Favorites: The Halloween Edition

I've been trying to get back to reviewing movies for a while now, but for some reason this just hasn't been happening. With my teaching and tutoring schedule, there hasn't been much time for thinking, much less writing. However, at this moment I have stolen a few moments to write up at least something pertaining to movies.

Below is a short list of my favorite horror films, the movies I love watching at this time of year. Granted, horror is a genre, like comedy, where individual tastes play a huge role in defining what's good and what's not. And again, like comedy, it's hard to get it right all the time; but when it is, the result is a magical experience.

1. The Shining

The Shining is my favorite horror film. It's the type of film that's unsettling from the opening shot all the way to the last. And even though Stephen King was not too happy with the adaptation, I find the film is one of those rare exceptions when the film outperforms the book. The film is not gruesome, gory, or really all that violent (at least compared to today's horror standards). Nevertheless, the film always satisfies by providing the kind of haunting creepiness I hope to experience this time of year.

2. The Exorcist

This film is frequently at the top of "best of" lists, and it's for a very good reason. The only reason this film isn't at the top of my list is because there are times when I find the movie unintentionally humorous. On the other hand, there are times when I feel a overwhelming desire to listen to Christmas music after watching the movie. After all these years, it's still the model by which other horror films are judged. Sadly, not many come close.

3. The Blair Witch Project

This is not a film I can watch all the time, not because it's too scary though, because the camera shakes too much. When I saw the movie at the theater, I spent most of the movie covering my eyes because I felt like throwing up. But this doesn't take away from the fact that The Blair Witch Project is still one scary ass movie, especially for anyone who has spent any amount of time camping. Even with the ever increasing dread, those final moments in the house still haunt me.

4. The Cabin in the Woods

The Cabin in the Woods has just recently shot up this list because of its brilliant story and its genius blend of laugh-out-loud humor and some pretty good scares. Roger Ebert, in his review of the film, wrote that the audience won't see the end coming. He was right. I didn't. Nothing prepared me for the final twenty minutes of the film. I will say this: I don't recall the "ding" of an elevator ever being quite so funny, or satisfying.

5. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Leave it to me to put a musical on my "favorite scary movies" list. Stephen Sondheim's macabre masterpiece proves that musicals can produce quite a few good scares and whole helluva-lot of creeping dread. Add to the mix, Tim Burton and a brilliant performance by Johnny Depp, and you've got a beautiful and terrifying film on your hands. And what's even better is that by the end of the film, you realize that Sweeney Todd isn't the worst guy on Fleet Street. 

So, there you have it. My favorite movies to watch in October. They may not be the most terrifying ones out there, but they do provide quite a few good thrills, enough to keep me coming back every year.

Cloud Atlas: Our Past, Present, and Future.... All in One Fantastic Narrative

Quite frequently, as I've written before, movies affect my reading habits. And it has happened again. A couple of months ago, I heard of a new movie coming out by the Wachowski siblings, whose imaginative filmmaking talents brought us The Matrix trilogy.  Needless to say, I was excited. Then, of course, I saw the trailer for the film, which is an astounding piece of work all by itself. The trailer is thrilling and mysterious, an exciting combination of sight, sound and powerful emotions. Yes, some of the lines seem a bit pretentious and preachy, but that didn't bother me. I trust the Wachowski siblings; they can handle a visually imaginative epic just fine.

However, I was then faced with a dilemma: I had yet to read the book. Back in 2004, when I was coming ever closer to the end of my undergraduate degree, David Mitchell released Cloud Atlas, a book that would eventually go on to be nominated for the Man Booker Prize. For another seven years, the novel's existence remained a mystery to me. That is, until I found out about the film adaptation.

