A "Passage" worth reading

I finished Justin Cronin's novel "The Passage" yesterday, to coincide with his sole Seattle bookstore signing.  That pairing gives me a chance to comment on both - the work and the marketing.  The more time I spend looking into the marketing and selling of the book, the more I see the business-side as an artisanal sausage-making job.  A whole lot more mystery still goes into properly writing and crafting the reason for the selling.  But they're obviously both part of the gig.

Most importantly, "The Passage" is a grand, impressive hunk of work.  My rating - a hard-earned A-minus.  The plot is apocalyptic, the monsters are unleashed by our own stupidity, and they are quite a bundle of trouble.  But the heroes are why you'd choose to come along for a nearly 800-page ride.  The writing is lyrical in places, the action is described with lean, strong prose, and you come to know his characters almost immediately.  All those things are incredibly tough to do, but Cronin just piles it on and on until you don't want this volume to leave it where you know it must be lain as you near the approaching back cover.  Which leads to my only reason for not ticking up my rating that last notch - this big ol' hunk of dead tree is just the first of three grandly planned books.  Cronin said last night that the next two will be published in the summers of 2012 and 2014.  Accordingly, the ending of this book seems like a bit too much of a cliffhanger.  The resolution will not allow the book to stand alone.  So for anyone that reads it, likes it very much, but just wants to move on to feast upon the millions of other writers out there...well, they're going to be disappointed.  Call it obligatory fiction.  Once you start, you just can't stop.  That being said (and it is far from the most important thing to say about this giant kegger of a brain party), this novel will find a massive audience of eager fans.  I asked Cronin whether he was already encountering people quoting back to him the mythology he's created (perhaps too cleverly I termed them "gestational Trekkies", even though my geek side knows they prefer "Trekkers").  He answered with the joking question of "what have you heard" and followed through with a colleague's comment about painful doctoral dissertations to come on the world he's created.  Let's hope not.  I know he was joking.  But people will certainly squish and squeeze this work to fit their own contorted desire to attribute far grander provenance to something that is basically just a well-written story meant to entertain readers.  Vampire fans are probably good people, too.  I'll just be damned if I want to listen to them talk smack about greater truths to be drawn from such activity.

Which draws me what may seem far afield to mention a story I read this morning about Harper Lee - the reclusive author of "To Kill A Mockingbird".  Some enterprising Brit got her to agree to an extremely rare interview just prior to the 50th anniversary of her only book's publication.  The profile is fascinating.  Mainly because it shows that Harper Lee is just a person.  One whose sole offering of brilliance has become something far grander that she surely ever expected.  It might have stifled her.  Drove her to drink.  Pushed her into the full Salinger.  What was done with the lessons of her novel, however, seems to me to be the most fascinating.  By unleashing a conversation that you merely whisper to a reader, you don't know what they're going to then do with it.  That is the beauty and the power of the job.  And it can be an unruly bitch.  Maybe that sounds vague and half-baked.  But it makes sense to me.

So to finish up what I'd said earlier about seeing the marketing and selling of a book as an important thing to observe from Cronin's book, I can offer the smallest bits of anecdotal insight.  For my own benefit, probably, since I learn something from every author I meet.  I asked Cronin if he has the same agent for these books as he had for his two prior well-received but very modestly sold novels.  I was pleased to hear that he stuck with that person.  Somebody's got a nice place in the Hamptons this summer, if you know what I mean.  Aside from that, reading for an audience of readers is performance.  And all the little details mean a ton to the sort of folks that show up at these for fun.  Like how you notate your signature (Cronin chose his own creation from "The Passage" that served him well in both places - "All eyes.").  And how much you read (he went on a bit too long as observed by a crowd shifting in the seats well before he'd finished).  And whether you have personal connections with the crowd (a past student from Rice University where he's still on faculty came to ask a question, and Cronin remembered him by name).  In the end, I suppose the trick is to encourage folks to not only buy the book.  You want people to talk about it and tell others that they should look into it.  Duh.  Because Justin Cronin ain't going anywhere near Harper Lee territory - he'll be out there talking about this book and the movies Ridley Scott is prepping to make from them and the books to come for the next handful of years.  Along the way, we'll get to know a lot more about his monsters and the war humankind will fight against them.  And how he got to writing this story as a way to bond with his 8-year-old daughter while she rode her bike alongside him running, meant to showcase a girl who saves the world.  And whether humanity can once again be metaphorically forgiven for doing what we always do.

