Turning Angel by Greg Iles
I don’t often pick up a paperback from the bestseller list, and this novel has reminded me why. ‘Turning Angel’ represents the worst in fiction, full of stereotyped caricatures, sensationalistic sex scenes, cartoon violence and an outlandish, nonsensical plot. The protagonist-narrator is an incredibly-smart, civic-minded, single-parent, ex-lawyer, best-selling author. He doesn’t quite has a big S tattooed on his undershirt, but close. Even worse, the narrator’s best friend is a jaw-dropping-handsome, athletic super-specimen. Oh, and he’s a doctor too.
Of course, the doctor has a secret. A nineteen, year-old mistress who’s still in high school but just been accepted at Harvard, who also has a nymphomaniac’s penchant for gravity-defying sex positions. In fact, a large portion of the novel’s dribbling prose becomes a rambling justification for a middle-aged doctor taking on a teenage girlfriend. The narrator himself barely fends off his young daughter’s amorous-minded babysitter. What a standup guy!
The plot is prototypically formulaic. The girlfriend is raped and murdered, then dumped in the river. The doctor is the obvious suspect. The narrator is a little torn, yet steadfastly loyal to his philandering friend.
The author throws in a few other suspects, drug dealers, both Black and Asian. There is some apologetic mumbling about the standard American prejudice against its minorities, but the writing panders to the stereotypes nonetheless. The actual murderer is exported from overseas, a victim of Serbian war crimes, a sop to the conscience-stricken reader.
The novel also includes a rant or three against a drug-addicted, rave-happy, sexually-promiscuous teenage generation. This is despite the fact that he portrays his own generation in virtually the same light.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Premonition
I wish I’d had a Premonition not to rent this film. Actually, it’s not that bad - kind of like eating rice cakes - no taste and not particularly filling either.
The movie opens with Sandra Bullock (who appears to have a slight case of shrinking nose syndrome a la Michael Jackson - watch that, Sandra!) acting out the role of suburban house-wife Linda. She schleps her two perfectly beautiful daughters to school in the requisite minivan, then goes home to her boring routine. Linda doesn’t quite have a Stepford daze going on, but what with the slightly ominous music playing in the background and the way she snaps her dustcloth, we know something very bad is going to happen.
A cop appears at her front door and the film starts its rapid, downward slide out of credibility. Without even taking a step inside, the policeman breaks the news. Her husband is dead in a car accident. He conveniently mumbles something about the location of the crash and that’s it. No need to go identify the body. No instructions of what to do next. No, he’s gone, leaving a stunned Linda at the door. However, he does leave her a business card - just in case she thinks of a question...
The rest of this day proceeds in a blur. Linda has tell her two children that their father is dead. Her mother appears out of nowhere, then goes to bed. Linda falls asleep on the couch, clutching a photo of dead hubby Jim.
She wakes up in her bed and after a brief creep around the house, finds hubby alive and well and eating his Cheerios. Jim looks up to see her incredulous gaze. “Are you okay?” he asks, which is pretty much his line throughout. He owns that line. From then on, Linda is sent on a roller coaster ride of unexplained time travel, waking up on alternate days before or after the death. If it’s Tuesday, your husband must be dead. Or not. It gets so confusing at some point, she sketches out a calendar of her week just so the audience can keep track along with her.
On the next day after, Linda’s older daughter is suddenly made up with a bunch of creepy Frankenstein-like stitches all over her face. We find out later why, and realize that according to the time line, she should’ve had these stitches in the first scenes of the day after... Not to mention that I would have sued the doctor who stitched the kid up like that.
Then there’s the creepy psychiatrist who makes a house call to have her committed, dragging her kicking and screaming out of the house, then leaving her straight-jacketed on a waiting room bench. He’s the same guy who later (or earlier, depending on your frame of reference) prescribes Lithium for our confused housewife, without ordering any sort of medical test. Maybe she has a brain tumour, ever think of that?
The scriptwriters don’t bother with a rational explanation for all the time-travelling. Instead, a rather cloying priest gets to deliver the news that it’s all Linda’s fault for having a lapse in faith. Apparently, if you lose faith in the good stuff, all sorts of evil can intrude and take over your sense of time and screw up your mind. She needs to fight for what she wants. “But what do I want?” Linda asks. For the movie to end perhaps.
The final message seems to be that one can’t change what’s meant to be, even if you try really hard. But hubby does get one last romp in the sack with his wife and triples his life insurance. What a nice guy! The future was changed, but not really. Go back to sleep, Sandra, maybe you’ll wake up in a better role.
The movie opens with Sandra Bullock (who appears to have a slight case of shrinking nose syndrome a la Michael Jackson - watch that, Sandra!) acting out the role of suburban house-wife Linda. She schleps her two perfectly beautiful daughters to school in the requisite minivan, then goes home to her boring routine. Linda doesn’t quite have a Stepford daze going on, but what with the slightly ominous music playing in the background and the way she snaps her dustcloth, we know something very bad is going to happen.
A cop appears at her front door and the film starts its rapid, downward slide out of credibility. Without even taking a step inside, the policeman breaks the news. Her husband is dead in a car accident. He conveniently mumbles something about the location of the crash and that’s it. No need to go identify the body. No instructions of what to do next. No, he’s gone, leaving a stunned Linda at the door. However, he does leave her a business card - just in case she thinks of a question...
The rest of this day proceeds in a blur. Linda has tell her two children that their father is dead. Her mother appears out of nowhere, then goes to bed. Linda falls asleep on the couch, clutching a photo of dead hubby Jim.
She wakes up in her bed and after a brief creep around the house, finds hubby alive and well and eating his Cheerios. Jim looks up to see her incredulous gaze. “Are you okay?” he asks, which is pretty much his line throughout. He owns that line. From then on, Linda is sent on a roller coaster ride of unexplained time travel, waking up on alternate days before or after the death. If it’s Tuesday, your husband must be dead. Or not. It gets so confusing at some point, she sketches out a calendar of her week just so the audience can keep track along with her.
On the next day after, Linda’s older daughter is suddenly made up with a bunch of creepy Frankenstein-like stitches all over her face. We find out later why, and realize that according to the time line, she should’ve had these stitches in the first scenes of the day after... Not to mention that I would have sued the doctor who stitched the kid up like that.
Then there’s the creepy psychiatrist who makes a house call to have her committed, dragging her kicking and screaming out of the house, then leaving her straight-jacketed on a waiting room bench. He’s the same guy who later (or earlier, depending on your frame of reference) prescribes Lithium for our confused housewife, without ordering any sort of medical test. Maybe she has a brain tumour, ever think of that?