So, I downloaded a sample of the book from the iTunes bookstore and started reading. Once I blazed through those forty pages, I decided to go ahead and download the rest of the novel, just like I was prompted to do at the end of my sample. I can't say I was disappointed. In fact, having just finished the book last night, I can say that Cloud Atlas is one of the best reading experiences I've ever enjoyed. Just like another favorite book of mine, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, I found myself emotionally drained and exhausted by the book's end; even more, I didn't want the book to end. Those final hundred pages were torturous because I knew the end was coming, yet I loathed the point when I'd have to step out of Mitchell's world and put the book down.

Describing the plot is an exercise in futility. However, I'll try my best. The book does contain six "novellas," all interlocked, weaving back and forth on each other, connected by coincidence, a birth mark, and the art of story-telling in all its wonderful forms. The novel's focus seems to be on the power and effect of narrative on people, history, and time itself. Nothing quite connects the human race like narratives.

Just to give a brief rundown of what the book contains, the novel starts with the diary of Adam Ewing, a man who has gained passage on a schooner called Prophetess; then the story moves to a series of letters written by Robert Frobisher to a lover, Rufus Sixsmith; from there the story jumps to a journalist in the American seventies, who uncovers corporate greed and a murderous plot; and then the reader is blasted to the near present for the funniest section of the novel, where a poor elderly editor goes through a most ghastly ordeal; over a hundred years later, a fabricant named Somni-451 starts describes ascension into consciousness; and finally, we are propelled even further into a post-apocalyptic future as the remnants of humanity fight for survival and try to connect to their own distant past.

Whew! Now that was a long sentence. Forgive me. The wonderful part is, I just covered only half of the novel. After the post-apocalyptic section, the novel goes back and wraps up the narratives the first half had begun. I use the word "wonderful" because while I wanted the various narratives to wrap up, I didn't want them to end. Each section could have been expanded into six separate novels.

If the narratives weren't compelling enough, the writing is quite beautiful and impressive. Through each section, as Mitchell moves forward and backward through time, the style and format changes. So drastic are the changes that it truly feels as though different people wrote different parts of the novel. Mitchell combines a stunning array of genres in the book, a feat that feels overwhelming at times, but at no point does the book fail to entertain, even in the nineteenth-century section--a style of writing that is far from my favorite.

Throughout my reading experience, I have not felt like crying very often. The final Harry Potter book, and Wicked both moved me close to tears. Now, I can add Cloud Atlas to that list. By the novel's end I felt emotionally exhausted, drained in the effort to finish the book, and drained in the journey across time. The moment I reached the end I had to resist the urge to start the book all over again. After all, sleep sometimes trumps reading... but only sometimes.

For now, I'll settle for watching the movie. I've already made Tim promise that we'd see the movie this weekend. I can only hope--fingers crossed--that it extends the wonderful experience I had in reading the novel.

The Power of Art on Memory and the Heart

Every so often I come across a film or book that is so affecting that I can't bring myself to watch it multiple times. Watching such films, or reading such books, again is an exercise in emotional torture, albeit the good kind. And last week, I experienced yet another example of this very phenomenon, and in a very unlikely place: It occurred while I watched last Thursday's episode of Glee.

This is the second post I've written about Glee; and while I usually think of Glee as a wonderful and fun show, I don't think of it as great art. Inspirational? Yes. Art? No. However, this particular episode surprised me and stabbed me right in the heart; it unearthed some memories that have long been buried, some hurts that have long been forgiven. And I was wholly unprepared for it.

Last week's episode lived up to the title, "The Break Up." (Beware! Spoilers abound!)

Even before the episode started, I figured one of the power couples in the show would be breaking up. I was surprised when damn near all of them broke up, and not all for exactly the same reason.

I've loved this season so far because the show has started to venture outside of the choir room. Oddly enough, I am loving the Rachel and Kurt story lines much more than the New Directions story lines. Well, I guess that's not quite so odd considering that both Kurt and Rachel are the driving forces of the show. Without meaning to, I'm sure, they both have taken center stage.

Anyway, this episode followed the four main "power" couples of the series (Rachel/Finn, Kurt/Blaine, Will/Emma, and Brittany/Santana) as they journey through some treacherous emotional terrain. Each couple is dealing with some kind of separation, mostly through distance, but also in growth and expectations.

