Religion and war, and childhood things

One of my friends is working as a teaching assistant in a course I TA’d a couple years ago: Literature of Trauma and Recovery.  And when the course was starting out she and I talked about issues surrounding religion and war – to make it more plain, the way everyone involved in a conflict thinks God is on their side.

I thought of this again when I went to see Gone with the Wind.  I was very impressed by the movie’s complex treatment of war and the way it enters the lives of individuals, even though at first mention of war the characters do mostly subscribe to the idea of God being on their side. (When the events turn against the south, they change their minds).

We saw Verdi’s Aida the next weekend during the broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera. The first act concludes with the beautiful piece Nume, custode e vindice, a prayer for the protection, and of course victory, of the Egyptian army. But the opera, too, complicates straightforward ideas of religion and war because of personal loyalties that go beyond national concerns.

The other theme to my reading / watching recently seems to be revisiting things from childhood (mine or others).  I’ve ordered one of my favourite Christmas programs, Raymond Briggs’ The Snowman, which is a fantastic animated piece set to music.  I hope it’s as evocative to me now as it always has been.

Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary got me thinking about the movies that went along with the show. We always loved Sesame Street’s Christmas special, with Bert and Ernie playing out O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi and Big Bird waiting for Santa, but I was especially thinking of Follow that Bird (1985), where Big Bird is adopted, runs away, is kidnapped (birdnapped?) by a carnival, and finally returns home. It was funnier for adults than I had thought it might be (the family Big Bird goes to live with lives on Canary Row, and their children are Donny and Marie), but not as much fun now as I’m sure it was then.

My friend had been encouraging me to read a book she loves: Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. It was a beautiful book, but it got me thinking about some of the things I love from my childhood, like Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books…I don’t know that they can ever be as effective if we come to them as adults as if we have loved them from the time we could read.

I’m very much enjoying the new L.M. Montgomery book, The Blythes are Quoted. As has been mentioned everywhere, some Montgomery fans won’t enjoy this darker book as much. I’ve always loved the books, but found their consistent cheeriness a bit grating, and the stories and vignettes are wonderful.

And now I’m watching a midday rerun of an early episode of Dawson’s Creek, and the soundtrack’s made up of Chantal Kreviazuk and Ben Folds Five tunes. Very 90s.

Sometimes great art is just great.

I went yesterday to Cineplex’s special showing of the remastered Gone with the Wind.

I have never seen this movie before. How I got away with that when it was one of my mother’s ironing movies (the other was the 6-part BBC Pride and Prejudice) I don’t know, but somehow I did, and all I knew of it were the things everyone knows: Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable, “I’ll never be hungry again,” “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

And when it first started, I was worried. I was worried, at a massive 4 hours, that it would be slow. That the characters, the types, wouldn’t have aged well (I was especially worried about that at Mammy’s first appearance. Her character develops…Prissy, not so lucky).

But, as I should have known from its longevity, the 1000 pages of Margaret Mitchell’s novel hold more than enough action for four wonderful hours – varied, melodramatic, and also true to life. I was impressed with the treatment of the historical context – loving, and yet mostly clear-eyed about the period’s glories and tragedies. I was impressed with the treatment of adult relationships, because even though this is where most of the melodrama lies, they still feel…honest. This is largely because of the complexity brought to what could be stereotypical roles by incredibly talented actors.

And the ending was perfect, and you know how difficult endings can be to get right.

Not sure…

…what to make of Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but I know for sure that I’m thankful to have the addition with the appendix, Mistakes We Knew We Were Making, because if there was any doubt in my mind that Eggers was successful in what he was attempting, a passage in the appendix convinced me.

The book is, as we’ve discussed, G., uneven. And it reminds me–only in parts, which limitation is a good thing–of other things I’ve read that are created in so intensely personal a way that they become indecipherable to others. Confessional is fine with me…but how can there be art without an attempt to communicate to others? Can there be expression, of anything, at all, without an audience in mind? Would it still be “expression”, or would it be something else? Anyway, if it’s just for you, and not for others, it should stay in your sock drawer like everyone’s bad high school poetry.

