I love my wife for lots of reasons, and even if we weren’t married, we’d be good friends for lots of those reasons. One is how she’s get obsessed with something. I don’t mean like a hobby, but more like an idea. I identify with the compulsion, and relish the journey it takes us on, regardless of the result.

She got obsessed with the idea of watching The Strangers, even though it’s a horror film and she knew it would creep her out and give her nightmares. But she was so damn curious. What was the deal with these people? Why were they doing what they did? Then the movie went on sale for cheap at some Blockbuster that was shutting down, so she took it as a sign. I would have preferred that the sign she saw was “only bad movies go on sale for this cheap.” But I was curious too, so I gladly watched the movie with her. Questions answered: zero. Oh well.

But it’s happened again, this time with The Box. You know this one: Cameron Diaz and James Marsden have a visitor, Frank Langella, who gives them a box and tells them that if they push the button inside, they’ll get a million dollars. And someone they don’t know will die. My wife talked about this movie for months. What was the deal? What’s the story behind the story? Is it some kind of morality play? Is it some kinda sci-fi freak out? Why is Langella’s face half burnt off?

So we rented it and, well, this time our questions were answered, but I gotta say, it was sort of a let down. I don’t want to give anything away here, but, if I had gone into the movie knowing a few things, it might have been more enjoyable. Not that it was horrible. Director Richard Kelly has a soft hand, paces things slow, knows how to let a simple scene, simple dialog, simple characters make up way more than the sum of their parts. One of his techniques, which is on the verge of becoming a cliché (but is not there yet, so not bad) is to have some creepy person just stand there and stare at you. Or walk behind you, horror-film stalker style.

But I would have liked to have known that this was guy who did Donnie Darko. Ah, that explains some of the pseudo-pulp-science-fiction stuff. And that this was based on a short story by Richard Matheson, who’s work had been used frequently in “The Twilight Zone.”

Then again, if I had known what the “explanation” was, I don’t think I would have bothered watching the movie. But if I had known I wouldn’t have wanted to see it for that reason, would I have watched it anyway? Probably. I’m arrogant, but also unashamed in my hypocrisy when it comes to meta-discourse.

The movie draws on allusions to Sartre’s play No Exit, with which I wasn’t familiar before I saw the movie, and I don’t know that I needed to. I’m familiar with it now, and truth be told, I think Kelly is stretching a bit, trying to say something about Existentialism. (Careful, near spoilers approaching). Certainly, any sci-fi work is more or less a commentary on modern man, and juxtaposing moral struggles with alien judgment is as good as extinguishing God and making mankind his own executioner. But existentialism in The Box is just a veneer, the kind of thing you slap on to make it shiny, to hide the dents. I would not, in the final analysis, call this an existential movie. It’s a Richard Kelly movie.

BOOK REVIEWS: ‘THE PREDICTIONEER’S GAME’
by Bruce Bueno de Mesquita
272 pages
Published by Random House, 2009.

‘PIRATE LATITUDES’
by Michael Crichton
320 pages
Published by Harper Collins, 2009.

Finished The Predictioneers Game by Bruce Bueno de Mesquita last week, and Pirate Latitudes by the late Michael Crichton this week, and started in on It’s Not News, It’s Fark by Drew Curtis last night. So I’m ahead of schedule. Ahead of what schedule, you say, having only read this article and no other on Wiffli, where we write when/if we want to about whatever we want, even if it bores the crap out of all two of our readers? My schedule to read one book per week all year long, that’s what. Week 5, here we go.

Lots of good books come to me via The Daily Show, which is where I had heard of The Predictioneer’s Game. And never you mind that Bruce Bueno de Mesquita has one of the coolest names in the universe. As he explained in his interview with John Stewart on September 28th, 2009 (which date I give you so you can go through your DSwJS archives and watch it again) the outcomes of major points conflict can be predicted by evaluating who has influence in the conflict and the amount of interest they have in a particular resolution. Basically, a number is assigned to each player for what they want, how much they want it, and how much influence they have in achieving it, then a computer crunches the figures and a prediction is made.

