Classic Movie Review: Lifeboat

   
I’ve been on a classic movie trip lately. I find them absolutely comforting. Lifeboat, produced by Alfred Hitchcock, written by John Steinbeck, is absolutely wonderful and is for good reason required watching for certain college courses in film-making. I’d seen it about a decade ago and got a wild craving to watch it last night. The message hit me from a different angle this time and compelled me to write. Movies from this era are magnificent studies of the human character, the human condition as a whole. This one conveys that even when our empathy lands us in a cruel place, it doesn’t mean we should harden ourselves and withhold this singly human phenomenon--empathy--from peers lest the world go to Hell in a handbasket while we all vacuously watch. The message at first seems dismal, but what I believe we're seeing by the end of this movie is that the will to do good and to be good is indomitable.
   
    In the midst of World War II a group of unlikely castaways are blasted from their freighter ship and collect themselves onto a small lifeboat as it drifts on the wide open sea. Among the brilliant cast is Tallulah Bankhead, a total treasure (even in her I Love Lucy episode she's awesome). She plays the voice of reason as the first fiery debate begins to divide the crew: an enemy German drifts to the boat and needs help. Of course, because they're Americans at war with Germany, most the crew wants to throw the man overboard and let him drown. The Englishman onboard, levelheaded and philosophical, reasons with them that what they propose is murder and this would make villains of them, too; it isn’t God’s way. (I wondered if their humanity would have suffered without this character! I love him and it comes as no surprise that the entire film couldn’t have thrived without him). They must take the German to justice, he says, because he’s a prisoner of war. Thus begins their adventure, a fight for survival to find shelter from the vast unforgiving sea with no supplies to sustain them, no compass, and an enemy in their midst.
   
    Despite the tragedies and casualties that ensue, Tallulah Bankhead is a source of uplifting wry humor as they drift for endless days and nights, hungry and thirsty and mistrustful of the German, ever hopeful that they’ll find their way back to civilization--in their case, to the English-owned territory, Bermuda. It is due to her character that they come to rely upon the enemy’s directions, as she’s the only one who speaks fluent German to communicate with him. She’s a rather strongly defined woman in this role, which likely accounts for the not-so-strong first member of the crew to go overboard--the sad and fragile Mrs. Higley who was on her way to America with her infant. That they tossed her dead infant overboard proves too much and she jumps into the sea--either in an act of cowardice or sorrow--and while the crew is distracted with her sacrifice it’s revealed that the German isn't what he seems. He stows a secret compass from everyone, and while they thought themselves headed towards safety, he actually leads them into enemy territory.
   
    As everyone readjusts, they get to know each other. John Kovak, the only one who never wavers in his suspicion of the German, valiantly strips the writer Connie Porter (played by Bankhead) of her ego. He accuses her of only wanting to popularize herself by writing a novel about the war. She challenges him by showing that she finds his distaste in her career choice ruggedly charming and that she is by no means a stranger to survival. She knows full well by observing people--the way that only a photo-journalist can--that the German is the only one of them who appears--somehow--capable navigating the sea. She knows whether they fear him or not, they’ll need to rely upon him. However, because Kovak’s comments linger with her, Connie quickly grows less concerned with herself and more with the care of others as she realizes that no one comforted poor Mrs. Higley before she died. Of course, she still maintains the attitude that I think only Bankhead could supply a character; she wryly insinuates that poor Mrs. Higley did jettison wearing the mink-fur coat that Connie lent to her. (I have read the report that Tallulah did not wear panties on the set, which, somehow isn't so hard to believe about this elegant lady).
   
    At length one of the American survivors, Gus, suffers a gangrenous leg that needs to be amputated and the enemy happens to be the only person onboard with surgical experience. A storm of mistrust and anger brews over the prospect of the German performing the amputation, and we get to know poor Gus who loves his unfaithful girl back at home more than himself. Again, Bankhead is brilliant here, brilliant. She comforts Gus by lying to him that his girlfriend, a hot dancer, would want him to have the surgery despite that he won't be able to dance with her anymore. Connie only wants to help Gus; she prays afterward that God forgive her the lie. Bankhead’s comedy is ladylike, casual, subtle. She helps us to laugh rather than cry and shocks us by remaining lusty and quick-witted despite the circumstances. Even during the grimmest situation she's a ray of comedy that refocuses us on the human condition, the one that, by varying degrees, each of the crew members contributes to. This is John Steinbeck and Alfred Hitchcock and a superb cast at their finest.
   