The scriptwriters don’t bother with a rational explanation for all the time-travelling. Instead, a rather cloying priest gets to deliver the news that it’s all Linda’s fault for having a lapse in faith. Apparently, if you lose faith in the good stuff, all sorts of evil can intrude and take over your sense of time and screw up your mind. She needs to fight for what she wants. “But what do I want?” Linda asks. For the movie to end perhaps.
The final message seems to be that one can’t change what’s meant to be, even if you try really hard. But hubby does get one last romp in the sack with his wife and triples his life insurance. What a nice guy! The future was changed, but not really. Go back to sleep, Sandra, maybe you’ll wake up in a better role.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
What more is there to say about the novel ‘Life of Pi’ by Yann Martel. The book was a surprise winner of the prestigious Man Booker prize in 2003, which engendered much publicity and great sales for the previously obscure author. This history is notable, of course, but my memory of reading this novel is much more personal.
I wanted to fling the paperback across the room after reading the deconstructed ‘alternate’ ending. This emotional reaction, I must admit, was entirely due to Mr. Martel’s skill in crafting a story that sucked me in despite its fantastical nature.
The author set the stage carefully, beginning in a fictional preface to the novel. The narrator, a young writer who seems to be in quite a similar situation to the author himself, has been struggling to write a novel. He is living frugally in India, trying to construct a story set elsewhere. He becomes discouraged with his efforts. In a stroke of desperate depression that will ring a bell with any would-be writer, the narrator mails his unpublished manuscript to a fictional address in oblivion - without a return address.
And from this act of destruction come the seeds of hope - the narrator has opened himself up to the world, to new experience, and inspiration comes in the guise of Pi Patel and his incredible story of survival.
Martel uses a variety of techniques to render the unbelievable scenario he creates into a more acceptable form. Its absurd designation of names, for example, contributes to the gentle sense of humour that pervades the novel. Pi Patel is named after the French word for pool, piscine, by his father’s misplaced tribute to a famous swimmer. And the Bengal Tiger that is to be the antagonist to Pi’s protagonist is labeled with unlikely name of Richard Parker.
I was mildly bemused by the narrator’s claim in the novel’s introductory preface that this story of Pi Patel would convince the reader of the existence of god. This theme of religion continues in the first part of the story as we get to know Pi and his curious openness to the three main faiths of the world: Christianity, Hinduism and Islam.
The theme of god and religion returns with a vengeance at the end of the novel. By then, the reader has vicariously lived through the tale of Pi Patel and Richard Parker’s tale of survival, the two of them lost at sea on a small lifeboat, a boy and a 500 pound tiger with nothing else to eat. The story grows increasingly fantastical with each passing chapter. Until the end arrives. The two main characters have survived their journey - they’re back on land, back in the world of reality.
Martel then rips the veil of incredulity away from the tale, revealing the underlying, horrifying truth.
The reader is given a choice. Accept the truth and what it reveals about the nature of man, of the quest for survival, about how our world and civilization came to be, of our uneasy relationship with nature and our fellow humans. Or the reader can take the plunge back into a world of faith - of believing a sugar-coated fairy tale that assaults common sense. Because it is perhaps easier to believe in something greater than oneself.
I prefer a belief in my own perceptions.
I wanted to fling the paperback across the room after reading the deconstructed ‘alternate’ ending. This emotional reaction, I must admit, was entirely due to Mr. Martel’s skill in crafting a story that sucked me in despite its fantastical nature.
The author set the stage carefully, beginning in a fictional preface to the novel. The narrator, a young writer who seems to be in quite a similar situation to the author himself, has been struggling to write a novel. He is living frugally in India, trying to construct a story set elsewhere. He becomes discouraged with his efforts. In a stroke of desperate depression that will ring a bell with any would-be writer, the narrator mails his unpublished manuscript to a fictional address in oblivion - without a return address.
And from this act of destruction come the seeds of hope - the narrator has opened himself up to the world, to new experience, and inspiration comes in the guise of Pi Patel and his incredible story of survival.
Martel uses a variety of techniques to render the unbelievable scenario he creates into a more acceptable form. Its absurd designation of names, for example, contributes to the gentle sense of humour that pervades the novel. Pi Patel is named after the French word for pool, piscine, by his father’s misplaced tribute to a famous swimmer. And the Bengal Tiger that is to be the antagonist to Pi’s protagonist is labeled with unlikely name of Richard Parker.
I was mildly bemused by the narrator’s claim in the novel’s introductory preface that this story of Pi Patel would convince the reader of the existence of god. This theme of religion continues in the first part of the story as we get to know Pi and his curious openness to the three main faiths of the world: Christianity, Hinduism and Islam.
The theme of god and religion returns with a vengeance at the end of the novel. By then, the reader has vicariously lived through the tale of Pi Patel and Richard Parker’s tale of survival, the two of them lost at sea on a small lifeboat, a boy and a 500 pound tiger with nothing else to eat. The story grows increasingly fantastical with each passing chapter. Until the end arrives. The two main characters have survived their journey - they’re back on land, back in the world of reality.
Martel then rips the veil of incredulity away from the tale, revealing the underlying, horrifying truth.
The reader is given a choice. Accept the truth and what it reveals about the nature of man, of the quest for survival, about how our world and civilization came to be, of our uneasy relationship with nature and our fellow humans. Or the reader can take the plunge back into a world of faith - of believing a sugar-coated fairy tale that assaults common sense. Because it is perhaps easier to believe in something greater than oneself.
I prefer a belief in my own perceptions.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
‘Away from Her’ by Alice Munro
‘Away from Her’ is a story written by Canadian short-story diva Alice Munro, originally published under the title, ‘The Bear Came Over the Mountain”.
The story has been repackaged into a ‘new’ paperback collection of Munro stories, in order to capitalize on the release of the film based on the story. It also comes with a gushingly earnest foreword written by Sarah Polley, the actress who has directed the movie.
Polley’s notes are not just marketing-speak. She seems truly filled with passion about the Munro story she read as a passenger flying out of an Icelandic film shoot. Polley tells a meandering tale of her own quest for love and a meaningful relationship, and makes the claim that the story helped her achieve a better understanding of the difference between enduring love and passion. Polley also writes that she immediately saw fellow actor Julie Christie playing the role of Fiona, the main female character of the story. This is convenient, of course, since Polley had just been acting in a film with Christie. And there’s also the coincidence of Fiona’s Icelandic heritage, which appeared almost spiritually coincidental to Polley.
One wonders if Alice Munro will one day be inspired to write an insightful look at the folly of a youthful actress attempting to write and direct a movie based on a story that is about a relationship that endured more years than the actress has been alive.