On the one hand, bleak. We’re just a bunch of numbers. On the other hand, elegant, but because as BBdM points out, knowing how influence and interest predicts an outcome allows one to influence that outcome by changing some of the other factors. Peace in the Middle East? That’s easy—have Israel and Palestine swap tax revenues on tourism. Sounds good to me. The dude’s been 90% accurate or better for over a decade.

He even makes a prediction about global warming—don’t sweat it. Yeah, it’s there, and yeah, we oughta do something about it, but as temperatures rise, hot winds are going to make solar energy and windmills and wave-ebergy that much more profitable to produce and use, and voila, we’ll be green by 2050 or so.

Speaking of winds (SEGUE OF THE YEAR!) Michael Crichton’s first post-mortem publication, Pirate Latitudes, was a fun little read. Privateer (i.e. pirate) Charles Hunter goes after some Spanish gold, adventures ensue. That’s pretty much it. According to scuttlebutt (Wikipedia) MC wrote this in the 90s, maybe as a companion-piece to a video game that never got made. Spielberg’s going to film it.

As usual, Michael Crichton is Tom Clancy-lite, if you’re into technical details, although if you’re desperate to compare Crichton to Melville instead of Clancy, I’ll allow it. (Or maybe even Christopher Moore’s Fluke, which I have not read). Hacks, all of them, using the novel as an excuse to do research/gush about seamanship (Moore has admitted as much). Which is not a bad reason to read a book, all things considered. I think I’ll buy this one for my dad. He likes Tom Clancy, and boats.

BOOK REVIEW: ‘UNSEEN ACADEMICALS’
by Terry Pratchett
368 pages
Published by Doubleday, 2009.

3 weeks, 3 books so far, and hey hey hey, I’m almost done with week 4 and book 4. But Week 3: Unseen Academicals, latest in the long-running Discworld series. It’s a fantasy novel, it’s a series novel, and for those reasons alone you probably won’t read it. Or, for those reasons you will read it—my point is, this “review” will have nothing to do whatsoever with whether you read the book or not. You’re either already a Pratchett fan, or not. I could try to give you a general overview of why Terry Pratchett is one of the greatest writers of all time, but I don’t have the space here or the patience.

This time Pterry’s taking on Soccer, called football in his native UK. Pratchett’s oeuvre of late is this sort of quasi-satrical “magepunk*” treatment of some popular cultural element. Ankh Morpork, largest city on the disc, has seen the development of Banks, Newspapers, and the Post Office in recent novels, and previous novels have looked at how a world run on magic would handle Moving Pictures, The Phantom of the Opera, women in the military, and rock n roll, to name just a few.

Either because they were newer to me then, or because he’s evolved as a writer, I like Pratchett’s older stuff better. I do like these new books too, don’t get me wrong. I like the satire. But I prefer the older, more fantastical, less magepunk stuff. It’s starting to feel a bit forced. In Unseen Academicals, Rincewind makes a token cameo, Death makes a token cameo, even The Librarian’s appearance seems a bit pasted-in. Mind you, this is in comparison to the rest of the discworld novels—even this latest work stands shelves above a lot of the sci fi, fantasy, and mainstream fiction out there for popular consumption.

I’ll have to admit, though, that reading this book on my e-reader may have contributed to my feeling things were justa bit disjointed. Pratchett doesn’t use chapters, per se, but he does use white space to separate sections, and my e-reader may have squashed some of those together, interrupting my flow. I am big champion for e-readers, (I’m going to write a fiery diatribe defending them, stay tuned) but it might just be the case that Pterry is best in real-book format. I’ll let you know when his next one comes out.

Or, I’ll dive into some of his other series work that I haven’t read yet. The man’s written a Metric Butt Ton of stuff, including young-adult books. I’m not here to compare Sir Terry to J.K. Rowling, but it would be rewarding for “kids” (that includes you, adults) who loved Harry Potter to go read The Bromeliad, The Johnny Maxwell trilogy, and the Tiffany Aching novels. These are guaranteed gold for book lovers.

*Magepunk– I made this up. If “steampunk” is looking at how modern times or the future would look/feel with Victorian-era technology at the core of all science, then “magepunk” is the same thing, except magic is the magic behind modern technology.

FILM REVIEW: ‘Sherlock Holmes’
Written by Michael Robert Johnson et. al.
Directed by Guy Ritchie
Rated PG-13
128 mins.

