Book Review: The Killing Moon

N.K. Jemisin’s new novel won’t revolutionize the way you think about desert-based fantasies, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good read. I reviewed The Killing Moon for BookPage.

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Film Review: The Raid: Redemption

Taking delight in a well-filmed physical blow, mishap, etc. strikes me as at least one thing that’s pretty gender-specific. The latest film I reviewed for Paste had plenty of such moments. :>

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Film Review: Prospero’s Books

(Note: Here’s a review I did way back as commentary editor for pifmagazine.com. It’s since vanished from their archives—Who says the Internet is forever?—so I’ll replant it here.

Prospero’s Books (1991)
Directed by Peter Greenaway

While Much Ado About Nothing and Twelfth Night are worthy of being seen for the curiosity each represents—the former for its unexpected, unprecedented, and unlikely-to-be-repeated synthesis of character, casting and Keanu, and the latter for its unrelenting, clinically precise presentation of pathos in a Shakespearean Comedy—Prospero’s Books, Peter Greenaway’s 1991 adaptation of The Tempest, merits viewing for the simplest of reasons: it is one of the most vigorous adaptations of the Bard ever filmed and easily the most competent and compelling version of The Tempest.

Greenaway is a director whose visual exuberance can overwhelm a viewer. I worked in a small campus theater when his oft-disturbing 1989 film The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover first came out. During its week-long run, I noticed two patterns: people often left in the first fifteen minutes; many of those who remained returned to see the film again the next night. Prospero’s Books is not nearly so graphic, but there are still many reasons a casual viewer might dismiss it. Some may be distracted by such superficial elements as the nudity (virtually all the island spirits are naked—and there are a lot of island spirits) or the fact that, as Prospero, Sir John Gielgud delivers 80% of the lines (speaking most of the lines for the other characters through the first half of the film). Then there are the interpretative elements purists might object to: Caliban’s lines (spoken by Prospero) accompanied by modern dance or a tripartite Ariel. And finally, the second half of the film drags somewhat, particularly when viewed on the small screen, where some scenes lose a degree of their sweep and grandeur.

But those who leave the film half-watched or half-attended have done themselves a marked disservice. The marriage of Greenaway’s always extravagant vision with one of Shakespeare’s most mature plays is a remarkable union. In some of his films, Greenaway’s visual palette can seem forced and overly clever—such as his “one controlling color per room” approach in The Cook… or his “gradually ascending numbers” motif in 1987’s Drowning by Numbers—but in the The Tempest, Greenaway’s wildest whims and most bizarre imagery merely soak into the absorbent metaphoric tapestry of the play, adding to the richness without detracting.

Most simply, the story of The Tempest can be viewed on three levels. One can interpret it literally: a bookish ruler is exiled with his daughter by his usurping brother to a remote island. He commands the spirits to his service and eventually has the opportunity to avenge himself on his brother, choosing reconciliation instead. From a more figurative angle, one can interpret the spirits as figments of Prospero’s imagination (and accordingly ascribe varying degrees of reality and explanation to the remainder of the plot). Perhaps the old boy is just a bit loony. Finally, interpreting as pure metaphor, one can view the entire tale as a look into the mind of the writer/artist and into the artistic process itself. These layers of interpretative space allow Greenaway’s most fantastic images ample room to play. Naked spirits? Well, who can say how such inhuman beings would appear to mortal eyes, even those of a magician? Or in the fancy of a senile or mentally unstable man? And couldn’t these images represent the unclothed and often random ideas that exist in a writer’s mind as he or she creates? One of the most absurd images in a panoply of such images further illustrates the example: During the wedding masque for Ferdinand and Miranda, one of the beings presenting gifts is a hooded, naked man with his feet in two buckets of tar. Say what? Yet such an absurdity resonates with a truth about the writing process: For every honed, well-presented trait or detail put onto paper, how many more random, useless, illogical thoughts, details, and even entire characters present themselves to the author only to be quickly dismissed? How many others, even more absurd, flit along the edges, never even gaining form or recognition?

