How to Read...Like a Professor (Books #8&9)

Apparently, I really want to learn to read like a professor.

Foster does a decent job delineating the big concepts, motifs, themes, archetypes, and images that permeate literature. Yes, most of us well-trained monkeys know that rain/water/snow/wetness is usually symbolic. We also know that weird scars on a hero should be considered carefully. And we might even be able to figure out that going on a trip means we're probably on some sort of quest. But I like that Foster spells out some of these concepts for an untrained eye, for the layperson who may feel intimidated by literature (the reading of and thinking about).

And for that, I'm truly appreciative of these books.

However, Foster LOVES James Joyce. Yeah, yeah, I get it. Joyce is SOOOOO much smarter than the rest of us. We should bow to him, worship at his altar, make sacrifices of lesser works.

Whatever.

I'm Med-Ren in a po-mo world.

That and the little "Garden Party" test sat a little funny with me. It reminded me of those old exercise tapes with Jane Fonda that would step you through things nice and slow and then it would be time for you to try it all by your lonesome.

Safely, with the helpful guidance of someone not really there.

It's a little patronizing - especially when he pats on the head people who recognize "birds" or "loss of innocence" and then proceeds to give us a very complex reading involving Persephone.

Dude, slllooowww down! I went Biblical, not Classical. I saw the Four Horsemen, the Garden of Eden, and God as the Gardener. You saw the Rape of Persephone. But I'm guessing the average layperson lost us both at "birds."

You know???

Still, overall an enjoyable glimpse at how profs do their things.

Thor - Film #12

Remember when Natalie Portman won an Oscar???



Yeah, it wasn't for this movie.

In fact, I spent the better part of the movie wondering exactly what Natalie Portman did with her Oscar during principle filming...you know, because of the shame and phoning-it-in. But then I figured she probably filmed it before she won the Oscar and I felt much better.

Also, Chris Hemsworth's abs helped ease any lingering anxiety I felt over Portman's dearth of talent manifesting itself so blatantly in the role of an..ahem...astrophysicist.



There, don't we all feel better now?

I figure that Kenneth Branagh's Thor (yeah, I just typed that) is a Faustian attempt to reconcile human understanding through science to its dirty skank mistress mythology. Of course, in that reading, Branagh is Faust, which makes TOTAL sense because of the ego and necromancy and the cheating on Emma Thompson, which I still haven't forgiven him for even if she did totally marry up but then lose major points for naming her child "Gaia" or "MoonGoddess" or something.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh, right...Thor.

Anyways, Thor is your average, overblown superhero movie, except instead of a wimpy, anemic vegan in a spidey-suit, we get, you know, Abs Hemsworth who actually looks like he actually could be a superhero.

I mean, I thought Vincent D'Onofrio did a pretty good impression in Adventures in Babysitting, but that barely holds a candle to this effort.

See:



Vs.



I mean, come on! In comparison, poor D'Onofrio comes across like a butch trucker named Barbie who pumps steroids and eats sixteen eggs a day for breakfast so she can't taste the hormone supplements.

And that's with Hemworth's shirt on!

Look, I'm a sucker for Norse mythology, I really am, but this film misses the boat on several accounts.

First, Loki, who is reduced to a sniveling second child here (and, yeah, I can say that because I too am a sniveling second child, and someday, I too want to ruin the best day of my sister's life by inviting frosty blue gatecrashers to her big girl hammer party).

Loki was one of my favorites in the myths...you know, the oft-tortured demi-god jotunn halfbreed trickster of fun, but, here, well, he's like the obnoxious genetics experiment of Nicholas Cage, Alan Cumming, and Robert Smith.

Gone horribly, horribly wrong.




He should be off menacing Baldar with some mistletoe, not scheming to exile his brother so that he can save his father's life from the more sinister Frost Giants while Daddy-Odin catches some supernaturally-induced Z's in his Rainbow Brite-star-sprinkled-generated hyperbaric chamber sanctioned solely for the exclusive use of Norse Gods during their inconvenient nap cycles.

And he certainly shouldn't be off writing quasi-erotic elegiac poems of mourning to some pretty little Goth jotunn, which is what he looks like he's doing through 79% of the film.

GAH!

