This is a post on self-reference.

Welcome to 2011! Or, actually, the end of 2010. I'm a bit behind in reviewing, so here's the last few books I read in 2010 reviewed under one heading: self-reference. And what better way to begin a review of self-referential books than to say, "Here begins a review of self-referential books", right?

Self-reference is probably one of the more overused, and often delightful, tropes of post-modernism. Taken in the loosest possible terms, self-reference acknowledges the audience, and may tell the audience something about what they're feeling as they read the book (or watch the movie, or play the game). It doesn't quite break the guidelines of the story, but it leans on them enough for the reader to feel a little bit uncomfortable.

Failing that, it at least spices up the action somewhat.

Case in point: The Hunger Games is about the world's most brutal reality show. And right away, that's a comment on the readers, right? Reality shows have become one of the most popular television genres of the last decade, so most of today's readers are going to nod to themselves and say, "Yup, I might be watching this." Everybody in this dystopian future watches The Hunger Games live, as they unfold -- the poor districts have to watch it, but the richer districts that really get pleasure out of it are portrayed as rich, pompous assholes who don't care if a few children live or die.

The constraints of this particular reality show are these: In order for all the districts to remember who's in power (and I can't recall who is, but never mind, just call them Big Brother), each one must give one boy and one girl to the Games every year, and the kids (ages 12 to 18) must fight to the death. I'm speechless at how bad of an idea this is: it's supposed to remind the districts who's in charge, in order to keep them from starting a revolution, but sacrificing children just seems like it would hurt Big Brother more than help them, and indeed there are hints that a revolution might come in the next two books of the series. But the violent nature of the Games gives Suzanne Collins a few opportunities for very shocking moments. People are regularly starving or suffering from fatal wounds, and one character whom I and the protagonist both liked very much was killed without a second thought halfway through the book.

The protagonist's internal monologue focuses mostly on strategy, which is often necessary in the games, but sometimes feels excessively indulgent; she wards herself against threats that never come and don't seem plausible. She also ignores most emotions for other members of the Games, which comes back to bite her in the butt later on, both in terms of plot and in terms of me considering her more as a robot than a human.

The book always focuses on what isn't there. Kids in the Games perform for cameras; the protagonist wonders about what her crush at home thinks when she starts snogging the other guy from her district; and that strategy of hers is always thinking about where the other players are, and in what state. This gives a huge sense of isolation, and as a writer I felt cheated when perfectly interesting areas were mentioned and subsequently not explored. For example, there was a tall strong character who took up hiding in a reedy swamp, which sounded very interesting, but he was quickly dispatched offscreen.

This lets Suzanne Collins focus on the relationship (staged or not) between the protagonist and her district-mate, and this, I think, is where the book is compared to Twilight. I was a little disappointed that the book resorted to this, actually. There's plenty of action, but it all essentially centers around romance in act three, which gives the author a good chance to not resolve anything at the end.

Oh, the ending. Alfred Hitchcock had a saying. When a bomb goes off, it's shock. When a bomb is ticking, it's suspense. The Hunger Games ends with a ticking bomb - and no clue as to whether or not it will go off. Not only that, but it's a little uncertain as to whether there's a bomb at all. The protagonist has been overly cautious before, and it's entirely plausible that the ticking we're hearing is only a pocketwatch. I'm not sure whether to condemn or praise the book for this, because it's always nice to end with a little ambiguity -- see also Inception, my favorite movie of the year.

But then I remember that the suspense had nothing to do with the last words of the book, which were as follows: End of Book One. I've already talked a lot about sequels on this blog; do I really have to do so again? I understand how new authors might want to market their first book as a first installment of a trilogy, but Suzanne Collins doesn't even have that excuse; she's already a bestseller! The point of the suspenseful ending was just to get you to buy another book, and I feel cheated by that. If Eoin Colfer and Neil Gaiman can write their books with a little closure, then dagnabbit, other books can. Please stop doing this, youth authors!

Anyway, I can't complain about that because I'm not really the target audience. I was the target audience for Mogworld, though, and I'm not quite sure how to take that. Unfortunately, for the self-reference to work, you have to be in the target audience. Mogworld is essentially about an online role-playing fantasy game world gone awry, seen from the inside. (Oh, come on, that's not a spoiler; it's given away on the fragging cover.) So you're reading about your own actions as viewed by Non-Player Characters, and they all see the heroes of their world as pompous assholes who walk and talk very stiffly.

This isn't that new of an idea, but on the other hand, I can't remember the last time I read a book with a zombie protagonist, and it provides for hilarious results. The character is killed or maimed often without feeling pain, but keeps returning to his body, so it's very much like the author recreated the feeling of a game without actually incorporating a lives system. Not quite a MMORPG game, though; it's more like an adventure game feel. The protagonist in this case is trying to figure out what exactly is wrong with his world, and the finale is a climb up a mountain, rather than defeating a big baddie. Now that's mixed messages if I ever saw them.

The author is a game reviewer I watch often: Yahtzee Croshaw of The Escapist's Zero Punctuation. He's notable for his hilarious metaphors and pessimism, and it comes through in this book, as I expected. I didn't expect him to be so good at plotting and pacing, but he is. Each of the book's four parts is a self-contained little chunk that builds on the previous one until the climax. Occasionally he introduces too many plot threads at one time, and it becomes obvious that one will help to clean up the other, but his main character is so funny that I didn't mind.

I did mind when that main character was dropped off a bridge at the end, though, and then resurrected a few times. There are plenty of books and movies that do this, where the protagonist is reverted at the end to the state he began the book in, and that defeats the purpose of the novel for me. Sure, the zombie has obviously learned something in the final scene, when he makes a crucial decision that alters his future, but he's lost any relationships or philosophies he gained along the path of the book, and as a reader I feel cheated.

I felt cheated by Stephen King in his latest batch of stories, too. He uses self-reference to spice up his novels, and I'm sad to say that that's the last thing he should be doing. I read 'Salem's Lot a few years back and thought that the worst part about it was how King kept referencing the original Dracula story, at which point it became frightfully easy to predict every single thing that would happen. The horror was removed and replaced by dreary predictability.