Having Prospero deliver the majority of the lines could easily be regarded as a gimmick, and indeed some reviewers have professed themselves to be distracted by the visuals to an extent where the language is somewhat lost. I found the opposite to be true. With all the lines being delivered in Gielgud’s distinctive voice, I found myself focused on the language in a way that I had never before achieved through reading or attending productions. Indeed, it is Greenaway’s very patience with the delivery of the lines that can make the film seem overlong (especially to American audiences).

Before Prospero’s Books, Greenaway’s visual excess always seemed on the verge of swamping whatever tale he was telling. With The Tempest, Greenaway finally has a story too expansive to overfill; in return, the Bard’s tale benefits from a potent and original retelling. This should not be viewed as an attempt to present the defining interpretation of The Tempest; it is merely meant to be an interpretation. And for all the visual grandeur and excess and distraction in Greenaway’s vision, it is his respect for Shakespeare’s works and language that shines through most clearly. (Respect, not deference.) Like many of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, a production of The Tempest demands certain things from its director: it demands vigor; it demands imagination; it demands respect. Greenaway meets these demands, and for this, he deserves our thanks.

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Book Review: Angelmaker

Harkaway’s the son of John LeCarré, as I’m sure he’s tired of people pointing out. His latest book, which I review here for BookPage, almost lost me, but then it had me.

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Film Review: Chronicle

by Scott Wold

If Peter Parker hadn’t grown up in the loving care of his Uncle Ben and Aunt May, ingrained with portentous advice about great power being inconveniently saddled with great responsibility, we might have seen a very different origin of Spider-Man. In Chronicle, director Josh Trank combines this very conceit with the now-practically-a-genre-of-its-own “found footage” gimmick. What on paper sounds like hoary contrivance, actually avails itself surprisingly well in viewing.

The “found footage” in question, meant initially to document his lecherous father (an excellently miserable Michael Kelley) in the act of domestic abuse, becomes beleaguered teen Andrew’s (Dane DeHaan) filter of choice for helping him cope with the bullying and other vagaries he’s surrounded by both at home and school. When his cousin, Matt (Alex Russelll), and friend, Steve (Michael B. Jordan), discover a mysterious hole, they bring Andrew and his camera along, only to encounter an unexplained source of power that conveniently shorts out the camera. The action picks up weeks later (with a new camera) after the boys begin noticing their emerging telekinetic abilities. Max Landis’s (the son of Blues Brothers and An American Werewolf in London helmer, John Landis) screenplay has a lot of fun showing us the boys’ bonding over learning to master their newfound talents, and really nails the patter and rhythm of the way teenage boys speak and behave. It’s easy to get caught up in the exuberant but (mostly) harmless mischief on display in the first and second act, especially as Andrew realizes he no longer need limit his video feed with strictly terrestrial concerns.

But it doesn’t all work. The introduction of a second camera shows the filmmakers’ hand a bit too obviously as we follow Matt’s awkward wooing of his crush, Casey (Ashley Hinsaw), and readily offers up the escape hatch needed when the rising menace of the third act is revealed. Following this near breach of the fourth wall—and in the hallowed tradition of both comic book and teenager tales—friendships and loyalties are abruptly tested and/or broken as that whole great power/great responsibility bond is tested. At 83 minutes, Chronicle feels a bit rushed, though some of that comes in the service of speeding to a grand super-showdown. And what a showdown! Trank whips the limitation of the delivery format into a frenzy of footage feeds that vastly scales up the overall scope of the film, safely and effectively allowing a more massive action set piece across the city of Seattle. (Think Akira on a more human level.)

Mostly, though, it’s great to think that we’ll be remembering Chronicle as “Josh Trank’s directorial debut.” Successfully navigating well-worn tropes is impressive, but goosing them back to life? That’s downright super.

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When Truckers Ruled the Earth

I, for one, think the highways were much safer when patrolled by uniformed bears.

