Alice in Wonderland is so stupid??????
I am still reeling from shock at how much I dis-frightfully-liked it! The one and only part I actually thought was close to okay was when the poor bloodhound was re-united with his wife and puppies.
Why did I hate it so much? First of all, it didn't have anything to do with the original Alice. They made up an entirely new backstory for her, packaged with a nice new last name. They dressed her in the sort of dress that a normal Victorian girl might have gotten away with wearing until she was maybe fourteen or fifteen ... but Alice was supposed to be nineteen.
None of the jokes were funny, and it was obvious the actors were only going through the motions. Everyone's makeup was hideous, most notably Anne Hathaway's lipstick and Mia Wasikowska's eyeshadow.
Johnny Depp butchered his recitation of the "Jabberwocky" poem. The least Burton could have done when deciding to make a movie called Alice in Wonderland is to do a little bit of background reading. Lewis Carroll might have made up words, but he was very clear in his explanation of how they should be pronounced.
And this might be a minor quibble for some people, but I thought Alice was unbearably rude. She went around demanding that people (or animals) do things for her, and she never once said thank you. She was a wuss and a ninny and git, endlessly whining about how she could never kill anything and how much her arm was stinging.
And the theme? That theme has been re-treated, re-washed, and re-hung out to dry so many times I couldn't believe anyone who purports to have brains would actually re-use it. Take charge of your own destiny? Make your own decisions? Defy the establishment that says you should wear a corset? Go to China? WHAT???? If that was all he wanted to get across, all he had to do was cast Queen Latifah as Alice.
I could probably go on, but I won't, because I think I've said plenty. But if you're reading this post and you haven't yet seen the scrambled up mess that Tim Burton calls Alice in Wonderland, preserve your brain cells and don't do it.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
War and Peace,
Written by Count Leo Tolstoy, translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
I finally finished it! Wow. What a difference twelve years makes in one's comprehension of literature. I did read it, back when I was eighteen, but I didn't really follow the story with much interest, and there were huge chunks of it that I either skimmed or outright skipped. All of that, combined with the fact that I was reading the Garnett translation (bad, bad, bad), meant that I really needed to read it again.
Was it worth spending three weeks on? Oh, yes. And one of the beauties of it is that the author is so long dead that I can say what I like without any fear that he'll somehow come upon my blog and take offense. Not that he would, because I don't find myself either intelligent or pretentious enough to criticize a genius like Tolstoy. This is the comfort of reading classic literature. You can lose yourself in the assurance of its merit and just enjoy it--as opposed to the modern, untested stuff, which you must constantly evaluate and judge whether it's good or bad. And lest that statement come across as an indication that I don't like to think for myself, but rest my opinions on long-established trends or traditions, I will say that there are many works of literature that are so-called "classic" that I have no qualms about abusing or even ripping to shreds (namely Bram Stoker, James Fenimore Cooper, and to some extent Wilkie Collins).
As for my analysis of War and Peace, I will say in the beginning that it is such a massive work, and sets out to accomplish so many things, that I have very little to say. I struggled a lot with the seemingly random historical commentary sections that always brought the narrative to a screeching halt. I found them confusing, because they always prefaced the events they were analyzing in the story. Again, I can't say that's a shortcoming. Knowing some of what was going on did tend to clarify the big picture of those action scenes.
The characters, above all, were the fascinating factor. With a book so long, there were many, many characters. It is a wonder to me how Tolstoy was able, so simply, to draw people who seemed absolutely alive. In the vitality of the characters, his writing ability is reminiscent of writers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Gaskell. But the difference with Tolstoy's is that he made the people real while giving them only a sentence or a phrase of page-time.
The book's central characters were Prince Andrei Nicolaievitch Bolkonsky, Count Pyotr Kyrillitch Bezukhov, and Countess Natasha Rostov. Other people of importance were Andrei's sister, Princess Marya; and Natasha's family, the Rostovs, most notably her brother, Nikolai. And of course, a whole troupe of intriguing "bad guys". Although I have to issue the obligatory spoiler alert for anyone who plans on reading the book, I have tried hard to keep things vague and will not mention anything specific about the plot.
