Sometimes it feels to me like Old John Brown shares fabulous space with Paul Bunyon and John Henry and Johnny Appleseed. An American fable too big to Sometimes it feels to me like Old John Brown shares fabulous space with Paul Bunyon and John Henry and Johnny Appleseed. An American fable too big to be true, too mythic to have walked amongst us mortals, too passionate to have been real. Then I remember that to a big portion of America, John Brown is as infamous as Osama Bin Laden or Charles Manson, a terrifying bogeyman who uprooted their way of life and ushered in American bloodshed on a never equalled scale. And then I see that famous picture of an old, beardless John Brown, one hand on flag and one held out, palm open, avowing war on slavery, and I remember that he was a man who lived and breathed and fought for what he believed in, “the Meteor of the War.�
James McBride’s Good Lord Bird almost seems to be wrestling with these images of Old John Brown, wrestling with them through the eyes of a young Kansas slave boy (mistaken for a slave girl by John Brown himself), Little Onion. Or just Onion as s/he comes to be known.
Onion is a masterful storyteller, and s/he gives us the “real� John Brown, full of madness, fiery might, idiocy, sensitivity, and deep care for his family, Onion, abolition, and God. The narrative seems designed to find the truth of the man, to demystify Brown for a modern audience, and Onion seems perfectly placed and the perfect narrator to accomplish this.
Indeed, when it comes to another titanic figure in U.S. history, Frederick Douglas, Onion succeeds in ripping the ex-slave turned beloved orator into shreds. He becomes a petty man, deeply flawed, venal, weak, pedophilic, polygamist, cowardly, and eventually a betrayer of Old John Brown. It’s a stunning move on the part of McBride, and it suggested that just such a demystification was in store for Old John Brown.
But I was shocked to close the pages on Good Lord Bird and feel like James McBride had actually utterly mystified Potowatamie John Brown, had reinforced the fabulist version of the man for opponents of slavery and reinforced the infamous version of the man for those still infected by seccesionitis.
I am not really sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps it is a suggestion on the part of McBride that some people really are the extreme things we imagine them to be (certainly McBride’s version of Harriet Tubman, in her small cameo, seems to have more in common with his John Brown than his Frederick Douglas), and that to demystify them and their histories is simply impossible. Whatever McBride’s intentions, however, I am thrilled to have followed Onion’s journey from Kanas to Harper’s Ferry to the gallows where John Brown breathed his last.
Whatever it may be, I think McBride found some truth in Little Onion. I’m glad he shared it with us. ...more
I adore Alan Alda. He has been a guiding force in my life and I promise him, wherever he is, that I will do as he says: I will take his advice and live my life. Really live it. I have always tried to do just that, but I occasionally I slip off into numb-times. I am back again now, living it again, and I will keep on doing just that.
Thanks for the advice, Papa Alan. Thanks for being your beautiful self. ...more
I thought I was Ernie. My middle name is Ernie. This book was gifted to me because the people around me see me as Ernie. I wanted to be Ernie. I am BeI thought I was Ernie. My middle name is Ernie. This book was gifted to me because the people around me see me as Ernie. I wanted to be Ernie. I am Bert. I think I am glad I am Bert. Err ... no ... I am Ernie because Bert isn't really me. But I'm not really Ernie either. So maybe I am Bert and Ernie? Yes. That's more like it. Bernie it is. ...more
I've been thinking about this since I closed the cover of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo earlier this afternoon: what would I say if someone were tI've been thinking about this since I closed the cover of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo earlier this afternoon: what would I say if someone were to ask me what this book is about?
So I'm gonna go ahead and ask myself that question: Brad, what is The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo about?
On the surface the answer is terribly easy. It is about the seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo -- the poor schmuck (a soundstage tech), the abusive member of Hollywood royalty (a nepo actor), the egotistical crooner (umm ... the man we love to hate, or hat to love, Mick Riva!), the business partner (a handsome foreign actor), the gay best friend (her producer and the father of her child), the french auteur (a director), and a financier (the brother of a friend). But that's really a lie. They make up the divisions of Evelyn Hugo's life, but they are not what the story is about.
