I only listened to the audio version of this because I recognized the cover of A Stranger is Watching from my mother's bookshelf during a 2-for-1 audiI only listened to the audio version of this because I recognized the cover of A Stranger is Watching from my mother's bookshelf during a 2-for-1 audible sale.
I am not a fan, that's for sure, but it was mildly interesting, and I did enjoy the characterization of the victims, even if Mary Higgins Clark created a killer that made absolutely no sense, and gave us the worst FBI agents ever assembled.
It is a murder novel. Murders happen, but who cares?! Who cares?
I'd have been happy if they all died, but I am writing this post COVID while a genocide is happening in real time in Palestine. So I don't know and can't.
Who knows what I would think of The Case of the Velvet Claws if Alexander Cendese hadn't been the narrator?
I tried to find a print copy that was physiWho knows what I would think of The Case of the Velvet Claws if Alexander Cendese hadn't been the narrator?
I tried to find a print copy that was physical, that I could carry without electronics, but the only copy I found was over $300 hundred dollars, or a bullshit on-line copy that I knew I just wouldn't read, so my only realistic choice was to listen to it as an audio book, and that meant listening to the tortuously bad vocals of Alexander Cendese. He really, really sucks. He rarely reads things naturally -- and his women are embarrassingly unnatural -- because everything is forced into what he perceives as the way you do noir.
This is one of those moments where I can't help being pissed that he read this book and I didn't. I would have read the shit out of this book, and that might have even made me like it, but Cendese read this book and I hated the experience. I may just be done in my readings of Erle Stanley Gardner, unfair as that is, but I blame the embarrassing crapness of Alexander Cendese....more
I would have given this one star but for the fact that Gene Hackman wrote it, and I feel like at least part of the blame is mine for thinking that theI would have given this one star but for the fact that Gene Hackman wrote it, and I feel like at least part of the blame is mine for thinking that there was any way this could have been anything but crap. But you know how it is ... he plays smart on the screen, he has been in plenty of movies I like, and I was curious about the quirkiness of Hackman trying out his hand on a novel.
I should have known better. Actors turned authors are often shiite, and it is rare for an actor to be as strong as Ethan Hawke. Hackman no Ethan Hawke. I can tell you that. (Actually, now that I say that, I would love to see Ethan take a crack at a western. I bet his western would kick ass.)
Now this isn't to say that Payback at Morning Peak was terrible. It was actually not too difficult to get through, and more than once I thought it would make a totally serviceable film western. But it was ridden with cliche, had a ridiculously evil villain, an even more ridiculously competent teen hero, and a lovely, intelligent young lady who, through the awesomeness of her beau, avoided getting raped and realized that he place was with him rather than following her dream of becoming a doctor.
Still, there were some good shootouts. And even if the sexism was just about era correct, Hackman did manage to keep the racism to a minimum. Ugh!
I made the mistake of buying Payback at Morning Peak in a bundle pack with some ocean tale of Hackman's. It may take me a while to get there, however, because once I put down Payback at Morning Peak I stopped reading everything but the newspaper for two weeks. That kind of break is a break too long for me. ...more
As a piece of potential theatre, I am not convinced that Ian Doescher's Get Thee Back to the Future! matches the potential of his original ShakespeareAs a piece of potential theatre, I am not convinced that Ian Doescher's Get Thee Back to the Future! matches the potential of his original Shakespearean Star Wars Trilogy translations. The straightforward hero's journey of Luke Skywalker is much easier to stage than the time-bouncing shenanigans of Marty McFly, and Doescher does a much better job finding solutions for Star Wars' issues than he does with Back to the Futures (his clever 88 line soliloquies are a game attempt, though).
Those issues, however, should have no bearing on an audio staging of the play. Sound effects and music can compensate for the staging issues in an aural performance -- such as special effects, abrupt changes in time and space, or the overabundance of action -- so I was happy to listen to the audiobook version of this play to see how sound alone could conquer the issues Doescher faced.
The answer is that the audio was mostly pretty good, and the aforementioned issues dissipated within the soundscape. But there was one element of the audio version that was beyond Doescher's control and doesn't actually reflect on his writing, yet it still makes Get Thee Back to the Future! an excruciating listen: Sean Patrick Hopkins, the actor playing Marty McFly.
As Doescher tells us in his afterword, Marty is the single most difficult factor in transferring Back to the Future to the Shakespearean stage because of his ubiquity in the story. Doescher developed his 88 line soliloquies just to conquer that issue, but this clever concept only breaks up the play so someone staging it can get Marty on and off stage, buying time for the practicalities of set changes, costume changes, and entrances and exits. There is nothing he could do about Marty always driving the story's action, which means, as Bob Zemekis discovered when he made half of the original film with Eric Stoltz and felt the need to replace him and reshoot with Michael J. Fox, that the story must have an awesome Marty to succeed. Without that the story is doomed to fail.
And so it is with the vocal performance of Sean Patrick Hopkins. His big mistake was that he didn't play Marty McFly so much as he impersonated -- and quite badly -- Michael J. Fox. His performance is so bad that my twins refused to carry on with the audiobook after the first act. I persevered, however, because I enjoy Doescher's work, but it was difficult in the extreme. I almost wish I hadn't.