I finally figured out where they got the name “House” for doctor Gregory. M.D. It’s because “house” sounds like “homes” which sounds like “Holmes” and House is supposed to be all Sherlock-like. The way he sees a spot on Cutty’s shirt and deduces that she’s pregnant with twins and the father’s an Albanian Minister of Finance with a penchant for cheap cigars and expensive wines. And medical dramas are staggeringly popular, almost as much as cop shows, but a Sherlock cop was done with Monk already, so they went with the doctor thing.

Right? And the thing about Monk is he’s got all kinds of phobias and neuroses, while the thing about House is, he’s an asshole. I have more than one friend who won’t watch the show because he’s such an asshole. But don’t you understand? That’s his appeal. He’s “incorrigible.” He’s consistently right in an environment of being wrong. Assumptions, suppositions, easy logic—these “niceties” have to be set aside, the polite approach to a problem stripped away so the bare, naked, uncomfortable truth can be taken for what it is, and the disease cured.

Or the crime solved. So rather than wince when House is an asshole, wince instead when his colleagues drive him to it. Sure, he’s an egomaniacal self-centered selfish reprobate with little sympathy and absolutely no self-remorse, but he’s right, which is the point of the show.

Oh, wait. The movie. Uh, pretty much everything I said about the TV show above. A Guy Ritchie film with Iron Man playing House*. Go ahead and see it.

*this quip does not appear in the review at wiffli.com– ed.

BOOK REVIEW: ‘YOUTH IN REVOLT’
by C.D. Payne
499 pages
Published by Alvia Press, 1993.

Last Friday I finished Youth in Revolt by C.D. Payne. Now this is an exciting book because it’s the first in a series, the series has a movie based on it, the movies stars Michael Cera, and the books were self-published. The books are Nick Twisp’s journals, his adventures as a regular 14 year-old-boy living in California. Go grab your e-reader and download a sample.

I heard about the book when I saw a clip that was alleged to be the real Michael Cera cursing out a camera crew on the set of the movie. Turns out the clip was a lampoon—whether it was a scene from the movie, or just an extra, I don’t know. But I decided I wanted to see the movie. And then I saw the book and decided I wanted to read it. And then I saw there were sequels and I wanted to read them as well.

And then I read Youth in Revolt and I no longer want to see the movie or read the rest of the books. Maybe someday. My wife tends to rent movies without consulting with me first (not that she has to—but she knows I’ll say “no thanks” to pretty much everything) so if it slips into the house, I’ll make some popcorn (protip: add black pepper and curry powder to your popcorn. You’ll thank me for it).

Maybe someday on the sequels, too. But not right now. The book is pretty much the development of a sociopath, a Machiavellian existentialist surrounded by other sociopathic existentialists, differing only in their degrees of intelligence and erudition. Not that the book is a downer- I think it’s called absurdist. But not Sam Becket absurd, more like Spike Jones absurd. The kind of thing the guy that Shakespeare “borrowed” his comedies from would write today if he was alive, lived with his mom, and smoked a lot of weed. (I have no idea if this describes C.D. Payne himself, but I don’t intend it to).

Basically, Youth in Revolt is The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Stranger, The Catcher in the Rye, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, crammed into one, with the angst and negativity replaced by gullibility and farce. In my opinion it all sort of wears thin after a while, as Twisp’s literary voice doesn’t carry me too far past what passes for the book’s climax and denouement. But some folks will like it. They’ll like the kid’s cheek, his affected vocabulary, the subtle way Payne paints a picture that even the narrator can’t see. They guy’s got talent, and no fooling. I just wish his editor did as well.

Am I using a rating system for these book reviews? I can’t recall. If I am, I’ll give Youth in Revolt three out of five love-worn diaries… less if it had not been amusing, more if it had been less soppy. Or shorter.

BOOK REVIEW: ‘THE GIRL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE’
by Stiegg Larsson
631 pages
Published by Norstedts Förlag, 2006.

I’ve taken it upon myself to read one book per week this year. So far I’m one-for-one, and looking good for the second one as well! It would be great if I could put my “reviews” of these books here as well. So here’s the first attempt. The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson.

