Review of The Grey

If you’re wondering whether or not to see Liam Neeson’s latest vehicle, The Grey (note pretentious British spelling), there’s a simple litmus test: Do you like Jack London? If your answer is yes, then this film is for you. Skip the rest of this review.

If, on the other hand, White Fang confused you, Call of the Wild aggravated you, and you would have gladly endured frostbite yourself rather than read one more page of “To Build a Fire” (the most wretched short story to ever disgrace the pages of a middle school literature anthology), if you, like me, are a Jack London hater, then this movie is most definitely NOT for you.

The Grey is an obnoxious exercise in alpha-male existentialism. Period.

The plot involves a bunch of roughnecks who have been working for a petroleum company in northern Alaska. Their flight back to civilization crashes, and a handful of survivors are left to fight for their lives against the bitter cold, the unforgiving landscape, and a pack of aggressively territorial wolves.

At this point, I would normally warn SPOILERS AHEAD. But once that plane hits the frozen tundra, the rest of the movie is painfully predictable. At regular intervals, the seven survivors die: by wolf, by landscape, by despair. The only question is whether Neeson’s character, John Ottway, will make it out alive, but as the movie makes it abundantly clear, it actually doesn’t matter. The universe is a giant crap shoot, and if the wolves don’t get you today, something else will tomorrow. One of the first scenes shows Ottway with a shotgun in his mouth, contemplating suicide. The movie suggests that, ultimately, it didn’t matter that he chose not to pull the trigger. Certainly, the film awards gravitas to Ottway’s choice to go down swinging, but it also gives dignity to the guy who chooses to sit down and wait for the wolves. Going out on your own terms is the best that can be hoped for.

I should probably confirm the lurking suspicion in the back of everybody’s mind: No, I am not an existentialist. I believe in the transcendental. I hope for a lot more than going out on my own terms.

However, the fact that my own world view is radically different doesn’t mean that I’m unable to appreciate or be moved by existentialist stories. Waiting for Godot drives me to fury and to hysteria. “Miss Brill” breaks my heart with the poignancy of human tragedy. Lord of the Flies terrifies me. So why did The Grey do nothing more than annoy the snot out of me? (And I have a cold right now, so we’re talking about a lot of snot…)

1. Women are reduced to props for male egos. There are no actual women in this movie. The closest we get are a half dozen flashbacks to Ottway’s wife. She’s never named, she never speaks except to encourage Ottway, and never moves except to touch him. At the end, we find out the woman is dead—she literally does not exist apart from his memories, which mold her existence around his own. Any other reference to women in the film is the same—they exist to fulfill men sexually and/or emotionally. There is no suggestion that a woman might be a person in her own right.

2. The film under-appreciates its own irony. *SPOILER* Ottway discovers that the whole time he’s been trying to escape, he’s been walking toward the wolves’ den. In the world of the movie, this is the ultimate irony, and it’s a moment that’s genuinely funny (unlike the penultimate death scene where I inappropriately burst into the giggles). If Ottway had thrown back his head and had one hearty guffaw over the sheer ridiculousness of his entire adventure, I might have forgiven the movie at least some of its testosterone driven nihilism. But instead, Ottway stiffens his spine, chants a battle verse composed by his father, and charges. Sigh.

3. The plot is tragically short on MacGyver homage. I like a wilderness survival story as much as the next nerdy girl, but a key component of the survival story from Robinson Crusoe on is the Macgyvering—making a sulfuric acid plug out of chocolate bars, or the Arctic equivalent. But we get only two instances—one where the survivors make boom sticks (which are disappointing in action), and one at the very end, where Ottway tapes broken bottles between the knuckles of one hand, and a knife to the other, thus growing claws to match the wolf’s. It was a great moment, but too little too late.

4. There was not enough wolf footage. The magnificent Alaskan scenery was some compensation, but I would have appreciated more shots of the fabulous wolves. They may be monsters in this film, but they’re beautiful monsters. (At one point, I thought seriously about rooting for them, but I couldn’t quite break out of my species box.)