And what about the other Big Bad, the not-so-elusive Frost Giants, who emerge like a creepy combination of Jack Frost and any random Na'vi Avatar. I can't believe at no point in the film did ANYONE, not even pre-Portman-love-spelled Thor, yell, "Stay Frosty!" to anyone about anything at any point!

Oh, the injustice!




Oh, and then, there's the Rainbow Bridge. Now, I've already thrown in my gratuitous Rainbow Brite reference, but, damn. I know the Rainbow Bridge is actually authentic to the mythology, but, whenever anyone mentioned having to traverse it, all I could think of was this:



And that does not inspire world-ending fear.

Or, maybe more accurately, it does, but not in the desired way.

I took it as a bad sign when, within moments of Abs Hemsworth's Asgardian entrance, I could safely predict the entire plot of the film (which, in case you missed it, is basically "Hubris-addled Muscle-Man needs to learn a lesson in humility by being banished to Earth where he can learn how to order coffee effectively AND the true value of love, friendship, and honor, sometimes while shirtless") - and, as my sister warned, if you don't pay attention to the first segment in Asgard, you might as well go home and reread 50 Shades of Grey or something because it's probably not going to happen for you.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a BAD film (it wasn't a GOOD film, either, I'm not saying that, but it could have been so much worse than it was and I actually kind of liked that cute Thor fella). I just didn't see anything particularly new or interesting therein.

You feel me?

And what's up with the cast?

I mean, aside from Portman, because you already know my feelings about that one. We also have Sir Anthony "One-Eye" Hopkins as Odin, Rene Russo as Frigga, and Stellan Skarsgard as "The Beave."

What's up with that???

I mean, don't get me wrong, if I were Rene Russo, I'd love to get paid to wear gold lame and have Chris Hemsworth shoot me dirty winks for an afternoon, but what's Hopkins's excuse? Was it the pirate patch?



Because you know when the director yelled "Cut!" that Sir Anthony was bitching his little British mouth off about the hunk of spray-painted gold metal lodged in his eye hole.

And don't even get me started on Skarsgard, whose greatest contributions here are three-fold:

1. The drinking scene (which is the funniest bit in the movie)

2. To lend a sense of Nordic authenticity to a Marvel Comic hero whose backstory is so deeply entrenched in the myths of his people

and, of course...

3. Alexander Skarsgard, who, in case you don't read my reviews often, looks like this:


Of course, he's not in this movie, so there is that.

I'll be honest, I didn't pay what I would call particularly close attention to this film. In fact, I couldn't tell you any of these characters' names:


As far as I'm concerned, their names are Gimli, Xena, Tiny Thor Beard Jr., and Jet Li.

But, hey, you don't read my reviews for their accuracy.

And, look, I didn't even make one crude phallic joke about the Hammer...because it goes totally without saying...



the hammer is his penis.

Fifty Shades of Repulsion (for reading this book) "Book" 7

my inner goddess is jazz hands-ing (jazz fisting???)...or rather...my inner goddess (by which i mean feminist) is slightly appalled by the overt nature in which this book tackles the modern female's incarnation of the american dream.




yes, ladies, if we base our self-understanding solely on the mores and values espoused in the literature we clamor for, here's what we want:

1. a hot (HOT!), rich (SUPERRICH!), broody (PSYCHOTIC!) man who will tell us repeatedly we are not his whore but then lavish us with expensive finery (a car, a computer, clothes, a BlackBerry, etc.) when we make his manparts happy. because there should be a reward for certain sexual acts, let's all just face that fact right now. and we will maintain our cool independence and self-sufficiency by accepting those gifts on indefinite loan because we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings now, would we???

2. a fundamentally, spiritually, and sexually broken man who we honestly believe will be fixed/changed/bettered by virtue of our all-consuming love for and adoration of him. plus the sweet, sweet healing power of our innate sexual prowess (because we were TOTALLY virgins before we met him), that'll also fix him up real good.

3. to be controlled by a more dominating man who will constantly assure us that our role as the submissive is clearly where the real power is at, and, through our total surrender to him, we will become some mega-powerful sex goddess who does pirouettes on a bed of ecstatic pain. 