In my bloggy, rambling style, I’d like to point out that I probably won’t “review” books as much as “talk about” them, which is to say, I’m sure I’ll end up giving away spoilers. I mean I can try to “recommend” whether one should or should not read a particular book, but really, enjoying a book is such a subjective judgment. I’m sure I would never “recommend” Twilight, but I know good people who loved the book, so for me to have dissuaded them from having read it would have been a horrible disservice.

Which means I’ll have to be objective, right? Yeah, right.

The Girl Who Played with Fire is the sequel to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. A third book in the “Millenium” Trilogy is due in the US this May. I say the US because the book was written in Swedish, and has been translated for us, but for what it’s worth, geographic, historical, and cultural names and references are all kept in the original Swedish. Personally, I found this tough to keep track of, given how complicated the book is, but that’s a failing on my part, and not a condemnation of the writing.

This sequel maintains the same sort of plot-dichotomy as the first book: it begins as a typical detective story, where the “detective” is a journalist. The latter sections of the book are less detective and more “thriller,” or wannabe-thriller, complete with Flawed Heroine, Save-The-Day Sidekick, and Monstrous Villain. Larsson goes for noir, but ends up with more of a comic-book type read (not to denigrate those who enjoy comic books). The story is fraught with convenient coincidences, which make the unveiling of the serpentine plot that much more incredulous. But, if you can willfully suspend your disbelief, Larsson’s style is otherwise consistent enough to be compelling.

The characterization of the main character, (the one who played with fire) is a bit shallow—and yes, I do mean the way she was written, as opposed to the character herself. We’re told that she’s experienced horrors which have shaped her personality, but then that personality is cold, indifferent, unflappable—with a strictly defined moral code. A kind of paradox, which makes it difficult to identify with her, as a reader, leaving us only the plot to provide full immersion into the book. Thus the read works best as a page-turner, a race to find out “whodunit,” without much of a pay off at the end.

If you’re interested, Larsson himself is dead, just before these, his only works of fiction, were published. Allegedly he wrote these books for the pleasure of writing, never pursuing publication as an end-goal. The three in the series were completed before his heart attack at age 50, and there are notes for a few more, with 10 books in total to be written. (Kids: if you have goals like this, don’t drink and smoke like Stieg did.) The ones that have been published have received numerous accolades in Sweden, and have seen acclaim and good sells in English as well.

Okay, so can I recommend these two books? Will I read the third? Um, sure, if you’re in the mood. Better yet, read the free previews on your favorite e-reader, and decide for yourself.

Next week, I’m hoping to have finished Youth in Revolt by C.D. Payne. They made a movie out of it, starring Michael Cera. I’m hoping that bit of info doesn’t drive you to prejudice, good or bad.

Mongol is the story of Genghis Khan before he was khan, when he was still called Temudjin. Those who are well-read in the history of Genghis may notice discrepancies or liberties taken with the telling of this story, but Mongol is not a biopic or a documentary, or even meant to be merely historical. Mongol is, at heart, a love story, about a boy who loves his people, and a man who loves his wife.

At a very young age, Temudjin must go to a nearby village with his father to choose his future wife. This will be a political alliance, so that his father’s tribe can have peace with their enemies. But on their journey they stop at another small village to take rest, and it is there instead that Temudjin chooses a bride. Despite this, Temudjin’s father tells him he has done well to choose a bride for himself, and in this way, sets the tone for the rest of Temudjin’s life: to stay true to one’s morality, to never doubt one’s self.

What follows is Temudjin’s journey into and through manhood. As he grows he becomes hunter and hunted, husband and father, leader and slave, and all of his experiences motivated by his never-wavering desire to be with his bride. If this were merely a character study, it would be clear how one man was able to unite widely dispersed nomadic tribes and lead them to conquer most of Asia and Eastern Europe. This is a leader built by his experiences, tempered by his virtues.

But director Sergei Bodrov infuses Mongol with much more than just history. Filming took place in the steppe regions of China and Kazakhstan, the very land of the historical Genghis. Although a seemingly harsh landscape, Bodrov’s steppes are wide open spaces with enormous skies, inspiring a quiet beauty and awe. One can’t help but compare the land, its perseverance, to Temudjin himself.