But only in parts…other parts, I think, are glorious. And finally, in the appendix, Eggers writes:

“The book was seen by its author as a stupid risk, and an ugly thing, and a betrayal, and overall, as  a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life but a mistake which nevertheless he could not refrain from making, and worse, as a mistake he would encourage everyone to make, because everyone should make big, huge mistakes, because a) They don’t want you to; b) Because they haven’t the balls themselves and your doing it reminds them of their status as havers-of-no-balls; c) Because your life is worth documenting; d) because if you do not believe your life is worth documenting, or knowing about, then why are you wasting your time/our time? Our air? e) Because if you do it right and go straight toward them you like me will write to them, and will looking straight into their eyes when writing, will look straight into their fucking eyes, like a person sometimes can do with another person, and tell them something because even though you might not know them well, or at all, and even if you wrote in their books or hugged them or put your hand on their arm, you would still scarcely know them, but even so wrote a book that was really a letter to them, a messy fucking letter that you could barely keep a grip on, but a letter you meant, and a letter you sometimes wish you had not mailed, but a letter you are happy that made it from you to them.”

That last part again:

“…wrote a book that was really a letter to them, a messy fucking letter that you could barely keep a grip on, but a letter you meant, and a letter you sometimes wish you had not mailed, but a letter you are happy that made it from you to them.”

I think sums this glorious mess of a book up, exactly.

Heartbreaking…

I’m midway through Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and even though the two have very little to do with each other in style or subject matter, it reminds me of Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes in an odd way (I haven’t read McCourt’s other memoirs).

I read Angela’s Ashes in high school, a little while before the movie came out. And I thought it was a beautiful, sad, funny book. Like most people who enjoyed it, I was looking forward to the movie. But I found that, because it lacked the charm and wit of the immediate narrative voice, the really tragic parts of the book became overwhelming. In other words, when it wasn’t McCourt telling us, the kind of life shown in the movie was just shitty without also being familiar and in some ways comforting.

And I think this is what Eggers’ book, turned into a movie, would be like. That it’s only the narrative voice which is keeping the story from being way too depressing (and I like me a depressing story…Steinbeck and Conrad are absolute all time favourites). Which is odd, because I’m also finding the narrator sort of annoying, as my friend suggested I might. I had just gotten to the point that I thought it was actually Eggers’ style I didn’t like when a passage reminded me of the space between the narrator and author, and I think now / again that I’m really enjoying it.

In a sad way, of course.

Catching Up

So, time to finally talk about all the things I’ve been up to since the move.

I had mentioned reading The Hour I First Believed, by Wally Lamb.  It was pretty good.  Sometimes, thematically, maybe a bit heavy-handed, and it seemed overlong to me…like he just wasn’t sure where to end it and just kept on thinking of things to add. One reading friend has agreed with this assessment; another wrote me and started talking about chaos theory and all kinds of things that would imply it was intentional…I’ll have to think on it.

Then I read David Foster Wallace’s Consider the Lobster, a collection of essays. And Wallace really, really shines. I’ve been working off and on on Infinite Jest, and these essays have all of the things that make me so happy when I’m reading that book — great thought, great emotion, great humour, great writing. I can’t say enough. Unequivocal about its excellence. Read the footnotes, they’re the best part.

My husband got me hooked on Dexter, with Michael C. Hall, and naturally, I picked up the books.  Darkly Dreaming and Dearly Devoted Dexters were both quite enjoyable…the third one, Dexter in the Dark, went in a different direction than the rest of the series, and I don’t think it was successful. Dexter by Design, #4, came out in September, and the good old Dexter’s back, although Jeff Lindsay doesn’t ignore themes and issues introduced in Dexter in the Dark. It’s odd, because I’m not usually a genre fiction reader. But character is really my thing, and Dexter is one of the most original to be created in a long while.

World According to Garp. I was pretty sure I wasn’t big on Irving. I didn’t know much about him or his work, and a few years ago a friend insisted I read Prayer for Owen Meany. So disappointed by the ending being so…ending-y. So tidy. That’s not my thing. But another, newer friend insisted I read The World According to Garp, so I tried my best to give it a fair reading. And I liked it better. Still too tidy for me. But it’s sort of charming that Irving has a knack for coming up with bizarre situations that also ring true to life. I kept on finding myself thinking of elements of the story as though they were anecdotes I knew from…somewhere. Hasn’t changed my mind about him for my own taste, but I see a little better what’s appealing to all these other folks.

The same friend who loaned me Garp kept loaning me other books, and two were graphic novels. First, Maus. Very effective and affecting. As it’s based on a personal account,  I was struck by how deliberately the tension escalates…you simultaneously know what’s coming and hope it doesn’t.  What made me think the most, though, was the conclusion. It seemed so sudden. Not for me to talk about anyone’s relationship with his father, but it left me feeling more sad than the huge horrible tragedy…I could be thinking about it all wrong, but it made me wonder, is that all his father was to him? This story? Or was that all that was left of his father? I don’t know…still pondering.