So my three star rating is based on what I feel Ian Doescher deserves for this clever but slightly underwhelming reworking of Back to the Future. If I were only rating the audio version, I would give a single star.
Even so, I'd sure like to see this onstage, so long as there was a Marty McFly who was up to snuff it would be a hell of a fun night out....more
Hoping for a little bit of fun erotica to share on a date night, I got, instead, five, repetitive, fairly uninspiring stories. There were lots of ruinHoping for a little bit of fun erotica to share on a date night, I got, instead, five, repetitive, fairly uninspiring stories. There were lots of ruinously big cocks (that's what I remember best). There was too much heteronormative sex. There was some playfully rough stuff that was really only boring and vanilla. And it was an afternoon read that led to nothing like it should have. I read the book, I shifted the crotch of my jeans, I lost the need to shift, I put the book away, I went about my day without a cold shower to calm me down. I went and did the dishes and got back to the laundry. And I will not share this on a date night. Oh also ... Ms. Frack needs to turn off auto-correct and splurge for an editor. ...more
When I started listening to The Stars, Like Dust, I expected that I've have to suspend my frustration with Asimov's old school attitudes. I did. When When I started listening to The Stars, Like Dust, I expected that I've have to suspend my frustration with Asimov's old school attitudes. I did. When the inevitable sexist moments popped up -- they really weren't as egregious as I'd expected (which surprised me) -- I was able to compartmentalize them in my brain box marked "Asimov: That Little Piggy," then I moved on without it hurting my enjoyment. I was able to do the same with Asimov's Orientalism. I opened my brain box marked "Asimov: That Western Chauvinist" and plopped his transgressions in, allowing me to move on without too much guilt or pain.
Which was nice because much of The Stars, Like Dust is a hard sci-fi full of political intrigue and the machinations of Empire. I can't say I was a big fan of any of the characters (they're all fairly despicable), but the way they used each other, the way they danced the power dance, the way one topped the other topped the other, it was the sort of power struggle that thrills me. It wasn't a blood bath like Game of Thrones, nor was it entirely sterile. It was, however, utterly believable. I bought it all, and by the time I reached the last moments of the story I was sad to know it was wrapping up. I wanted to go on. And then I hit the last couple of sentences of the story when the fate of "the document" -- the MacGuffin that kicked off The Stars, Like Dust -- was revealed, and it all fell apart. Amazing how a few words can contain so much hurt, so much delusion, so much stupidity, so much disappointment.
I will, of course, continue to listen to Asimov's Galactic Empire, but unless something changes drastically it won't reach the heady levels it reached just before its fall. Oh well....more
Archaeology is a tricky social science to engage in. One is examining distant times on the scantiest evidence, and while one may have facts at hand (oArchaeology is a tricky social science to engage in. One is examining distant times on the scantiest evidence, and while one may have facts at hand (or artifacts) what those facts meant in the past and how they would have been interpreted by the people who lived with them contemporaneously is very difficult to ascertain -- if not entirely impossible. It takes imagination on the part of the archaeologist, a natural flair for storytelling and wondering about the lives of others, but a good archaeologist must also and absolutely be able to park their own biases -- those of their own time, their indoctrinations, their religion(s), their nation(s), whatever biases they have -- they must be capable of interpreting the facts as open-mindedly as possible.
I used to think Kara Cooney was such an archaeologist.
I'd seen her documentaries with my kids, and she was compelling, a good story teller, and she seemed to be driven by her love for Egyptology first and foremost. So I was excited to listen to her narrate her own book, When Women Ruled the World: Six Queens of Egypt.
It has been a while since I have been so disappointed in a read. I am willing to concede that my one star rating of When Women Ruled the World may be tainted by my own bias against books that disappoint me, but since personal bias is the stuff that reviews are made of I feel I can get away with it where Dr. Cooney can't and shouldn't.
Before I get to the problems with When Women Ruled the World let me just say that Kara Cooney's voice is wonderful to listen to; Dr. Cooney must be a hell of a professor to take a class from. She has passion, conviction, and her voice invites listeners (and I am guessing her students) into the world she is painting. Her narration is the strongest part of her book. Credit where it is due, but that's where my praise ends.
As I see it there are four major flaws in When Women Ruled the World.
1. Her Thesis -- Dr. Cooney lays out the idea that Ancient Egypt -- unlike any other civilization -- reached out to women leaders in times of crisis, and that this shift to matriarchs, albeit within an authoritarian patriarchal system, is unique in the world.
It isn't.
Unless one simply ignores other nations who have had powerful female leaders, Ancient Egypt is not unique in turning to female rulers.
Ancient Egypt spanned around 3000 years of history and had, according to Dr. Cooney, six female Pharaohs, but what of England? If we see England as an Empire (and how can we not?) that spanned almost 2000 years, they have had six female leaders as well: a bad ass tribal leader, three powerful Queens -- one of whom still sits on the throne in 2021 -- and two Prime Ministers, and they have another thousand years to go to add more female leaders and beat their Ancient Egyptian rivals. Had Cooney qualified her thesis, then, as Egypt being somehow different to England, then, perhaps, her thesis would have worked. But she didn't, and she undermined herself before she even began.