Well, he does almost the same thing in Full Dark, No Stars. His prose remains masterful (but what else is new?), but his stories lack spark. In order, we have a murdered ghost story, a rape revenge, a deal with the devil, and a serial rapist husband. Those aren't stories, they're situations. I'm reminded of the time after the writer's strike when I sat in movie theaters and watched trailers that basically went: "This one is about a long distance relationship", or "This one is about robots". Anyone and their dog could come up with a plot for those movies, and the same goes for Stephen King.

I'll bet anyone's dog could think of a better ending than King, though. One's pretty good, one makes no sense, and two basically summarize what came before and send the reader packing. What happened to the great climax of Under the Dome? And furthermore, what about King's trademark bleak endings? In three of four stories, the protagonists get exactly what they want. What fun is that? I mean, King, I know you have to write happy endings sometimes to make it more dramatic when the hero dies, but you don't have to make it so saccharine! (For a horror story, I mean.)

Self-reference in FDNS just reminds us that we could be reading better books or watching better movies, while in The Hunger Games it points at the reader and laughs. There's a bit in Games when the protagonist snogs her boyfriend, then says to herself, "I'll bet the audience will get a kick out of this!" It's bits like these when we realize why there are no cameras visible in the Games: this book is the camera, and we are the Games's intended audience. Collins likes to lean on the proverbial Fourth Wall, and question our ideas of violence as entertainment, or other peoples' romance as a hot-button issue. In FDNS, the references to movies or books just fall flat.

On the other hand, I'm not sure what the self-reference to gamers in Mogworld was trying to do. The idea is that the humans create such super-powered artificial intelligence that it becomes self-aware, which is always a good problem to consider, but doesn't apply yet to game worlds. Moving the camera's spotlight from a hero to a protagonist, though, helps us consider that every person we meet has a backstory, and is on some sort of quest. A good sentiment, but it was less about the reader. Well, anyway, it was interesting.

Self-reference can be a blessing or a curse, or a bad metaphor (like the one I just finished). It appears to be here to stay in the post-modern era, but once you've broken down the fourth wall, do you have to create a fifth one just to break it down?

Part One

There is nothing more discouraging than reading an extremely long novel. Some of you may disagree with me on this, but I'd like to put forth one counter-example: The Lord of the Rings. So long it was originally released in three volumes, Lord of the Rings is one of those fantasy masterpieces you kind of have to read if you're a fan of the genre... but geez, is it discouraging.

A few years ago I tried to read the novel in a month. Bad idea -- I didn't get through it. Lord of the Rings is dense. As J.R.R. Tolkien famously said in his preface, "This tale grew in the telling." And what author hasn't realized how much a new world can expand? How about those Harry Potter books, or the legions upon legions of Tolkien rip-offs, such as Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time (now approaching 13 books)? The question is, are the things put in the book interesting?

It depends on what you like. Tolkien manages to stuff a bunch of different things into his book, though. First off, this is a road trip, so there's a lot of scenery. That's pretty nice, although it gets tedious in large quantities. However, the most boring parts of the scenery for me were the incessant names. Tolkien created a really deep mythology, yes, but the exotic names of rivers and land formations (and hilltops, for crying out loud) approach self-indulgence.

How dare I criticize the mythology of Lord of the Rings? Well, to be fair, I liked other in-depth parts. I like the frequent songs, and the stories of olden days are usually pretty interesting. These are fleshed-out and thematically linked to the story, and they make me want to go and read the dozen or so books Tolkien wrote as background material.

You see, The Lord of the Rings wasn't conceived as a novel. It was conceived first as a linguistics project, then as a world. The incredibly lofty Silmarillion that serves as a prequel was actually conceived first. Tolkien's purpose was to create a whole new culture, and that's a pretty ambitious goal. Considering the legions of fans who now speak fluent Elvish, I'd say Tolkien (somehow) accomplished it.

But the tale did grow in the telling, and what The Fellowship of the Ring's explicit, primary purpose is, is to tell a story. Near the beginning, this works rather well, but as the Fellowship convenes in the second half and moves closer to Mordor, the scenery, names, and mythology get more and more fleshed-out. To some, this is a good thing. But to me, I wished I could have lingered on those names and found out exactly what they mean, instead of reading them as a boring throwaway.

Also discouraging is that the book ends on a humongous cliffhanger. There is a long way to go yet, even if the next two books get progressively shorter and the problem of the One Ring is resolved about halfway through book 3. However, this also shows a lot of promise, because some characters' stories will become more important. Merry and Pippin don't get their spotlight until The Two Tower, so that's something to look forward to.

I'm reading this book from the perspective of one who's read it (mostly) once before, and loves the movies (and saw them first). The books hearken back to a beautiful time, and I'm being a little unfair with them. But really, would it kill Tolkien to give me a little more hope at the end of book 1?

On sequels: the sequel

I can tell you right now that this post will be less coherent than the last one on sequels. That's because I first envisioned this post a day or two ago, and since finishing my latest read (Monsters of Men, book 3 of "Chaos Walking"), I've adjusted my opinions somewhat, and yet I'm still attempting to write this.

Luckily, my dilemma illustrates the problem with sequels: the passage of time.

The conclusion I've come to upon finishing the second high-stakes suspense youth fiction trilogy I've read in recent memory (the first being The Aldous Lexicon, which began with A Crack in the Line) is that it's never a good idea to start out by promising more than one book. Why is this so?

Well, because no matter what you do, each book is its own distinct entity. Odds are that most writers will finish the first book, then spend ages editing the heck out of it, and finally begin work on the next one. On further drafts, though, the original intent of the book changes, a central theme comes forth which the writer may not have expected, and the thing ultimately becomes more and more cohesive.

And if, as a writer, you intend to continue the story past the point where you deliberately ended it at the end of one volume, that's not being fair to your creative sensibility. You're forcing yourself to work within boundaries, basically, and so your story will stagnate.

All this leads up to my review of Monsters of Men. The intention of this book is to wrap up all prevailing threads from previous installments. What will the protagonists do about the army banging down their front door? Do leaders of factions have any amount of good, or integrity, in them? Will Todd and Viola stay together, even after being split up yet again?

Bear with me on this theory, but a lot of these threads sound like the author pulling plot out of his ass. Example: there's a problem with metal bands affixed to women. There were no such problems implicated earlier in the series, and their solution comes quickly and arbitrarily near the end of the story.