5. It makes violence the ultimate human achievement.

I think that covers it. Enough ranting for one day!

Review: A Bear Called Paddington

A Bear Called Paddington by Michael Bond, first published 1958, 128 pages

Tonight, I'm delighted to point the spotlight at one of my very favorite children's books. A Bear Called Paddington and its sequels are stories that have transitioned well for me: I loved them when I was a kid, and I appreciate them just as much (perhaps even more) as an adult.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown (your typical middle class British couple), first meet Paddington on a railway platform. When they learn that he has just emigrated from Darkest Peru and has nowhere to go, they promptly adopt him into their family, renaming him Paddington after the station where they found him. Hilarious misadventures ensue, from Paddington's nearly drowning in the bathtub, to his dabbling in high art, to his sailing across the Atlantic in a bucket. But no matter how bad things may look, they are sure to come right in the end. As Mrs. Bird, the Brown's crusty but gold-hearted housekeeper remarks, "Bears have a way of landing on their feet."

Although Paddington may look like a typical, cutesy animal hero, his character is surprisingly complex. Michael Bond describes him in this way:

"The great advantage of having a bear as a central character is that he can combine the innocence of a child with the sophistication of an adult. Paddington is not the sort of bear that would ever go to the moon - he has his paws too firmly on the ground for that. He gets involved in everyday situations. He has a strong sense of right and wrong and doesn't take kindly to the red tape bureaucracy of the sillier rules and regulations with which we humans surround ourselves. As a bear he gets away with things. Paddington is humanised, but he couldn't possibly be 'human'. It just wouldn't work."

I think this surprising sophistication is a large part of why I still enjoy the books. Interwoven with each of Paddington's child friendly adventures is an adult joke that pokes fun at the often silly ways we choose to run our society.

But even more than that, I love the sense of well being that pervades these stories. Although Paddington tumbles into a lot of tight spots, he gets back out of them with the help of his own self confidence and the assistance of his staunchly loyal friends. For Paddington, good will makes a good world, and although I wouldn't want to read myself into it all the time, it's nice to visit every so often and revel in the comfort that a good cup of cocoa and a chat with an understanding friend can bring.

Official Paddington Bear Web Site

Review: Son of Interflux

The Superbowl threw off my blogging schedule, but I'm back on track!

Son of Interflux by Gordon Korman, first published 1986, 288 pages

Possibly my most favorite funny book ever. I fell in laugh-out-loud love with Korman's work when I was in middle school, and I've been reading and rereading his classic stuff ever since.

Simon Irving's dad is the vice president of Interflux - the world's largest manufacturer of useless things (useless by themselves, that is. For example: there was the seat, and there was the toilet - Interflux invented the device that connected the two). Mr. Irving sees a brilliant corporate career for his only son, but all Simon wants is to pursue his talent for painting at the exclusive Nassau School for the Arts. And when he finds a way to screw Interflux by buying a crucial piece of development land with the school's party money, he suddenly finds himself leading the highly talented and wildly eccentric student body in a crusade against the powerful corporation - and his own father.

I can't decide whether what I love most are Korman's crazy characters, his sense of comedic timing, or his eye for the ridiculous. Take heart breaker Sam, who could have any girl in school and gets himself kicked out of art class because he can't stop painting camels. Or Mrs. Irving, who tries one diet after another and drives her family to the haven of Burger King. And then there's Simon himself, a lovably average guy who screws up his second, third, fourth, and fifth chances with the girl of his dreams. Put them all together and I laugh until I cry. Ultimately, Son of Interflux is a celebration of creativity, friendship, and the utter unpredictability of life.

Review: The Convenient Marriage

The Convenient Marriage by Georgette Heyer, 1934, 307 p.

Thanks to my membership in Paperback Swap, I finally scored this beautiful edition of one of my all time favorite Regency romance novels, by the incomparable Georgette Heyer.