Polley has made a movie that, at least judging from her words and the film’s promotional material, focuses on a theme of love and loss. The short story, for example, barely mentions the word love, and never in the context that Polley imagines. Munro is more concerned with memory than love. It is memory that defines a life. It is memory that constructs the edifice to support a relationship. It is memory that provides the context to nurture or destroy the fragility of the bonds holding two human beings together. Memory is the bear of the original title, it is the frail construct that bears witness to the drama of existence.
Munro’s story tells of a forty-five year marriage that is lurching to a miserable end, precipitated by the onset of a debilitating disease. Fiona, the wife, experiences the effects of Alzheimer’s, leaving her memory in tatters and robbing her of the ability to cope with a daily routine. She is convinced that she must remand herself to a nursing home. In a noticeably authorial (and hard-to-believe this was ever done) device, husband Grant is forbidden to see her for a month-long settling in time. In that time, the fragility of memory conspires with the apparent forces of karmic retribution to present a heart-wrenching conclusion.
The genius of Munro’s story lies more in what she doesn’t write. Her narrator’s voice steadfastly avoids any hint of judgement, yet allows Grant to recount his life in all its damning, adulterous details. Despite his rationalizations and implied protestations of innocence, his memory exposes an ordinary life filled with human failings. He was a hard-working and learned professor, attempting to dissuade the attention of the lonely wives and available co-eds. But it was impossible to ignore the adventures of other faculty members. It was the norm. The sexual revolution was roaring all around him, all around campus. It could not be denied.
Grant was lucky to have originally attracted the attentions of Fiona, the narrator subtly notes. She had ‘the spark of life’, therein implying his deficiencies. He obtained tenure with the help of his father-in-law’s money, yet he blithely risks his career and marriage. He was fortunate not to have lost everything. He and Fiona were borne of a different generation and instilled with a more inviolate sense of marriage. In any case, their relationship prevailed. Fiona ignored the infidelities, though the details are left unsaid.
And when his wife no longer seems to recognize him, he hangs on with dogged loyalty. His last shot at caring for Fiona invokes the memory of his failures with exquisite, piercing precision.
The story has been repackaged into a ‘new’ paperback collection of Munro stories, in order to capitalize on the release of the film based on the story. It also comes with a gushingly earnest foreword written by Sarah Polley, the actress who has directed the movie.
Polley’s notes are not just marketing-speak. She seems truly filled with passion about the Munro story she read as a passenger flying out of an Icelandic film shoot. Polley tells a meandering tale of her own quest for love and a meaningful relationship, and makes the claim that the story helped her achieve a better understanding of the difference between enduring love and passion. Polley also writes that she immediately saw fellow actor Julie Christie playing the role of Fiona, the main female character of the story. This is convenient, of course, since Polley had just been acting in a film with Christie. And there’s also the coincidence of Fiona’s Icelandic heritage, which appeared almost spiritually coincidental to Polley.
One wonders if Alice Munro will one day be inspired to write an insightful look at the folly of a youthful actress attempting to write and direct a movie based on a story that is about a relationship that endured more years than the actress has been alive.
Polley has made a movie that, at least judging from her words and the film’s promotional material, focuses on a theme of love and loss. The short story, for example, barely mentions the word love, and never in the context that Polley imagines. Munro is more concerned with memory than love. It is memory that defines a life. It is memory that constructs the edifice to support a relationship. It is memory that provides the context to nurture or destroy the fragility of the bonds holding two human beings together. Memory is the bear of the original title, it is the frail construct that bears witness to the drama of existence.
Munro’s story tells of a forty-five year marriage that is lurching to a miserable end, precipitated by the onset of a debilitating disease. Fiona, the wife, experiences the effects of Alzheimer’s, leaving her memory in tatters and robbing her of the ability to cope with a daily routine. She is convinced that she must remand herself to a nursing home. In a noticeably authorial (and hard-to-believe this was ever done) device, husband Grant is forbidden to see her for a month-long settling in time. In that time, the fragility of memory conspires with the apparent forces of karmic retribution to present a heart-wrenching conclusion.
The genius of Munro’s story lies more in what she doesn’t write. Her narrator’s voice steadfastly avoids any hint of judgement, yet allows Grant to recount his life in all its damning, adulterous details. Despite his rationalizations and implied protestations of innocence, his memory exposes an ordinary life filled with human failings. He was a hard-working and learned professor, attempting to dissuade the attention of the lonely wives and available co-eds. But it was impossible to ignore the adventures of other faculty members. It was the norm. The sexual revolution was roaring all around him, all around campus. It could not be denied.
Grant was lucky to have originally attracted the attentions of Fiona, the narrator subtly notes. She had ‘the spark of life’, therein implying his deficiencies. He obtained tenure with the help of his father-in-law’s money, yet he blithely risks his career and marriage. He was fortunate not to have lost everything. He and Fiona were borne of a different generation and instilled with a more inviolate sense of marriage. In any case, their relationship prevailed. Fiona ignored the infidelities, though the details are left unsaid.
And when his wife no longer seems to recognize him, he hangs on with dogged loyalty. His last shot at caring for Fiona invokes the memory of his failures with exquisite, piercing precision.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Lost Room
The Lost Room
The Lost Room was a mini-series written and produced for the American Sci-Fi cable channel. It came across as an attempt at a David Lynch type story for the techno-geek audience, with a dash of “Being John Malkovich” as seasoning.
Unfortunately, it appears that the writers of the screenplay were about seventeen, as the movie barely rises above the level of a fantasy role-playing game. The story concerns a motel room that’s somehow been transported into an alternate reality. It is also a treasure hunt for a variety of everyday objects that were in the room, and exhibit some weirdly magical properties when utilized in the real world.
The plot of the story began nicely enough, hinging upon an illicit attempt to purchase the motel room key. The attempt ends in a spectacularly strange double murder, thus bringing Detective Joe Miller into the middle of the fray. Miller, played by Peter Krause of Six Feet Under fame, ends up with the key, discovers that the key will open any locked door, and will lead to the aforementioned room. His precocious eight-year-old daughter, Anna, reveals another convenient-to-the-plot piece of information. Anything left in the room disappears when the door is closed. Surprise. Surprise. She ends up an innocent victim of this magic act, thus setting the main thrust of the plotline. Detective Miller must solve the mystery of the lost room, in order to retrieve his daughter. Along the way, he will be shot at, framed, double-and-triple-crossed and flung out of the sky onto a deserted highway multiple times.
Julianna Margulies (of ER fame) provides the love interest one doesn’t quite trust, seeing that she’s one of the members of a cabal searching for the magical objects. Of course, there’s another cult competing in this effort, one that is both more ruthless and more ineffective (especially when required to move the plot along).