Actor Tadanobu Asano plays Temudjin in a subdued manner, discarding the extroverted passion and rage of the mythic Genghis in order to show a man more complex, more subtle and wise. However, despite this outward-appearing calm, at any time there is no doubt that Asano’s Temudjin can move lightning quick and powerful. Opposite Asano is Honglei Sun as his blood brother Jamukha, himself a complex and wise man who’s own morality eventually comes into sharp conflict with the future Khan. As brothers and enemies, Asano and Sun have a chemistry that is palpable, in conversation, and in war.

Comparisons to Braveheart are inevitable, as folk heroes go, and to be true, battle scenes are played for effect: the style of blood spraying in slow motion taking over, briefly, for the substance of a man’s journey into history. But while Braveheart was, ultimately, the tragedy of a fallen hero, Mongol is a film about a hero’s creation, his first steps into greatness. It is the story of a man who’s love for his wife enabled him to fight for his people.

(This review was printed in the Newport Mercury.)

In the jungles of southern India, an English spacer trader building a road falls in love with one of his household servants. She is married to an austere man from the nearby village, doubling the taboo inherent in the affair. Witness to this and accomplice in the consequences is an Indian guide and foreman who straddles India’s past and future, a dutiful son educated in British schools. Merchant and Ivory’s latest films is a symbol of the Great Britain’s own affair with India in the early 20th century.

Director Santosh Sivan expertly juxtaposes the lush, humid jungle of southern India and her warmly brown denizens with the crisp, cool, whiteness of her English visitors. Breathtaking backdrops and fecund greenery surround an Edwardian plantation house, itself filled with the accoutrements and comforts of a genteel lifestyle. This is the meeting of tea and spice—and that both come from India, originally, explains why Britain was seduced by this continent.

Henry Moores is indeed a man who has been seduced, not only by Sajani, his servant, but by India as well, her potential, the opportunities that lie in wait for any many bold and brave enough to hack his way through her jungles. But if this is passion, it must be passion civilized: he will build a road, and he will profit. His uncontrollable desires for Indian’s beauty will be tempered by his mercantilism and business obligations.

For her part, Sajani, too, has been seduced, by a man who all but worships her beauty, her exotic spiciness and allure. He is white, and British, and acknowledges and indulges in her beauty and grace, as opposed to her husband, who only sees fit to physically chastise and treat her as but mere property. Sajani wants to immerse herself in the spirituality of her own roots, while at the same time is pulled by this Englishman’s love.

Henry and Sajani or two tragic figures, but the greatest struggles is witnessed in T.K., Moore’s guide and foreman. Heres’ a man who loves his country, is truly one if India’s brightest sons, but who can’t help appreciate the progress and bounty afforded by British occupation.. T.K. straddles the fence between what India was, and what India could be. Ultimately, he must decided between the traditions of the past and the promises of the future. At the same time, he has to find a way to maintain his own integrity as a man, one who will witness India’s independence.

Merchant and Ivory films have an indelible sensibility, one that has been maintained since they began making motion pictures. With Before the Rains, Merchant and Ivory return to their well-loved formula: films set in India, intended for English speaking audiences, featuring upper-middle characters wracked with the shame and guilt of mishandling their own passions. Since 1963, Merchant and Ivory have may have deviated from the formula, (with much success), but with the recent passing of co-founder Ismail Merchant, this return to their roots is all the more poignant.

(This review was printed in the Newport Mercury.)

Beautiful people and wealthy people go together like a horse and carriage, and even if there is no love, marriage is the ultimate goal. But they also say amor omni vincit… can love conquer Cartier, The Monte Carlo, and caviar? Audrey Tautou, who every loved in Amélie, (and raised an eyebrow at in The Da Vinci Code), plays Irène, a gold digger with enough experience in the game to be as much fighter as ingénue. Despite having won an almost sure thing, she can’t help but look for fun on her birthday, and mistakes a simple bartender for a very wealthy hotel guest. She’s not foolish enough to abandon one rich man for another, but not so focused that she won’t allow herself an indiscretion. However, it’s not called indiscretion for nothing.