Below the surface, in the places where Taylor Jenkins Reid works so skilfully and impressively, are the themes that these marriages offer up for our consideration. Poverty, abuse, power, control, friendship, homosexuality, bisexuality, the meaning of success, ethics, fidelity, pain, the drive to hide away, the willingness to use others, euthanasia and the right to die, the willingness to be used, forgiveness, maybe repentance, these and many more of the facts of our world's everyday life float through the waters of Hugo's life. But are all of these things the things that The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo are about? No. Not really, though they are there within the confines of Hugo's life.
So is it love? Well ... again probably no. But then, perhaps a resounding yes. But as with everything else that Reid engages with there is no "Hollywood" version of love that is easy and heartening and sickeningly romantic. Nothing is easy. But all the love, all the forms of love, all the feelings are in these pages, and they are as real as Reid can make them. So maybe it is about love. But what love? What kind of love? Which example of love? Or maybe just love, no matter the form, is what this book is about. But probably not.
Because it could just as easily be about loss in its myriad shapes and forms.
Or it could be about finding yourself and staying true to yourself even when you may not always be living the best version of yourself.
Or it could be about being a person who must learn to balance all the things she wants the best way she can while being willing to forgive herself when things don't always work out.
But I suppose, having written that last paragraph, the story is about one simple and utterly complex thing -- Evelyn Hugo.
Yes, she's a fictional character, but that doesn't matter. She is a dynamo, an unbelievably charismatic study of a human being, and the only way to know her is through Reid's stirring words.
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo is about Evelyn Hugo. Pick it up and find out who she is for yourself, and only then will you know what this book is about. ...more
Not only my favourite Jane Austen novel, but also my eighteen year old son's (with whom I listened to Greta Schachi's beautiful reading of it during oNot only my favourite Jane Austen novel, but also my eighteen year old son's (with whom I listened to Greta Schachi's beautiful reading of it during our daily walks), Persuasion is a slice of literary perfection.
All of Austen's novels have something to recommend them (I speak of her completed six, having never dipped into Sanditon), and they are all books I have read and read again, but for me Persuasion is Austen's masterpiece. I imagine most readers would choose Pride and Prejudice as the best Austen, and I can understand why, and I know I certainly love it myself. Yet I find the love between Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth to be truer than that of Lizzie and Darcy, the truest of all the loves in all of Austen's books. It is also the love that is best earned, the love that ripens naturally and lasts through genuine difficulty before coming to fruition.
Moreover, Anne and Frederick are people I can say I would like to know without any reservations. I would be thrilled to spend time in their company (more than any Austen couple except, perhaps, Emma and Knightly), and I care deeply about them and their love. Beyond our lovers, the world of Persuasion is populated by the least caricatured, the most genuine of supporting players. The villainy seems properly villainous without ever feeling moustache twisting; the foibles of Anne's family don't descend into the ridiculous as many of our heroine's silly families do; and the tensions and misunderstandings that entangle all the books' lovers -- not just Anne and Frederick -- feel as true as anything Austen has ever written.
I will take a short break to read Mansfield Park and some other non-Austen things, but I know I will return to Kellynch Hall and Bath soon enough....more
Is it because I love Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks, from which Daisy Jones & The Six clearly drew so much inspiration?
Is it bWhy do I love this book?
Is it because I love Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks, from which Daisy Jones & The Six clearly drew so much inspiration?
Is it because the '70s music scene binds my son, my daughters & I together the way baseball does most fathers and sons and daughters?
Is it because it is written in a docu-epistolary style (I have always loved epistolary tales)?
Is it because Taylor Jenkins Reid writes in a way that needs to be breathed in, smelled, tasted, rolled around in for a while, luxuriated in, thus immersing me in all she's creating in her parallel history of dreamy California?
Is it because Reid's characters are utterly believable, and their struggles feel so real, and their loves and hates, likes and dislikes all make so much sense?
Is it because of the shared "California Dream" universe, where Mick Riva keeps popping in like a Tyler Durden-Fight Club shadow?
Is it because Reid goes beyond turning place into character (another favourite achievement of authors I love) and actually turns a distinct time into character?