There is exactly one bit of good done from this event, and it's this: further characterization of the Mayor. And he's only characterized more fully to get a better idea of the "Chaos Walking" theme (that is, the idea of men walking around with their thoughts open to the world). And this is the only point on which Monsters of Men really succeeds: by introducing creatures who have lived with this ability for generations, the reader is treated to the full implications of being able to read everyone else in a society. To which I say: well done, Patrick Ness (the author). As with The Underwood See, I feel like you've successfully wrapped the idea you first presented in The Knife of Never Letting Go.

But I wish you'd done that earlier, and mostly because of the writing style. Seeing, reading, and hearing about wars has made me feel many emotions, but rarely has it made me feel as irritated as in Monsters of Men. Ness has carried over the style of very brief chapters from The Ask and the Answer, this book's direct prequel. In The Ask and the Answer, this style made sense, because the book was about an eternal conflict and stalemate between two groups. But here, even though I see the conflict continues, it just gets annoying to read the same events from three different perspectives. Where The Knife of Never Letting Go had momentum, this book stalls and takes steps backwards.

Other annoying things: ending most paragraphs with a dash, to imply suspense when there isn't any; huge redundancies of prose, even though there should be some due to us hearing people's thoughts; ending each chapter on a cliffhanger. It's the kind of thing I'd expect from a Dan Brown novel, or from Peter and the Starcatchers. I was so bored I even did something I promised never to do again: I peeked at the ending to see if anything got more interesting.

Which leads me to my final point on sequels: if you write something as a direct sequel, while central themes may change, ideology will not. Monsters of Men ends on an ambiguous note; so did the first one, The Knife of Never Letting Go. The first Harry Potter book ends on a light and hopeful note, with the feeling of a return to normalcy. (SPOILERS.) So does the last Harry Potter. It boils down to this: given a similar situation, the author will end the story in a similar way. It's like fate.

So now that I've complained yet again, is there any hope for sequels? I believe so, because there are sequels that are good, or that establish themselves as separate entities from their predecessors (or both). The Lord of the Rings is the famous tale that "grew in the telling" as a direct sequel to Tolkien's The Hobbit. The second Star Wars movie (The Empire Strikes Back) succeeded largely because George Lucas stepped away from the director's position. The Narnia novels appear to be an exception to the rule of ineffective or inconsistent sequels, which may have been due to (A) Lewis's singular and strongly-held Christian ideology and/or (B) his insistence on treating each book as a separate entity. Note that Lewis never promised seven books, unlike J.K. Rowling's recent series, which (I felt) degenerated somewhat by the final book. Sequels hold promise for people who want more of the same, which will unfortunately not generate the same creative spark in the author that the original did. The best course of action, then, is to find a new book, and leave the author alone to his/her own devices, to come up with a new story.

Teenage Romance Wasteland

C.S. Lewis, in his Chronicles of Narnia, omits one important character from the finale. Susan Pevensie, the oldest female child from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, is not invited back to Narnia at the end. Why? Other characters give the reasons -- she's only interested in "lipstick and invitations" from boys. Furthermore, adds one, "Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can." So we can expect that C.S. Lewis had a similar perspective on life: that for every age, there is a season -- childhood, independence, mating, parenthood, and old-age all have their benefits and problems, but they are all meant to come and go. Such is the nature of life.

It is significant that Susan Pevensie is the only character in the Chronicles to have anything to do with love, particularly at such a young age. There are no other amorous relationships in these books beyond marital ones between older people.

Yet it is also significant that the movie version of Prince Caspian introduces the title character as a light love interest to Susan. It shows where our culture is going -- placing an emphasis on true love, and trust, and romance, from the time that kids are able to see Disney films.

The Ask and the Answer, sequel to a book I reviewed earlier, The Knife of Never Letting Go, seeks to establish the idea of love as one that transcends the factions (controlling and self-interested) that dominate our world. Whereas its prequel was a book about running, The Ask and the Answer mainly concerns itself with peer pressure, and the terrific resolve our protagonists have in the face of it.

I admire the book for taking on such a complicated (and yet simple) issue as the dichotomy of factions, particularly in a time when the US battles guerrilla warfare in the Middle East. With a leading figure named the President and torture devices such as waterboarding used, this books strikes very close to home as a relevant status of our national hypocrisy (as well as that of other countries). While two competing groups battle, everyone else is used as pawns, including civilians and the land's original inhabitants. Both, as we eventually discover, strike back with a vengeance.

I also have to admit that the relationship between Todd and Viola, which anchors our narrators' motivations, is movingly written. Their idea of complete trust and love is even more immortal here than those ideas of the factions. The betrayals, temptations, and double-crossing leaders that block their way make it all the more rewarding when they find each other again.

But I would further argue that such an idea, of love as a thing that transcends all boundaries, even those of the stage of life we live in, is unhealthy in the way it is presented in our current day media culture. The audience for this book (young adults) is being told that when the world collapses around you, there may be only one person you can trust. They're not only told in this book, either; it's a common trope. Consider how many pieces of young adult fiction begin with characters whose parents are missing or deceased. As in the Chaos Walking trilogy (composed of The Knife of Never Letting Go, The Ask and the Answer, and Monsters of Men), this is to cut all ties of trust barring that of one significant other.

Being a teenager, I don't know much about love myself. I believe in friendship, and bonds of love that can come between people who share an experience. I believe in familial ties, bonds which come partly from care given at a young age, and partly from knowing they are part of you. But as a teenager, I have no experience with the bonds that come from loving and trusting only one other person.

So however moving the scenes of The Ask and the Answer are, I reject their relationship as an improbable event. I reject it also as a near-impossible thing for young adults to fully understand without damage to their psyche, and unrealistic expectations raised for people they fall in love with. I find myself disagreeing with much of the current media storm's philosophies. Read this book and marvel at its twists, its unending stalemate, its monster of a villain, and its elegant construction of trust between characters (both between Todd and Viola, and between them and other people). But consider the problem of asking a youth to commit him/herself to one other person for the rest of his days, and what his answer would be if you questioned him about the nature of love.