There’s also a coroner who was involved in the original investigation who get sucked into the vortex of strange object desire by the cult that believes the objects will reveal the thoughts of God. So he murders a cop, frames the other, sets someone on fire, kneels in prayer to a wacky deck of cards, then absconds with a couple of those precious, god-inspired objects from right under the nose of the cult he joined ten minutes ago. All in day’s work, I suppose. CSI material, he’s not.
Of course, there’s a criminal type named the Weasel searching for the objects, and a millionaire drycleaner played by Kevin Pollack also in play. Although his motivation is to cure his child of Leukemia - the boy does look ill, but curiously still has all his hair.
The cast of actors is impressive and they do their best. Ultimately, their plight is to continually look shocked or surprised or confused (I’m sure that look got easy) as events plunge them out of reality and into a motel room. Gladly, there was no sign of Norman Bates throughout the entire episodic extravaganza.
The Lost Room was a mini-series written and produced for the American Sci-Fi cable channel. It came across as an attempt at a David Lynch type story for the techno-geek audience, with a dash of “Being John Malkovich” as seasoning.
Unfortunately, it appears that the writers of the screenplay were about seventeen, as the movie barely rises above the level of a fantasy role-playing game. The story concerns a motel room that’s somehow been transported into an alternate reality. It is also a treasure hunt for a variety of everyday objects that were in the room, and exhibit some weirdly magical properties when utilized in the real world.
The plot of the story began nicely enough, hinging upon an illicit attempt to purchase the motel room key. The attempt ends in a spectacularly strange double murder, thus bringing Detective Joe Miller into the middle of the fray. Miller, played by Peter Krause of Six Feet Under fame, ends up with the key, discovers that the key will open any locked door, and will lead to the aforementioned room. His precocious eight-year-old daughter, Anna, reveals another convenient-to-the-plot piece of information. Anything left in the room disappears when the door is closed. Surprise. Surprise. She ends up an innocent victim of this magic act, thus setting the main thrust of the plotline. Detective Miller must solve the mystery of the lost room, in order to retrieve his daughter. Along the way, he will be shot at, framed, double-and-triple-crossed and flung out of the sky onto a deserted highway multiple times.
Julianna Margulies (of ER fame) provides the love interest one doesn’t quite trust, seeing that she’s one of the members of a cabal searching for the magical objects. Of course, there’s another cult competing in this effort, one that is both more ruthless and more ineffective (especially when required to move the plot along).
There’s also a coroner who was involved in the original investigation who get sucked into the vortex of strange object desire by the cult that believes the objects will reveal the thoughts of God. So he murders a cop, frames the other, sets someone on fire, kneels in prayer to a wacky deck of cards, then absconds with a couple of those precious, god-inspired objects from right under the nose of the cult he joined ten minutes ago. All in day’s work, I suppose. CSI material, he’s not.
Of course, there’s a criminal type named the Weasel searching for the objects, and a millionaire drycleaner played by Kevin Pollack also in play. Although his motivation is to cure his child of Leukemia - the boy does look ill, but curiously still has all his hair.
The cast of actors is impressive and they do their best. Ultimately, their plight is to continually look shocked or surprised or confused (I’m sure that look got easy) as events plunge them out of reality and into a motel room. Gladly, there was no sign of Norman Bates throughout the entire episodic extravaganza.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
A memoir that forces one to think. About the effects of growing up amidst poverty and war in Somalia. About the incredible cruelty and oppression of female circumcision. About the role that the Islamic faith has played in the woman’s life, and in the lives of many African and Arabic females. About the values of Western Society and how this has impacted the integration of Islamic immigrants and refugees.
This memoir tells the very personal story of a brave, intelligent and resourceful woman who is able to escape the shackles of her upbringing in Somalia, and forge a new life of freedom in Holland. However, even as she finds her voice, tells her story and promotes her newfound values, the forces of Islamic repression threaten her life and attempt to kill her. The brutal murder of Theo Van Gogh brings her struggle to an unwanted head. The short film that Hirsi Ali and Van Gogh made together, Submission, was a vivid attempt to document the abuse of women that is promulgated under the name of Islam.
This incident is all too reminiscent of the controversy that erupted over Salman Rushdie novel, The Satanic Verses. Certainly, the fatwa issued urging his assassination highlighted the depth of intolerance that some Islamic leaders would promote, and how much their values differed from those of the West. The principal of freedom of expression, that ideas should be debated publicly under the standards of rationality and reason, was directly assaulted by this fatwa. Indeed, it is impossible to understand the belief that a person should be killed for something he said or wrote. It is indefensible, barbaric in the essential sense of the word, to call for the death of a person over an idea.
Before she was forced out of her short career as a member of the Dutch parliament, she cautioned that the famous Dutch tolerance of other cultures and lifestyles was not working in the case of Islamic immigrants and refugees. The Dutch people assumed that the Islamic values were congruent with their own, that the principals of equality and respect of different cultures and genders, the nurturing and education of children as independent and intelligent beings, that reason must prevail over dogma in a civilize society.
Ali contends, with eloquent and persuasive force, that Islamic thought has not been updated in the same manner as Western religions. It does not teach tolerance towards non-adherents to its philosophy, thus it cannot be said to promote peace. It does not teach equality; sections of the Qur'an are repeatedly used to justify the oppression and abuse of women. Their thoughts are worth half that of a man, they are considered property - the sexual slaves of their husbands. They must hide their bodies and suppress their own sensuality. They can be beaten at will, and will be stoned to death for the audacity of being raped. It is this manner of thought that Ali rails against, this forced submission of Islamic females under the guise of religious belief.
A memoir that forces one to think. About the effects of growing up amidst poverty and war in Somalia. About the incredible cruelty and oppression of female circumcision. About the role that the Islamic faith has played in the woman’s life, and in the lives of many African and Arabic females. About the values of Western Society and how this has impacted the integration of Islamic immigrants and refugees.
This memoir tells the very personal story of a brave, intelligent and resourceful woman who is able to escape the shackles of her upbringing in Somalia, and forge a new life of freedom in Holland. However, even as she finds her voice, tells her story and promotes her newfound values, the forces of Islamic repression threaten her life and attempt to kill her. The brutal murder of Theo Van Gogh brings her struggle to an unwanted head. The short film that Hirsi Ali and Van Gogh made together, Submission, was a vivid attempt to document the abuse of women that is promulgated under the name of Islam.
This incident is all too reminiscent of the controversy that erupted over Salman Rushdie novel, The Satanic Verses. Certainly, the fatwa issued urging his assassination highlighted the depth of intolerance that some Islamic leaders would promote, and how much their values differed from those of the West. The principal of freedom of expression, that ideas should be debated publicly under the standards of rationality and reason, was directly assaulted by this fatwa. Indeed, it is impossible to understand the belief that a person should be killed for something he said or wrote. It is indefensible, barbaric in the essential sense of the word, to call for the death of a person over an idea.