2. Her Anger with the Donald-- Now I get being pissed off that Donald Trump defeated Hillary Clinton. I hate that prick my own self. But Dr. Cooney's constant attempts to compare Egyptian "realpolitik" to our contemporary history became increasingly ridiculous. It didn't come up once or twice, either. It was her constant go to. I don't mind attempts by archaeologists to offer contextual touchstones to their audiences, but Dr. Cooney goes far beyond offering context and way too far into the realm of false equivalency, which leads to number 3 ...
3. Her Fallaciousness -- It's not just false equivalency ... she engages in special pleading, ad hominem attacks, false dichotomy, hasty generalization and at least a couple of others I am forgetting at the moment. And her "archaeological imagination" enters the fabulist zone more than once: a zone where she tells us that we can't know anything, or that the classic authorities on a given situation have the facts wrong, yet she has the truth.
And who knows? Maybe she does have the truth, but she offers evidence for her "truths" that are tenuous at best and nonexistent at worst. If I were grading her book the way I grade my students papers, she'd be deep in the low Cs teetering on the verge of a D. And Dr. Cooney is supposed to be a respected professional.
4. Her Omissions -- Time and time again Dr. Cooney leaves information out. Whether this is in her contemporary touchstones, or her philosophical/political points, or her historical facts (often surrounding who came before a female Pharaoh and/or who came after), Dr. Cooney leaves information out of her argument that could be transformative or undermining to her argument. She merely sidesteps the criticisms she herself has raised, then does nothing to hide the elephants in her room that she, herself, has revealed. It is overwhelmingly annoying and made an interesting topic almost impossible to enjoy.
Yet I find myself coming out of this disappointing read even more keen to dive into these six amazing women of Ancient Egypt. I want to know more. I want to spend time looking at what we actually know about them, to see their artifacts, to trace their tales for myself, and I suppose, despite Dr. Cooney's failures with When Women Ruled the World, that is, in itself, a success. But I wanted more from this book and Dr. Cooney. So much more. What a bummer. ...more
Israel Keyes -- if he was what author Maureen Callahan asserts he was (not to mention the FBI and several regional police departments) -- was a fascinIsrael Keyes -- if he was what author Maureen Callahan asserts he was (not to mention the FBI and several regional police departments) -- was a fascinating and frightening serial killer*. But based on Callahan’s American Predator: The Hunt for the Most Meticulous Serial Killer of the 21st Century, I am thoroughly unconvinced.
Any true crime book about a serial killer, any true crime book that wants to be taken seriously, should be convincing about that one crucial element: that its subject is, indeed, a serial killer, but what Callahan managed to do with me, despite her obvious confidence that she was reporting a rock solid, proven, absolute truth about Israel Keyes, was plant reasonable doubt in my mind.
Reasonable doubt is a clear failure when it comes to the kind of true crime writing Callahan was attempting. Of course, it could have been a success if her goal had been different, if let us say, she was trying to expose the cracks in a case or shed some light on existing doubts. A book like Rabia Chaudry’s Adnan’s Story: The Search for Truth and Justice after Serial does such a thing, and is a success because its purpose matches (or does its best to match) its outcome. American Predator, however, was not meant to raise doubts; thus it is a failure.
Moreover, I can’t help but wonder if I would have had any doubts at all if I could have looked at the evidence against Keyes without the murky filter Callahan provides.
If Israel Keyes is a serial killer, and it’s quite possible that he is (likely even probable), we will be seeing many more books on him in the years to come; I only hope those future books do a better job at making the case than American Predator.
*(Keyes is undoubtedly the murderer of Samantha Koenig, but hers is the only murder I am convinced of after Callahan’s book)...more
The Beast that Shouted Love at the Heart of the World -- Well ... that was a mindfuck. Crosswhen. Crosswhere. Who knows what time? Who knows where? ThThe Beast that Shouted Love at the Heart of the World -- Well ... that was a mindfuck. Crosswhen. Crosswhere. Who knows what time? Who knows where? This tale of madness released from a cosmic Pandora’s Box in the calm, soothing, peaceful center of the universe, dooming everything beyond the center to a madness that is violence and murder, is a hell of a way to start a cycle of short stories. It feels a bit like Ellison -- the infamously combative crazy Uncle of Sci-Fi (or speculative fiction as he would prefer it) -- is daring readers to put down the book after the first story. The Beast ... is a test. If we fail we don’t get to read on. If we pass we get a pass. Don’t just read it once so you can get through it and move on, though. Read this story once, then once again immediately, and go back to it once in a while as you read the rest of the book. It rewards multiple readings. It really does get better and better.
b>Along the Scenic Route -- I have no idea what logic drives the inclusion of Ellison’s short stories in this collection. From a whacky time travelling mindbender, Ellison moves us straight into a B-Movie auto-pocalypse that is half Outer Limits half Death Race 2000. He manages, somehow, to capture and combine the spirit of console driving games, gunfighters in the old west, mid-life crises and technology not that far away from what surrounds us right now. It is as intelligent as it is cheesy, and I am shocked no one has turned this specific story into a summer blockbuster yet. Ten years ago, Bruce Willis would have played George. I wonder who would do that now? Well, whomever they chose, it would need a serious update to gender attitudes. I have a feeling that is going to be a common theme in this work from the late-60s / early 70s.