    If you haven’t seen it, I cannot reveal the ending of a truly great film like this (find it on Wikipedia if you must) except that its message is timeless and, while seemingly grim, is a positive declaration for the importance of never abandoning hope and never reflecting bad behavior no matter how badly it may have hurt, no matter the scars it might leave behind. Highly recommended.
   
   

Prince of Thorns: Book Review

There are some parts of this author's work that I envy. (Just putting that on the table; I’ll always say so when it’s true.) I've read several of his short stories and poems, which have gone beneath the surface and entertained, inspired, and lingered. However, Prince of Thorns was oddly not among those works! This is no insult; it's highly readable and, like a ten car pileup, hard to look away from, but it did seem a slightly different turn from a few darker more meaningful fantasy works I've read. As the author's major publishing debut it offered me a different door into his creativity and the genre market in general, and as an aspiring writer, of course, I sprinted through it.

The cover had me thinking the book was a bit different than what it turned out to be--a strictly sword and sorcery affair rooted in a dark age, medieval times, perhaps, because there are about thirty medieval-looking swords on the cover. But there's a twist: A post-apocalyptic twist. The story apparently takes place after the world has been hit with weapons of mass destruction.

The lesson then is: don't judge a book by its cover. On the cover the prince's stance is a la David and Goliath, yet darker--a warrior victorious over many kills. And it's a stunning image, invoking thoughts of hard-fought battles, triumph, change. But it made me wonder--if a society, post-apocalyptic as this one, once knew how to make missiles and guns, then why does said society revert to using swords? If swords and cross-bows can be smithed, why can't guns?

What further confused me about this element of the story, was why, after the apocalypse, would the remaining people of a society revert to archaic lifestyles--the speech, the dress? I would think, given the many post-apocalyptic theories/films/books out there, that once humanity had been decimated, time would stop rather than revert. I'm thinking of Bethesda’s Fallout 3 (yeah, I’m a game junkie and that one was particularly fun) where the apocalypse happened somewhere between 1920-1950-something, and trends were dictated by the height of technology at the time of its downfall: People still listened to the same music, scavenged for and clung to their guns, computers, appliances, etc. And once the Rapture was over, there wasn't a religious person left on the planet.

It seems that what the author has done here is revert society back to the dark ages, pre-Renaissance and sans Humanism, instead of showing the way society was at the time of the apocalypse, which is actually a long-running theory about humanity’s “true” progression depending on which anthropological theorist you subscribe to. But it just doesn’t sit well. The overall ambience, after the point in the story when I realized it was post-apocalyptic, changed for me. I felt splashed cold with this element. This doesn't detract from the author's talent, though. As a writer, you learn to hold things up to the light and look at them critically, to look through them to find how they work. As a reader, you just go with the author's flow, and if they're talented, as this author undeniably is, then you enjoy the ride.

The writing is worthwhile: A blend of fantasy trope and voice-driven literary fiction. Every sentence is taut, Jorg's observations fiercely confident. Many passages hearken to the author's earlier poems. If, by chance, you're an aspiring poet, join his Yahoo! poetry group, be kind to some folks who want their poetry read. Just don't download any files. :) If you can find them, read the author's poems. Search them out online. For analytical types they provide an excellent context for his prose.