4. to be tied up. and flogged. but not in a kinky loveless way. in a way that reveals the true "bonds" of our relationship through the deep exploration of our mutual trust for one another. think of it like a "sexual ropes course for trust building" instead of "S&M" and you'll be just fine.

yes, folks, this is some real cult of domesticity level shit, here.

and, yeah, ladies, that thought? well, it kind of makes me want to vomit up my breakfast in my mouth-hole.


i'mma gonna go off on this shit, so consider this your warning. also, i'm probably going spoil things because that's how i be. sorry in advance.


christian grey is edward cullen if you remove the vampirism and replace it with "dominant sexual fetishism" instead. not that eddie boy doesn't suffer from his own need to control his ladylove; it just doesn't give him an erection to tie her up and keep her from harm.

or, if it does, stephenie meyer is polite enough not to tell us.

and, yes, anastasia steele is some screwed up combination of every 19th century british ingenue and bella swan. only with clear split personality issues. think jane eyre, if bertha rochester was her subconscious and blanche ingram her inner goddess. 



look, i get the great literary romantic conventions. i do. medieval literature proffered the dominating relationship between lover and beloved. 19th century gothic imagines this relationship similarly with a dark brooding and largely unseen masculine force dominating the will of the virginal female. and in both of these instances, the profane love relationship, of course, is used to heighten, illuminate, or refocus a larger, more sacred one with god. i GET that. (of course, this is why we have harlequin romances where men give pretty young things punishing glances before they give them mindblowing, punishing orgasms, but, i digress). so, in some ways, FSOG is just the natural extension of this progression - bruised glances get a little bit more literal but the dynamic that has always fostered female literature has not really altered.

again, i get that.

but this is just profane.

what fostered the dominant-submissive relationship in the past was this remote interest in using love as a means to a spiritual end with god (perhaps via marriage or perhaps via something else). what chafes me here, aside from the overt embracing of the graphic nature of punishment and sex here, is that it's all so deliciously low, so horribly dirty.

and, what really bothers me most here isn't the smut factor (which is so high, it's laughable) but the pervasive feeling of shame. christian grey introduces anastasia steele to the world of sexual intrigue via his interpretation of "vanilla sex". my interpretation of "vanilla sex" does not include the phrase "he slammed into her" in any way, shape, or form, but that is probably semantics. for christian, deflowering the divine ms. steele in this manner is probably about as gently caressing as he gets. but then he introduces her to his "red room of pain" - which is not unlike jane eyre's red room of pain in color schematics but vastly different in purpose and construction. i'm pretty sure even jane's evil aunt didn't have a cat-o-nine-tails in there. when christian punishes ana by spanking her bottom like an insolent child who he then wants to "empty himself inside of", she gets upset. not necessarily because he debased or degraded her so violently. not because he hit her. but because she kind of liked some of it and she's confused.

i was ashamed for her.

look, if you're into that thing, own it. whatever. but the whole "i'm so confused, i don't know what i want, i need space, please stalk me so i can't have it" thing is just plain repulsive. and the novel's conclusion which has anastasia asking to be punished to see if it is a hard limit for her (spoiler alert, it is!) is so unpleasant that i couldn't even be proud of her for leaving because she had continually compromised herself so compliantly. 

but enough philosophizing. let's get down to brass tacks...or ben wa balls, whatever floats your sexy time boat.

soft limits:
1. james's writing is not good, but she writes with gusto, you gotta give her that! and i'm sort of impressed that a piece of fanfiction could produce this much hype and success gives hope to the rest of us who understand syntax, plot, indirect characterization, subtlety, foreshadowing, etc.
2. in the same vein, i respect that james has created a safe outlet for this type of erotica (you say smut, i'll say erotica). i feel bad for her children who have to go to school and get mocked that their mother is into some weird shit but i like that she's made a taboo subject safer for some people. 
3. i finished it - i mean, at any point, i could have stopped. yelled out my literary safe word and left. but i didn't. i stayed. i took my beating. i'm dealing with my shame. i'm moving on.