Phoenix -- This story is a full out Twilight Zone episode. Four (well ... really only three) people wander lost in a desert. There’s some obligatory love triangle conflict at play while some big new technology and theory of the history of time is the driving force of the desert quest. And then there is the big Twilight Zone finale. This collection could be the basis of a pretty kickass Netflix series, especially of with a little tweaking to social attitudes to make them reflect our now. I bet this “episode� would be a fan favourite,
Asleep: With Still Hands -- Whoa! Now this story has had me spinning away for days. This is some classic 60s-70s Sci-Fi based on the meat and potatoes trope that war and suffering are what make us “great�, that they are what make life dynamic, that they are what make us strive for excellence and achievement, that without war and suffering, we stagnate as a culture and don’t live to our full potential (it’s this trope, I think, that led to Ursula LeGuin’s brilliant The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas in riposte). You name the old Sci-Fi T.V. series and this philosophy can be found somewhere in the episodes. Male Sci-Fi writers, a large number of them, bumped up against this idea time and again, so it wasn’t surprising to see old Ellison embracing the concept. I’ve always thought it was bullshit, of the same piss poor propaganda as the idea that capitalist competition leads to achievement, but this time a new layer was added to my spinning thoughts -- is this the true “toxic masculinity�? I don’t usually buy into that new moniker and think it is mostly misplaced, overused and/or misused, but here, perhaps, it may just have some efficacy. Hmm ....
Santa Claus vs. S.P.I.D.E.R.-- Racism is here. Sexism is here. Shitty politics are here. And so is Santa Claus. But I would expect no less from a story that recasts James Bond as Santa Claus, S.P.E.C.T.E.R. as S.P.I.D.E.R. and seems to be messing with the Fleming formula right at the height of Fleming’s success.
At first I questioned Santa Clause vs. S.P.I.D.E.R.’s bona fides as an actual satire, but once Mayor Daly of Chicago appeared, its satirical nature was pretty clear. That doesn’t mean I think it worked particularly well, nor was it easy to sit through (especially when Kris used his one remaining weapon to f*ck his nemesis to death), but it was another fascinating bit of madness from the mind of Mad Ellison, and it definitively eradicated all the expectations I had coming into this collection that there would be a clear thematic line from story to story. After this entry, The Beast that Shouted Love at the Heart of the World is officially a hodgepodge.
Try a Dull Knife -- An empath is feasted upon by empathic vampires. And by the end it felt like Eddie Burma was a thinly disguised Harlan Ellison. Yes, Harlan. Your brilliance and your fierce lust for life made everyone flitter around you like moths around an electric light. And they sucked out your soul. Poor you.
The Pitll Pawob Division -- Beings beyond our imagination see us as strangely insignificant creatures, as insignificant as the universe is ... apparently. It’s Ellison being clever. It is also Ellison being boring. Next please.
The Place with No Name -- Ellison’s drug infused take on Prometheus, with a burning Yoatl and a pimp ready to switch places. I am find Ellison’s work in this collection to be an increasing slog.
White on White -- Extremely short with almost a touch of humility, both of which are rare for Ellison. He loves to look at ugly men. I know there are plenty who believe he is a misogynist, but the more of this collection I read the more I think he is a misandrist. Maybe the men he writes aren’t out of over blown Ellison-ego but a deep self-loathing. Regardless, this is most entertaining story since Asleep: With Still Hands.
Run for the Stars -- If there is a better piece of evidence that Harlan Ellison was not the man to be writing an episode of Star Trek or that he simply couldn’t grasp Roddenberry’s vision for the Federation, I don’t know what it is. Forget all their arguments with each other and pissiness over the years, Run for the Stars and its dream dust addicted anti-hero, ??? Tallent, are the very antithesis of the sort of Sci-Fi that Roddenberry was bringing to the world. Turns out, though, that Tallent’s story is a pretty solid read, and Ellison’s take on human nature is a welcome one, but just because Ellison was an impressive writer and could pull off some pretty excellent Sci-Fi, doesn’t mean he could actually write a story that could adhere to a future with the Federation at its core.
Roddenberry’s mistake? Thinking Ellison could write to match someone else’s vision. Ellison’s mistake? Thinking that his own vision was superior to everyone else’s.
Are You Listening? -- Another episode of a potential Ellison Sci-Fi series. This time, a guy has become so boring that in a world with the distractions of television, radio, film, advertising -- all that overwhelming sixties media -- he becomes invisible to the people around him. After a couple of weeks of going a little mad in his loneliness, he discovers a couple of people just like him, and he decides that now he finally has a goal in life: he wants to become visible again. If this had been written today I’d expect the milquetoast to shoot up a school or drive a car through a crowd, but Ellison wasn’t quite there yet in this story. This was okay. Just okay.