Before she was forced out of her short career as a member of the Dutch parliament, she cautioned that the famous Dutch tolerance of other cultures and lifestyles was not working in the case of Islamic immigrants and refugees. The Dutch people assumed that the Islamic values were congruent with their own, that the principals of equality and respect of different cultures and genders, the nurturing and education of children as independent and intelligent beings, that reason must prevail over dogma in a civilize society.
Ali contends, with eloquent and persuasive force, that Islamic thought has not been updated in the same manner as Western religions. It does not teach tolerance towards non-adherents to its philosophy, thus it cannot be said to promote peace. It does not teach equality; sections of the Qur'an are repeatedly used to justify the oppression and abuse of women. Their thoughts are worth half that of a man, they are considered property - the sexual slaves of their husbands. They must hide their bodies and suppress their own sensuality. They can be beaten at will, and will be stoned to death for the audacity of being raped. It is this manner of thought that Ali rails against, this forced submission of Islamic females under the guise of religious belief.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
V for Vendetta
V for Vendetta
A movie based on a comic book (excuse me, I mean graphic novel) leads to reduced expectations in terms of plot and character development, but seeks to satiate the viewer’s appetite for action and special effects. Despite the fact that the screenplay was penned by the Wachowski brothers of “The Matrix” fame, the film actually disappoints in the action/special effects arena. The masked protagonist known as V does have a penchant for super-dextrous knife play, but the scenes in which this is displayed are few and far between. In addition, the signature slow-motion special effect invented by the Wachowski brothers is utilized towards a strictly comic-book look-and-feel. Perhaps this is appropriate, but I was hoping for more.
Curiously, the story is more concerned with character development and plot. The conflict is rooted in the struggle for basic human and political ideals, for individual freedom and democratic representation. Its topical storyline addresses some fundamental concerns of the twenty-first century. How much individual freedom should be traded for security? How much power should be given to government in its fight against terrorism? And when exactly does a terrorist become a freedom fighter?
The most successful comic books turned into movies have been those with a carefully-constructed mythology honed over many years of story-telling. Superman is exiled from a dying world and becomes the ultimate immigrant persona, Clark Kent, tasked with preserving the American way of life. Peter Parker’s selfish behaviour causes the death of his beloved uncle, spawning a reluctantly responsible and perversely vengeful Spiderman.
V for Vendetta lacks its own mythology, so it creates one from a mishmash of history and literature. The dystopian society is plucked from the pages of George Orwell’s 1984, while V wears a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of a historical political malcontent who also liked to scheme and play with gunpowder. The movie’s convoluted plot meanders through a fitful year of buildup, which seemed to be more about convincing Evie, the damsel in distress, that V’s plans are morally essential, if a bit crazy. Unfortunately, this involves a few months of torture, imprisonment and deprivation for Evie, carried out by the supposedly caring V. And the difference between V and the fascist government was what exactly? Well, at least, the actress who played Evie, Natalie Portman, enjoyed her head-shaving scene.
V also takes over a television studio to deliver a vehement volley of vociferous vocality, an inspired speech filled with V words, that definitely convinces the viewer that the character must have spent the last ten years writing and rehearsing the speech. One wonders how long the actor playing the part, Hugo Weaving, had to practice that soliloquy. Weaving’s performance is admirable given that his face is hidden behind a mask for the entire film. His voice is his only acting tool, and its disembodied delivery is an eerie and dominating feature.
The film’s climax features a thousand mask-wearing extras milling about, invoking a disconcerting echo of the third Matrix movie where a few hundred Agent Smiths (also played by Hugo Weaving) are present.
A movie based on a comic book (excuse me, I mean graphic novel) leads to reduced expectations in terms of plot and character development, but seeks to satiate the viewer’s appetite for action and special effects. Despite the fact that the screenplay was penned by the Wachowski brothers of “The Matrix” fame, the film actually disappoints in the action/special effects arena. The masked protagonist known as V does have a penchant for super-dextrous knife play, but the scenes in which this is displayed are few and far between. In addition, the signature slow-motion special effect invented by the Wachowski brothers is utilized towards a strictly comic-book look-and-feel. Perhaps this is appropriate, but I was hoping for more.
Curiously, the story is more concerned with character development and plot. The conflict is rooted in the struggle for basic human and political ideals, for individual freedom and democratic representation. Its topical storyline addresses some fundamental concerns of the twenty-first century. How much individual freedom should be traded for security? How much power should be given to government in its fight against terrorism? And when exactly does a terrorist become a freedom fighter?
The most successful comic books turned into movies have been those with a carefully-constructed mythology honed over many years of story-telling. Superman is exiled from a dying world and becomes the ultimate immigrant persona, Clark Kent, tasked with preserving the American way of life. Peter Parker’s selfish behaviour causes the death of his beloved uncle, spawning a reluctantly responsible and perversely vengeful Spiderman.
V for Vendetta lacks its own mythology, so it creates one from a mishmash of history and literature. The dystopian society is plucked from the pages of George Orwell’s 1984, while V wears a Guy Fawkes mask, the symbol of a historical political malcontent who also liked to scheme and play with gunpowder. The movie’s convoluted plot meanders through a fitful year of buildup, which seemed to be more about convincing Evie, the damsel in distress, that V’s plans are morally essential, if a bit crazy. Unfortunately, this involves a few months of torture, imprisonment and deprivation for Evie, carried out by the supposedly caring V. And the difference between V and the fascist government was what exactly? Well, at least, the actress who played Evie, Natalie Portman, enjoyed her head-shaving scene.
V also takes over a television studio to deliver a vehement volley of vociferous vocality, an inspired speech filled with V words, that definitely convinces the viewer that the character must have spent the last ten years writing and rehearsing the speech. One wonders how long the actor playing the part, Hugo Weaving, had to practice that soliloquy. Weaving’s performance is admirable given that his face is hidden behind a mask for the entire film. His voice is his only acting tool, and its disembodied delivery is an eerie and dominating feature.
The film’s climax features a thousand mask-wearing extras milling about, invoking a disconcerting echo of the third Matrix movie where a few hundred Agent Smiths (also played by Hugo Weaving) are present.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Bridge to Terabithia
Bridge to Terabithia is a film targeted at the pre-teen market which tackles an extremely difficult subject. It was advertised as a fantasy-genre picture, complete with giants and elves and trees that come to life. That was a misleading tactic, as this movie is actually quite grounded in reality. It is about growing up, about the tension between responsibility and imagination, about fitting in and friendship. And ultimately, it is about something much more important.