While the story might appeal more to the male sect, given its packaging, it's a universally blasphemous fun read in the vein of "A Clockwork Orange" that for many moments had me rooting for vengeance. What compelled me to finish Jorg's story was a strong empathy for him; hope, perhaps, that vengeance against everyone who crossed him wasn't all there was to his legacy. Mostly, it wasn't. Impressive moments range between the socially and the emotionally relevant: Love is felt by Jorg in the poetical form of hooks sinking into his heart; it absolutely affects pain in him, and this is conveyed with the kind of coarse beauty one would expect from a tortured soul. Poignant philosophies and brilliant sarcasm are scattered little gems all the way to the end. But strangely, this is all conveyed through a fifteen-year-old boy, which does feel partly cliché (hormonal teenage angst in effect) and highly improbable (c'mon, no matter what he's seen, he's still just. . . a kid).

Never mind the genre. Genres are utterly confining and you will skip over things you should have read because you discriminated against the genre or you paid too much attention to reviews. I say the same for music, shows, or movies. Judge for yourself, possibly be surprised by this ambiguous character as author Mark Lawrence blurs the lines between lovable and detestable, noble and evil, retribution and vengeance.

earth’s forbidden secrets

Another book review. Back to basics.
Have you ever started a new book expecting to be hooked given its description, and wound up tossing it; or, started a new book expecting to be disappointed, given its description, and wound up enthusiastic about it even after you’d finished? Maxwell Igan’s Earth’s Forbidden Secrets, Part One, an examination of “canonized” history versus physical evidence, definitely falls under the latter.

I do confess to having an abnormal obsession with ancient world history, which also means I have the proverbial collection of articles, movies, documentaries, and of course, books. However, once you read a dozen books that all share nearly the same information you stop expecting any of them to present an original, creative, enlightening point-of-view. But one day, after fruitless searches for something new at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, eBay, you stumble onto something free, and its content is on the nose.

Since I’m in the business of writing I’m always looking for fallacies in established fact, or unconventional theories to lay the foundation for a new piece of fiction. That said, this book is probably not for mainstream archaeologists, anthropologists, or historians, all of whom subscribe to mainstream ideas. Igan makes this point, citing that closed minds have been bolted shut before all of this information for years, and the difference between having a doctorate in the field and not having one is the difference between being taken seriously or being laughed out of town.

Seemingly small facts such as the origin of the banana will interest any who didn’t previously know the world’s most widespread and nutritious “herb” does not make seeds, despite that all vegetables, fruits, and herbs with the exception of those that have been genetically modified, do indeed make seeds; that is how they are grown, from seeds. Thus, how did the banana get here, how did it thrive for thousands of years without any intervention until humans came along and learned to cultivate its root? The storyteller in me is sprinting on its hamster wheel, spinning possible scenarios that can answer those questions, which is why I liked this book. The “out-of-place artifacts” Igan mentions, too, are interesting. These “Ooparts”, such as the Mitchell-Hedges crystal skull, raise valid questions and theories and certainly inspire a great deal of fantasy and action-adventure titles like Tomb Raider and Indiana Jones.

Fascinating fodder for fiction aside, if you’re interested in ancient history, if certain “facts” or artifacts bug you and raise more questions, then this book is a good starting place. The author encourages readers to research all the topics he brings to light, and doing so will start you on a long endeavor that I haven’t quite recovered from yet.

Some of the author’s points have been raised before of course, such as information on the Antikythera device found in Greek waters, and on the Temple of Jupiter in Baalbek, and plenty on the Mayans—therefore, little in the book can be considered mind-blowing. Nevertheless Igan toiled to rally readership into reopening old investigations, and aims at new audiences to take up curiosity now that we have the techno-social means to seek answers, i.e., the Internet and social media.

Despite the grandiose claims of his text including “secrets”—which it does not if you have been interested in these topics for awhile—the author has a healthy skepticism exercised by his unwillingness to use the word conspiracy as an accusation, or jump to cartoon-like conclusions, which he does point out is the recipe for sounding crazy. However, one is encouraged to question the shunning of certain ideas by scholars, professors, and historians, especially where physical evidence points to the truth, rather than blindly believing what is widely taught and accepted. Some quick examples:

• Brain surgery was performed with evident success during the Neolithic era, as evidenced by ancient skulls found with finely prepared animal bones surgically installed. The bodies had accepted the “donor” bone fragments as further evidenced by a regrowth of human bone tissue over the animal bone. This insinuates the patients lived for quite some time after the surgery. According to the textbooks we read in our modern surgery class (and our professor), trepanning, or cranial surgery, had never been performed until the medieval era, and every attempt was basically manslaughter. Yet physical evidence exists that one should think would encourage revisions to medical history.
• A fossilized human shoeprint—shoe, not foot—from over 300 million years ago was found, insinuating that cavemen had some pretty modern-looking shoes, or there's some other, weirder explanation. . . .

