesive whole. It's all the more enjoyable for the fact that Gaiman doesn't wait for you; in American Gods, he mentions a squirrel which says "something sounding like 'Ratatoskr.'" A little research reveals that Ratatoskr is the name of the squirrel in Norse mythology who lives in the World Tree. There are "easter eggs" like this strewn throughout his work, and, while he's not the only author to make frequent allusions to relatively esoteric things, he has the distinction of making the stories enjoyable without any working knowledge of the mythologies he draws from. If you're already familiar with them, his writing is that much better, and reaches the point of admirable, but there's no "You Must Be This Informed To Read" bar.

What is surprising to me is that I haven't gotten to most of his stuff sooner. I've been reading The Sandman, between its trades and the Absolute collection (an over-sized series of gorgeous slip-case hardcovers from DC Comics, in which they collect and reissue their prestige titles), since my sophomore year. I found "Preludes and Nocturnes," a collection of the first eight issues of The Sandman, in the teen section of the Glastonbury Public Library, and I was immediately hooked. It's inconceivable to think that Gaiman had only written one miniseries prior to his work on The Sandman, as its opening arc is absolutely brilliant. It gets you acclimated to the universe by opening with a storyline that is essentially an action movie, and an amazing one at that. From there, the series rapidly grows darker, more cerebral; The Doll's House is a twisting, winding, psychological thriller of the finest quality. The Corinthian is Gaiman's crowning acheivement, a nightmare of his devising that feels so natural when next to mytholofical stalwarts such as The Furies and Fiddler's Green that you don't believe he made it up.

I've been working on completing The Sandman for six years, and reading the last pages was an event. I was astonished as I read The Kindly Ones and The Wake; The Kindly Ones was the last major arc for The Sandman, an epic spanning thirteen issues that took in the entirety of Gaiman's creation, referencing occurances throughout the series in such a way that I began to believe he'd had it planned all along, yet refused to believe it was possible to have such a clear vision of such grandeur from the start. It's breathtaking to read, to watch the pieces fall into place; the final issue, The Tempest, ends the series perfectly, in a manner only Gaiman would have been capable of. If you have the inclination, you should read The Sandman.

The only flaw in The Sandman is its inconsistent art, with artists changing constantly. But the story telling, on Gaiman's part, is a master class. He has a gift for scope, for making a number of loose threads, each in their own right mesmerizing enough, and then snapping them into one tapestry, and tapestry is the best word; in Gaiman's mind, there is always a bigger picture, and everything he does helps to add to it. He distracts us with individual strands, before suddenly pushing us back so we see what he's seen the whole time. Obviously, I am not the first person to sing Gaiman's praises; indeed, he is old news at this point. But, as I am just now starting to delve deeper into his catalogue, and I am continually awed and impressed with what I find, while still being entertained on a gutteral level, I would be remiss if I didn't try to send the rest of you his way.

Joe and I were discussing Gaiman a few weeks ago, after I finished reading American Gods. He commented that Gaiman seems to be losing potency as he gets older, that he's settling into becoming somewhat fatherly, writing childrens' books and not tackling projects with the same scope he used to. This may be true, and Joe has a point; Gods came out in 2001, and since then Gaiman has written Fragile Things, a collection of short stories, Anansi Boys, which is, from my understanding, a sweet, charming novel (It's on the To Read list), two pieces of Young Adult Fiction with Coraline and The Graveyard Book, and a number of childrens' books with various illustrators. So, he's not writing the epics he used to, but I can't really blame him. For one thing, he's writing some brilliant YA material, stuff I can't wait to give to my kid. For another, once you've written one of the best comic series ever published (possibly THE best comic series ever published) and one of the best fantasy novels ever published (probably the best fantasy novel that doesn't take place in a world drastically different from our own), well, where do you go? He mastered comics, and epic fantasy novels, and moved on. What's frightening is he seemed to master them both on the first go. I can't wait to see where he goes next.