S.R.O. -- A UFO, probably interdimensional, hovers over NYC, and some capitalist swine tosses aside the love of his life to make millions of dollars as a promoter. The aliens, it turns out, are a band of travelling performers who deliver a mind-blowing three hour show of telepathy and empathy every night for a few years. And then it ends with Ellison’s dumbest wrap-up of any story in this collection. Harlan desperately needed an editor he would listen to ... hahaha ... What am I saying? It’s impossible! Worlds to Kill -- This short story needed to be expanded. It feels a bit like a story treatment rather than a complete story. At a much expanded novel length, Worlds to Kill could have been an Ellison masterpiece. There are peeks at Ellison’s talent in here, but another two hundred plus pages to deepen the exploration of an interplanetary mercenary bringing horrific war for lasting piece was needed to fully display that talent. Shattered Like a Glass Goblin -- An acid trip turns into a figurative gate to urban fantasy in hippy-era San Fran. I couldn’t wait for this crap to end.
A Boy and His Dog-- I am guilty of loving the ending of this story and of loving Blood, the telepathic, girl hunting dog of the title. But despite how much I love the ending, I can’t love this story. It is a post-Apocalyptic-murder-rape fest, and when I say murder-rape I mean that the murder and rape occurs in almost measure. Our POV character, Vic, is the key murderer-rapist; he is impossible to like. And Quilla June a murderer-rape victim isn’t so much a character as a sick, misogynist fantasy of Ellison’s. She would make it easy condemn Ellison as a horrible sexist, but I think that is lazy and too easy. He IS a horrible sexist, but he is something much worse, I think. This story crystallizes the truth Ellison has been revealing all the way through this collection: he is an entitled misanthrope of the Molierean degree. The man embraces the “great person� archetype, and he writes about it in a way that reveals his belief that the “great person� (who am I kidding? the “great man�) can take anything or do anything he wants, anytime he wants, to whomever he wants -- man, woman, animal, alien, other.
It’s despicable. Ellison was despicable. And I have about had my fill of his philosophy. I will be glad to put this on the shelf and walk away. I think I could use a nice dose of Star Trek hope to wash the filthy Ellison aftertaste out of my mouth. ...more
WARNING: This review covers a porn memoir by a porn artist, so my review will include crude language. You've been warned.
I am a big fan of smut, a bigWARNING: This review covers a porn memoir by a porn artist, so my review will include crude language. You've been warned.
I am a big fan of smut, a big fan of porn, a big fan of fucking and being fucked, a big fan of erotica, a big fan of many things others might consider dirty or slutty or depraved. I just love sex. So the thought of reading Asa Akira's porn memoir was more than a little titillating.
Too bad the book wasn't as titillating as the thought.
That's not to say that it was without an ability to arouse. There were a couple of times, when Akira gets really into the reasons she loves to fuck, or when she describes her favourite porn scenes or her private sexual life, that she actually gets the blood pumping down to a reader's/listener's genitals (it was particularly nice to hear her own voice in my ears when it came to those moments. She is an excellent reader of her own book. I have to give her credit); unfortunately, those moments are in the minority.
Much of Akira's book is about the rest of her life. Now that wouldn't be a bad thing if I wanted to read her life story, but I was much more interested in her porn life than her shoplifting exploits, and drug exploits, and private school exploits as a hyperprivileged NYC teenager. That section of the book was where I began to sour on the whole Insatiable experience, actually. It was where I struggled to empathize with Akira, where I began to dislike her a little bit (which really makes me hugely sad, since most of the folks in porn I've come in contact with are pretty fantastic).
Akira's narcissism -- a basic requirement for porn work, one would imagine -- was a little too obvious to be a sexy quirk. It led down paths of disdain for others, flirted at times with uncomfortable levels of intolerance (such as her feelings about her bisexual ex ... and as a bi-male I found this difficult to listen to), and revealed a sort of nasty conservatism that made it increasingly difficult to stay on her side.
But then she'd crack out a funny little haiku, or tell a story about how a beet salad turned an anal sex scene into a fearful, seemingly bloody (it wasn't bloody) mess, and suddenly I was enjoying myself again.
Unfortunately, she wasn't able to sustain these moments, and by the end I found myself shrugging with the thought, "Is that all she's got?"
If, however, some of her peers follow her path to writing and recording their own memoirs, that will raise Insatiable in my estimation. And if it inspires other, nicer people from the porn industry to share their experiences then it will have been worth the listen, if only just to have provided a base for future judgment of the genre....more
So you read a book by an author you love because, well, you have to, but also because you are full of knowledge -- not hope but genuine knowledge -- tSo you read a book by an author you love because, well, you have to, but also because you are full of knowledge -- not hope but genuine knowledge -- that is going to be good because you love that author and everything that author has written is good. And even better you love the genre that author has chosen to write in and you can't wait to see what that author does.
Even better, the author is trying to poke fun at some of your favourite television shows of all time: mocking Star Trek and Dr. Who and Red Dwarf and maybe even some shows that have nothing to do with the genre within which the author is writing. And you even think the author's conceit that each chapter is its own mission, like an episodic series, is a fascinating idea that could be a whole hell of a lot of fun.
But then you get deeper and deeper into the book and you can't help being disappointed. You find the humour uncomfortably sexist (and eventually get confused even by this, thinking maybe it's trangressive, but then you find out it's not and you're disappointed). You find yourself getting bored, then excited, then bored, and you're not used to the author's writing being so uneven. And at some points you want to throw the book against the wall, but then you hit a moment when the author makes you laugh out loud and you're interested again. You're infuriated with all of this, but what can you do? You keep reading and you finish, but you discover the most frustrating thing of all: there is a second book because it is now a series, and you realize that despite everything you are going to go and buy that sequel and read it.