Andrei was interesting to me mostly because he tried so hard to convince himself that he was a cold intellectual, but everything he did was the proof of his emotional vulnerability and passion. He thought he joined the army initially because he was bored with the superficiality of society life in Moscow and Petersburg, and he despised his sweet, charming little wife because she couldn't live without the things that he thought didn't matter at all. But it turned out that this was all just his own vanity--his desire to join the army was to earn (or prove) his courageousness, to have people's admiration and love. He wanted and needed that adoration and it was driving him crazy. A brush with death, and it seemed everything became clear, but then the subsequent tragedy showed that he was still completely clueless about what his life's purpose actually was. It's hard to say why a reader would like him so much--he was often abrupt and unkind, and endlessly fixated upon his own unhappiness. I think it was because all of his exterior was just a defense against his own fears of being vulnerable. He actually resembles some people I know.
Pierre, Count Bezukhov, was probably my favorite character. I liked him because he was just a big teddy bear, walking around in confusion, trying not to offend people but doing it anyway, trying to care about what other people cared about and failing abysmally. The coolest part of the book was Pierre's climax, when he was finally able to get out of the cloud of confusion and aimless wandering, and figure out what it was that fulfilled him. I liked that he was not handsome or dashing, but fat and clumsy, always overeating and saying the wrong things--but you always liked him anyway, for reasons that are really hard to explain.
The entire book was centered around Natasha and the progress of her maturing from a charming, precocious, spoiled, and vivacious twelve-year-old, in love with her distant cousin Boris; to a woman with a family to take care of. She was also easy to like, even though she did and said stupid things and seemed a bit too simple and selfish. I read somewhere that Natasha was a symbol of Russia, and it's easy to see that in most of the major events of the book.
The ending was perfect, and unlike some other very long and involved works of fiction with epilogues, this had a fabulous epilogue. At least part one. Part two of the epilogue was a very long, very intellectual discussion about history and power, and though I understand and admire it, I didn't enjoy it as much as maybe I should have. But part one was a very fitting end to a series of stories that needed it.
Again, I feel like this analysis, or any analysis I try to make of War and Peace, somehow cheapens it. I'm debating within myself whether I should even post this--but I think it would be even more of a slight not to post anything. So here is my best attempt at commentary on having read Count Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace.
I finally finished it! Wow. What a difference twelve years makes in one's comprehension of literature. I did read it, back when I was eighteen, but I didn't really follow the story with much interest, and there were huge chunks of it that I either skimmed or outright skipped. All of that, combined with the fact that I was reading the Garnett translation (bad, bad, bad), meant that I really needed to read it again.
Was it worth spending three weeks on? Oh, yes. And one of the beauties of it is that the author is so long dead that I can say what I like without any fear that he'll somehow come upon my blog and take offense. Not that he would, because I don't find myself either intelligent or pretentious enough to criticize a genius like Tolstoy. This is the comfort of reading classic literature. You can lose yourself in the assurance of its merit and just enjoy it--as opposed to the modern, untested stuff, which you must constantly evaluate and judge whether it's good or bad. And lest that statement come across as an indication that I don't like to think for myself, but rest my opinions on long-established trends or traditions, I will say that there are many works of literature that are so-called "classic" that I have no qualms about abusing or even ripping to shreds (namely Bram Stoker, James Fenimore Cooper, and to some extent Wilkie Collins).
As for my analysis of War and Peace, I will say in the beginning that it is such a massive work, and sets out to accomplish so many things, that I have very little to say. I struggled a lot with the seemingly random historical commentary sections that always brought the narrative to a screeching halt. I found them confusing, because they always prefaced the events they were analyzing in the story. Again, I can't say that's a shortcoming. Knowing some of what was going on did tend to clarify the big picture of those action scenes.
The characters, above all, were the fascinating factor. With a book so long, there were many, many characters. It is a wonder to me how Tolstoy was able, so simply, to draw people who seemed absolutely alive. In the vitality of the characters, his writing ability is reminiscent of writers like George Eliot and Elizabeth Gaskell. But the difference with Tolstoy's is that he made the people real while giving them only a sentence or a phrase of page-time.
The book's central characters were Prince Andrei Nicolaievitch Bolkonsky, Count Pyotr Kyrillitch Bezukhov, and Countess Natasha Rostov. Other people of importance were Andrei's sister, Princess Marya; and Natasha's family, the Rostovs, most notably her brother, Nikolai. And of course, a whole troupe of intriguing "bad guys". Although I have to issue the obligatory spoiler alert for anyone who plans on reading the book, I have tried hard to keep things vague and will not mention anything specific about the plot.