Is it because Reid actually made me sad that Aurora isn't a real album that I can go and buy, and listen to while I drive down a sunset highway? That I can only imagine the greatness of the music and I will never really hear it outside of my mind?
It's probably a little bit of all these ... the reasons why I love this book.
But I think it is really because there is no definitive story told in Daisy Jones & The Six. There are as many versions of the story as their are interviewees. Sure there is a truth in there somewhere, but it is a truth between the memories of all those who took part. (view spoiler)[Except for Eddie: I am sure that asshole has no clue what was happening around him, and all his opinions can be thrown right out the fucking window. (hide spoiler)] Which means that it is up to us, the reader to either let our own biases (see the spoiler for my bias) take over and craft "the truth" for us, or to force ourselves to watch our biases and be open to all the potential truths in the book (or as many as we are able to let ourselves see).
And that, ladies and gentlemen is good writing.
And that is also why I am terrified of the coming TV version of this book. I just can't see how Daisy Jones & The Six's greatest strength -- the slipperiness of the story's truth -- can be maintained on-screen. There is bound to be a "truth" we can see, but whose truth will that be?
And don't even get me started on hearing a real life version of Aurora because there is no way it will match what is in my head. I suppose I'll just go and listen to Fleetwood Mac's Dreams instead and hope the on-screen Aurora does no harm to the book I love....more
Edith Can Shoot Things and Hit Themis one of those stories that can get right under your skin. A. Rey Pamatmat creates a perfect pace in his tale: froEdith Can Shoot Things and Hit Themis one of those stories that can get right under your skin. A. Rey Pamatmat creates a perfect pace in his tale: from the flow of the realistic dialogue to the length and balance of scenes to the weight given to the two acts, Edith Can Shoot Things ... slips away before your eyes know what’s happened -- and that is when it’s being read on the page.
There is so much to recommend this play, so much to make me want to see it, but the genuine love it conveys is what I most want to see captured onstage. Pamatmat’s three characters -- Edith, Kenny, and Benji -- love each other in profound ways, and I found myself wanting everything to work out for them, knowing full well that even if things worked out in the play, they would someday fall apart when the events of the play came to a close and the cruelty of the world overwhelmed them. Yet Edith Can Shoot Things ... conveys hope and joy. I don’t know how, but it does.
It also contains one of the most genuine romantic relationships I have read. Kenny and Benji are a pair of playful, flirtatious, sexual, supportive, brave 16 year olds. Loving each other. Really loving each other. Being in love with each other. And making that love okay for each other. It is rare to see something like that, and rarer still to see a gay teenage relationship offered up as the safe haven from drama rather than as the root of drama. Pamatmat is a magician.
I set aside Edith Can Shoot Things ... with one sad thought. A fear really. I fear that where I live, in the Canadian Prairies, is too conservative, even in my socialist city oasis, to offer this beautiful play on our stages, so I may never get to see it performed. Like I said, a sadness....more
For a problem play full of rather unsavoury characters -- perhaps the most unsavoury collection of souls in any play by George Bernard Shaw -- The DocFor a problem play full of rather unsavoury characters -- perhaps the most unsavoury collection of souls in any play by George Bernard Shaw -- The Doctor's Dilemma is quite deliciously funny.
It's possible, though, that the dark humour works best on those with a dark bent, and more so during a pandemic when the dilemmas doctors face are a common part of everything we see and hear in the COVID ravaged world around us.
Shaw provides a full and robust examination of the Doctor's Dilemma with some results that could (and maybe should) make us cringe even with all the laughter that supports the action, if not for the fact that the dilemma is solved almost everyday in the most unethical ways without any of us blinking an eye. It is easy for we audience members to deplore a stage debate about who is "worthy" of being saved, or to pretend shock for some of the other motives at work in Shaw's play, but our governments and cultures have answered the dilemma by making those worthy of being saved easy to determine: if you can afford it you can be saved.