When Horatia's beautiful older sister is to be sacrificed on the altar of Family Duty, giving up her true love in order to marry the wealthy Earl of Rule (and pull her family out of their financial difficulties), Horry offers herself to the Earl as a replacement bride. To everyone's shock, he accepts, and his new wife takes the fashionable world by storm. But even as Horry's independent spirit beguiles her new husband, the frustrated earl finds that the one woman in the fashionable ton who will not fall at his feet is his own wife.

Heyer's plot is cleverly contrived, and the level of historical detail woven into the text is absolutely superb. In its familiar treatments of everything from men's fashions to interior decorating to illegal gaming, the book makes the period spring to sparkling life.

But much as I enjoy the historical trivia smorgasbord, what has always delighted me about Heyer is her talent for hilarious dialogue.

In the following excerpt, Horatia has just escaped from her husband's arch enemy (Lethbridge), and run into her intoxicated brother (the Viscount) and his equally inebriated buddy (Sir Roland):

"I've ... k-killed Lord Lethbridge," shuddered Horatia.
"Nonsense!" said the Viscount.
"It isn't nonsense! I hit him with a p-poker as hard as I could, and he f-fell and lay quite still."
"Where did you hit him?" demanded the Viscount.
"Oh the head," said Horatia.
The Viscount looked at Sir Roland. "D'you suppose she killed him, Pom?"
"Might have," said Sir Roland judicially.
"Lay you five to one she didn't," offered the Viscount.
"Done!" said Sir Roland.
"Tell you what," said the Viscount suddenly. "I'm going to see."
Horatia caught him by the skirts of his coat. "No, you sh-shan't! You've go to take me home."
"Oh, very well," replied the Viscount, relinquishing his purpose. "But you've no business to go killing people with a poker at two in the morning. It ain't genteel."
Sir Roland came unexpectedly to Horatia's support. "Don't see that," he said. "Why shouldn't she hit Lethbridge with a poker? You don't like him. I don't like him."
"No," said the Viscount, acknowledging the truth of this statement. "But I wouldn't hit him with a poker. Never heard of such a thing."
"No more have I," admitted Sir Roland. "But I tell you what I think, Pel: it's a good thing."

Review: The Winter Prince

The Winter Prince by Elizabeth Wein. 1993. 202 pages.

Sometimes a book gets inside of you. It curls up in your mind and refuses to go away. It changes the way you think about reading and about what books can do. It becomes a permanent part of your mental landscape of literature, and you start measuring other books by it, like it's a yardstick.

The Winter Prince is one of my yardstick books, which I discovered just last fall. The story immediately attracted me - it's a retelling of Arthurian legend from the perspective of Mordred (renamed Medraut). The story revolves around the relationship between Medraut and his legitimate half brother, Lleu, whom Medraut both hates and loves. It's a dark story, which is a given if you know anything about Mordred's parentage, but also one that's full of courage and ultimately, hope. I always thought that Mordred got a raw deal and wished he could have a second chance. Here, finally, he gets one.

What I find almost as fascinating as the book itself is what Wein says about what it was like to write: "The creating of The Winter Prince and the writing of it were two very different things. The creating of it took more than ten years .... But once that was over, the writing itself took place over a brief year and a half. It began with the sudden realization that Medraut was the narrator .... Once I knew that, I almost felt that I was no longer writing the book myself. Medraut was leaning over my shoulder with his hand guiding my pen .... I did not own or use a computer until I was three-quarters of the way through the book. I swore I could compose the whole thing in my head. A month after I finished the first draft, my cousin opened the manuscript to a random page, and challenged, 'Let's see how well you know your own book.' He prompted me with a sentence. I answered him by quoting the rest of the page. I had been living dreaming, and breathing this book for a dozen years."

I can only imagine creating with such passionate intensity. Sometimes, I can't even remember what I wrote yesterday, much less quote it :) But, for an aspiring author, it's something to dream about.