Granted, I listened to this rather than reading it, and I struggled to stay focused to the words read by Patrick Tull (whom I usually thoroughly enjoyGranted, I listened to this rather than reading it, and I struggled to stay focused to the words read by Patrick Tull (whom I usually thoroughly enjoy), but having never read The Sign of Four and loving most Sherlock Holmes stories, I was shocked by how bored I was with this novella.
I can think of two things that interested me: Holmes' focus on and jonesing for a cocaine hit and ... nope, I guess it was just one thing. Everything else was weak to me, but weakest of all was Watson taking centre stage with his love for Mary.
I prefer Watson well and truly in the background. I care very little for him as a character, and even less so in this case because his love and pursuit of Mary made me so damn uncomfortable. I suppose it is a time and context sort of thing, but the paternal behaviour of Watson towards Mary made me cringe.
But outside of cocaine and sexism, I cared very little for what was going on. I may go back to this again someday, when I am in the right headspace, and my opinion could change very easily. For now, though, I am completely disappointed.
This gets two stars only because I can't bring myself to single star a Holmes' tale. ...more
Poison Study was a pleasant surprise, presenting us with a sort of fantasy-communism in the nation of Ixia, leFire Study is a serious disappointment.
Poison Study was a pleasant surprise, presenting us with a sort of fantasy-communism in the nation of Ixia, led by a (view spoiler)[sort of fantasy-trans gendered, (hide spoiler)] benevolent dictator. It was unique and made me want to read more. Magic Study was only slightly less interesting. It moved from the fascinating world of Ixia, to the less well drawn but more familiar terrain of Sitia, a nation of magic and the perpetual enemy of Ixia. Once there, it was fun to see the heroine, Yelena, learn the depth of her magic, and it kept me wanting to read more.
Fire Study has put a halt to my interest. It is bad. Really, really bad.
Many of the fantasy elements -- particularly the magical elements -- which were interesting in the first two books have become silly (with some of the most ham-fisted heaven -purgatory - hell allusions I have ever seen). The progressiveness I imagined surrounding the books gender inclusiveness has been undermined. The world building, which looked so promising with the Ixian nation, has become unconvincing. And Yelena, as heroine, is entirely unbelievable now. She is too powerful, has too much influence, is not interesting in the least.
It is a sad decline for a book series I was thrilled to have discovered with my daughter, a series that was once full of promise but ended up lying to us. Such a shame, but I shouldn't be surprised because when a character appears in the second book named, "Moon Man," the third book is bound to blow goats. I should have known better. ...more
I'm stopping. I can't spend time with these people anymore.
Bathsheba is excruciating. She is spoiled, selfish and unkind, much like the Prince who beI'm stopping. I can't spend time with these people anymore.
Bathsheba is excruciating. She is spoiled, selfish and unkind, much like the Prince who became a Beast, and beautiful as she is reported to be she is ugly because her personality is ugly. I hear tell that she is becoming something of a feminist icon these days. I sure hope not. I can't imagine any intelligent, strong willed woman who would want to behave like a toddler throwing a fit at bedtime. It's not strength. It's selfishness.
But the men are no better. Perhaps I am stopping before I have enough information about Sergeant Troy, but he seems to be a cad of the highest order, sort of Hardy's version of Mr. Wickham, and if he is he is no less than Bathsheba deserves. Boldwood, despite being the victim of one of the cruelest pranks in literature, is an entitled prick of the highest order, and Gabriel Oak, the moralistic shepherd whose attempt to love Bathsheba is a crime against the social order (and would usually have my support simply based on the class struggle he's undertaking) is really the creepiest of stalkers.
I've no doubt that Hardy is making some truly important points about class, saying something tremendously cynical about the nature of love, and doing his best, as always, to make us see some of the ugliness that is humanity, but I can't stick around to find out. I dislike the characters too much to go on (even if that was the point)....more
It took me far too long to finish Inherent Vice. Half a year, maybe? It pissed me off at times because I was mostly committed to Pynchon, which meant It took me far too long to finish Inherent Vice. Half a year, maybe? It pissed me off at times because I was mostly committed to Pynchon, which meant that all other fiction but one was off the limits. It’s been a long while with minimal diversification.
I am finished now, but over the course of reading Pynchon’s sprawling LA pseudo-noir, I found myself having three distinctly different responses to the book. Here is my tale of three readings.
One, the First: The first couple of months of reading Inherent Vice I couldn’t shake the idea that Pynchon had written a novelized version of a web series. Each chapter, or set piece within each chapter, was its own webisode, a short burst of happenings with a main character we find ourselves caring about in bite sized easy to digest YouTube videos.
And just as with a webseries, I at first found myself captivated, watching episode after episode in rapid succession until I got tired of the premise, the low production values and glibness and started drifting away to other things (which led me to cheat on Pynchon with Hardy, my one fictional dalliance during this period), until I actually abandoned the webseries for a bit, but as with every webseries I’ve ever started, I found myself back again determined to finish.
Two, the Second:
When my second burst of interest began and my reading picked back up, the novel as webseries analogy that had dominated my first phase gave way to Thomas Pynchon as a literary (and somehow Teflon version of) Francis Ford Coppola.