Of course there are many countries who have universal healthcare and would seem to have put that dilemma to rest, yet they are countries rich enough to create COVID vaccines (it's interesting to note that Shaw, in The Doctor's Dilemma, suggests that vaccines are a scam, but one doubts he would feel that way today), produce COVID vaccines, and horde COVID vaccines, thus keeping them away from other, poorer nations who simply cannot afford to be saved. Perhaps entire health care systems from governments down should be driven by ethics, rather than simply the Doctors we expect to be ethical touchstones.
All of which is to say that Shaw's brilliant The Doctor's Dilemma is as relevant today as the day it was written. And the lessens therein? I doubt we will ever truly learn them....more
Such ugly beauty Such subtle confusion Such damage Such sadness Such unreliability Such a field of corn and carrot and baby
Such beautiful ugliness Such treSuch ugly beauty Such subtle confusion Such damage Such sadness Such unreliability Such a field of corn and carrot and baby
Such beautiful ugliness Such tremors of possibility Such pain Such betrayal Such existence and non-existence and debt
Such terror Such loss Such flooding Such twisted remembrance Such a reflection of us and you and me...more
I walk away from Three Plastic Rooms feeling (and this isn't the first time a book has made me feel this way) like an unwelcome interloper. This book I walk away from Three Plastic Rooms feeling (and this isn't the first time a book has made me feel this way) like an unwelcome interloper. This book wasn't for me. It's not that I didn't appreciate the book, nor is it that it didn't speak to me, but it is a more literal recognition that Petra Hůlová didn't intend me to be her audience. This book wasn't written for me.
I feel a little like I stumbled into a room where folks I'd only just met were having really messy sex, and instead of backing out and quietly closing the door, I pulled up a chair at the end of the bed and tried to figure out what each toy was for, how to perform each position, and who was going to clean up the mess they were making afterwords.
Yet for all that I can't help admitting that Three Plastic Rooms was a fascinating and rewarding, albeit uncomfortable, read. It makes me wish I could read Czech. I think then I would have a better grip on how welcome I would be as a reader of Hůlová's work....more
There once was a fine group of people in a fine country house with a fine glass pavilion -- a crystal palace of sorts -- and this fine group of peopleThere once was a fine group of people in a fine country house with a fine glass pavilion -- a crystal palace of sorts -- and this fine group of people was made up of fine folks from the upper class: lords who were diplomats to Genghis Khan (not the murderous thug but a region); fine folks from the middle class: a merchant, his wife and their children (albehim a merchant of underwear, making them sort of fruit of the loon-type folk); and these fine folk had gathered together to debate some fine issues and ideas, and to discuss some fine ideas and issues, and to use these fine ideas and issues to flirt and to fight. But wait! that's not all because a Goggled Man (a pilot of the flimsiest sort of biplane) and his passenger, a Polish, acrobatic dominatrix, crash in the garden outside that fine sort of crystal palace just before a lower middle class (white collared clerk, don't you know) anarchist comes in guns at the ready to fight for the honour of his dead mother (who doesn't need his anarchism or her honour). And along with this fine group of people were those fine issues and ideas that they would discuss and debate, and fight and flirt over: everything from that "vulgar" socialism to the independence of women, from anarchy to the dependence of moneyed boys, from class struggle to the ridiculousness of the wedding state -- and all would be well versed and poorly versed and opinionated and clever and foolish and playful and funny and somehow lovable. And all would be the people of Bernard Shaw's glorious imagination. And all would make my son's and my COVID isolation that much less painful. Bravo, Bernard!...more
If you're not familiar with Canadian Drama, you may be surprised to hear that Canadian theatre is dark. Much Canadian theatre digs into the depths of If you're not familiar with Canadian Drama, you may be surprised to hear that Canadian theatre is dark. Much Canadian theatre digs into the depths of humanity with stories often dominated by abuse, murder, rape, all the ugliness one can imagine.
It is a refreshing experience to discover a Canadian play where the ugliness comes from that great lumbering beast called Capitalism, wherein the personal tragedy at play in the play isn't the cause of the characters -- of a dysfunctional family, of a war veteran's PTSD, of alcoholism, etc. -- but of the Company using and abusing its mine workers, driving them into poverty, then binding them to their shacks, then putting them into the grave in the inevitable mining accident. It is still dark, but dark in a less personal way. Darkness at arms length.