Escapism

Every so often you hit a big work that you can't put down. For me, the books that have fallen under that category have included the Harry Potter series, The Golden Compass, Fahrenheit 451, and The Eyre Affair. Now I'm rediscovering why the Narnia novels have fallen so heavily under that category for half a century. Having put down The Last Battle, I find myself picking up the book and tearing through it to find my favorite moments and relive them. I muse on the perfect worlds beyond the Shadowlands, remember the friends like Mr. Tumnus and Reepicheep whom I've come to love dearly in the past weeks. And most of all, I mourn that there are no more tales of Aslan -- who, coincidentally, I play in my summer community theater.

Actually, it's not a coincidence. I fully intended, in this summer before college, to pick up The Lord of the Rings and attempt to read it again -- the last time, I got nearly all the way to Mount Doom before realizing I was bored silly, and stressed from trying to read too quickly. However, when I reached for The Fellowship of the Ring, I realized this: acting as a Narnian creature while reading about Middle-Earth would probably get confusing. So I stuck to the novels of Mr. C.S. Lewis instead.

Try to understand: The Chronicles of Narnia are a much more marketable franchise than The Lord of the Rings, at least for Hollywood. There is a significant difference between the two epic fantasies that mark the cornerstones of the genre. While The Lord of the Rings is a single book, presented in six parts, and often published in three volumes (thus necessitating a continuity of quality and tone through the three movies), The Chronicles of Narnia is made up of a book, its sequel, two more sequels, an interquel (coming between two books chronologically), a prequel, and a grand finale.

In other words: C.S. Lewis wrote more because the fans demanded he write more. Smart fans. C.S. Lewis wrote a lot, but these are his most-read books, and the most revealing ones. As a Christian, I found it deeply revealing and insightful to see my faith presented in a different light -- a light of alternate universes, talking animals, and battles for honor. The character of Aslan is great and terrible -- and in one word (LION), C.S. Lewis has hit upon the inherent contradiction that is God, and how lovely the contradiction is.

What this means is that each book stands on its own, as a story. If you ask me, I found that to be a good thing. It's why I liked The Hobbit better than The Lord of the Rings. (I mean, for crying out loud, one chapter in LOTR was literally called "The Old Forest". Pfah!) The reader might not like everything, but there's probably something s/he will like.

There are, of course, the accusations that Narnia is too literal, hitting you over the head with his Christian ideas. I suppose it's possible you'll enjoy these less if you're not Christian, or if you go into the novels without realizing this was the mindset of C.S. Lewis. However, I doubt it, because as whimsical, creative fantasy novels, these books work tremendously. Aslan is an astounding character whether or not you assimilate him to Jesus. The Last Battle is moving even without making the connection that it takes after the Book of Revelation.

There remains the question: in what order should you read the books? On my first outing (years and years ago), I read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe first and all the novels starring Pevensies thereafter. This time, I started with The Magician's Nephew, and I think I got more of a feeling for the character of Aslan and his evolution in Narnia. (Aslan is the only character who appears in all seven books, and he becomes more obscure as the books progress in time.) Then again, though, several elements introduced in The Horse and His Boy and The Magician's Nephew only reappear in The Last Battle, so potentially the books work if read out of chronological order.

In the end, C.S. Lewis himself says that it doesn't matter. That's because this is spectacular stuff. We all need a little magic in our lives, and seven books is about the right length to get a reader really deeply involved. The characters, especially those who lasted several books, captured my heart (this is why The Horse and His Boy is inferior to the rest -- Shasta and company never reappear). I was sorry to see it end, but I know it has to end, as did Lewis's first readers. Eventually we must return to this world (for however short a period of time). But while you're staying in Narnia, it's a pretty damn good time.

Your Movie is Confusing

(It's another movie review, which means another non-book review. I promised five book reviews earlier, I know. To find out why I didn't post the rest, check out the postscript below. Otherwise, enjoy the review!)

Inception is the most-talked about movie since Avatar, and Nolan's film deserves that prize a damn sight better than James Cameron's The Smurfs Present Pocahontas Dances with Wolves did. What I've heard the most is that people thought it was confusing -- or extremely intelligent, for a summer audience. I disagree with both of these sentiments.

I think Inception was two things. It was intricate -- a deep system completely and absolutely thought out by the screenwriters -- and that allowed for Inception's second quality: it was innovative. Imaginative. It brought a feeling of freshness to the big screen which I haven't felt since (perhaps) Toy Story.

But back to that comment about it being confusing. The degree to which you understand this movie will depend upon how much you dream, and how much disbelief you are willing to suspend over what the subconscious can control during your sleep. Personally, I think that the more you think about it, the more sense the movie makes. But during the movie, there is an underlying feeling of "not-getting-it" that you have to get around. If you've seen the movie, you may know what I'm talking about. The fact of the matter is, though, that all you need to know about the dreamworld (that is, 90% of what Nolan tells you) is exposited in the first 90 minutes. What is it, then, that keeps the movie just out of your reach?

It's in that opening sequence, which you probably forgot. The film opens on a beach; the protagonist then speaks with a very old man. After that we cut to DiCaprio in the same room (or a similar one) in which he talks with someone else about something completely different -- and then follows a confusing sequence of dreams within dreams. It takes the audience an hour and a half to get over that initial shock of landing in worlds of dreams -- what is real and what isn't, anyway? -- but even after that, we have a feeling of unease because everything has not been explained. Those first few shots don't show up again until the end of the movie, in true Chris Nolan form.

The confusing or intellectual qualities of this film aren't really what makes it. Most of the film's success lies in the stupendous ideas about dreams. But another big part of it, and what makes the movie better than other confusing yarns, is the way the story is crafted emotionally. All the characters have motivations or places in the film. There are a few narrative threads that weave their way through the worlds. This gives the audience something to hold onto when all else is lost -- DiCaprio is searching for a way to let go, and the dream team is trying to pull an Inception, and Ellen Page is a student trying to help out DiCaprio for the good of the team. The point is that they are all familiar story beats, and even life beats, that we can relate to.