The editing of Earth’s Forbidden Secrets isn’t spotless, which should be expected—and accepted—for writers releasing works independent of publishing houses with paid editors. If one can surmount this, then it’s an enveloping read. The matter is among my most-loved, that history is rewritten as it’s written, and that substantial evidence is often shunned by the very people who disseminate the facts. Maxwell Igan throws nearly everything in the fridge into the soup and bridges events and phenomena without ranting or being patronizing that the majority of us are more concerned with the present instead of yada, yada, yada. But there’s a lesson in that too: Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it.

This book, therefore, is a call to pay attention to what is taught, but also to resist believing that what is taught is showing you the whole picture. There are mysteries all around us, namely us, and we choose to close our eyes, cover the ears and duck when anything fantastically unheard of that requires the use of imagination crosses our path; that is, whenever strange evidence stares us straight in the eye as indisputable fact.

Igan writes with an optimistic spirit that relies heavily on scholars to take their education for what it was worth—an initiation into a clique of thought that allows them to constantly pursue more knowledge. Igan encourages us to not settle into what we’ve learned and rave madly that it is fact for all eternity. If nothing more or less, Earth’s Forbidden Secrets, Part One is a call to join the discussion rather than storm against it or ignore it.

Shades of Dislike

My first book review on this blog. I wish it could’ve been a book that I liked better, but Amazon recommended it, I got it, here we are. Like any erotica, once you start reading Fifty Shades of Grey you become a bit hooked, if for nothing else than the short-lived naughty thrill of peeping into someone’s else’s sex life. And that’s really all this book has. If it’s interesting fresh personalities you’re after, or perhaps prose with creative distinctiveness, don’t listen to Amazon and the New York Times.

To be fair, as I said, the lure of naughtiness might keep you reading. Obviously, titillating is an easy sale. But make no mistake, it’s nothing new and the writing leaves a lot to be desired. Certain phrases, word for word, appear in so many different chapters that I often thought I’d accidentally cycled my e-reader back to a previous page (which happens frequently with the iBooks app).

I sound like a complainy-puss, but I don’t like wasting my time with things I had high hopes for. I’m also rather cynical when it comes to erotica; it’s difficult to find unique stuff in a cliché-dependent genre. But it wasn’t the genre that closed the book for me; there are a number of things I take issue with. For one, Author E.L. James’ teensy, seemingly innocuous injections of toxic propaganda. Namely, a conversation where a supporting character, Mia, suggests that the city of Paris is great, except for Parisians (“Boo, French people!”), and an awkward scene where the mother of Christian Grey, Grace, a pediatrician, is called to the phone—a setup clumsily built around her opinion that all children should be vaccinated (“Boo, freedom of choice!”). There are more examples. I’m not writing a thesis on it, though. Suffice it to say it’s almost like Fox News drones on at low volume in the background. And it’s kind of a really big turn-off for an erotic novel. . . unless of course, you’re into that.