Yet The Glass Bay Miners' Museum isn't, ultimately, about the darkness and cruelty of industry using and abusing the poor. It is about love. It is about the way people come to love one another, how love can protect us from the darkness and cruelty of the world, how love may not be able to save us but it can make life worth living.
In the early part of this dark COVID-Fall, I found myself in a hospital emergency room after having my first cardiac event. I was one of ten on the EaIn the early part of this dark COVID-Fall, I found myself in a hospital emergency room after having my first cardiac event. I was one of ten on the East side of the ER, and there were over twenty on the West side. Most of us were wearing masks properly. A handful had their masks over their mouths so they had easy access to blowing their noses. A couple of others flaunted the rules and wore their masks on their chins. Most of the nurses, orderlies, security guards and doctors wore no masks at all (an excellent example they were setting, yes?).
I tried to ignore my chest anxiety and my increasing corona-virus exposure anxiety by continuing A Man Called Ove. I recognize now that it wasn't the best choice for this hospital trip, but it was all I had, and I was in the early stages of reading and enjoying it immensely. I had a hard time concentrating, though, despite my efforts, and I didn't get too far in the book. I closed it up then watched and listened while my waiting room neighbours coughed, cried, moaned, or sat as anxiously as myself. An hour and a half later I was finally hooked up to an EKG.
The moment the technician saw me, his tension was palpable. He didn't like me. Now maybe I imagined this. Perhaps I am wrong about his feelings. It is possible. Yet I don't tend to jump to conclusions (especially of this sort); I spend a lot of time interacting with folks, and I have long had a pretty solid ability to read the way folks respond to me. I am confident he didn't like me from the moment he saw me, and I think at least some of that has to be because of the way I look.
How do I look? These days, I probably look like your stereotypical Trump supporter. I'm a white, overweight, salt & pepper haired and bearded, nearly fifty year old who wears cut-0ffs, sneakers, a t-shirt and a fleece no matter the time of year or the occasion. Most who see me assume I am a working class, CIS gendered, conservative. My exterior belies my interior, however. I am a bisexual, anarcho-syndacalyst, academic and author (though I grew up in a poor blue collar family). His mistake was, I suppose, understandable, but it was a mistake.
He was terse and unfriendly, then he saw my copy of A Man Called Ove sitting beside me. He decided to turn my EKG into a teaching moment and proceeded to lecture me about the meaning of Fredrik Backman's book, making sure I understood that A Man Called Ove's entire purpose is to teach people like Ove that immigrants are important. There was no other meaning in A Man Called Ove, despite the myriad meanings and themes contained in any work of literature. For him, the meaning was that immigrants matter. And that if only "people like Ove could accept people like [himself]" the world would be a better place.
I was stunned by his assumptions of who I was, but I took his condescension gracefully, understanding at least some of where his anger must be coming from. I nodded. I said something about how important acceptance is to our world and how we need more of it, then I wished that he'd just leave. His attitude had done nothing to assuage my heart attack and coronavirus fears. I was even more stressed after his lecture than I had been when I came in. But his work took a while longer.
After a few more minutes of being schooled, he finally left, and I went back to my waiting room seat even shakier than I had been when I arrived at the ER.
It took me months to get back to reading A Man Called Ove. My encounter had soured my time with the novel, and I quite simply didn't want to read it any more. I did pick it up again, though. I am even sure what brought me back, but I did get back ... eventually.
Now that I am finished, I think my EKG technician could spend some time reflecting on his own biases. He's not wrong that acceptance would make our lives better (and I accept that he, as an immigrant to Canada, has surely struggled for acceptance in our society of white privilege), but that acceptance cuts in many different directions. While A Man Called Ove does show us the importance of accepting "others," it also shows us the importance of accepting others that we may not consider "others" -- like a man called Ove. His exterior belies his interior, and he is a man worth getting to know, worth loving, worth caring for, and his gruff exterior contains an accepting interior. Acceptance is important. Acceptance heals. Acceptance is something we should all strive for because whatever someone's exterior suggests, it doesn't tell the whole tale of the person.