Wherever this trilogy goes, I think you should join in.  Unless you plan to write some sort of bad goth term paper on it.  In which case, you should read "To Kill A Mockingbird" and get outside for an afternoon.  Trust me, it will do you some good.  In either case.

A story about much more than toys, conceived and told with childlike glee

Piling on the accolades for "Toy Story 3" may seem like a waste of good adjectives.  Touching.  Heartfelt.  Family-riffic.  But I won't dispute that they all apply.  My rating after seeing it Saturday with kids and other adults in tow - a deserved full A.  It is, without a doubt in my mind, a perfect movie.  Aside from all the obvious emotional and intellectual plaudits, I must add a few that might get lost in the mix of blubbering and self-identification experienced by kids and adults alike.  Foremost, the storytelling is brilliant in its efficiency.  A few lines of dialogue and well-crafted animation sequences here accomplish more than even the most masterful filmmaker could muster (the scene where Mrs. Potato Head uses her detached eye to see that the toys being taken to the dump was a tragic mistake is what earned this compliment from me).  And secondly, the animation has improved to the degree where the facial features of the "human" characters are more expressive than real actors.  I mean that.  "Toy Story 3" introduces Bonnie, a beautifully creative young girl, and re-introduces Andy, the boy who is now headed off to college and whose decisions of what to do with the toys in that light form the cohesion in the storyline of the movie.  Giving anything away would be infinitely lame.  Harping on the intensity of certain scenes for very young children would be unfair given the overall arc of the film.  But missing this movie, would be the real shame.  It's just that damn good.

On a very different level, the new album from art rock weirdo Ariel Pink (and his backing band, Haunted Graffiti) is a hard thing to recommend.  It's dressed up, formerly low-fidelity artiness.  You need to be a major music geek to even care about this dood's ascendancy.  But if you appreciate challenging new music that inspires conversation and strongly held opinions, this album will whet an appetite.  I even recommend a pairing with the decidedly hard to pigeonhole funk parade debut album by Janelle Monae discovered from the orbit of Outkast around Atlanta.  Both "Before Today" and "The Archandroid" earn the same rating from me - slightly uneasy C-pluses.  Someday I may like them.  But for now, it feels like music appreciation by way of a long forced march through unfamiliar terrain.  If you have entirely different opinions of both albums, I won't be surprised in the least.

Hope your own playthings give you many more years of pleasure going forward from today.  Rock on.

Can we talk? About something else for a minute?

There doesn't seem to be much oxygen left in the public chamber to support discussion of anything besides McChrystal's self-immolation (blame it on his moronic one meal a day diet maybe).  Or Team USA's truly thrilling extra time goal against Algeria.  So I'll just take a little gulp and offer the following double endorsement.

The documentary "Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work" is an extremely worthwhile piece of storytelling.  Actually, aside from "Exit Through The Gift Shop" (which I'm increasingly convinced was actually an elaborate ruse on Banksy's part) this is the best documentary I've seen this year.  My rating - a solid B-plus.  I'm not just now jumping on the bandwagon of loving Joan Rivers.  As someone who listened to comedy albums on cassette over and over and over again in my childhood, I grew up with an early appreciation of her timing (always just a beat too quick for the punchline to add to the shock of her subjects).  But seeing her work both on stage and off in this documentary is fascinating.  See this movie.  If for no other reason than to see how she handles what could have been a disastrous confrontation while performing at an Indian casino in Northern Wisconsin, of all places.  