I think filmmakers can forget that this is what makes a movie good. I just watched another confusing movie, The Usual Suspects, in which we meet an unreliable narrator who tells about the criminal activities of himself and of his buddies. A huge chunk is told in flashback, but some flashbacks are told two or three times, and with different characters in different positions. But I never got attached to the characters, who had no motivation other than "breaking the system" (due to feelings of being stereotyped in an earlier police line-up). I never understood what was going on because they performed three or four unrelated jobs for no apparent reason. And most importantly, I didn't find the movie interesting because the only slightly unique thing about it was the twist at the end -- which I saw coming a mile away, by the way. What do we learn from this? Never bank your entire movie on one aspect of it. (Of course, when you see the early Pixar movies and realize two or three funny things happen at any moment that could spark your laughter, this makes sense.)

Here's a confusing movie that works, though: The Spanish Prisoner. Like The Usual Suspects, it changes direction midstream multiple times. However, each time it does so, we think we're watching a different kind of movie. We've been tricked the first twenty minutes, see, and now it's become a new kind of movie -- only twenty minutes later, it's a revenge thriller -- and then later on, it's an escape movie. Through the film's many acts, the characters have visible motivations and relatable emotions. The audience is rarely lost, and often tickled. Except for the first twenty minutes, the audience is never bored because we're trying to figure out what will come next.

Finally, there's Shutter Island, another movie that banks its entire premise on a twist. As with The Usual Suspects, I think that's weak for a movie, but it succeeds for (once again) two reasons. One, the twist is foreshadowed and developed through the film, so if you're paying attention, you suspect what's coming. Two, the film is made uncannily well, being a Scorsese piece. It is creepy and weird and messed up and terrifying, and at the end of the movie you find out why. That makes a bunch of stuff look non-sequitur at first, until you find out it's quite brilliant storytelling.

Movies should dare to be a little bit confusing, because it certainly spices up the selection at the cinema. But more important is that this confusing quality can force you to focus more on filmmakers' tools to make a quality movie, to draw the viewer in. Chris Nolan, David Mamet, and (to a degree) Martin Scorsese succeeded with their movies, while Bryan Singer's The Usual Suspects failed. Others are also good (The Sixth Sense) while some take a bit of thinking to figure out (Citizen Kane). The quality of the movie, though, always comes back to the quality of the filmmaking.

POST SCRIPT: On why I'm not writing book reviews.

Earlier I mentioned that I'm now reading several books at the same time. I promised no fewer than four reviews. This will not happen.

Here's why: I'm now reading twelve books at the same time, because of all I want to finish before I head off to college. I'm less able to think about books as entities of themselves this way, and it's harder for me to review.

What I planned to do originally was talk about themes that thread their ways through the books, but this seemed contrived and unnecessary, and I couldn't think of anything good to say, so I tossed it. I have an idea for a 1984 piece, but I don't know if I'll write it.

In short: the future of Berkeleian's Summer Reading Blog is up in the air. Any comments are greatly appreciated on the matter.

Blame the French

Whatever kind of Shakespeare reader you are -- casual, afficianado, avoider -- there is a very good chance that you have not read Henry VI, Part 1. It's not the kind of play you wake up one day and decide to read. As a matter of fact, most of the histories fit under this category. There are perhaps two that are widely known: Richard III and Henry V. And herein lies a problem: both of those plays are the final parts to Shakespeare's two history Tetralogies (four-part stories). In order to get the required backstory in those plays, it may behoove you to read their prequels.

This journey for me began with a nosebleed. I was home with one when I saw Lawrence Olivier's stunning performance of Richard III. His agonized cry, "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!" made me want to go back and read the play. But -- lo and behold -- you really do have to read the whole tetralogy first.

(I could have even started earlier. Shakespeare's Tetralogies weren't written in order; he was the George Lucas of his time. The one beginning with Henry VI, Part 1 was written first, and probably with collaborators. He wrote the Prequel Tetralogy later. But since this play is the likely chronological beginning of Shakespeare's works, I had no problem starting here.)

This was my first exposure to the Histories, of which I'd always wondered: how can they be interesting as plays? I imagined them very dry and pointless, like my high school textbooks.

Henry VI, Part 1 defied my expectations entirely. Firstly, the story is framed around the well-known story (well-known to me, anyway) of Joan of Arc. The story of the British histories is one of nobles quarreling amongst themselves, but this one brings in an enemy -- the French and their new leader. (Opposition would be a better word -- you see the story from their position often, and they're not wholly evil.) Thus the story balances precariously between the worlds of standard good-guys-versus-bad-guys story, and tragedy. The British nobles' tragic flaw, you see, is that they quarrel so much among themselves without getting anything done. The question becomes whether English losses are the France's fault, or England's. (Naturally, England tends to blame the French.)

Another reason why Henry VI, Part 1 works is that British history is just... interesting. It helps that I can flip back and forth in this yarn, and also that three family trees are provided. Shakespeare simplifies things -- in the first scene, for example, crisis after crisis reaches the British when in reality the problems were more spread apart. But simplifications of factions into lead characters is a good device which keeps the story moving.

Often the reasons for the infighting aren't given. I don't know whether I'm missing some information from earlier plays, but I largely doubt it. The point here is that English nobles are fighting for control, for dignity, and for power. And the king is no help.

The title is a misnomer. "The First Part of the Reign of Henry the Sixth" would be more accurate, as his reign begins upon the death of Henry V. His funeral begins the play; the new king shows up in act 3 of 5, and is absolutely useless at reparing the damage.

Another interesting device is some of the scenes in act 4, which have significant chronological gaps but feature the same characters. As a reader, it works, but I imagine that directors would have a tough time of it.

Last on my list here is the note that this play ends on a cliffhanger. As well it should -- the play sets up the next two at the end. Seeing it alone, I imagine theatregoers would be a little bit miffed, for good reason. All in all, though, I think the play told a complete story, which is more than I expected (neither a complete yarn nor a story). It's a pretty good introduction to British history.

A brief explanation of Cycle 1

Over my tropical vacation, I adopted a new style of reading in which I read many books at the same time, in a pre-determined sequence. Through this method, I completed five normal books; their reviews appear above. I also completed several installments of "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind" (a re-read; review to come shortly), Marvel's Civil War, a visual effects magazine issue, and parts of The Complete Chess Player. I say this only to let you know why so many reviews are appearing at the same time.

I have decided to call this method of reading "Cycle Reading". I don't know how long it will last. This is Cycle 1.