As some are experiencing life after high school, those left behind are having to deal with the developing voids in their lives. And those who are experiencing life in "the real world" are having to deal with juggling their past lives with their present realities. The transition from high school to college/work is a difficult one, especially when there are some incredible ties to your former life.

"The Break Up" resonated with me so much exactly because it brought out some long buried memories. It was like watching the emotions I had once lived through. Indeed, a very specific memory came to mind while watching the show, and I found myself becoming overwhelmed.

See, like the characters of Glee, I was in a relationship during high school: my first love. We knew that the transition would be difficult, and so it was.

Now, here's where my memory becomes a bit faulty. I distinctly remember having a conversation that entailed our being free, but still together. Forgive my ignorance, I was in love at the time, and willing to agree to anything to keep that feeling alive, however feebly. That being said, my boyfriend at the time doesn't recall us every having that conversation, so who knows what we had agreed upon.

Really, our lives were taking different paths. He was moving across the state to finish high school and start a college program at a university. I was staying in my hometown (good 'ol Odessa... yay) to work on my basic courses in college.

Our first semester apart didn't seem to be too hard. We talked on a regular basis, at least as regularly as we could; and soon into the fall semester I decided to pay him visit. This visit was the moment when the end of what was became a reality in my mind.

While watching Glee, I was struck with how much they got right. The awkward merging of two people's lives when they have some time apart. Both Blaine and Finn travel to New York to visit Rachel and Kurt. However, it soon becomes apparent that their lives have become vastly different. The pace, the rhythm, the very energy all of them once shared has altered. One pair is enjoying the direction their lives have taken while the other only feels stuck, incapable in truly sharing in the joy.

I felt that awkwardness. I felt that shift in rhythm. It was not pleasant.

The moment I found myself in my boyfriend's apartment I knew something was different, but I told myself that the difference lied within me. After all, I am not the best traveler, and I don't react all that well to change.

He was living a life vastly different from my own. He was living the typical "college life," enjoying classes, new social connections, and (naturally, I guess) partying with friends. My life at that point focused almost entirely on work and classes. There wasn't much time for new social connections since so many of closest friends had moved away.

Despite the alteration in how we related to each other, I persisted. I was going to enjoy my time there. And I did. Right up until the point when I found myself vomiting in a bathroom.

I was so determined to have a good time and prove that I could hang with his new-found college friends that I found myself playing a drinking game at an apartment, not my boyfriend's. I don't even remember the game. All I remember is playing the game and becoming, for the first time in my life, excessively intoxicated. I think the most accurate word is "plastered."

My memory here jumps from playing the game to finding myself alone at the table, smiling rather stupidly I imagine. Suddenly, I knew a trip to the restroom was going to be a necessity. So, I gingerly made my way through the crowd of people in the living room, found the line to the restroom, and patiently waited for my turn.

The rest, I'm sure, is not too hard to imagine. I was gone.

The only things that were real to me in that moment were the toilet, the coolness of the restroom floor, and my own spectacular retching. To this day, I can't stomach a vodka cranberry.

An old high school friend (not my boyfriend) found me in the restroom (I'm guessing that people started to complain about how long I had occupying the one restroom in the apartment) and led me to a bedroom, where a trash can was produced so I could continue vomiting without interfering with the other partyer's restroom breaks.

Through the fog of memory it soon became clear that I had been left there by the very people who had brought me. I was taken back to my boyfriend's place (grocery sacks were needed for the car ride), and I was guided up the stairs,  stumbling and apologizing all the way up that spiral staircase. I can honestly say it wasn't my shining hour. And for the next month and a half I couldn't stand the smell of alcohol, which is interesting when one considers the fact that I was the only one at my restaurant who could serve alcohol.