That night in the ER will always be connected to A Man Called Ove for me. I don't think my encounter enriched my reading experience. But it is a night I will never forget. And I will never forget the man who tried to teach me to be something I already am because of what he mistakenly assumed me to be. But hey ... it has happened before, and it is sure to happen again. As I am sure it will to him. I will simply have to accept moments like those and empathize with my interlocutors....more
I found my reaction to L.A. Theatreworks' production of P.J. Barry's Bad Axe to be a scattered, jumbled mess. So here goes:
didn’t like it 1. The RacisI found my reaction to L.A. Theatreworks' production of P.J. Barry's Bad Axe to be a scattered, jumbled mess. So here goes:
didn’t like it 1. The Racism. There is no way around it, Bad Axe is seriously fucking racist. Indigenous Americans are at the "heart" of this tale, yet there isn't a single role in the cast for an Indigenous actor. There are four important Indigenous characters talked about throughout the dialogue, yet not one of those four characters is manifested on stage. Zero roles for Indigenous people. Why does that matter? Well, Indigenous people are used as an excuse for all manner of White violence, and unironically so. They become the target of retribution. Their war practices are put forth as blatant evils, as sicknesses that infect White folk, which implies the usual White superiority of the Western genre, all while muting any potential response from a people who are being thoroughly wronged from curtain to curtain.
2. Revenge. I'm just sick to death of revenge as a literary or cinematic motive. Sure there are moments over the years when I have enjoyed a good revenge tale, but I am worn down to a nub by this motivation -- probably because of the events of my actual life and my knowledge that revenge is an epic waste of energy -- and I would be happy to never read another story motivated by revenge as long as I live (that said ... I should re-read The Count of Monte Cristo ... and soon).
it was ok 3. Amy Irving as Mrs. Maryanne ConradBad Axe is Maryanne Conrad's story. Everything revolves around her: the murder of her husband, the tapestry of lies she weaves to gain her freedom, her relationship with Frances Osborne and what it tells us about Mrs. Conrad's once almost-happy family life. It is imperative, then, that the actor performing Mrs. Conrad be good. Amy Irving is good. Just. She provides the necessary stabilizing presence that allows other performances to shine. I can't help wondering, though, if a better than "good" performance would have made it easier to overlook what I didn't like about Bad Axe.
4. Mrs. Frances Osborne's Apple Pie. C'mon. I've tasted better.
liked it 5. The ending. If what happened is what I think happened, the end was no less than what Maryanne deserved.
really liked it 6. Lt. Hugh Romens' muddy ethics. There to question Maryanne about the incident at Bad Axe, Lt. Romens has a job to do, and he does it well. He follows his ethical code -- which is steeped in duty, honour and military justice -- disdains lies (when they are told to him) and is willing to trick the subject of his inquiry in dirty ways if it will move the investigation in the direction he wants it to move. He reveals some complexity that the other characters don't share. Plus, I bet his costume would be the most fun to wear.
it was amazing 7. Harry Hamlin's performance. I have never been a fan of Harry Hamlin. I've always found his bland good looks and bland acting to be ... well ... bland. Like a boiled, unseasoned chicken breast. But his performance -- from what I could hear in this audiobook version of Bad Axe -- was a spicy, Blackened Cajun Salmon. Hamlin's Sgt. Joe Quigley sounded like a hairy old veteran of the post-Civil War USA. I could hear his voice filtering through a bacon grease soaked handlebar moustache; I could hear the cigars and moonshine roughing up his vocal cords; I could hear the smell of his once-a-week bath regimen; I could hear the depth of his old west wisdom in every sarcastic growl; and I loved it all. If Harry Hamlin had become the character actor this performance suggests he was meant to be rather than the bland lead of the blandest lawyer show of the '80s, he'd still be a star today. Perhaps Tarantino should consider casting him for his final movie. I bet that collaboration would be magnificent. ...more
Wool is good. Wool is honest. Wool is thrilling. Wool tells us about ourselves. Wool is compelling. Wool is possible and where we could find ourselvesWool is good. Wool is honest. Wool is thrilling. Wool tells us about ourselves. Wool is compelling. Wool is possible and where we could find ourselves. Wool is community. Wool is curiosity. Wool is control. Wool talks about power and how to hold it. Wool is the veil over our eyes. Wool is frightening. Wool is acceptance. Wool is logic run amok. Wool is the fleece of a sheep. Wool is holding back secrets. Wool convinces us of all sorts of things that may not be. Wool is obsession. Wool is good intentions. Wool is a future. Wool is tenacity. Wool is hubris. Wool is satisfying. Wool is hopeful. Wool is good. ...more
I really needed to hear this book. The history of the anti-Vietnam / equal rights / environmental movements of the 60s and 70s is deeply underrepresenI really needed to hear this book. The history of the anti-Vietnam / equal rights / environmental movements of the 60s and 70s is deeply underrepresented. There are countless books about the Vietnam war, but much, much less about the resistance to the war and all the other resistances that sprung up around the war resistance (and all of them continue to resonate today).