Then, I was told to read A Short History of Violence. Because I’d like it better than the movie, which I thought chose the least interesting elements of its story to develop. And it’s true…while the basics of the story are the same, the book was a lot more interesting, if not really my kind of story.

Two on the Falls: a historical novel, The Day the Falls Stood Still, and Catherine Gildiner’s second memoir , After the Falls.   Having been through a phase growing up when I loved reading about the Falls’ history, especially Red Hill, Cathy Marie Buchanan’s novel was intriguing to me. But it’s definitely a first novel–uneven, especially in terms of pacing. While much of the book seemed (to me) slow and predictable, the conclusion (while also predictable) was quite rushed; and considering how much time is spent throughout the novel emphasizing everything that’s happening and all sorts of detail, I had to agree with my friend that it leaves a lot of (I think unintentionally) unanswered questions. (And P.S.: since I’m finding some reviewers don’t realize this,  the newspaper articles and photographs featured in the book…fictional).

I absolutely loved Catherine Gildiner’s first memoir, Too Close to the Falls, and the 2nd, After the Falls, was quite a bit different in tone but still just as good.

A non-fiction book about historic and discontinued candys called Candy Freak, by Steve Almond. Yes, Steve Almond.

Annie Proulx’s first novel, Postcards. Loved it. Love her work. (I know I’m speeding up, but I’ve been writing this for an hour and a half, now…)

Bill Maher’s New Rules. Funny as the show.

I was, finally, gifted Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Told the giver saw it and was reminded of me (and that he was fairly sure it was a compliment). Lots of fun as long as one doesn’t go in expecting a lot.

And now I’m working on Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Had heard very good things about What is the What, which I still haven’t read, and was even more impressed by the foreword he wrote to my pbk. ed. of Infinite Jest. I’m just finished with all the smart opening material,  ready to start the meat of the book, and very excited.

I’m singing in choir and solo, listening to the Beatles remasters, and will be up for nomination as a member of the board of the local Arts Council on Thursday. Happy.

Guilty post

I feel incredibly guilty for not having posted anything in a while. I’ve still been reading, and have lots to say, but it will have to continue to wait ;  the new house is still not unpacked. But I came across this tidbit today.

From a letter from Christopher Pratt’s mother to her son:

“Christopher,

…none of this being an artist will come easily for you. You take it all too seriously. Being an artist is no more important or special than being a businessman or a carpenter…a nurse, a doctor, or a fisherman. It’s just another thing that people do. Like everything, some do it better than others, and you will be one of them…but life is more important than art…always remember that. And don’t talk about ‘art’ all the time.”

So, I did it. I did exactly what one shouldn’t do three weeks before one is moving into one’s first, 700 sq. ft home, and bought another box of books. The discount book place in town was having a 50% off sale on all their (fairly) new fiction, so I spent $75 and cleared a lot off my to buy/read list. Probably 20 books or so, I lost track.

This weekend I’m opening the art gallery where I’ve worked in years past, which is a very difficult job that requires keys, a passcode, and 8 spare hours to…do whatever I want while the other staff actually run the place (that’s okay, for 4 years I was in the other position, so…).

Anyway, especially now that I find the wireless connection unavailable, my movies (the last episode of Top Gear, season 7, and Pan’s Labyrinth), blogging (here and at thephallus), and reading become much more significant.

I’ve decided to put away Infinite Jest for the last weeks of summer. I was 200 pages ahead at the start of Infinite Summer, and now am horribly, horribly behind. It will be a solitary, long-term endeavor; as much as I enjoyed it while reading, it’s a daunting prospect.

So I figured I’d leave all the old books away and read my new buys for these last 3 weeks. The first, 723 contemporary (and from my other postings, you should know that’s not usual for me) pages, is perfect for a couple days of reading: The Hour I First Believed, by Wally Lamb. I hadn’t heard of him before, but this book came across my desk. The book looked interesting, so I read the first bit. That was good, so I added it to my to-read list. Then, there it was on the shelf at Book Depot.

I’m about 100 pages in, and it is very good. No complaints yet, other than the fact that whenever a writer creates an alter-ego in a book, it always seems to be an English teacher.

More later.

A Public Tragedy

A very good production, one of the best plays, and one of the worst audiences I’ve ever been in.