From the film The Valet, Gad Elmalah is Jean, the simple bartender, who can’t help but fall in love with Irène. When her indiscretion results in her losing her fiancée, she flees to Nice, to begin finding another carriage to ride in, and Jean follows, to apologize. That she is, for all intents and purposes, just a very high-priced prostitute doesn’t bother him in the least, and he bashfully dips into his meager life savings, just to spend a few days with her. Broke, at risk at being jailed for his debts, Jean has to become as Irène is, since, he too is beautiful, and wealthy women want companionship as well.

What follows is not such much a farce as the French Riviera version of a farce, the coquettish Tautou and sky-blue-eyed Elmalah version of a farce. Irène becomes a teacher to Jean’s status as apprentice gold-digger, though he’s only in the game so he can stay close to her. Elmalah expertly portrays a fish out of water, or a fish in new waters, struggling with his new identity, unable to relax as a man amongst servants. That Jean is still, basically, a servant, is not lost on him, and Jean never lets his role as gigolo allow him to forget why he is doing this: for love of Irene.

And while Jean’s dedication weathers him in his becoming a skilled gold digger, Irène‘s icy dedication can’t help but melt to Jean’s uncompromising adoration. Then again, this hardly bears questioning since, if rich old people would gladly spends thousands on Irene and Jean, why wouldn’t they find themselves also just as alluring? Director and co-writer Pierre Salvadoru seems to sense this, or at least recognize it, as he doesn’t linger on long drawn-out love scenes, trying to convince us that these two beautiful people like one another. He focuses most attention on the comedy.

Nevertheless, the rest is predictable, but not in the least unwatchable. Elmalah and Tautou have an excellent chemistry as a comedy team, with more than one laugh-out-loud moment. You might call them the French version of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan; time will tell if they find an opportunity to do more films together.

(This review was printed in the Newport Mercury.)

Roman de Gare, a new film from Claude Lelouch, takes a mixture of complicated plot elements and expertly weaves them around and into one another, so that at any time, the audience can’t be sure what is the truth and what is fiction. It’s a delicate thread, one that both rewards and defies the astute viewer who picks up the details and pays attention to every nuance. For example, Pierre Laclos, as the story unfolds, might be a serial rapist, a magician, a ghost writer, or merely an estranged husband, or even a combination of a few of these. His character shares the same name as the novelist who wrote Les Liaisons dangereuses: is this a red herring, or is there a deeper meaning there?

And although this delicacy makes for a complicated “plot” (or whatever you call the meta-story that writhes above the actual truthful events) Roman finds ways to assert itself in very strong characters. Audrey Dana as Huguette has one of those faces that fans of foreign films will swear they recognize, although to date she’s only appeared in two other feature length films. Dana plays Huguette as something like a force of nature— passionate, intense, but gripped with self-loathing buttressed nevertheless with feminine pride. Lies come easily to Huguette, not from any kind of pathology, or a manipulative nature, but to hide secrets that are not necessary for everyone to know. She’s the quintessential country girl who’s been hardened into something prettier , but brittle, by life in the city.

Balancing Dana’s newcomer status is Fanny Ardent as Judith Ralitzer, a novelist whose latest work has really put her over the top of as a “best seller of best sellers.” This time, the face you recognize is indeed one you’ve seen, as Ardent has played in such familiar films as 8 Femmes and Ridicule. While Huguette wears her heart on her sleeve, Judith is more subtle, calm, and her lies are indeed manipulative, in the extreme. As the viewer moves between knowing, and not knowing, and thinking they know what is going on, at any point Judith seems capable of everything that she is suspected of having done, if only because if the quiet calm and solid poise she portrays.

Dominique Pinion, as Laclos, is, of course, the biggest mystery, and perhaps the most dangerous, a character capable of using the truth to tell lies, a man who can create a fictional world around him that becomes, through careful balance and mere poetry, more real than the actual world on which it is based. Although he’s aged a bit since 1991’s Delicatessan, Pinion’s almost goofy face is immediately recognizable, which only adds to the mystery of who he really he is, what he is really capable of doing.

Roman is an ongoing balancing act, a film that builds a mystery on-the-fly, as if the audience is watching a novelist at work, a writer who himself doesn’t know who did what or how everything will become resolved.

(This review was printed in the Newport Mercury.)