The point of this is not to place blame on anyone. It is merely the memory that surfaced while watching Glee last week. And I don't want anyone to think negatively on my ex-boyfriend. To be honest, we both didn't have the same expectations, desires, or even the same goals after high school, so my persistence in believing there was anything left of our relationship has a lot to do with my inability to let the relationship die. For the longest time I was unable to let go of the love between us. I didn't want to face the fact that we had moved beyond what we'd had in high school, beautiful though it was at times.

Just like certain smells can suddenly, forcibly, remind us of a loved one passed, a good piece of art can pull on those bits of emotions we'd thought long buried. The love I was felt for my ex-boyfriend is long gone. However, I was surprised to be reminded of the hurt and awkwardness of feeling stuck, of feeling left behind.

Weird, so often as adults we try to act as though the experiences of our younger years have no bearing or effect on our present. But it only takes a smell, a photograph, a story, or even a brilliant piece of art to force those emotions to the surface, purge them, if you will. In my line of work, we call this a catharsis.

It is rare for me to actually feel catharsis in today's art, but it still happens. Even more rare is discovering a cathartic moment in a television series. I cannot remember a moment in any series I've watched feeling so viscerally moved by an episode. Honestly, I can't believe such a reaction happened while watching Glee. However, it did, and I have to be honest with how I feel. Art is subjective, after all. And while I don't expect to feel this way again for a long time, I am happy to have experienced it.

Under the Dome: A Not-So-Subtle Allegory, Then Again, This is Stephen King

After making my way through the horror that is Fifty Shades of Grey, I was happy for a dose of reality and good storytelling. So, I decided it was time to finish Stephen King's brick-sized behemoth, Under the Dome.

It was a relief to read something that pulled on my attention, as opposed to something that made my soul weep with every turn of the page. King's own unique style is not one of my favorites (although it is enjoyable); however, he is nothing else if not a strong storyteller, right up to the end, where he will invariably cut you off. King doesn't do this with every book and story I've read, but he does do it frequently enough that it can result in a frustrating reading experience. The only time I found this actually worked for the story is in his Dark Tower series. As for Under the Dome, such an abrupt end only served to leave the story lacking despite the incredible build up.

King begins with a very simple premise: What would happen if a small town was suddenly and inexplicably isolated from the rest of the world? How would the citizens of that town react to being cut off from everyone they love?

The answers are pretty frightening.

Within the first chapter, the town of Chester's Mill, Maine is cut off from the rest of the world by a giant, clear dome. People and animals are immediately killed as it comes down, most cut in half, and at least two people die because their plane crashes into the dome.

Almost immediately, the town is further split into two distinct factions: good guys versus bad guys. And believe me, it's very clear who is who. The Good are led by Dale "Barbie" Barbara, a former military interrogator, and Julia Shumway, the editor of the local newspaper. The Bad are led by the second selectman of the town, James "Big Jim" Rennie, who also happens to be enjoying the profits from a massive "side project."

As the events unfold, the town joins one camp or the other, with more following Big Jim ("we support the home team") rather than Barbie, who after all is an outsider, a newcomer to the town, and thus untrustworthy.

King is a master at developing multiple story lines, juggling a seemingly endless array of characters, and at generating pulse-pounding suspense. The last is especially important since the book is over a thousand pages long. Each character is distinct and developed enough to propel the story. Even better, the plot doesn't seem like it's following a generic path. The characters make decisions that are believable and determined only by how King draws them. Despite this, King creates an unpredictable atmosphere, where the reader is constantly wondering what the characters are planning, in addition to wondering what will happen next.

The story begins to fail near the end, where everything wraps up far too quickly. After a phenomenal build up, the climax and resolution of the plot arrive in rapid succession. It was like I had awoken from a wonderful dream because someone threw a bucket of ice cold water into my face. I needed resolution; I needed to know what came after.

Unfortunately, King doesn't pander to my needs as a reader, only to what the story requires; and apparently this story only covers what happens under the dome. Even so, it was a frustrating end to an otherwise wonderful experience.