A Berkeleian Summer -- Round 2!

HEY, readers! Happy summer! Here, as last year, is a list of projected summer reads. Remember, this list is subject to change at any time, and I don't anticipate finishing all of them (though I'll try to come close). Should you have any further suggestions, please comment!

SHOULD PROBABLY READ FOR COLLEGE

The Elements of Style (Strunk & White)

JUST PURCHASED

1984 (George Orwell)

Labyrinth (Jorge Luis Borges)

The Picture of Dorian Gray (Oscar Wilde)

Little Brother (Cory Doctorow)

It's Kind of a Funny Story (Ned Vizzini)

52, Volume One (Geoff Johns, Grant Morrison, Greg Rucka, Mark Waid, & Keith Giffen)

ON MY SHELF

The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien)

Dragonhaven (Robbin McKinley)

Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)

The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)

Taken (Edward Bloor)

Speaker for the Dead (Orson Scott Card)

The War of the Worlds (H. G. Wells)

Interworld (Neil Gaiman & Michael Reeves)

The Invention of Hugo Cabret (Brian Selznick)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Philip K. Dick)

The Perks of Being a Wallflower (Stephen Chbosky)

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (Susanna Clarke)(

The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)

The Pirates! (Gideon Defoe)

The Rule of Four (Ian Caldwell & Dustin Thomason)

Richard III (William Shakespeare)

FROM LOCAL BOOK SALE

Writers of the Western World

The New York Times, Page One

OTHER BOOKS

Henry VI, Part 1 (William Shakespeare)

The Chronicles of Narnia (C. S. Lewis)

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind (Hayao Miyazaki)

The Dark Tower series (Stephen King)

East (Edith Pattou)

House of Leaves (Mark Z. Danielewski)

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (Jane Austen with Seth Grahame-Smith)

Young Avengers, Vol. 2 (Allan Heinburg & Jimmy Cheung)

AND

The Complete Marvel Civil War (Various; over 100 issues)

More madness

I've been sitting here trying to decide which pop culture reference to use for The Knife of Never Letting Go, by Patrick Ness. Is it a post-apocalyptic novel, like The Giver? Is it a Michael Crichton thriller? Is it a journey, like The Lord of the Rings? After all the books I've read, those seemed like some of the most likely options, but I've come to realize it's like none of them. It's something entirely different.

The first work The Knife of Never Letting Go reminds me of is Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass (or Northern Lights, for British readers). Like that novel, Knife is a high-concept one: we open on a world pretty much the same as ours but for one important difference. In The Golden Compass, the difference is the animal soul which accompanies every living human. In The Knife of Never Letting Go, however, it is that everyone can hear everyone else's thoughts, all of the time -- and thus, humans are "Chaos Walking" (also the title of the trilogy which this tome opens).

Erm, actually, there are some exceptions. But never mind -- we always hear what's on the mind of the main character. First-person narratives are not a new thing; they were pioneered by Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway and by other epistolary novels. However, more effectively than in any other book I've read, Patrick Ness manages to get inside the head of Todd, the main character. My thoughts and concerns were often Todd's own. In scenes of horror, sickness, and death, these techniques are exceptionally good.

Of course, everyone else hears what's on Todd's mind, also, which brings me to the second work The Knife of Never Letting Go reminds me of: The Invention of Lying, a movie written and directed by Ricky Gervais and Matthew Robinson. In that film, each character was a compulsive truth-teller (before the protagonist discovered the ability to say an untruth). However, I never quite believed the openness of that world as well as I did this one. That may partially be due to the fact that here, the compulsive mind-talkers have sometimes spent years covering up things they don't want revealed about themselves through their thoughts. It may also help that the mind-talkers are given a foil: women do not have the condition. Therefore, once Todd leaves his home of Prentisstown, he meets people whom he can't read -- and thus we have conflict and intrigue in a book whose very gimmick is transparency.

I should mention that this book had some of the most obvious Meaningful Names in all of literature. Todd comes from Prentisstown, or "Apprentice Town", where boys are made into men. He and his counterpart, Viola, head to a city called Haven for respite from their pursuers. The climax, in which one character is tempted to bite a metaphorical apple, takes place at The Falls. It was like hitting the reader over the head with an anvil.

Another problem: sometimes Todd had to describe the scenery, and he wasn't very good at it. No, that's not right. Patrick Ness wasn't very good at it. There are ways that people notice things, I think, and Ness could have done a better job at it. The pictures were not picturesque.

But that's nitpicking. This is the most thrilling book I've read since Under the Dome at the beginning of the year. It's also got some of the best character development. Boy growing to man -- humble town becoming much more sinister -- enigma growing transparent. The book is action-packed, and touching, and finishes with a killer twist ending. It may also be the closest I've ever come to crying while reading -- the book is that good at getting you to relate to the main characters.

By all means pick this up, along with the sequels. (The Ask and the Answer is released in the US now, and Monsters of Men will follow soon.) I suspect that, like The Aldous Lexicon, these are meant to be read as three parts of a whole. Here's hoping that the next ones are this brilliant.

Madness?! This is... no, wait, I guess it actually IS madness.

If communists want two works of literature that demonstrate the positive qualities of the society they advocate, they need look no further than the two books I read most recently: Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley, and "Lycurgus" from Plutarch's The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans.

Also, if a literature or philosophy teacher wanted to point out the immortality of human ideas, s/he might look at these two works. It's uncanny how similar they are, even though one was written within the first two centuries A.D., and the other was written a mere eighty years ago. Also, one is a history and the other is a hypothetical dystopian (utopian?) future.

Plutarch's "Lycurgus" is a sixteen-page, small-print summary of the life of the man who made Sparta what it was famous for: a perfected military state, a force to be reckoned with in the ancient days. After delving briefly into Lycurgus's background, Plutarch talks about how the man ruled Sparta and its people. There are the ordinances put in place, and then there are small anecdotes that demonstrate their value, and the sayings by the ancient Spartans, and the analyses of the differences in details of other historians' accounts of Lycurgus's life. It's a pretty varied account, and also a fairly interesting one, as histories go.