Andrei was interesting to me mostly because he tried so hard to convince himself that he was a cold intellectual, but everything he did was the proof of his emotional vulnerability and passion. He thought he joined the army initially because he was bored with the superficiality of society life in Moscow and Petersburg, and he despised his sweet, charming little wife because she couldn't live without the things that he thought didn't matter at all. But it turned out that this was all just his own vanity--his desire to join the army was to earn (or prove) his courageousness, to have people's admiration and love. He wanted and needed that adoration and it was driving him crazy. A brush with death, and it seemed everything became clear, but then the subsequent tragedy showed that he was still completely clueless about what his life's purpose actually was. It's hard to say why a reader would like him so much--he was often abrupt and unkind, and endlessly fixated upon his own unhappiness. I think it was because all of his exterior was just a defense against his own fears of being vulnerable. He actually resembles some people I know.
Pierre, Count Bezukhov, was probably my favorite character. I liked him because he was just a big teddy bear, walking around in confusion, trying not to offend people but doing it anyway, trying to care about what other people cared about and failing abysmally. The coolest part of the book was Pierre's climax, when he was finally able to get out of the cloud of confusion and aimless wandering, and figure out what it was that fulfilled him. I liked that he was not handsome or dashing, but fat and clumsy, always overeating and saying the wrong things--but you always liked him anyway, for reasons that are really hard to explain.
The entire book was centered around Natasha and the progress of her maturing from a charming, precocious, spoiled, and vivacious twelve-year-old, in love with her distant cousin Boris; to a woman with a family to take care of. She was also easy to like, even though she did and said stupid things and seemed a bit too simple and selfish. I read somewhere that Natasha was a symbol of Russia, and it's easy to see that in most of the major events of the book.
The ending was perfect, and unlike some other very long and involved works of fiction with epilogues, this had a fabulous epilogue. At least part one. Part two of the epilogue was a very long, very intellectual discussion about history and power, and though I understand and admire it, I didn't enjoy it as much as maybe I should have. But part one was a very fitting end to a series of stories that needed it.
Again, I feel like this analysis, or any analysis I try to make of War and Peace, somehow cheapens it. I'm debating within myself whether I should even post this--but I think it would be even more of a slight not to post anything. So here is my best attempt at commentary on having read Count Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Cooking
Cooking is a very unique pursuit. It is both useful and artistic. If you think about it, there are very few skills you can have that sustain life and, at the very same time, serve as an outlet for creative expression. I guess there are a few others. But who doesn't enjoy good food?
I won't lie. I'm a good cook--at least as far as ordinary people go. How do I know? People like it when I cook. They tell me so all the time. All I have to do is ask them if they like it, and they tell me straight-up that they do. That's the most concrete proof I need. No-one ever fibs in order to spare my feelings, especially since they know how easily crushed I am. And they would never suspect the possibility of having a plate or a fork flung at their head if they somehow let it slip that what I just made is not the greatest dish of its kind ever to enter their mouth and stomach. I'm just not touchy that way, so I know I'm a good cook.
So this may be a little cliché, but after seeing Babette's Feast, Mostly Martha, Ratatouille and Julie and Julia, I decided it was time to seriously learn how to cook, rather than continuing with my preferred method of preparing a meal--just going into the kitchen and throwing together whatever smells good.
I own five cookbooks--one is your standard Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. It's a nice collection of general, bandwagon good stuff. The second is my Family cookbook. My mom compiled it a few years ago for our Christmas presents, and it's a big hit. People especially like the famous food quotations she inserted on section-breaks. The third is called 50 Great Curries of India. I have yet to use it, but this week I'm planning a trip to a better grocery store in order to buy the stuff I need to make these great curries. And four and five I got in the mail today. The Eat Clean Cookbook, and Mastering the Art of French Cooking (of course).
The odd thing is I never expected to be this excited about cooking. But with the odd situation I find myself in this summer with my family, refining and defining my cooking ability seems like a logical thing to get excited about. I think they're getting tired of hearing me talk about all the great things I'm going to make, but they definitely don't get tired of the things I put on their plates every day.
This is not the start of another cook-your-way-through-Julia Child blog, nor is it one of those do-something-odd-so-you-can-feel-good-about-yourself blogs. I don't feel that cooking, or blogging, is necessary to help me regain my sense of self. However, I do like to eat good food, and what better way to make sure I can always have good food than to learn to make it myself?