I don't speak of it much, but I really do love video games.  Once again, that goes way back to childhood.  Don't play 'em much these days.  Don't like a ton of them.  But the game "Red Dead Redemption" by the folks who brought us "Grand Theft Auto" is the most layered, engaging, well-conceived world.  It's set in the not-so-old West.  The gameplaying is great.  Yet the interstitial stuff (a temperance "moving picture" show you can pay a few bucks to enter amidst all the other delightful distractions was a favorite I came across a few days ago)...well, there's more fun to be found on this platform than in anything I've seen on TV in ages.  My rating - an upwardly mobile A-minus, only because I'm just part way into the game.  If you are anything of a gamer, buy it.  Now.

Hope your own distractions are worthy, yet far from insubordinate today.  Rock on.

World Cup fever claims another victim.

World Cup fever claims another victim.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya's really all about getting along on the pitch. No killer instinct in this kid. Yet. But she digs the gear, for sure.

One part soccer, one part "Karate Kid".

One part soccer, one part "Karate Kid".
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Oil exploration - a massive FAIL that calls for all kinds of revisions

We all should step back occasionally and make revisions.  It ain't easy when it comes to certain things (hello, novelists).  But in the wake of President Obama's Oval Office speech to the Nation, I'm thinking about a required revision I should have undertaken weeks ago.  Of course it's all related to the massive underwater oil volcano still erupting in the Gulf of Mexico.  Plainly stated, I was wrong when I gave Obama props for his long-range plans to open up offshore oil exploration.  And by revising the logic behind my earlier support for that political judgment call, I hope this brief mea culpa makes its way up the media foodchain to the President's desk.  I'm not expecting too much.  Just remember how my little bitchy fit about Williams-Sonoma paid off.

Obama's speech last night was a massive failure.  I think it just shows how out of their element his team is when dealing with an actual evolving crisis that they didn't inherit.  Obama wants to out-think this mess and out-straight-talk it - you can see and hear it dripping from every phrase he turns.  But he just plain doesn't say anything and his masterful cadences have begun to grate on even his more ardent supporters.  As a result, we're rudderless as the news gets exponentially worse every day.  Looking forward, the first hurricane that churns through the Gulf will upgrade the shitestorm of this underground septic tank leak into an exploding outhouse that sets the woodpile and outlying buildings on fire.  Or the rough equivalent.  What Obama does and says the next few weeks will set the tone for the entire summer.  So last night's speech was WAY too late and WAY too vague.  Move on and don't look back.  Because you had an off night with a really poorly written speech is now being kicked sideways by everyone this side of the World Cup.

This takes me back to the point I'd made at the end of March.  I thought that Obama was making a smart advance move in opening up the possibility of more exploration.  And in so doing, I thought he could eliminate the possibility of the GOP gaining ground in terms of energy policy which figured to be the next political battleground after financial reform.  What I (along with just about everyone else - even those that are paid to be keyed up on this stuff) didn't realize was that we can't drill safely.  Not at the depths we need to explore at for the foreseeable future.  Our regulatory oversight is horrible, the industry is arrogant, and we've got no money in escrow as a Nation to handle the costs if something goes wrong.  Allowing further exploration right now is just unconscionable.  Whether or not I should have seen that in March is beside the point - I was commenting on political points of expediency.  And I was way off my rocker wrong.  My apologies.

Maybe you're wondering why I'm bothering to get this out there.  Bloggers are people too, is my excuse.  And like many of my fellow citizens, I'm trying to figure out what to do about the disaster in the Gulf.  I've never even been to the beaches in Florida or off the coast of North Carolina.  Those are among the places that eventually will be soiled by all this.  So I'm just clearing my own conscience, with the equivalent of a small drop in the ocean of questions and failures we are all seeing form off the summer shore.  Sadly, that's about the only spill I'm able to deal with for the time being.