hard limits:
1. the writing (#sorrynotsorry) - it's bad. and not just because of the sexual stuff (although christian grey telling ms. steele that he wanted to, and i quote, "claim her ass" made me laugh for a good two minutes). she introduces static characters with compelling dialogue like "this is jose. jose has been my friend for the last two years. jose is a photographer. i like jose, but i don't like-like him!" it's just bad. also, she's clearly british imagining the american experience. "laters, baby"??? no one on this coast says "laters", sorry. we think it's wicked cute when benedict cumberbatch does it but do it we do not. oh, and don't even get me started on how poorly she writes men (particularly in email form). blech.
2. ALL the references to the inner goddess or ana's subconscious. i said it before, i'll say it again - it reads like she has multiple personalities. "my inner goddess was doing the dance of seven veils, the macarena, the chicken dance, and the hula while my subconscious scowled at her critically like bela karoli watching mary lou retton at the 1984 olympics." dude, no wonder you're confused, you're three different people!
3. christian - look, these things sink or swim on the strength of the leading male (by which i do not mean physical prowess). and christian is a d-bag. yes, james attempts to give him a sordid, troubled past that smacks of that ephemeral hope that somewhere deep down underneath the marbled, whips and chains, domineering exterior is a soft, nougatty center. i don't really think there is. and to imagine a future including potential offspring with a man who gets off so completely on the act of discipline is just so very, very, very wrong, indeed.
4. the belt - WTF. i'm sorry, this did so nothing for me except make me hate the whole lot of them.


more.


i'm giving one star mostly for the level of discomfort i felt at the end of the "novel". but the saddest realization for me is that i am curious as to how this story ends (thank you, mistress, may i have another?) - and this is perhaps the greatest source of female shame there is. that these relationships have a thrall over us, even though we know that they are terrible, unhealthy, and wrong, we want more. will christian ever concede the need for punishment? will ana ever say "screw it! let's get the whip!"?

yeah, i know, i sicken myself.

(You Sunk My) Battleship - "Film" #11

Everyone has a birthday tradition. Some people go out to dinner, some people eat cake...me? I go to see a movie. A bad one. Oddly, usually of the action-y variety. And I make my sister come with me.

Because that's love.

I've been eagerly anticipating "Battleship" for MONTHS now (or weeks, or years, or decades - I'm really not sure which)...and, man, did it not disappoint!

I am so going to spoil the shit out of this one. Consider that your only warning.

So...shall we get down to brass tacks?

Or, should I say, plastic red pegs???



First, let there be no pretense here. My motives for seeing this film were pretty obvious, in a lanky Nordic kind of way:


(world, meet Alexander Skarsgard. If you are not familiar with his work, by which I mean abs, you should amend that)

There is so much wrong with Skarsgard's casting here, I can't even begin to explain it all. Besides the fact that he and Taylor Kitsch are supposed to be brothers despite some pretty heavily apparent ethnic dissimilarities in their genetic compositions or the fact that there is NO way that their "parents" named one child "Stone" and the other "Alex," I'm also fairly certain that Mr. Skarsgard has never played Battleship (the game) ever. Do they even have Battleship in Sweden?


(Eric dons Navy whites because he heard a rumor that Sookie loves a man in uniform)

Poor Alex Skarsgard, nobody told him the film was going to be a rehash of Contact, Titanic, Pearl Harbor, Armageddon, Forrest Gump, Independence Day, and Die Hard. And that he would be serving the same role that Josh Hartnett and Harry Connick, Jr. do in their respective films.

Mainly die.

Only here, in the first act of the film, which was totally unfair considering they gave him second billing in the movie.

Seriously, his whole function is to serve as the most perfect example of a human being ever so that his brother can feel like a total asshat in comparison, and thus, by the older brother's death, creating some sort of impetus for change in his wayward brother's naval life.

Stone also had to die because according to the naval bro code, in order for his brother to become captain, he had to be the person on board with the most stripes. I'm pretty sure with his impeccable understanding of what a colossal screwup his brother is that Stone would have battled through any flesh wound to ensure that travesty wouldn't happen.


(people in glass battleships shouldn't throw Stone)

After Stone's demise, the movie's plot held considerable less interest for me. Here's what I gleaned:

1. Aliens respond to a signal sent up by some too-smart-for-our-own-good earthlings by sending their own version of battleships and attempt to eradicate all our metal-based appliances and structures but preserve our organic integrity thus ensuring that no children were harmed during the fictional rendering of this movie.

2. Stone's little brother - who I shall call Gunny Riggins even though that is neither his name nor his rank - must assume control of the embattered fleet of shippery left after the aliens establish a kickass force field and his brother goes to the big Naval Yard in the sky.