Of course, it doesn't do the USA and their corrupt system any good to give voice to their most potent internal critics (sure they let them publish because of their so-called "freedom," but they also push them to the periphery); it behooves the USA, instead, to keep those voices marginal and underrepresented, so that all the USA's hard work in propaganda and indoctrination doesn't go to waste.
Knowing all of this makes Witness to the Revolution all the more important because this book is in the words of those who witnessed the era, those who resisted, those who fought the government, those who were shot by soldiers at Kent State, those who burned down or blew up government buildings, those who fled to Canada, those who lived in communes, and it is also the voices of those --FBI, CIA, government officials, President Nixon -- who tried to silence and/or stop them.
The real words of the people who were there is an invaluable piece of history (now matter how flawed eye witness accounts to anything are), and Clara Bingam makes the wise decision to let all those voices speak for themselves. There is no commentary from Bingam. Just the people who were there talking about what they saw and did.
I listened to this on audible, and I find myself deducting one star from my rating here because of the book's narrator, Jo Anna Parrin. Her voice was monotonous, nasally, and I often found myself wondering if she had bothered to preread what she was reading. Some emotional contact with the words of others would have gone a long way to mitigating the grating sound of her voice.
But that's okay. The material is strong enough to carry the day, and now that I have the physical book, I won't have to listen to it ever again. ...more
L.A. Theatre Works' recordings of their stage performances may be my favourite hidden gem on Audible. They take wonderful plays, gather together some L.A. Theatre Works' recordings of their stage performances may be my favourite hidden gem on Audible. They take wonderful plays, gather together some of the finest actors living in and around Hollywood -- some bit players who live on the Hollywood periphery, some B & C listers who fill in the ranks of famous T.V. shows as the scene stealing supporters, and some genuine stars who have time between films or on hiatus from their leading characters -- call on wonderful directors, and produce superior theatre, which is just perfect to listen to while doing dishes, folding laundry, or on the commute.
The stand our performers in their version of Biloxi Blues are Josh Radnor as Eugene (Ted from How I Met your Mother fully shaking off his famously annoying TV persona), Steve Rankin as Sgt. Toomey (a face you've seen in a million bit parts but can probably never attach to a name) and Darby Stanchfield as Daisy Hannigan (a T.V. regular who hasn't quite hit the heights she's talented enough to hit. This trio turn in wonderful performances, and made me wish I'd seen their version on-stage in L.A.. But while they are the best of the bunch, there isn't a single performance that isn't strong.
Together, the ensemble brings one of Neil Simon's finest, funniest plays, the second instalment of his Brighton Beach Trilogy, to beautiful life. Listening to these wonderful performers makes me long to see this play on stage. Hell, it makes me long to just get my ass into a live theatre again. It's been a couple of months, and I need to see a world come to life on the boards. Since that isn't possible, however, I guess I'll just pick another L.A. Theatre Works performance and let myself get carried away by the dreamlike voices of great actors from a great distance. ...more
I am sure I am not the only person to see what I saw in Anne Rice's classic, Interview with the Vampire, and it's possible (although unlikely since shI am sure I am not the only person to see what I saw in Anne Rice's classic, Interview with the Vampire, and it's possible (although unlikely since she wrote this book in the seventies) that Rice intended this reading of her text all those years ago, but having spent the last near decade deep diving into true crime (a wealth of bizarro knowledge I never had at my disposal when reading the Vampire Chronicles in the past), it was impossible not to see the tale of Louis de Pointe du Lac as the confessions of a serial killer-paedophile-deviant rather than the confessions of a vampire.