On a side note: Under the Dome is a thinly veiled political allegory, an intriguing look at the years following 9/11, and how America now exists in and creates policies in reaction to a state of terror. As stated in my title, the book is a not-so-subtle cultural statement by a not-so-subtle writer.

Fifty Shades of Grey, or, Yet More Proof I'm Gay

Finally! After what feels like an eternity, I have finished reading E.L. James' popular erotica novel, Fifty Shades of Grey. I cannot say I was impressed. Maybe it has something to do with my own preferences. I think not. More than likely it has something to do with the other books I have been reading, or finished reading, lately. Two of those books were The Other Wes Moore and Nickel and Dimed. Some of the others I've started and finished while reading James' book include The Great Gatsby and The Bell Jar. I've also been reading Stephen King's Under the Dome, which I haven't finished, but that's not because of a severe lack of interest; no, it's just a damn big book.

James' novel suffers from a very serious flaw: It's boring. To be fair, I did think, for a time, that my boredom could be a result of being gay. It's a fair assumption to make until it becomes clear that I've read a lot more about straight sex than gay sex. The world of literature is filled with straight sex. Henry and June, by Anais Nin, comes to mind. As does Lady Chatterley's Lover, by D.H. Lawerence. Both of those books contain quite a bit of sex, and I didn't find either one boring. So it seems that my reaction to Fifty Shades of Grey has nothing to do with sexual orientation.

Then why did my eyelids grow heavier and heavier every time I picked up the book?

First, I believe the biggest culprit is in how James establishes and draws her characters. To be frank, they are just not that interesting. Even Mr. Grey, who is supposed to be this incredibly beautiful man, suffers from a lack of personality. And no, his preference for S & M style sex does not make him interesting. Nor, really, does he become interesting through how he was introduced to sex, courtesy of an older woman (who's name, Mrs. Robinson, produced an eye roll from me every time I read it). Of course, Mr. Grey is also incredibly wealthy, but I think that's only to serve the fantasy element of the plot--that Grey can do pretty much anything he wants--and doesn't really provide any interesting information about Grey. Thankfully, being rich is not a personality trait.

The main character, Anastasia Steele, also suffers from a lack of personality. Oh, James tries very hard to demonstrate just how intelligent and well-read Ms. Steele is, usually by dropping references here and there to other famous works, like Tess of the d'Ubervilles, by Thomas Hardy. Granted, Thomas Hardy is not my favorite writer. I was forced to read Jude the Obscure in college and have recoiled from his name ever since. The fact that Ms. Steele actually loved him didn't exactly make her endearing.

The most egregious reference, a reference which stabbed me in the heart, occurred when James referenced a line from Hamlet, "what dreams may come." She inserted the line arbitrarily, where it had no discernible reference to the original work. Ms. Steele was falling asleep after an especially "hardcore" sexual escapade and the line just popped into her head as she thought of what dreams she might have that night. Since the line from Hamlet has nothing to do with literal dreams but what the soul may see while journeying through that "undiscovered country" that is the afterlife, the line does not fit well within the scene. It's as though James thought, "Oh, that's a nice line, and it's about dreams, so I'll just put it there." It doesn't work.

But, moving on....

References to other works don't create a personality, and Ms. Steele's lack of personality is even more disheartening in that James chose to write the book in first-person. This choice, and a few other similarities, reminded me a lot of another popular novel with a very boring character: Twilight. Like with Bella and Twilight, I found Ms. Steele so uninteresting that it was a chore to finish the book. I pushed my way through the headache inducing writing, through the boring sex scenes, and through all those literary references hoping that something good would come out of the whole experience. Sadly, no. I have absolutely no desire to continue reading the adventures of Steele and Grey. I'd much rather read more from Anais Nin.

Hell, I'd much rather read the latest volume of Boys on Boys, or something like it. At least with those books I'll have something to relate to, even if the writing is mind-bendingly awful. Those books aren't trying to be more; they're a "wham, bam, thank ma'am" kind of affair. And, sometimes, that's all right with me.