Lisbeth Salander and 1950s Russian jazz - two worthy acquired tastes

If you've been in an airport recently, you've seen the overwhelming amount of Stieg Larsson books out there.  His Millennium Trilogy has been a massive hit throughout Europe, and the crossover to the American market is really only beginning (film adaptations of the already produced Swedish films are in the hopper).  But rare indeed are the reviews that really credit without dissecting too much what I think is the inherent genius of the books.  There's just a whole lotta there there.  So without giving anything away, I'll offer up a straight shot, no sugar or milk.

With the publication of "The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest" we're looking at the last of Larsson's work.  Don't even get duped by the whispered promise of a half-finished novel on his laptop when he up and died from a heart attack (although some pile of words claiming to be "inspired by Stieg Larsson" will surely be released someday).  Concentrate on this triptych of books, all centered on a vast array of Swedes.  Everyone drinks way too much coffee, sleeps like crap, and shares a reserve of withheld secrets that would drive more extroverted people positively bonkers.  The plot moves vast distances, but the abundance of details and precise dialogue drives many people to distraction.  I don't speak Swedish nor do I have any experience with Swedish literature.  But the little I know and love (fading memories of Ingmar Bergman films, Stellar Skarsgaard in the original "Insomnia") leads me to think that Larsson leans very much true toward the serious, powerful storyteller character of Swedish insight.  My rating of the collected Millenium Trilogy - a hard-earned B.  If you only read "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo", do yourself a favor and finish it off the massive bundle.  You'll be much happier that way, I promise.

I'll finish off this year's SIFF reviews with the last and best film I saw.  "Hipsters" is a Russian film, set in 1955 amidst the gray anonymity of Soviet control, using a blinding array of colorful, beautiful characters to spin a story about rebellion.  20 years ago, this movie with this contrarian history of internal rebellion absolutely couldn't have been made.  "Hipsters" swept the Russian homegrown equivalent of last year's Oscars.  The director (Valery Todorovsky) was in Seattle for the screening I saw to answer questions from an audience that was largely Russian, including the grandmotherly woman sitting next to me laughing ahead in time as I tried to catch-up reading the subtitles.  Oh, and it's a musical.  Just plain great, too.  My rating - a solid B-plus, down from a possible A-level because it loses focus often enough to be noticeable.  But find a screening - it will be at the Best of SIFF screenings here in Seattle next weekend.  Otherwise, good luck finding an art house theatre that shows contemporary Russian musicals against a backdrop of Soviet oppression.  Shouldn't be hard.

Who's a happy preschool grad?

Who's a happy preschool grad?
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Maya had a largely ceremonial, entirely entertaining preschool graduation, er, "completion" ceremony last night. The line-up of paparazzi was overwhelming. But the kids didn't seem to mind. Since I spent most of my time with a video camera in hand, I'll just offer up before and after pics here. Rest assured - Maya had fun along the way and is ready for the next stage. Even if we're only talking about summer camps and all the varied stimulation that comes from that form of escapism. Rock on.

"You mean I need to go through another of these ceremonies again next year? And the year after that? And the year after that?..."

"You mean I need to go through another of these ceremonies again next year? And the year after that? And the year after that?..."
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Get fired up about "Monogamy"

Although few critics will admit it, the "job" is hackery.  Especially when it comes to movies.  I certainly include myself in this over-generalization.  Because all critics seize on small things.  And we all can be swayed by things as small as a random couple of dickheads sitting within earshot.  That's why criticism aggregation like what you see at Rotten Tomatoes serves a quantitative purpose.  But when you're talking about new movies showing at film festivals, you're out there in untracked snow.  A few misdirections or untimely distractions and the result can look like shite.  That's where I've been wading out into the massive programming schedule of SIFF.  I'm glad to be striding about, somewhat randomly.  But given all the unmitigated crap I'd been seeing, I was losing my interest in going further in that direction.

Then, I saw something I really liked.