But even two phones ringing, people flashing lights, and lots of coughs and people coming and going couldn’t distract from Shakespeare’s excellent public tragedy, Julius Caesar.

A tragedy about the downfall of ambition and the horrors of the mob. But one that depends on personal relationships: Caesar and Calpurnia, Caesar and Brutus, Brutus and Portia (a strong character and strong actor, robbed by how few scenes she’s in and by the phone ringing throughout the main one), Brutus and Cassius.

And what a Brutus and Cassius! Ben Carlson and Tom Rooney (last year’s Hamlet and Horatio) broke my heart each time they spoke. Noble and troubled, lean and hungry. “You have done that you should be sorry for!”

The production was quite good, largely on the strength of the performances. It does seem, to a slight extent, that this year’s productions have traded emotional impact for visual impact; but very good nonetheless.

Plays read and seen

I’ve recently been thinking about the medium of theatre, and how some plays are more successful read than seen, or seen than read.

After a long interest in mid-century American drama, I finally bought Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night, which is one of the hardest plays I’ve ever read (emotionally, I mean).  My edition has an introduction by Mr. Bloom, in which he says that O’Neill’s reputation for dialogue is undeserved – that the genius of the play is actually in the (long and detailed) stage directions, rather than the action or dialogue. And I think Harold’s got it right…there is so much going on in those stage directions, what’s left unsaid and undone, that it would take the most spectacular production to capture the essence of the play (I understand that there was one with Bill Hutt, Martha Henry, Martha Burns, Tom McCamus and Pete Donaldson that met this standard at Stratford in recent years). Better read than seen, in most circumstances, I would think.

Then I read Macbeth, because I hadn’t since highschool (since I learned how to read, and think, I think, which was 3rd year university).  And I was disappointed. It didn’t strike me as incomplete – I felt the motivations and movement / action in the play were all clear – but it seemed somehow…incohesive. Transitions between speeches and scenes were…strained. In talk with others we came up with some reasons: the theory that Middleton wrote some of it, or, more basically, that they were producing so many plays so fast that we can’t expect all of them to be great.

Which is why I was thrilled to see Stratford’s production (I know others have been less impressed, but I haven’t read any of the reviews yet). Macbeth is a play that was meant to be watched.  The abrupt / awkward transitions in the written play lent themselves to a performance that felt new and fast-paced.

Colm Feore was excellent as the lost soldier; some of our favourites from recent years at Stratford were also very strong (Timothy D. Stickney struck me both in Caesar and Cleopatra last year and as Banquo, here). Yanna McIntosh, whom I saw in Obsidian’s production of Colleen Wagner’s The Monument, was a fantastic Lady M. (I do wish that Stratford’s young men -  Lear’s Edgars, Hamlet’s Fortinbras’, Macbeth’s Malcolms – were stronger.)

As always, I found the production thoughtful and impressive. The introduction of 2 monitors in the 2nd half brought out the themes of surveillance and insecurity, the role of the media in modern war, and reminded the audience of the supernatural element in the play. The music and effects were movie-like (a strength or weakness, I suppose, depending on your perspective, but I found they strengthened the production); and the play concluded with an image as ominous as anything we had seen till then – the bringing in of the Union Jack.

Then a flash of Macbeth’s screaming face on the monitors and black-out. Shakespeare’s action movie, really well-done.

The Road

I borrowed Cormac McCarthy’s The Road from a friend a week or two ago, and it almost made me late a few times. Incredibly hard to put down.

Because my mind and heart are still so full with it, I just want to share the publisher’s description:

“A father and his son walk alone through burned America. Nothing moves in the ravaged landscape save the ash on the wind. It is cold enough to crack stones, and when the snow falls it is gray. The sky is dark. Their destination is the coast, although they don”t know what, if anything, awaits them there. They have nothing; just a pistol to defend themselves against the lawless bands that stalk the road, the clothes they are wearing, a cart of scavenged food–and each other.

The Road is the profoundly moving story of a journey. It boldly imagines a future in which no hope remains, but in which the father and his son, “each the other’’s world entire,” are sustained by love. Awesome in the totality of its vision, it is an unflinching meditation on the worst and the best that we are capable of: ultimate destructiveness, desperate tenacity, and the tenderness that keeps two people alive in the face of total devastation.”

McCarthy’s style here is a bit unorthodox, but I loved it. Reminded me of Steinbeck in the way that it’s spare overall, yet, at times, descriptively rich.

And the ending is perfect. Not happy. Not hopeless. Just. Right.