Unfortunately, the writing is not quite up to snuff to pull all this off. The main characters are supposed to be around twelve years old, but seem to act younger, perhaps nine or ten. The film had to tread a fine line between reality and imagination. It had to be clear to the viewer what’s real and what isn’t. The line gets blurred at times, for a combination of reasons. The dialogue and character development undershot the proper age. The acting was wooden. The special effects, for a Disney, felt a little too cheap and unbelievable. And as a result, I was wondering about the reality of one of the main characters. This uncertainty completely changed how I perceived the major plot development of the film. The Bridge to Terabithia is supposed to be a bridge between childhood fantasy and the cruel reality of adulthood. And like the tree that conveniently falls from out of nowhere to form the crux of the bridge, it leaves the viewer disappointed at its end.
Unfortunately, the writing is not quite up to snuff to pull all this off. The main characters are supposed to be around twelve years old, but seem to act younger, perhaps nine or ten. The film had to tread a fine line between reality and imagination. It had to be clear to the viewer what’s real and what isn’t. The line gets blurred at times, for a combination of reasons. The dialogue and character development undershot the proper age. The acting was wooden. The special effects, for a Disney, felt a little too cheap and unbelievable. And as a result, I was wondering about the reality of one of the main characters. This uncertainty completely changed how I perceived the major plot development of the film. The Bridge to Terabithia is supposed to be a bridge between childhood fantasy and the cruel reality of adulthood. And like the tree that conveniently falls from out of nowhere to form the crux of the bridge, it leaves the viewer disappointed at its end.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Little Children
Little Children
Stereotype heaven comes to life in this film as 2-dimensional characters plod their way through a sea of thick, syrupy melodrama. There’s the dumpy female Lit student (it’s sad to watch Kate Winslet attempting to inhabit a physically unattractive character) who’s trapped in a boring marriage, wasn’t ready for motherhood, and her husband’s idea of intimacy is a bit lacking. Then there’s the neighbourhood house-husband-hunk who oh-so-unconsciously yearns for the glory of his youth, while his gorgeous wife keeps their child in the matrimonial bed and writes clever little notes to reinforce the emasculation. Neither of these couples seem the least bit affectionate or communicative; it’s a wonder how they ever got together and made the children. Of course, the two perfectly immature protagonists get hooked up in lustful adultery faster than one can say ‘naptime’.
The wonderfully obvious subplot of the movie features a staged, drawn-out conflict between a supposed sex offender and a damaged former police officer. The purported pedophile is the most fully drawn character in the film, as the actor manages to lend an ample amount of creepy pathos to the role. The ex-cop, unfortunately, is reduced to a caricature of depression and self-abuse, as he desperately seeks out friendship in the coldness of suburbia, and alternatively acts out in childishly-violent ways. Like the pedophile, of course, in his own pathetic manner...
It is the extended character epiphanies that insult the most. The ex-cop finds his heart amidst the regret. Sarah discovers that she doesn’t know her lover all that well, and that she does love her daughter after all - although it’s not clear why bringing her daughter back to the dismal home life would be considered a successful resolution. Patrick’s concussive epiphany is more ridiculous - he finds the rational path at the wrong end of a skateboard. The pedophile final act is the most fitting, although somewhat stomach-turning; it was foreshadowed well but not completely telegraphed.
Stereotype heaven comes to life in this film as 2-dimensional characters plod their way through a sea of thick, syrupy melodrama. There’s the dumpy female Lit student (it’s sad to watch Kate Winslet attempting to inhabit a physically unattractive character) who’s trapped in a boring marriage, wasn’t ready for motherhood, and her husband’s idea of intimacy is a bit lacking. Then there’s the neighbourhood house-husband-hunk who oh-so-unconsciously yearns for the glory of his youth, while his gorgeous wife keeps their child in the matrimonial bed and writes clever little notes to reinforce the emasculation. Neither of these couples seem the least bit affectionate or communicative; it’s a wonder how they ever got together and made the children. Of course, the two perfectly immature protagonists get hooked up in lustful adultery faster than one can say ‘naptime’.
The wonderfully obvious subplot of the movie features a staged, drawn-out conflict between a supposed sex offender and a damaged former police officer. The purported pedophile is the most fully drawn character in the film, as the actor manages to lend an ample amount of creepy pathos to the role. The ex-cop, unfortunately, is reduced to a caricature of depression and self-abuse, as he desperately seeks out friendship in the coldness of suburbia, and alternatively acts out in childishly-violent ways. Like the pedophile, of course, in his own pathetic manner...
It is the extended character epiphanies that insult the most. The ex-cop finds his heart amidst the regret. Sarah discovers that she doesn’t know her lover all that well, and that she does love her daughter after all - although it’s not clear why bringing her daughter back to the dismal home life would be considered a successful resolution. Patrick’s concussive epiphany is more ridiculous - he finds the rational path at the wrong end of a skateboard. The pedophile final act is the most fitting, although somewhat stomach-turning; it was foreshadowed well but not completely telegraphed.
Friday, September 7, 2007
2 Days in Paris
2 Days in Paris
A French take on the romantic comedy. At times, it is laugh out loud funny, though its frenetic pace and continuous stream of bilingual dialogue left at least one viewer semi-exhausted.
One might imagine this movie as produced in Hollywood. A struggling yet handsome New York writer-type falls in love in Paris, and brings home the girl of his dreams to meet his parents. Much canned laughter would abound through a series of misunderstandings and a combination of obnoxious pets and/or oversized breasts and/or unexpected flatulence jokes. All would eventually be resolved and the mixed-language couple would live happily ever after in their gorgeous Manhattan loft.
Instead this is an independent film written, directed and starring the French actress Julie Delpy. She portrays Marion, a photographer living in New York with her American boyfriend, Jack. She’s brought him to Paris for a short 2-day stay, where he’ll meet her ex-hippie parents, trouble-making sister and a copious number of her ex-boyfriends. Jack is a somewhat typical New York liberal with a quick, sarcastic mouth and a brain full of neuroses. The first scene outside the Paris train station sets the tone for this character. He clears the lineup for a taxi by sending a group of badly dressed, Bush-supporting, Davinci Code - questing American tourists on a mean-spirited wild goose walk into the nether lands of Paris. They’re looking for the Louvre. He gives them the wrong directions and justifies it as an exercise in cultural cleansing.
Ms. Delpy’s real-life ex-boyfriend Adam Goldberg portrays Jack, while her real-life parents assume the corresponding roles. This is either an interesting coincidence, an inspired casting decision, or a mechanism to keep costs down. Perhaps all three. The parents’ acting is either a touch wooden or completely over the top. At times, it seems like they’re on the verge of bursting out laughing. The father especially has a wild time inhabiting his role as an aging womanizer and gallery owner with a fascination for artistic depictions of the male sex organ. The penis does have a starring role in this film, both on-screen and off, acting as a focal point for some humourous pokes at the male ego and an occasional serious swipe at the sexual foibles and preoccupations of our different cultures.
