Archive for the ‘Genre’ Category

While I’m in Montreal singing with the Montreal Chamber Orchestra, I’ll be reposting some classic Scintillations for your amusement. Enjoy!

After watching all that Doctor Who, I felt like indulging in some agreeable fluff. So this week I watched the first three Twilight movies again.

YES I KNOW. The Twilight movies are ridiculous, but unlike the books, enjoyably so.

Anyway, after I stopped being distracted by Taylor Lautner’s abs* I was struck by the similarities between the Edward-Bella love story and the Doctor-Rose story arc.

Spoilers for both Doctor Who and Twilight after the jump! Though, if you don’t already know how Twilight ends, I’d like to know what rock you’ve been living under. And join you there.

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After watching all that Doctor Who, I felt like indulging in some agreeable fluff. So this week I watched the first three Twilight movies again.

YES I KNOW. The Twilight movies are ridiculous, but unlike the books, enjoyably so.

Anyway, after I stopped being distracted by Taylor Lautner’s abs* I was struck by the similarities between the Edward-Bella love story and the Doctor-Rose story arc.

Spoilers for both Doctor Who and Twilight after the jump! Though, if you don’t already know how Twilight ends, I’d like to know what rock you’ve been living under. And join you there.

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I had an AWESOME idea last night for a blockbuster Hollywood romantic comedy.  Screw opera and poetry, this is what’s going to propel me into the spotlight.

Here’s the treatment:

The Jerk Whisperer

Tagline: The biggest jerk is always the one you find…in your heart.

Matthew [Vince Vaughan] is the world’s first “Jerk Whisperer”. Author, consultant, media personality, he specializes in helping assholes reform their ways and become better people. He uses tough love and exposes harsh truths to get through to them. We see vignettes of him helping a homophobic/closet gay televangelist [Jack Black], a bitter former athlete who is now wheelchair-bound [Patrick Stewart] and an alcoholic conspiracy theorist Sam [Jon Heder of “Napoleon Dynamite” fame]]. He takes Sam to a bar as an exercise in normal social interaction. Unfortunately the conversation turns to the death of Princess Diana (Sam’s bugbear) and they get into a bar fight. Both are arrested and bailed out by Sam’s sister Kyla [Rachel McAdams], who is hot but kind of bitchy. Sparks fly between Matthew and Kyla. “I’m a jerk whisperer, not a bitch whisperer!” etc.

Matthew and Kyla date [cute dating montage: walks in the park, ice cream, paddleboats, romantic cuddling in front of the TV, sex]. They talk about how they met and what a funny story it is, how she bailed him out of jail. She finally challenges him: why didn’t he have anyone to bail him out? He confesses to her that he doesn’t really have any friends – sure, he has people to hang out with, but no one who really cares about him. Because he’s the biggest jerk of all, and even with all his expertise he can’t save himself.

Ashamed at showing his vulnerability, Matthew dumps Kyla. Unbeknownst to him, Kyla had taped the conversation when he confessed his lack of friends. During an appearance on Larry King she calls in and plays the tape on the air. Matthew is humiliated and his business suffers. He talks to his wise old agent [Christopher Walken] who tells him the girl is right, and that it sounds like he’s met his match.  Plus the publicity will be good for him in the end.

Matthew confronts Kyla. “But that’s what you do,” she says. “You make people face up to the truth about themselves. That’s what I did for you. Because I love you.” He realizes that he has shut her out of his life with his harsh facade, that he has always shut down his emotions. Catharsis. They get together.

Credits montage: Kyla and Matthew on the talk show circuit together, hawking their self-help book – “Jerks in love: How tough love can save YOUR relationship” or something like that.

So if you’re a Hollywood director/producer/agent, please get in touch and we can discuss terms.

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Dear Rita,

Many years ago I read your book Rubyfruit Jungle with great pleasure. It’s not every writer that can make a lesbian Bildungsroman a light-hearted and fun read. Also, if you had never written anything except the title of your first book of poetry, you would have earned my respect, because The Hand that Cradles the Rock is an awesome title for a book of feminist poems.

True, I haven’t followed your later books, largely because most of them were co-authored by your cat, and I am allergic to books which feature animals as either authors or protagonists (or both). So whenever I saw “Murder, She Meowed” or “Claws and Effect” at the library I did nothing except wish you and Sneaky Pie well and move on.

All that changed the other day. I went to the library to pick up R. Crumb’s bizarre rendition of Genesis, which I had put on hold, and happened to see one of your books: The Hounds and the Fury. A quick glance told me it was a murder mystery involving foxhounds and foxhunting, which is exactly the sort of book I always think I’ll like, so I got it.