And for me, this reading of Interview with the Vampire makes the book leap from top notch vampire book to a piece of impressive literature.
Indeed, Interview with the Vampire is more truly unnerving when one realizes and embraces that the way Louis thinks -- guilt and all -- is the way serial killers think. His immortal vampirism is the serial killers' superiority complex; his misgivings and sadness are the serial killers' doubts and lack of self-worth; his justifications are the serial killers'; his desire to stop, his hunger for forgiveness, his hunger for more -- these too are the serial killers'.
How can Louis' love for and relationship with Claudia be anything other than paedophilic, no matter how subtle and brilliant her ancient vampire mind becomes?
It is an astonishing way to read a book that I first read as a compelling pseudo-horror, then read again as a twisted erotic romance between two men who could only love each other as vampires (still a favourite reading of mine) -- whose homoerotic desires could find no other outlet than the intense sensuality of their vampirism. Add these readings to the serial killer reading and you can see why I now declare that Interview with the Vampire is literature. This is no mere popular entertainment. There are layers and layers in this book. It is deep with possibility. And it is truly amazing that at a time when the concept of criminal profiling had only just begun, Anne Rice created the ultimate fictional profile of a killer.
All but a tiny portion of The Outcasts of Time was as wonderful as I imaged and hoped it would be.
I came to this book as a fan of historian Ian MortiAll but a tiny portion of The Outcasts of Time was as wonderful as I imaged and hoped it would be.
I came to this book as a fan of historian Ian Mortimer's playful brand of everyday people's history, having read and loved The Time Traveller's Guide to Medieval England and The Time Traveller's Guide to Elizabethan England, so I was prepared to be entertained. What I wasn't prepared for was the gentle way that Mortimer used his fiction (was this really his first?) to challenge my perceptions our own time -- our here and now.
We follow a pair of brothers from the 14th Century. We are dropped with them into the middle of the Black Plague, and in very short order they should be dead as their bodies erupt with buboes, but that is not to be their fate. Some unidentified voice gives them a choice, and John, the younger of the two, jumps at the chance to travel forward in time -- plague free -- living one day every 99 years for six days. When those days are complete the voice will come and take them away. William, for the love of his brother, agrees, and they wake up in the 15th Century. This goes on until they reach WWII.
The conceit makes for a lovely structure and allows us to see these times through the eyes of two local men from the middle ages as their landscape and the people filling it change and morph. What Mortimer does best is to reveal to us our own biases. He doesn't beat us over the head with the message that we see our time as the most forward thinking, nor that we imagine the changes we have witnessed in our own time to be the most revolutionary, but it doesn't take long for us to marvel at how earth shattering every change has always been.
The one change that hit me hardest was the advent of clocks. The technical marvel of time keeping is amazing in and of itself, but what it meant to the people, how it was instantly used by those in charge to extend their control over the lives and movements of those "under" them was shocking in its simplicity and its culture changing influence. Suddenly people could be late when they could never be late before. Suddenly people could be punished for not reaching a place or a completing a task before the ringing of bells. Time and our conception of it are so ingrained that how can we possibly conceive of a time before time was codified? I can now, and it is all thanks to Mortimer.
And Mortimer did this again and again. Glass. Trains. Iron. Brick. Different foods (of which sugar was the most surprising). Religion. Did I mention glass? The simplest things, the most mundane made this journey through time captivating.
Then there came that tiny portion at the end. I found it a little too preachy and way too Hollywood. Around three quarters of the way through I knew what was coming, and I also had an alternative I was hoping Mortimer would deliver instead. He didn't, so I couldn't help being disappointed. But whatever. My days blasting through the book were more than worth it. I hope you like it even more than I did, fellow reader. It is a lovely read (and Jamie, I am bring this to you in June). ...more
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