On the other hand, we have Brave New World. I'll put this out front: it's by far the best dystopian novel I've read since Fahrenheit 451. It's not as good as that one, because it peters out at the end (though that could have been due to the fact that I was hurrying to get through it, without savoring it as much as I did earlier chapters). In this novel, biological engineering has become commonplace in the conception and development of human beings. Everyone is conditioned from birth to enjoy being part of a certain social rung -- and there's no room left for error, so the creative stuff like books and religion have been banned. (Not, that is, that the civilians would enjoy doing such things if they encountered them.) As a replacement, humans are compelled to give in to any sexual desire they have, at any time; the consequence of having a baby has been eliminated through the means of birth control, and because the new conception methods eliminate the requirement of human reproduction to go through the sexual organs.

It's a mouthful, but that's the basic premise. The first few chapters set up the world, the next few bring some characters strictly out of their comfort zone into the savage lands (previously Nevada), and the last few detail the fallout when they return. Like The Golden Compass, the success here lies in the details provided in each scene which teach the reader about the world they've stumbled upon.

Meanwhile, "Lycurgus" is much more chronological and procedural. The biography is mostly chronological, but most of the middle talks about the development of children, also emphasized in Brave New World. And of course, Plutarch continually relates the state to the leader, whereas the identity and sentiments of the leader of Brave New World are largely a secret out of necessity to the society and to the story.

As I said, reading these two works back-to-back makes one think about the immortality of ideas. Could this really be the picture of a "perfect" society? Plutarch gushes over the accomplishments of Lycurgus, but Huxley isn't so keen on the utopia he presents. The French quote at the beginning of the novel surmises of a day when humans turn away from utopias and prepare to live in the imperfect yet much more alive present. Whatever the case, both pieces are superb visions of a society quite unlike ours.

Marvel, 1962

Yup, it's another geek blog. Sorry; these'll pop up every so often.

First off, let me say this: I lied. Sort of. After reading (the first half of) Marvel Saga, I thought to myself, wouldn't it be fun to read the first issues of Marvel Comics, in chronological order, to see how the superhero evolved? I had, at the time, all the books I needed to get through, save two -- and on the first of the month, I found an excuse to get them (Free Comic Book Day). I thought, why not? Marvel Saga had done its job well, all right. I was hooked.

To read through the first year of Marvel Comics, I obtained six volumes of Marvel Essential comics, which give you somewhere between 20 and 25 full comics' worth of material, in black and white, for a pretty low cost. The volumes I got were the first each of Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, Incredible Hulk, Thor, and the only volumes of Ant-Man and Human Torch.

The 1960's were very much a transition period for Marvel. The company was beginning to ease out of the easy sell genres of fantasy, horror, and mystery, and into the newly-revived-by-DC-comics genre of superheroes. The show began with Fantastic Four #1; it continued with 8 more issues of that title, 4 issues of Hulk, and 14 fantasy anthology titles that contained new superhero stories.

This early stage is two things for Marvel: an experimental stage, and also a time where "safety" is rampant. Of the first 9 issues of Fantastic Four, four issues -- nearly half -- star Sub-Mariner, Doctor Doom, or a combination. Three more introduce other villains, mostly monster-related (which makes sense, since that was Marvel's specialty at the time), and two others are cosmic stories, which I think is what the FF are most known for now. In short, it feels like Stan Lee and company are still trying to figure out what makes the FF tick, in order to give them good villains.

You could say the same thing about the other characters. The new heroes are often visited by Communist spies, because that's the easiest villain route to take. Some foes, like Loki for Thor or aliens for the Fantastic Four, really do fit. Also, the Ant-Man seems to focus on street crime. But other times, like when the Hulk eliminates an invasive alien threat, don't fit, and the creators have to come up with contrived ways to defeat them.

I think the main problem is that Marvel is more concerned, at this early stage, with providing villains for the heroes than they are with character development. The most notable exception is The Incredible Hulk, by far the best comic so far. It was released bimonthly, and cancelled after six issues (soon into the next year of my reading). Unlike in other comics, Hulk and his alter-ego, Bruce Banner, have an interesting relationship, and the stories are driven more by the characters than by the villains. Sure, Hulk happens to meet the Ringmaster and the invading Toad-Men, but the main conflict so early in these books is on how to keep the Hulk contained, and separate from the personality of Bruce Banner. That's why General Ross is so present in these issues -- the nature of the character himself is a major plot point.

And, surprise! One of the folks sometimes working on this comic is Steve Ditko, co-creator of Spider-Man. I wonder if he had any say in the script.

Spider-Man, by the way, is relegated to his one origin issue in this year -- Amazing Fantasy introduced him, was cancelled, and then revived as The Amazing Spider-Man the following year. It's a pity, because those comics were pretty good when I read them.

Fantastic Four conflict is okay; the best bit is the Thing's existential wonderings, which were capitalized on in Hulk. Ant-Man is a mad scientist, Dr. Donald Blake (Thor's alter-ego) is a one-dimensional doctor with a crush, and the Human Torch... is just cool. I don't know why, but his stories really work. I think they gave Torch his own stories because most of the people reading these comics are teens, and the Torch is the only teen on the Fantastic Four. And the Torch is neat -- his powers are neat, his villains are neat... I'm just, somehow, impressed.

In summary: good first effort, Marvel. Now let's see where you go with it.

NEXT: Marvel 1963 brings Spider-Man into the fore at the same time as it cancels Hulk. Meanwhile, Iron Man and Dr. Strange join the fray, and the Avengers and X-Men teams form. Lots to look forward to -- if I can afford it.

Innocence is complicated

If you're a kid, there are a few authors you need to quickly acquaint yourself with, because you will be tested on them when you're older. Lois Lowry, Elizabeth George Speare, Laura Ingalls Wilder... the list goes on. But if there's one author every kid growing up now should know, it's Avi.

Owner of a peculiar one-word penname, Avi has written around ninety books to date, on a vast variety of genres. There's mystery (Who Stole the Wizard of Oz?), American historical fiction (Nothing But The Truth, Don't You Know There's A War On?), animal novels in the style of Watership Down (Poppy), psychological thrillers (Never Mind)... and so on, and so on. And then there's the one that made Avi a Newbery winner -- Crispin: The Cross of Lead.