Ms. Brown, as someone who has written (according to Wikipedia), some 38 full-length novels, I would have assumed that you had mastered that whole “show, don’t tell thing”. I seem to have been wrong. Not only does this book begin with a detailed description of each character – and why are there so many of them, anyway? – including the foxhounds, the horses, and a variety of wildlife – but peppered through the book are explainy explainy boring statements like this:

Freddie wanted to be like Sister, but she was too concerned with her effect on others. Beautiful as she was, this made her vulnerable. She needed praise to feel feminine, to feel good. Sister woke up in he morning feeling good.

How ’bout something like this instead?

Freddie turned to Jason. “Oh Doctor,” she said, “tell me more about your work.”

Jason smiled down at Freddie, making her heart race with anticipation. Funny, she didn’t even like him much, but his smile made her feel warm. “Well, Freddie, how much do you know about medicine?”

“Oh, not much,” said Freddie, a smile blazing across her perfect face. “I mean, my father was a doctor – but I never took much interest.” Freddie kept her eyes locked on the doctor’s, and her two years of pre-med to herself.

I wrote that last bit, by the way. Yes, it’s horribly cliched and stupid, but at least it gets across the idea that “Freddie is insecure and gets male attention by belittling herself” without a boring descriptive paragraph.

Even when you do actually show a character doing something, you immediately follow up by telling us what that shows about the character. Like this:

“Are you alright?”
“Fine. Tired. […] Sam was in the hospital.” He held back he small detail that Sam had been shot. He was tired and didn’t feel like indulging in speculation with people who weren’t close.

Yes, thank you for pointing out the Gray didn’t tell Iffy that Sam was in the hospital. I would never, ever have noticed that in a million years if you hadn’t pointed it out. No, actually I would have, and I would have thought “Huh, that’s odd. Maybe Gray doesn’t trust Iffy. Maybe he suspects Iffy. Hmm…” and it may have added a modicum of interest to the plot.

There are a lot of other unlikeable things about this book – the constant defense of riches and privilege, the ham-handed and unrealistic race relations, the way you keep sticking references to saints’ days in the middle of things, the fact that you not only anthropomorphized all the animals but made them capable of conversing with each other. (OK, if they could talk, I can see how foxes and dogs would communicate, being closely related species, but why the fuck would an owl be able to talk to a horse? They’re wildly different animals with very different lifeways – horses are domesticated pack mammals, and owls are pair-bonding predatory birds – not to mention cognitive abilities. Both horses and owls are pretty dumb, true, but dumb in different ways: prey dumb and predator dumb, bird dumb and mammal dumb, big dumb and small dumb.)

Also the gender essentialism is pretty disturbing, considering your involvement in the feminist movement. I’m talking about statements like this:

“Once a man takes a position publicly, he rarely backs down or seeks a comprimise. It’s a particular failing of the gender…with great effort, especially from friends, most women can be brought around to seek a comprimise.”

Or like this:

Sybil appreciated Shaker’s thoughtfulness. Her marriage, a disaster, had left her a single mother. She liked her sons to be around real men, and Shaker was about as real as it got.

Never mind that feminists have been trying since the seventies to deconstruct the stifling confines of gender roles, to free us all from the idea that there are sets of behaviours and actions that you must adopt if you want to be a “real man” or a “real woman”. You want your gameskeeper character to be a Real Man, so you make Pathetic Single Mom use him to heteronormatize her sons.

(To be clear, if these two characters – Sister and Sybil, respectively – had said/thought these things as a demonstration of their subtle sexism and hidebound gender essentialism, that would have been fine. If a non-feminist writer had written that, it would have merited an eye-roll or two. But coming from the mouths/brains of the two most sympathetic/lionized characters in a book by an ostensibly feminist writer it makes me think, “What the fuck?”)

Speaking of characters, why, again, are there so many of them? By page 200 I was still flipping back to the list at the beginning to check who Betty was again, and what her relationship to Crawford was. And you do realize that the three private school girls could have been rolled into one? That what they’re there for – to show that Sister is a hip old lady who loves young people – could have been distilled down to a couple of sentences in the middle of the hunt.

But I digress. I read all sorts of awful books, and I could have forgiven all this – it still might have been an enjoyalble read – if it hadn’t been for the egregious Mary Sue that you put at the centre of your book.

I’m sure you intended Sister (Jane Arnold) to be an earthy, fierce, inspiring older woman, full of life and vigour and still sexy in her seventies. You certainly make a point of telling us how fantastic she is on every other page. Sister is perfect. Sister can do no wrong. Sister has a primeval instinct for horses and hounds. She knows everything and can both turn a young man’s head AND beat him up.