The movie worth mentioning is "Monogamy".   The director, Dana Adam Shapiro, answered questions after last night's screening.  Dood seemed unpretentious, comfortable and a few degrees cooler than most of those spinning their wheels trying to dissect his film.  My take is pretty straight forward.  The stars are recognizable and fantastic (Chris Messina and Rashida Jones).  The supporting cast is natural and likable.  The story wants to be edgy, but it comes broadcast from far, far away like 20th Century border radio for those that knew where to turn their dials.  A jaunty version of New York jumps around the action (not really vice versa) throughout.  The take away?  It's the best thing I've seen at SIFF, so far.  Not that I've seen a ton.  Still, this movie got my swerve back on.  There is a reason to go to screenings and feel confident that I won't need to pull all my punches afterward - movies like this are lurking out there.  A movie I'll give a solid B-plus rating.

Then again, what do I know.  Or any other amateur critic, for that matter.  Enough to know that I'm psyched to work my way through a handful more screenings before SIFF runs the credits on Sunday.  Rock on.

Clearing the dreck

My absolutely horrible SIFF choices continue.  So to maybe clean my palette, I'll let you live the awfulness vicariously.

The documentary "8: The Mormon Proposition" was the best of the bunch.  My rating - a pretty flat C.  I totally agree with the desire to show how nefarious the Mormons were (and will be) when it came to funding the anti-gay marriage referendum on California's 2008 fall election ballot.  The crowd at the Egyptian Theatre couldn't have been more fabulous.  But preaching to the choir does not an inspiring sermon make.  Sorry.

The micro-budget Seattle feature "Perfect 10" premiered with all of the cast and the co-director/writer/producers present at SIFF Cinema's theatre in the Seattle Center.  They had a decent crowd and everyone was all smiles and encouraging pats on the back.  The story is about a chubby chaser, and the woman desirous of said chasing.  More or less.  I'm a total dick for being realistically harsh because this movie was like a poorly acted, weirdly shot student film with about as many laughs as an episode of "The King of Queens".  Still, my rating is a solid D.  The beauty of it, however, shows that SIFF surely encourages local productions and probably provides expertise to assist through the whole process.  I only hope they encourage ones that challenge the viewer a bit more.  Or at least don't make us feel sad leaving the theatre if we intend to say what we really thought.

Much easier to throw under the bus is the sci-fi belly flop "Splice" - it was at SIFF before opening in theatres last weekend.  Because of family logistics, I couldn't do SIFF screenings last night.  But I could catch this sad little thriller at the Oaktree 6 off Aurora Avenue (the most bleak with extra zazz multiplex in Seattle).  My rating is another solid D.  I imagine Adrian Brody bringing his Oscar with him to the set every day, hoping that might justify the choices he continues to make - both on and off screen.  Both he and Sarah Polley are much better than this.

Luckily for me, "Splice" is also a Joel Silver production.  So after a short respite from excusing this sort of movie, I'm back to calling out the guy for what he is - a modern Jabba the Hut who will finance just about anything salacious or soul destroying.  Speaking of which, I'd like to pitch an idea for a script, Joel.  Picture this - "The Stuff" meets "Wedding Crashers".  With zombies.  Or maybe Amazon women.  No, not women from Amazon.com.  The archers.  Look, just call me.  I'm still working on the story boards and sorta spitballing here.  But it's gonna be huge.  Babe.

The things you can learn on the swing

Santa Barbara.  I love this place.  Somewhere along the way between the thick as wet cotton fog bank in the early morning and the diamond edge clear, still as resting hummingbird wings late afternoon, this particular Saturday was exactly the sort of day I love here.  Not without sadness, mind you.

A member of the family was memorialized today.  Dorothy.  Momoo.  Grandma.  Dot.  Whatever you called her, she lived a strong, long, beautiful life.  96 years.  On her terms.  I wasn't a blood relative.  But I married into the respect and love everyone had for her.  Which I shared.  If you'll permit me, I must tell one quick story.