(By the way, it's not like an author to write a subtitle under a book without plans for a sequel, but it took Avi several years to get around to crafting another Crispin story. This book was, as most good kids' books are, intended to be read as a stand-alone piece.)

Crispin takes place in feudalistic England, where title character Crispin (usually known simply as "Asta's son") is given a death sentence upon the passing of his mother. Fleeing, he comes across a giant of a jester named Bear, and before you can say "MIMUS!", the two are off teaching each other about how to make one's way as a free man in such an oppressive society.

It's not really like Mimus, though (which I reviewed earlier in this blog). Crispin isn't a nobleman being brought down to earth by a common jester. Instead, we are handed a much more traditional jester in Bear: one whose purpose is to give a little more soul to every wretched thing around him. This is particularly necessary for Crispin, who, as a very devout Christian and very confused as to why he's being chased, is terrible at finding the courage to make his own decisions.

So far, so standard -- a classic tale of finding yourself. And according to my librarian, this isn't often considered Avi's best book. But hold on, here comes the good part -- Avi is a really good writer. I can't emphasize this enough. His descriptions are top-notch: here's his jester.

"Upon his head was a hat which seemed to have been split into two, like the points on a cock's comb. At the end of these points hung bells. Moreover, the flaps of his hat came own along both sides of his face, encircling it, then tied below, making his cheeks plump."

Relating to the boy's own experiences in the first line, looking at the jester's hatstraps in a new way in the third... Avi uses the material to its full advantage. There is little cliche material here.

Also, I found the jester to be infinitely quotable. "It's a thing I've noticed," he says at one point, "that the greater a man's - or boy's - ignorance of the world, the more certain he is that he sits in the center of that world."

But that's not all that makes Avi's writing so good. These stock characters we're seemingly presented with get really interesting. Crispin, so unerringly tied to his faith and so certain he doesn't have a soul, clashes against a jester whose only motive is to be free. Furthermore, these two characters grow and develop in our eyes really well over the course of the novel. We gain knowledge about their secrets as the book progresses, and at the same time, they come up with unobvious ways to get out of tricky situations, although they seem perfectly suited to their characters.

My one major complaint is that authors, including Avi, really seem to like describing 14th century England. I don't blame them - it's my favorite place to visit in books, but really, once Crispin enters the big city, he can't take his eyes, or Avi's descriptive pen, off the many things in the streets. I understand Crispin's wonder at the new world, but I would have appreciated some brevity.

So... now what? I've said all I need to say, I guess, so it's time to wrap this up. Should you read this book? Oh, absolutely, and most of the other things Avi's written (see that list I gave you above). Please don't give your kids those hundreds of Star Wars novelizations. Avi really respects the mind of a child, and gives them some complicated ideas to latch on to -- complicated enough to get older readers (like me) thinking hard about our place in society.

In which misogyny is the only logical conclusion

The binder on my library copy of Aristotle's works has been replaced. Through my experience, this is for one of two reasons. One, Aristotle is read so often that the book will necessarily be damaged, especially if the one reading it is prone to dropping things. (Cough.) Two, Aristotle's ideas are so terrible that this book has been damaged by being launched across the room at hard, stationary objects such as walls.

"WOAH, WOAH, WOAH!" you say. "You just said it was hard to critique Shakespeare, and now you dare to bash Aristotle?" Nyet, I say. Listen up, because it's much easier.

As I've mentioned, I'm reading through a list of essential Great Books of the Western World. (This list cuts out a lot of literature, such as South American and Asian and African, which is unfortunate, but one must startf somewhere.) I've read Plato, Aristophanes, and now two works by Aristotle: Book I of "Nicomachean Ethics" and Book I of "Politics". I read the first one a while back; I've just finished the second, so I'll have more to say on that. Also, the two were translated by different people (and both in the 1950's), and "Politics" had a slightly better translation than "Ethics" (which was impenetrable).

My reading of Aristotle goes something like this: if Aristotle's works were a flowchart or outline, it'd be riddled with bullets. Aristotle is thorough -- if he comes across something that must be explained, he'll take paragraphs, chapters, or even whole books to explain the details, the details of the details, the counterarguments, the rebuttals, and so on and so forth. It's very scientific, which is what the guy was known for. As Spock would say, "logical".

Oh, but do we run into problems fast. Book I of "Politics" deals very little with the workings of the state -- it's very much a prologue, in which Aristotle first examines the nature of human relationships, and why they necessitate the creation of a nation. He spends a little time on parent-children relationship (which I have little trouble with), some time on the male-female relationship (which is misogynistic, but fleetingly so), and a lot of time on the master-slave relationship.

Aristotle is very theoretical on this front. In his arguments, he tries to explain why the only viable use for some human beings is as slaves -- glorified property -- and why slaves have different virtues, uses, etc. But as logical as Aristotle's arguments are, they're very claustrophobic. He gives few theoretical examples, and no concrete ones, on why a world without slavery would fail. The reason is obvious: Aristotle's never encountered such a society. He even brings up one counterargument, in that the citizens of other nations taken over in war are made into slaves -- yet they were not born into slavery, so why should that be their new position? And I don't think that Aristotle came up with a good reason for this. He mentions that one answer is that strength, on the battlefield, is as good as virtue, and that's not an argument most people I know would accept.

Aristotle's ideas of society, in short, are close-minded, and about as helpful as the average teenager's angst. I appreciate that Aristotle is so deliberate and thorough, but it bothers me that people accepted his ideas for years -- YEARS! -- before someone in the Renaissance decided they could make their own science. This is the sort of thinking that gets people into trouble today, when toleration is given a miss. It's a little bit dangerous.

Now, briefly, for the good -- I was thinking while I was reading this, which is the point of philosophy anyway. I was considering, for example, the relationship between a film director and his actors and crewmembers. At other points, I considered the fallout of the women's revolution, because misogyny did come up a lot near the end of my reading. At still other points, I thought about the relationship between children and parents, or students and teachers, and how much trust each should give the other -- or if, as Aristotle posited, there really are different sets of virtues that must be applied to each. And in the end, I think I disagree with a lot of what Aristotle says. We are moving towards a very international, unified world, where everyone is given the chance to become exactly who s/he wants to be. We're not there yet, but we're coming closer -- and Aristotle's works are one of those examples where looking into history can equate to a step backwards.