3. The Navy apparently employs people whose sole purpose is to yell things like "Miss!" whenever one of our missiles refuses to hit its designated target. That person looks an awful lot like "Landry" from "Friday Night Lights".

4. In times of crisis, veterans apparently have nothing else to do but wander around Battleship museums in desperate hopes that they will be able to once more sacrifice their lives for the greater good. Or get an opportunity to use some of that salty sailor sea jargon you know their spouses do not permit at home.

5. The state of Japanese-American relations is really, really not fucking good.

6. Soccer is the kickassiest (or kissfaciest) sport that ever kickassed. And the Navy apparently sponsors something called "RIMPAC" which is not nearly as controversially scandalous as the name implies.

7. Women in these movies always suck.


(Rihanna is as comfortable in a Navy uniform as we would be watching her in a Chris Brown video)

First, Rihanna, who is the gratuitous female on the boat, appears like an androgynous waif whose sole function here is to remind us all that the navy is VERY open-minded when it comes to allowing people to serve someone else's country (although her accent is better than Skarsgard, who starts off southern and then switches to...something else...).

Of course, Peter Berg's most questionable scene regarding the aforementioned songstress is not when Rihanna sings quietly to herself on a boat ("Show me the way to go home / I'm tired and I want to go to bed..."), nor is it when she shoots something scary and otherworldly and shouts (and I shit you not) "Ma halo Mother-Fu-" (it gets cut off to spare the rating, I guess). No, no, it is when he gives us a scene where a big bruiser of a humanoid alien beats the shit out of her face.

Too soon, Peter Berg. TOO SOON!

No wonder she later does this:
 

Of course, the only other female of note (besides the mysterious female in a picture with Alexander Skarsgard who is NEVER IN THE FILM EVER) is the love interest of Gunny Riggins and the daughter of Admiral Liam Neeson, who could not have been more bored. She has a name, but I don't really remember it, so let's call her "Chicken Burrito".


(Reese Witherspoon? Never heard of her)

Chicken Burrito is a physical therapist who wants to be eternally bonded to loserboy Gunny Riggins before he saves the world (so it really must be love). She adopts a new pet amputee named Mick and together they roam the mountains of Hawaii, oblivious to the impending extinction level doom surrounding them both.

Then, they help save the world, too.

It's pathetic.

Come on, people, it cannot be that hard to have a female character who does not need to get saved at the last minute by a man with no legs, a science nerd with an indestructible metal suitcase, or her navy boyfriend!

But still, the movie was epic,

And I'm torn on the whole stance of war the movie has. The end credits roll to the tune of "Fortunate Son" - an anti-war protest song...so either the filmmakers are incredibly obtuse (which is possible) or this whole blockbuster is a masterful subversive lesson in the power of humility.

And The Art of War.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close - Film #10

This film is the cinematic interpretation of one of my all-time favorite books. Favorite in the sense that you will laugh, you will cry, you will appreciate the spectrum of autism like never before.

Without having to be told Oskar has Asperger Syndrome, like they feel compelled to tell you in the movie.

Let's skip the platitudes, shall we? I mean, it was a good movie, a nice rendition, and I totally cried, so it clearly hit most of the right emotional notes.

But it wasn't how I pictured it.

Thomas Horn was convincing as a precociously intelligent, socially awkward child struggling with the anger of grief, but he was not how I pictured Oskar in my mind.

His performance, however, was forgivable, as it was believable and I liked him by the end. More egregious was the Hanksing of the novel.



Look, I love Tom Hanks. I really do. But putting him in a quasi-serious drama is about as sensible as putting Jimmy Stewart in an action movie. You feel me?

Still, he's not really that bad here, just strange casting. Because let's face it - even though she married that philandering asshat with the motorcycles, there is NO WAY Sandra Bullock would ever end up with a Tom Hanks in real life.

Except, I guess that Rita Wilson is sort of like an older, less precious Sandra Bullock, so maybe it's just my own personal biases here.

Whatever.

The best part of the movie is Max Von Sydow as the Renter.



For a man with no lines, he certainly was pretty damn good.

And Jeffrey Wright, who I think deserves an Oscar (not an Oskar, 'cuz that would be creepy) just for showing up to play in any movie.