I couldn’t (and still haven’t, actually) shake(n) the idea that reading Inherent Vice was like watching Coppola’s latter films like Jack and Twixt. Flashes of the old brilliance (even in the excruciating Jack) making me ache for the memory of the undeniable and sustained brilliance of his early work (Apocalypse Now, Conversation), which makes the viewing of the later work more difficult and a little melancholy. So too with Pynchon. Inherent Vice contained some of his brilliant flashes, but mostly I was longing for Crying of Lot 49 and Gravity’s Rainbow, and wishing that I could erase Doc Sportello’s wanderings from my mind forever and just glory in Slothrop and the rest.
Three, the Last:
By the end of the book, just a day ago, I had reached a sort of agreement with Pynchon wherein he would share his unique blend of optimistic cynicism, and I would miss Doc Sportello after all. Gone were my analogies, and all I was left with was a wish that there was more Doc out there, and that what I had of Doc had been more enjoyable. And I agreed to not regret the time spent with Inherent Vic e, even if it wasn’t my best time spent with Pynchon. ...more
I'm rereading my Taltos books these days, and my reread of Yendi didn't do it any kindness. It was an okay way to spend a few sleepless nights, but I I'm rereading my Taltos books these days, and my reread of Yendi didn't do it any kindness. It was an okay way to spend a few sleepless nights, but I very nearly set it down. I suppose I kept going out of nostalgia, but it made me sad.
Now I knew, I know, going into these books that they are readable and fun, but they are also fairly light weight. Yendi is too light weight, however. Sure we get to see the coming together of Cawti and Vlad, but it didn't come anywhere near satisfying me this time, and it felt way too rushed. Sure there was plenty of Loiosh and Vlad wit in their psionic conversations, but the banter has already entered the precious (which is particularly annoying considering this is a prequel to Jhereg). Sure there was lots of intrigue, but the intrigue was way too forced, and if I had been faced with just one more Vlad-speaking-his-thoughts-aloud-while-his-friends-listen-attentively figuring it out scenes I would have screamed my house awake.
Some things are better left alone. So do I stop now? Or do I press on in my plan to reread with the belief that most of the books really are better than this one?
I am going to regret my decision, I think. ...more
Super rich superheroes who are more vigilante than hero (a DC specialty) are tough to enjoy, but their increasing willingness to break l
Green Arrow #1
Super rich superheroes who are more vigilante than hero (a DC specialty) are tough to enjoy, but their increasing willingness to break laws, to employ their riches to behave like a state with a state, to surveille, to torture, to coerce -- all illegally -- all with the breezy justification, "At least we're the good guys," is making their ilk almost unreadable for me.
When Marvel pauses to consider their "privileged" heroes, it feels like there is much more criticism going on, a recognition that they may not be as "good" as they themselves think, but DC's rich boys -- especially Green Arrow, but Batman too -- just seem to be propagandizing for the goodness of the rich, for their moral superiority, for their protection of the capitalist ideal. I need one of these joker's allies, like Naomi Singh or Alfred to do more than tell the hero they're supporting that they are uncomfortable with something they're doing; they need to remove their support and take a stand. I need them to do this if I am going to like these superheroes anymore. I suppose I will have to write a story like that myself, though.
Green Arrow #2
So a pack of jackpot supervillains, beaten up and dispatched by Green Arrow in Issue #1, set a trap for him with a young fan of theirs murdered on the internet as bait for the Emerald Archer. Arrow springs the trap, finds himself surrounded by this pack of super-jackpots, and it's all being live streamed (Ooo! How hip and relevant). It's all set up for Green Arrow to take a beating, and it is all a yawn.
This comic is moving the plot along too quickly and expecting us to follow without earning our commitment. Issue one hurt my brain a touch, but I am entering full migraine zone now.
Green Arrow #3
poor action, a preachy monologue of Ayn Rand proportions. What's to like? In addition, if you're one of those who complains about the way people are inexplicably fooled into missing the fact that Clark Kent is Superman, don't read Green Arrow. Oliver Queen/Green Arrow makes Clark Kent/Superman look like Clayface. There is NO WAY anyone who meets Oliver then seens Green Arrow one second after Oliver disappears should or could ever be fooled. It is fucking idiotic.
Green Arrow #4
Enter Blood Rose and a new arc. She's okay with guns, super strong, in love with a freak, and is yet another moron fooled into missing the Ollie connection by Green Arrow's silly green goggles. The writing has now moved from JT Krul (who did as marvelous a job on Captain Atom as the shitty job he did here) to Keith Giffen, and it is in no way an improvement. Is it the writers? Is it just the nature of Green Arrow? I think it could be the latter. I think Green Arrow, at least outside the Justice League, simply sucks.
Green Arrow #5
Toxic Sludge Freak, who likens himself to Swamp Thing (you're not you douchebag) happens to be the boyfriend (lover?) of Blood Rose, comes to kick Oliver's ass. They fight. There's a banal end twist. Thrilling. Next ....