The film succeeds for the most part in entertaining the viewer, while providing some insight into the struggle of a couple who are propelled by circumstance to a more intimate level of trust and understanding. There is a reliance by the director on the use of a voiceover (Marion’s character) to explain the action. This device was unnecessary and annoying, especially during the ending where it robbed the scene of much emotion.
A French take on the romantic comedy. At times, it is laugh out loud funny, though its frenetic pace and continuous stream of bilingual dialogue left at least one viewer semi-exhausted.
One might imagine this movie as produced in Hollywood. A struggling yet handsome New York writer-type falls in love in Paris, and brings home the girl of his dreams to meet his parents. Much canned laughter would abound through a series of misunderstandings and a combination of obnoxious pets and/or oversized breasts and/or unexpected flatulence jokes. All would eventually be resolved and the mixed-language couple would live happily ever after in their gorgeous Manhattan loft.
Instead this is an independent film written, directed and starring the French actress Julie Delpy. She portrays Marion, a photographer living in New York with her American boyfriend, Jack. She’s brought him to Paris for a short 2-day stay, where he’ll meet her ex-hippie parents, trouble-making sister and a copious number of her ex-boyfriends. Jack is a somewhat typical New York liberal with a quick, sarcastic mouth and a brain full of neuroses. The first scene outside the Paris train station sets the tone for this character. He clears the lineup for a taxi by sending a group of badly dressed, Bush-supporting, Davinci Code - questing American tourists on a mean-spirited wild goose walk into the nether lands of Paris. They’re looking for the Louvre. He gives them the wrong directions and justifies it as an exercise in cultural cleansing.
Ms. Delpy’s real-life ex-boyfriend Adam Goldberg portrays Jack, while her real-life parents assume the corresponding roles. This is either an interesting coincidence, an inspired casting decision, or a mechanism to keep costs down. Perhaps all three. The parents’ acting is either a touch wooden or completely over the top. At times, it seems like they’re on the verge of bursting out laughing. The father especially has a wild time inhabiting his role as an aging womanizer and gallery owner with a fascination for artistic depictions of the male sex organ. The penis does have a starring role in this film, both on-screen and off, acting as a focal point for some humourous pokes at the male ego and an occasional serious swipe at the sexual foibles and preoccupations of our different cultures.
The film succeeds for the most part in entertaining the viewer, while providing some insight into the struggle of a couple who are propelled by circumstance to a more intimate level of trust and understanding. There is a reliance by the director on the use of a voiceover (Marion’s character) to explain the action. This device was unnecessary and annoying, especially during the ending where it robbed the scene of much emotion.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind
The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind
This fantasy series of books written by Terry Goodkind was built upon a familiar mythology. A baby is hidden away from his evil father, who would’ve killed the boy if he’d known of his existence and continued survival. The boy is raised in ordinary fashion, kept ignorant of his birthright, yet destined to challenge his father for the control of the empire. This is pure fantasy, full of wizards and witches, riddles and enigmas, ninja-like warriors and, of course, a sword of retribution. Or at least, it should be pure fantasy. The author, to his credit, has created this magical world, populated with interesting characters, both heroes and villains. His writing is very strong, the actions are bold, the plot line is complex and suspenseful. Or at least it was.
Goodkind has created two memorable heroes. The war wizard, the seeker of truth, the sensitive killing machine named Richard Rahl. And he has a female counterpart who is very bit his equal. Kahlan Amnell, the mother confessor, can enslave any man with a simple touch. Of course, the author finds a way to bring these two together in an impossible union of love. And then continually writes plot events to rip them asunder, making them struggle to keep their love alive and their empire out of the hands of their enemies. And the enemies are ruthlessly interesting as well. There’s the Sisters of the Dark, who serve the wrong side of the religious divide, the devil-like Keeper. And the Dreamwalker, a Napoleonic-type figure named Emperor Jagang who can inhabit the minds of other people, leads an army bent on ridding the world of all magic, and is symbolic of a godless communist hordes out to destroy all that is good and right and special.
The series is one part melodrama, one part blood-soaked action thriller, one part magic show and one final part philosophical treatise. It is this final part, this detour into philosophy, that is problematic. Goodkind’s fascination with Ayn Rand’s Objectivism leads him to plot and character developments that make little sense. And even less excitement. One novel features a villainous Sister of the Dark who abducts the hero in order to teach him a little socialist humility. This is a woman who has pledged her soul to the dark side. Another plot line highlights a misguided bureaucratic society that invites the enemy within its gates. Or a civilization that has embraced pacifism and doesn’t live to regret it. One gets the idea. But it seems Goodkind is intent on beating the reader over the head with these ideas, to the obvious detriment of his plots.
On his web site, Goodkind denies that his novel are intended to explain, advance or promote Objectivism. He would never sacrifice the reader’s enjoyment to his Randian ideals. Right. It makes me wonder why he needed to make that denial.
A series this long (the 11th novel is coming soon!) must certainly have its moments of repetition. Each novel seems to climax with the hero escaping a sure death, usually imprisoned somewhere in the underworld, spirit world, or just plain netherworld. And how many epic battles, ninja-like swordfests and extreme torture scenes can one read? Okay, I like the torture scenes, but still. And occasionally, it feels like Goodkind has taken the Stephen King express writing course for developing strange horror-inducing animals. Who can forget the blood-thirsty chicken that’s not really a chicken? Or the pet dragon-like animal who acts like a puppy, can pronounce a few misshapen words, and can kill ninjas like no one else (except for Richard)? Not me, that's for sure.
This fantasy series of books written by Terry Goodkind was built upon a familiar mythology. A baby is hidden away from his evil father, who would’ve killed the boy if he’d known of his existence and continued survival. The boy is raised in ordinary fashion, kept ignorant of his birthright, yet destined to challenge his father for the control of the empire. This is pure fantasy, full of wizards and witches, riddles and enigmas, ninja-like warriors and, of course, a sword of retribution. Or at least, it should be pure fantasy. The author, to his credit, has created this magical world, populated with interesting characters, both heroes and villains. His writing is very strong, the actions are bold, the plot line is complex and suspenseful. Or at least it was.
Goodkind has created two memorable heroes. The war wizard, the seeker of truth, the sensitive killing machine named Richard Rahl. And he has a female counterpart who is very bit his equal. Kahlan Amnell, the mother confessor, can enslave any man with a simple touch. Of course, the author finds a way to bring these two together in an impossible union of love. And then continually writes plot events to rip them asunder, making them struggle to keep their love alive and their empire out of the hands of their enemies. And the enemies are ruthlessly interesting as well. There’s the Sisters of the Dark, who serve the wrong side of the religious divide, the devil-like Keeper. And the Dreamwalker, a Napoleonic-type figure named Emperor Jagang who can inhabit the minds of other people, leads an army bent on ridding the world of all magic, and is symbolic of a godless communist hordes out to destroy all that is good and right and special.