Good but not great interpretation of a book that is so clearly visual that it might actually transcend film.

Deadlocked (Sookie #1,000,000,000) - Book #6

i wish i had written this review right after i read the darn book.

but i didn't.

so, instead, you're getting this.

each new sookie stackhouse book reiterates one general thematic principle: that charlaine harris is milking this cashcow until it is beyond dead. that's right, in good old fashioned frankensteinian fashion, harris's creation has run amok and what we have here is the equivalence of literary, capitalist vampirism (see what i did there?) and my money is being sucked dry by wasting them on each new addition to the sookie oeuvre. 

or something.

look, i'm not saying i won't buy the next one - because, let's face it,i totally will, i'm just saying i used to think these were building in some sort of long-winded direction, striving to achieve some higher purpose, or reveal some subtle subversive message about how all just need to get along by depicting an epic battle between the myriad natural and supernatural species.

now, i think it's going to twilight out and be all about getting a crappy boyfriend. and keeping him. forever-ish.

blech.

what harris does to eric here is almost unforgivable. i get that she begrudgingly allowed the whole eric-sookie-loveship to sail because her fans demanded it and that even though bill neck-raped sookie in the trunk of a car sooooo many, many books ago, ms. harris seems firmly entrenched on the side of team bill.

i get THAT.

but damn, eric here is so not eric. i want my undead viking of cool back. not this! no, no, not this!

the good news about this installment is that there was actually a mystery here - and even though this plot development was inevitable for the last 3-5 books, it's nice to return to the old formula and actually feel like some of my money went to a productive cause.

but i'm serious, if harris ends the series with a return to the cold, dead arms of bill, i swear to god i will write a strongly worded letter of epic proportions!

and i'll send it, too!

So Pretty It Hurts (Book #5)

so, after a not-so-brief foray into vision problems, i'm back. and i've chosen to return to the world of "pleasure reading" with the latest in the bailey weggins series. because if you're going to do it, you might as well just leap right on in with the trashiest piece of literature you can get your grubby little paws on. 

now, i loved this series initially, but each addition has brought with it a little less joy, a little less enthusiasm, and a little less fun. and, let's be frank, pleasure reading should never really ever feel like work, you know what i mean???

of course you do.

the last book was written several years ago and left on one heck of a chicklit cliffhanger: bailey had to choose between skeevy film-maker beau regan (yes, folks, that's his name) or superdreamy, younger actor chris somethingorother. 

spoiler alert: she picked beau.

immediately, this bristled. look, i'm not saying i'm rooting for a scenario where bailey comes across like a slutty cougar, but beau is just so...blech. white's physical descriptions of the character include enticing details like: longish brown hair, rugged looks, chiseled body, and an exotic smell. i sort of picture the highlander. and that creeps me out beyond belief.

of course, bailey is about as emotionally mature in her fledgling relationship as you'd expect a job-hopping commitmentphobe to be. so mature that, when beau regan goes out of town on short notice, she seeks retribution by spending the week in the bowels of upstate new york at a rich guy's barnsion with several elite folks including a model, a journalist, a cookbook author, an aging rockstar, and several management sorts. 

dead bodies ensue.

there are sideplots with anorexia, tell-alls, and bailey's job (the killer has bailey's integrity questioned and she almost loses her job...which...spoiler alert...doesn't matter because she quits when they don't have her back).

the killer is predictable (i had it narrowed down between two folks immediately), the motives a little more muddied, but ultimately the major plot points lack in luster what i had longed to be a decadent rebirth into the world of literary smut.

whatever.

my biggest gripe, obvious, is beau regan and his creepy brand of wooing. wine, fireplace massages...we were one bubble bath or long walk on the beach away from total cliche. and the fact that he puts all the blame for relationship tension on bailey is so distasteful! ladies, can we please demand chicklit that does not call for our female protagonist to dutifully accept her flaws as being the primary source of strife in this madcap world of love??? 1. beau knew about a lengthy trip and didn't tell bailey until the day before he was leaving and 2. his ex-lover calls and leaves naughtily suggestive phone messages and he puts the blame solely on her? bleeeecchhhh.

look, bailey isn't perfect. sure, she's got raging relationship dysfunctions. but it takes two to tango.

and, man, do i miss chris.