Green Arrow #6
So the Toxic Sludge Freak is Midas, the titular villain of this volume, and his love affair with Blood Rose turns out to be a somewhat promising storyline -- but that is the only positive I can take away from Green Arrow. I hate this version of Oliver Queen; I hate the corporate machinations; I hate Green Arrow's support team (computer genius girl and tech genius boy); I hate the villains; I hate the action; I hate the book's politics. I pretty much hate this book. I was about to add Green Arrow to my file at Black Bowser. Nope. Not now.
This did not go the way I expected at all. I haven’t heard a dissenting voice from anyone about Preacher. Not one, although I’ve not looked at any of This did not go the way I expected at all. I haven’t heard a dissenting voice from anyone about Preacher. Not one, although I’ve not looked at any of the reviews here on goodreads. In fact, I’ve had numerous friends say, “You have to read this book,� and, “Dude, you will love this book,� and since it was all from people I trusted, loving Preacher was my expectation.
Nope. I hated this book.
First, this book is populated by the most idiotic array of stereotypes and caricatures (certainly these characters can’t be called archetypes) outside of a Circus Sideshow:
Foul-mouthed, sexed-up, lost his faith Preacher? � Foul-mouthed, sexy, Preacher-loving-hating Moll? � Foul-mouthed, ultra-violent Vampire (but he’s Irish. Isn’t that original? No. Not terribly.) � Foul-mouthed, racist, Texas sheriff? Cormac McCarthy-style, unstoppable, amoral Saint of Killers? � Cocky, arrogant, bureaucratic, disbelieving FBI Agent? � Too butch, sado-masochistic, homophobic homosexual? � Big city, throw-the-book-out-the-window, abusive super-cop and his bumbling partner? � Overbearing warrior Angels, sexy Demons, idiotic heavenly functionary Angels? � An absentee God? � Dog-faced boy?�
I find nothing compelling about this cast of assholes, and I am usually a fan of assholes. I can care about assholes if they are unique and I can believe their behaviour. Not this bunch, though.
Second, Garth Ennis is an Irishman writing about a Texan douchebag wandering the U.S., and there are times when it is distractingly obvious that Ennis is not American. His Texan characters speak in ways Texans would never speak. It might not happen often, but it happens enough that I noticed, and oddly enough, when they slip, they speak precisely like someone from Ireland. Go figure. Couldn’t this story have been told just as effectively in Dublin or Belfast as the starting point? Couldn’t the Preacher have been a priest? Perhaps the Vampire could have been a Yank, then? I think it could have been all of these things, and had it been I wouldn’t have found myself constantly being yanked out of the comic by inappropriate vocabulary and regional cadences.
Third. the humor was awful. Had one character been a smarmy dipshit, quick with the cutting, insulting banter, I probably would have loved him/her? But the fact that EVERY-SINGLE-CHARACTER (with the exception of Saint of Killers and a cop named Tool) was capable of smarmy dipshittery drove me mad. The dialogue was painfully one note -- and there was a ton of it. The dialogue just goes on and on, like a Quentin Tarantino table talk, but without the entertainment value. If this is any indication of Ennis� usual writing, my expectations have fallen into a muddy trench; one I’d be happy to leave for the danger of No Man’s Land.
Sure there were some interesting moments and wannabe twists (all of which Ennis telegraphed too obviously), but they were not enough to save this comic for me. I worry that I expected too much, though. I truly expected greatness. I thought I was opening something on par with Alan Moore’s best, and with expectations like that there was no way Preacher Gone To Texas could succeed. For that reason alone, I will take a crack at the second volume, but Ennis better hook me with that book or I am all out....more
As a person, I have my own history of violence, and that history has led me to become obsessed, as a thinker and author, with violence as a concept. IAs a person, I have my own history of violence, and that history has led me to become obsessed, as a thinker and author, with violence as a concept. I see it everywhere. I dwell on it, am awed by it, wonder about it, write about it, dream about it, nightmare about it, loathe it and love it in turns. Thus, when I pick up a book with the title A History of Violence, I expect to read something that engages with violence consciously, something that doesn't simply use violence for visceral gratification but has a plan for the violence, is using it to say something (even if that something is something I don't like).
John Wagner's A History of Violence says many things about violence, but what bothers me is that I never once felt like the things being said were intentional. I felt like Luke in the cave on Dagobah: everything in the cave was there because I brought it with me.
Wagner's writing left me hollow and sad. He was merely telling a story, one he needed to tell, perhaps, but only to move a plot B to C, then back to A, then C to D. He seemed totally disconnected from the thematic life of his work, and I felt abandoned by him as I made my journey through the text. As I write this I think that in itself, that abandonment by the author, is a unique and potentially powerful authorial action -- but I don't like being the object of that action.
Moreover, I despair that someone could use the sort of violence that appears in this graphic novel with what seems to be flippant disregard of its power. Similar violence occurs in David Fincher's film Se7en (in fact, Wagner blatantly stole one of the seven killings from that movie for this book), but Fincher's use of violence feels conscious, pointed, thematically aware, and that makes all the difference for me.
Vince Locke's is scratchingly, noirishly lovely, well suited to the bleak world Wagner has written, but it only added to the alienation I felt.
I know I am going to have to come back to this book in the future and give it another read simply because it made me feel so strongly. I didn't enjoy this book at all. I put it down feeling angry, isolated and disgusted. I wish I felt like those feelings were intentional rather than incidental....more
Loading...