The series is one part melodrama, one part blood-soaked action thriller, one part magic show and one final part philosophical treatise. It is this final part, this detour into philosophy, that is problematic. Goodkind’s fascination with Ayn Rand’s Objectivism leads him to plot and character developments that make little sense. And even less excitement. One novel features a villainous Sister of the Dark who abducts the hero in order to teach him a little socialist humility. This is a woman who has pledged her soul to the dark side. Another plot line highlights a misguided bureaucratic society that invites the enemy within its gates. Or a civilization that has embraced pacifism and doesn’t live to regret it. One gets the idea. But it seems Goodkind is intent on beating the reader over the head with these ideas, to the obvious detriment of his plots.
On his web site, Goodkind denies that his novel are intended to explain, advance or promote Objectivism. He would never sacrifice the reader’s enjoyment to his Randian ideals. Right. It makes me wonder why he needed to make that denial.
A series this long (the 11th novel is coming soon!) must certainly have its moments of repetition. Each novel seems to climax with the hero escaping a sure death, usually imprisoned somewhere in the underworld, spirit world, or just plain netherworld. And how many epic battles, ninja-like swordfests and extreme torture scenes can one read? Okay, I like the torture scenes, but still. And occasionally, it feels like Goodkind has taken the Stephen King express writing course for developing strange horror-inducing animals. Who can forget the blood-thirsty chicken that’s not really a chicken? Or the pet dragon-like animal who acts like a puppy, can pronounce a few misshapen words, and can kill ninjas like no one else (except for Richard)? Not me, that's for sure.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
The Painted Veil
The Painted Veil is a film that tries too hard. It wants to be a romantic, heroic, epic story but can’t quite manage to scale those heights. Its main characters are too self-absorbed to exhibit any true chemistry. Edward Norton imbues the bacteriologist-doctor Walter Fane with a convincing stereotypically waspish, stiffly repressed personality. As a result, the romantic hero is barely likeable, which certainly puts a damper on the romantic plot-line. Naomi Watts’ character, Kitty Fane, is vain, selfish and spoiled. And those are her good points. She throws herself into an adulterous affair with the caddish Liev Schrieber before the honeymoon bed is cold.
The heroic plot line isn’t more convincing. Dr. and Mrs. Fane dispatch themselves with suicidal fury into the middle of a cholera epidemic. Of course, despite their brazen attempts to appear ridiculously courageous, neither is infected until they discover their purpose. And their love.
The epic storyline becomes the most effective. The exotically beautiful and dangerously toxic setting of China in the 1920's provides an intriguing background. The paradox of colonialism is portrayed with appropriate complexity, its condescending oppressive nature played off against its ability to provide aid in dire circumstances.
Some of the film’s secondary characters seem one-dimensional. The mysterious Waddington (just what does he do?) is at first a symbol of oppressive colonialism, his Chinese concubine kept naked and compliant. Of course, things are not as they seem, but the character’s initial creepiness is never completely overcome. The enigmatic Colonel Yu is played as a symbol of China itself, distrustful and yearning for independence, but able to accept help when his hand is forced.
The film’s best scene happens almost by accident, illustrating a quirky, previously unseen component of Dr. Fane’s personality, as he counts the distance required to divert a secondary source of water for the village. He is a likeable hero for a moment, perhaps capturing the true emotion of the story as written by W. Somerset Maugham. But the scene fades, and the viewer is left, ultimately, with an epic and empty melodrama.
The heroic plot line isn’t more convincing. Dr. and Mrs. Fane dispatch themselves with suicidal fury into the middle of a cholera epidemic. Of course, despite their brazen attempts to appear ridiculously courageous, neither is infected until they discover their purpose. And their love.
The epic storyline becomes the most effective. The exotically beautiful and dangerously toxic setting of China in the 1920's provides an intriguing background. The paradox of colonialism is portrayed with appropriate complexity, its condescending oppressive nature played off against its ability to provide aid in dire circumstances.
Some of the film’s secondary characters seem one-dimensional. The mysterious Waddington (just what does he do?) is at first a symbol of oppressive colonialism, his Chinese concubine kept naked and compliant. Of course, things are not as they seem, but the character’s initial creepiness is never completely overcome. The enigmatic Colonel Yu is played as a symbol of China itself, distrustful and yearning for independence, but able to accept help when his hand is forced.
The film’s best scene happens almost by accident, illustrating a quirky, previously unseen component of Dr. Fane’s personality, as he counts the distance required to divert a secondary source of water for the village. He is a likeable hero for a moment, perhaps capturing the true emotion of the story as written by W. Somerset Maugham. But the scene fades, and the viewer is left, ultimately, with an epic and empty melodrama.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Volver
Volver
The opening scene - a choreographed dance of black-clad widows cleaning the graves of their dead husbands - sets a surreal tone that continues for its length. It is a movie about death, about profound disappointment, and how these events affect the lives of the characters. Penelope Cruz and friends fill the screen with passion. As the title of the movie suggests, the theme is all about returning - Volver is the Spanish verb meaning ‘to return’. This movie is definitely not a typical mystery - the twists and turns in its plot don’t really provoke any suspense, but rather loop back upon themselves in various incestuous developments. A daughter kills in self-preservation, then a mother returns from the dead after providing the ultimate in matriarchal revenge. And yet, this film is not dominated by these occasional descents into darkness; rather, it revels in the voluptuousness of its actors, the sumptuousness of the Spanish scenery, the luxury of its food and music. A self-deprecating sense of humour also dominates the action, enabling the characters to fully inhabit the absurdist terrain that Almodovar, the director, has created .
The opening scene - a choreographed dance of black-clad widows cleaning the graves of their dead husbands - sets a surreal tone that continues for its length. It is a movie about death, about profound disappointment, and how these events affect the lives of the characters. Penelope Cruz and friends fill the screen with passion. As the title of the movie suggests, the theme is all about returning - Volver is the Spanish verb meaning ‘to return’. This movie is definitely not a typical mystery - the twists and turns in its plot don’t really provoke any suspense, but rather loop back upon themselves in various incestuous developments. A daughter kills in self-preservation, then a mother returns from the dead after providing the ultimate in matriarchal revenge. And yet, this film is not dominated by these occasional descents into darkness; rather, it revels in the voluptuousness of its actors, the sumptuousness of the Spanish scenery, the luxury of its food and music. A self-deprecating sense of humour also dominates the action, enabling the characters to fully inhabit the absurdist terrain that Almodovar, the director, has created .
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