I won't lie. I'm a good cook--at least as far as ordinary people go. How do I know? People like it when I cook. They tell me so all the time. All I have to do is ask them if they like it, and they tell me straight-up that they do. That's the most concrete proof I need. No-one ever fibs in order to spare my feelings, especially since they know how easily crushed I am. And they would never suspect the possibility of having a plate or a fork flung at their head if they somehow let it slip that what I just made is not the greatest dish of its kind ever to enter their mouth and stomach. I'm just not touchy that way, so I know I'm a good cook.
So this may be a little cliché, but after seeing Babette's Feast, Mostly Martha, Ratatouille and Julie and Julia, I decided it was time to seriously learn how to cook, rather than continuing with my preferred method of preparing a meal--just going into the kitchen and throwing together whatever smells good.
I own five cookbooks--one is your standard Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. It's a nice collection of general, bandwagon good stuff. The second is my Family cookbook. My mom compiled it a few years ago for our Christmas presents, and it's a big hit. People especially like the famous food quotations she inserted on section-breaks. The third is called 50 Great Curries of India. I have yet to use it, but this week I'm planning a trip to a better grocery store in order to buy the stuff I need to make these great curries. And four and five I got in the mail today. The Eat Clean Cookbook, and Mastering the Art of French Cooking (of course).
The odd thing is I never expected to be this excited about cooking. But with the odd situation I find myself in this summer with my family, refining and defining my cooking ability seems like a logical thing to get excited about. I think they're getting tired of hearing me talk about all the great things I'm going to make, but they definitely don't get tired of the things I put on their plates every day.
This is not the start of another cook-your-way-through-Julia Child blog, nor is it one of those do-something-odd-so-you-can-feel-good-about-yourself blogs. I don't feel that cooking, or blogging, is necessary to help me regain my sense of self. However, I do like to eat good food, and what better way to make sure I can always have good food than to learn to make it myself?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
On Turning Thirty
I am 30 today. It’s kind of a relief to finally be here after dreading it so long. My family and I had just a little celebration on Sunday that included some lovely cheesecake, lots of smiles, and a fun game.
Now that I’m to this particular life milestone (anyone know why it’s a milestone exactly, other than that it’s the entry into a new decade?), I’m finding myself a little reflective. Have I done everything that I should have done in my 20s?
Well, that answer is complicated. I actually think that I have. I went to college and had a little fun—the fun was much neglected due to the pursuit of a degree, but I find the more educated I become, the greater is my capacity to have fun, so I don’t feel anymore that I missed too much—I came back to my home state and realized how much I love it; I worked a lot of different (some good, some awful) jobs, including a receptionist in a pool supply warehouse, an assistant editor, a content editor, a bookseller, a substitute teacher, an instructional aide, a loan application call center specialist, a seamstress, and a teacher; I learned how to make friends (unfortunately, I really did have to learn that, because I didn’t know how to during childhood and adolescence); served an LDS mission; got a teaching certificate and taught middle school for four years; had a variety of church responsibilities; almost finished a master’s degree; and I even wrote a novel—never mind that I decided later that I hated it and began to rewrite it—it was finished and it was the child of my very own brain.
So the question now is what comes next? I never thought I would do a lot of the things I have done in the previous decade, and if I had planned my life out, it would have turned out entirely different. But here are some of my hopes and dreams for the decade of my 30s. Maybe they’re more cautious hopes, and maybe they’re more daring. I would like, first, to finish my master’s degree (just 6 more hours!) and get a job in a school library. I do want to continue writing, and I would like to finish a book series I’ve started. I want to become more kind, more thoughtful, more caring, and more faithful. I want to be a diligent scholar of the scriptures. I want to travel to a foreign country again; yeah, I did it once in my teens and once in my twenties, and I want to do it in my 30s as well. And I want to get married. That has always been on my list of things I want to do, of course, but this time I feel … oh, I don’t know. When I was 20, I was confident that some dreamy young man would sail into my life and sweep me off my feet, that we would get married, and I would spend the rest of my life as his wife and the mother of his children. Now, I still think in similar terms, only I’m jaded and my expectations are at the same time simpler and more complicated. I don’t want to have ten children anymore, but I do want children and I want to be the best mother I can be. And I want to be a good wife, including but much beyond being a fantastic cook (it’s true), a good doer of laundry, a smart manager of finances, and all those other homey, wifely skills. I’ll have to do all of those things extremely well to make up for all the trouble I’ll cause him. Hehe.