The plot follows young, innocent-minded Anastasia Steele, a college student whom falls in love with a psychotic domineering billionaire with cult-like BDSM tendencies—Christian Grey. Her conflict arises from an obsessive sexual attraction for him, despite the fact that he is incapable of love. His idea of a relationship consists of beating, humiliating, and essentially owning Anastasia; he’s done so with every other woman he’s ever known. It begins intriguingly enough. You want to see her rise against this vitiating dude, and for a while she does. Yet plot problems arise as she weakens and succumbs to him, luring herself into a “compromise” with a sexual deviant, which seems inconsistent as far as psychology and human instinct:


There doesn’t seem to be anything in Anastasia’s past to suggest she was destined to be a “submissive” lover—a sex-slave, to be blunt. Moreover, certain details suggest she’d be smarter than that, such as the essentially wholesome, harmless, educated and privileged lifestyle she’s had up until meeting Christian Grey. There are worse things than having a mother who remarries when the seasons change; I thought this facet of Anastasia’s past would’ve made her more adaptive to change and thus more mature, but for all that, she remains “innocent” and “naïve” in the face of insane decisions like whether or not her psychotic lover is an abuser for wholly dominating and humiliating her, desiring to bruise her and punish her like a child. But he’s “hot”, so hot apparently, that she cannot walk away and spends a great deal of time flailing and crying over her indecision.


In the long run, she accepts his bizarre idea of a relationship—going so far as to sign a non-disclosure agreement so that she’ll not try to sue him if he should happen go past her “limits”—and allows herself to believe that his tragic past has screwed him up, but she can change him. Is that not the proverbial mantra of a doomed relationship—“I can fix him/her.” Yes, it’s a black day for true love; womanhood too, for goddess’s sake. Continual references to the protag’s inner goddess is salt in the wound.


There’s no corroborating scene from her past to explain why she retains a grade-school mentality, yet it persists. Numerous references to this twenty-something’s innocence and her childlike mannerisms began to irk me. I stuck around until the middle of Book 2 for some kind of affirmation for why—why is she like this. And when I got sick of waiting, ill from the repetitive not-quite-healthy sex and dialogue, I gave up.


A far better read in this vein is Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel series, where the writing lives up to the immense challenge of commercializing BDSM. Carey exceeds expectation through genuinely flawed and lovable characters, vivid Renaissance imagery (requiring research), and of course, the sensual backdrop of fallen angels interbred with mortals. Her erotica feels far less gratuitous, repetitive, and clichéd; at the same time, it offers the same naughty little peeks that attract genre fans. Her characters develop with less emphasis on pathos via repetitive mannerisms (i.e., angrily raking fingers through hair and nervously biting the lip—over and over and over); more emphasis instead on an impressive command of emotional vocabulary and metaphor to evoke poetic heroes, villains, sex goddesses, cities and conflicts. While James’ erotica shows familiar sexual tension and adolescent-style confusion, Carey’s shows the potency of sensual language, and she effectively conveys the purpose of her protagonist’s suffering; forget the BDSM, forget it. The woman carves literary sculptures from silk and pain, treachery and true love. If you’ve already read her, you have likely raised your brow at Fifty Shades. If you like this book series, then, much like Twilight fans, you cannot be helped.


Now I know that Fifty Shades is on the New York Times Bestseller list. I don’t claim to understand the NYT, aside from “who does one have to fuck to make the list?” This novel seems inauthentic, hesitant, and pensive in the genre. . . but it has sexy results. Perhaps readers buy controversy; it worked for Dan Brown. Who am I to say. These are opinions. I don’t know how long the author worked, but it is necessary for me to point out that I’ve read better, where it baffled me on just how long the author must have worked, how much blood and sweat went into an obviously spectacular project that deserves whatever accolades. There are authors that I envy, that I long to be compared to. Others, I have to shake my head and wonder if they didn’t know somebody in the business. As a disclaimer, I am cheerfully cynical, as stated above, when it comes to these things. To me, re-doing an idea again and again after it was initially executed well seems like an arrogant waste of time. However, the New York Times and Amazon’s Top 100 are proof of otherwise—that good old fashioned kinky titillation wins out over creativity and substance in a pitifully massive way.

Another excellent read, far and away from this vein, is Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth.

If You're Evil and You Know It

Tonight I stumbled -- and by that I mean searched for -- a certain writer's blog. Interesting things there. In one recent post he was addressing the fact that one of his readers -- of the 1st book of his trilogy which shall remain nameless -- insinuated that to write such evil heartless characters he too must be a bit evil and heartless. He went on to defend himself valiantly, stating that he didn't think thriller writers, mystery writers and the like were actually like the characters they wrote. 