Maya was the only kid at the memorial, held in the community where Momoo lived the last number of years of her life.  I counted 109 people, but a few might have come or gone around the time of that count.  When the speeches were over, the mingling began.  And it was just as Momoo had requested.  Sometime amidst that activity, Maya made her way to a bench swing with some relatives and family friends.  After a while, people wanted to return to the action.  Not Maya - a bench swing on a nice day is a glorious thing, after all.  Two residents that had attended the ceremony wanted to stay for a turn, Maya wanted to push.  After a while, the three of them returned to the party.  The unbelievably sweet couple then made a point of coming up to me to say that Maya had described in great detail our family - birthdays listed by date, who was how old, that sort of thing.  When she got to the point of mentioning Momoo, she told the couple on the swing that "and then Momoo decided to die" (a very true assessment of the way her long life ended after a short illness).  At which time, Maya began to cry.  The couple described to me how Maya seemed in control, but was nonetheless touched by the emotion of that realization.  The man (Ramon) told me that he then asked Maya if he could cry along with her.  She said he could.  Eventually, they stopped and swung some more.

I don't know how to teach a child about losing a loved one.  Like any other parent, I do not welcome that responsibility.  Yet today, my daughter taught me a great many things.  About grace and innocence.  Beauty and growth.  Loss and love.  I like to think she got more than a bit of that from Dorothy.  And that it will live on.  Have a good weekend from us all here.

Sometimes, standards are meant to be lowered

The Memorial Day weekend here in Seattle was as gray as BP's cafeteria banter.  Although a glorious Monday afternoon and evening was enough to tempt us with what's surely to come.  We needed to stick around town, so what better way to mix it up than to see some movies at SIFF, right?  Wrong.  I chose like a blind squirrel looking for tasty treats in a huge, barren parking lot.  Anything that might have been a nut turned out to be a rock or a moldy cigar butt or part of a human finger.  Well, actually it wasn't that bad.  But I did see some dreck. So I'll keep my movie reviews short.  Including the one surprise that rounded it out Monday afternoon.

The documentary "Gerrymandering" was a back-up choice. My rating is a completely bored D.  Nice filmmaker.  He seemed like he wanted to buy everyone a latte afterward.  The Guvernator of Cullyforneeya was drawn into the "story" as the hero.  I sat near some people trying to laugh politely at non-existent jokes.  Gerrymandering is actually meant to be pronounced "Gary-mandering".  And scene.

The Aussie slice of life comedy "My Year Without Sex" was advertised as a crowd pleaser.  About a brain aneurysm.  And abstinence.  And a lovable, horny minister.  I sat between a cute grandma who was seeing her first film of the festival ("I'm easy," she told me beforehand, with no irony whatsoever) and a young software programmer trying to chat up his too-hot-for-him date who didn't put away her iPhone.  My rating - a very mean D.  I'm the meanie, mind you - the movie itself is quite nice, albeit dull.  Still, barely a rental.

Following that and because Maya had an ongoing playdate that freed us up, Sarah and I were going to catch something as a late matinee.  "We" chose badly (my idea).  VERY badly.  "MacGruber" (not at SIFF, but street cred lightyears away at the metroplex close to U-Dub).  I took the whole irony of "so bad it will be good" too far.  It was awful.  We full up and walked out after almost an hour.  Which should have earned us combat pay.  My rating is a rare but deserved F.  Never see this movie.  But then "we" did something inspired (Sarah's idea).  We caught two bad movies for the price of one.  "Prince of Persia" had started just 10 minutes after "MacGruber".  By the time we sat down, who knows what amount of hooey had been already spun to set up the remaining action.  Jake Gyllenhaal's long, sweaty hair deserved its own trailer.  The princessy chick has these inexplicable freckles that totally work (her name is Gemma Arterton, which sounds like a mistake).  Aside from constant action scenes blurring past, it's all close-ups.  The movie would probably earn a rating of, at best, C-minus.  But since it was the best movie I saw all weekend, I'm inflating this one. I'll give it a...well, still a C-minus (I am a professional bound by a code or something, after all).  Yet to think that "Prince of Persia" reinstilled my hopefulness when it comes to movies is a rare twist of logic, indeed.  Thank you, Joel Silver.  And with that said, I must now go take a karma shower.

Hope your own hits vastly outweigh the intolerable misses today.  Rock on.