But all that aside, because it’s not something I can make happen all by myself, there are not as many things I want to do as things I want to become, and the desires of my heart, at the core, have not changed much between 20 and 30. I still want to do everything I can to please the Lord, to become like Him. I still want to be a blessing to the people around me, whether they are the family I was born into, or the family I create with a future spouse. In other words, I feel at 30 a lot like I did at 20, only less stupid. But then, when I was 20 I thought I was pretty wise and smart. Little did I know then … little do I know now.
So, I’ve been there and done the pity party already, and I’ve decided that it’s time for it to be over for good. What’s the point in always looking at what I’ve missed, rather than what I’ve had? Not to sound vain or proud, but my life has been pretty extraordinary, and I’ve been blessed to be able to do a lot of things I never imagined I would. No comparisons with other people are necessary here, because who really cares what other people have done? It really only matters what I have done, and I have done a lot of good things. I can say, with a little confidence and a lot of hope, that the world is a better place for having had three decades of me.
Now that I’m to this particular life milestone (anyone know why it’s a milestone exactly, other than that it’s the entry into a new decade?), I’m finding myself a little reflective. Have I done everything that I should have done in my 20s?
Well, that answer is complicated. I actually think that I have. I went to college and had a little fun—the fun was much neglected due to the pursuit of a degree, but I find the more educated I become, the greater is my capacity to have fun, so I don’t feel anymore that I missed too much—I came back to my home state and realized how much I love it; I worked a lot of different (some good, some awful) jobs, including a receptionist in a pool supply warehouse, an assistant editor, a content editor, a bookseller, a substitute teacher, an instructional aide, a loan application call center specialist, a seamstress, and a teacher; I learned how to make friends (unfortunately, I really did have to learn that, because I didn’t know how to during childhood and adolescence); served an LDS mission; got a teaching certificate and taught middle school for four years; had a variety of church responsibilities; almost finished a master’s degree; and I even wrote a novel—never mind that I decided later that I hated it and began to rewrite it—it was finished and it was the child of my very own brain.
So the question now is what comes next? I never thought I would do a lot of the things I have done in the previous decade, and if I had planned my life out, it would have turned out entirely different. But here are some of my hopes and dreams for the decade of my 30s. Maybe they’re more cautious hopes, and maybe they’re more daring. I would like, first, to finish my master’s degree (just 6 more hours!) and get a job in a school library. I do want to continue writing, and I would like to finish a book series I’ve started. I want to become more kind, more thoughtful, more caring, and more faithful. I want to be a diligent scholar of the scriptures. I want to travel to a foreign country again; yeah, I did it once in my teens and once in my twenties, and I want to do it in my 30s as well. And I want to get married. That has always been on my list of things I want to do, of course, but this time I feel … oh, I don’t know. When I was 20, I was confident that some dreamy young man would sail into my life and sweep me off my feet, that we would get married, and I would spend the rest of my life as his wife and the mother of his children. Now, I still think in similar terms, only I’m jaded and my expectations are at the same time simpler and more complicated. I don’t want to have ten children anymore, but I do want children and I want to be the best mother I can be. And I want to be a good wife, including but much beyond being a fantastic cook (it’s true), a good doer of laundry, a smart manager of finances, and all those other homey, wifely skills. I’ll have to do all of those things extremely well to make up for all the trouble I’ll cause him. Hehe.
But all that aside, because it’s not something I can make happen all by myself, there are not as many things I want to do as things I want to become, and the desires of my heart, at the core, have not changed much between 20 and 30. I still want to do everything I can to please the Lord, to become like Him. I still want to be a blessing to the people around me, whether they are the family I was born into, or the family I create with a future spouse. In other words, I feel at 30 a lot like I did at 20, only less stupid. But then, when I was 20 I thought I was pretty wise and smart. Little did I know then … little do I know now.
So, I’ve been there and done the pity party already, and I’ve decided that it’s time for it to be over for good. What’s the point in always looking at what I’ve missed, rather than what I’ve had? Not to sound vain or proud, but my life has been pretty extraordinary, and I’ve been blessed to be able to do a lot of things I never imagined I would. No comparisons with other people are necessary here, because who really cares what other people have done? It really only matters what I have done, and I have done a lot of good things. I can say, with a little confidence and a lot of hope, that the world is a better place for having had three decades of me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)