 

....Which is funny, because....I always kind of thought they were. Neil Gaiman at times manages to write himself -- perhaps by injecting his voice -- into so many of his stories, and with a highly effective subtlety. I always imagine him as the Sandman (maybe it's just me), and Dave McKean seemingly lent The Dream King Neil's punk rock hair in homage. 

 

Jacqueline Carey's Phedre, in my mind, is poised like an avatar for the author herself. Her voice is so seemingly close to my ear that I imagine the tale comes from Carey's perspective, and although the tale is gorgeously obviously fictitious, there is enough of her voice in it to give Phedre a distinct human texture derived from experience, human error, love, etc. 

 

And let's not even get into Laurell K Hamilton, who (so I have heard) not only has a license to carry a gun in her purse -- tres girl power -- but somewhat looks and acts like her 25 year old serial-dating vampire-hunter Anita Blake. 

 

Octavia Butler blended techno sci-fi with young black heroines who suffered social injustices or who lived through abuses to tell; Charles Dickens famously wrote about himself and/or people he knew; Poe did the same; Orwell took themes of oppression and tyranny from society then blended in characters with his own -- at the time, very rebellious -- thoughts ingrained. Juliet Mariller is a Druidess, and all of her books center around Druids and ancient mystical rites and magic. Blake Charlton is an author who had to overcome learning disabilities, dyslexia specifically, to become an MD, and his character Nicodemus faces similar challenges, overcoming them the only way the author himself knew how, which he presumably acquired through personal experience.

 

And finally-- I made up the character Gianni with myself in mind, not the part about being a boy and getting ass-raped by da Vinci, but the part of him that felt crippled by his own mother and the jumpiness and aloofness he exhibited thenceforth. Also the way he refuses to trust the world, the way he questions the motives of everyone, yet will risk himself and spend himself to nurture the right person. We are too empathetic and we know what the cure is but we pretend we don't. I wrote me into him consciously. I was aware and that was the point; it made him authentic and it made him mine. 

 

What's the point. All authors write, to some extent, what they know, because you have to know about something rather intimately in order to write about it convincingly; either you have to have experienced it or you spend a great deal of time studying it to put yourself in your character's shoes. I studied the Renaissance period extensively, in and out of class, in order to capture the right feeling in Eye of Narkissos; ergo, I had to study one facet, and then derived the rest from what I've gone through. There are self-evident themes and thoughts and demons in my stories. I suspect they are in every author's stories, unless of course they are writing 500 word childrens' fables or Curious George books, and even then the monkey's adventures have to be based on something that someone either a) knows about personally, or b) studied to some extent. 

 

So, I feel like this author made a candy-coated pathetic attempt to deny his own evil, when he might have easily embraced it and pawned it off as- we all have tendencies, and writing is fucking art, and art reflects human nature. What about Bret Easton Ellis, author of American Psycho? He obviously put a personal touch on Patrick, perhaps even Evelyn, as he sculpted the David of sociopathic yuppie serial killers. No one cared how much of himself he put into it. It was controversial, it was genius, enlightening, maddening, and reflection: at one time or another we have all wanted to kill; if not, you are a slug or a side-dish veggie. What about Edgar Allan Poe? What about Stephen King? H.P Lovecraft? Harlan Ellison? That's why horror movies (like Saw and Vacancy) and violent videogames (most if not all are violent) dominate in entertainment, and Law and Order and NCIS and Criminal Minds are always on some channel at some time and probably on now as I type. 

 

I adore this author's work, honestly, and possess a great deal of respect which is why they remain nameless. However in my opinion, which this, my blog, is the enchanted land of, this author came off as inauthentic and graceless. He scuffed the human textures of his characters, so to speak, in an attempt to defend himself against one oddball opinion. You write a book about a villain, and of course you're evil inside; you've got to be. But inside. Where it's okay to think you're own thoughts and be yourself.  Perhaps I should be more upset with the fan, who posed the question in a near accusatory way. . . . Not sure.