The Dig: Day 3
Artifact: 15 cards of the 44-card Donruss “CB Convoy Code” series
Dated: 1977-78 (bread-borne)

These sticker cards trigger a convoy of memories.

First, though I had totally forgotten that collectible cards once came in loaves of bread, on finding these, I immediately recalled the “bready” smell of the cards and searching through the clear plastic areas of a loaf trying to figure out which card was in the package. (There were more than just the CB slang series—this blog shows a few examples of why I was feeling up innocent loaves of bread on the supermarket aisle.)

The Family Burgin operated right smack dab in the middle of the CB craze. (Here’s a link that nicely encapsulates it for the post-’70s readers out there.)

Each sticker came with a list of soon-to-be-dead slang on the back!

There was the one used mainly on our trips to different Appaloosa horse shows throughout the Southeast. (I was a horse show urchin, though I neither rode nor showed—think Oliver Twist minus Fagan and the phat begging skilz.) We also had a home-based CB—big, black, square and in the kitchen. We lived within a mile of I-40, so it was easy to tap into the stream of trucker communication driving between Nashville and Knoxville (and beyond). I wish I could report hilarious pranks played on passing motorists, or even some scary tale of narrowly avoided trucker vengeance. (After all, there’s no vengeance like trucker vengeance.) But I was just an unprecocious 10-year-old; the unsuspecting truckers drove in and out of range untested by my wiles.

Briefly, there was a third CB in the Burgin household—the unwanted, disputed fruit of a second place finish that I won in sixth grade. Or rather, my Mom won it by helping me place second in the selling of popcorn for my school. That year, 1979, would signal the end of pre-packaged, unpopped popcorn’s dominance in the lucrative Catholic elementary school market, as the instantly ubiquitous World’s Finest Chocolate syndicate would take over the very next year. (In turn, the WFC would reign unchallenged for a few decades before its market hegemony was forever shattered. The school fundraising landscape is now littered with a hodgepodge of chocolate bars, holiday cards/gifts, popcorn, magazine subscriptions and the like.) But in 1979, it was still all about the ’corn for St. Edward and its prepubescent Saints.

The winning of that CB radio left a lasting impression. Not because I tapped still nascent levels of industry and salesmanship (again, all Mom—thank you, Mom), but because the original prize for second place was a bicycle—the CB radio was the grand prize. Unfortunately for this sixth-grade bicycle enthusiast, the winner of the popcorn sales event was a chubby, red-headed fourth grade girl. Not surprisingly, she didn’t want a CB radio. In a staggering setback that I’m convinced still haunts the women’s rights movement to this day, it was even suggested such a prize was inappropriate for a girl. (But somehow a device mainly used by hefty, lonely, middle-aged men with miles to go before they slept? That was just the thing for a 6th grade boy.)

Having a new bike—one rightfully earned for me by my mother’s toil—snatched from me in such a manner was Lesson #23 (of 4,570 and counting) in Life’s Not Fair class. The CB radio was sold to a friend of my Dad’s for $5. So basically, my mom worked her butt off, a fourth grader got a bike, I got $5, and the St. Edward Saints met their fundraising goals for 1979/1980 calendar year.

Sorry, Mom.

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Film Review: The Adventures of Tintin

Tintin was actually one of the few 3D films I’ve thought worthy of the extra 3D money. My review for Paste, 3D glasses not included.

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Book Review: Demi-Monde: Winter

I’m not sure what’s more impressive—the mix of cyber noir thriller and alternate history fascination or first-time author Rees’ adept handling of it. My review for BookPage.

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Film Review: Weekend

It was a challenge deciding how and if to refer to the “hetero squirm factor” in this review for Paste. Regardless, it was an impressive little film.

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Film Review: Immortals

I did not regret spending $8 to see this film at the theater (as my review for Paste shows). That doesn’t mean it was a film for the ages, but in some ways it was certainly a better “remake” of Clash of the Titans than the actual remake.

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