Unfortunately, as you have written her, Sister is unbelievable and annoying. I’d like to see her actually interacting with someone without them flattering her. I’d like to see her make a mistake or have a weakness or do something to hurt someone. Because then she’d seem like a human being instead of a slightly older and heterosexual embodiment of Rita Mae Brown’s superego.

I have two possible theories for how this horrible excuse for a book came to be:

1)You have complete and utter contempt for your audience. I’m guessing your publisher’s demographic research has revealed your audience to be privileged but unintelligent women aged 50-75, so you tailored your book perfectly to them, being careful to explain everything clearly so they wouldn’t miss out.
2)You have lost your touch and now write self-absorbed bilge.

I lean towards 2) but the facts could support either case. By the way, the denouement comes totally out of nowhere and there really are NO clues (other than Iffy’s hair not falling out) pointing to who the murderer ends up being. Lazy plotting.

On the plus side, you do say lots of nice things about hounds, which I appreciated, being the owner of two Beagle/Bassets. If my dog Madeline could read I’m sure she would have enjoyed it.

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For some reason this has been in the “Top Posts” sidebar for a while. You judge for yourself just why.

Reposted from last May.

Two-page story

One: I woke up. Two: It was morning. Three: I was not at home.

Where I was I didn’t know, or I wasn’t sure, or I’d forgotten. I was alone, and the bed and the walls were strangers to me.

I dressed in strange clothes – strange to me, that is – and walked through the door. I was on a charming canal-side street. A passing old woman handed me a flower and smiled. “Good day, good day, miss,” she said in a sing-song voice with a strange accent.

All along the street and on the other side of the canal the shops were opening, people waking up, people going about their business and starting the day. I turned and strolled nonchalantly along the canal. I passed a little news stand: “Good day, good day, miss,” its proprietor said in the same sing-song tone. He looked just like the old woman – he had the same shock of snowy hair, the same kindly black eyes, the same wrinkled red cheeks like an old dried-out apple. He nodded and handed me a paper. “Oh, I don’t think I have any money,” I said, searching my pockets for any strange coins. “Never mind, never mind, miss,” he said, and with another nod I went my way down the street.

Of course I couldn’t read the newspaper. Its alphabet was as strange and unknown to me as everything else in this strange and unknown land. Still I studied its pages, nodding sagely from time to time, until I reached the end of the canal-side street.

Here where the canal entered a tunnel the city street turned into a lovely landscaped park. Groups of cheerful elderly people were strolling arm in arm, nodding and smiling at me. In the bandstand a group of horn players were setting up and warming up. And in the distance, on top of a hill, an enormous gibbet loomed over us all. It was then that I remembered everything.

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She was gone.  The window was open, and she was gone.  I looked stupidly outside at the tree in bloom and the blue sky behind it.  She was gone.

It wasn’t unexpected, of course.  She had been getting restless for a while.  I wasn’t even sad, particularly, just deeply, humbly, unbelievably, sure.  Final things, you know, they feel final.

I sat down on the bed and remembered her sitting there, showing me the wings that had begun to sprout from her caramel shoulders.

“They’re coming back,” she said, “I’m getting better.”

“You look a lot better,” I said, though it made my heart sink.  She did, too.  She was still sallow and gaunt – too long away from the sun – but she was getting better.

We didn’t talk about it, of course.  My visits to the upstairs room were briefer than before.  Not because I didn’t want to see her – I did – but to stop me from saying what I could only barely stop myself from saying.

And of course she’d only gotten more and more beautiful: more golden, more burnished, with wings growing prouder every moment.

“I’ve never thanked you,” she said one day,” for how you’ve helped me.”

“You don’t need to.”

“No, but I should.”  She laid a delicate hand on my arm, sending a delicious coolness through my body.  “Thank you.”

I  started to plan that night.  I lay awake and thought and thought and thought.  It was only a matter of time before she left.  Nothing could stop her once she’d made up her mind.  Unless…

I lay awake that night.  What I was planning I’d never do, of course – or that’s what I told myself – but as the plan took shape in my mind it slowly turned from fantasy to certainty.

But I was too late, I thought dumbly as I sat on the bed.  “I was too late,” I said out loud.  “Thank you.”  I whispered; and looked one last time from the window to the iron bars on the floor.

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Encouraged by some positive feedback on last week’s dramatic monologue reading (OK, one nice comment on Facebook…), I offer a reading of the story I posted yesterday.  I would have used a Dweezil Zappa sort of accent for the narrator, but…I can’t do accents.  Except for Ranier Wolfcastle.

Also in this episode: why on earth do people think they NEED to live so far from where they work, and what sort of life is that?  Plus a continuation on the food porn topic, this time with a twist.

Direct link.

Oh, I should warn you, tagged “Explicit” due to swearing and blasphemy.  Enjoy!

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