AFI

A couple of things got me thinking about the AFI Top 100 Movies. A work colleague with a much more pretentious (i.e. impressive and learned) taste in movies was talking about it, and then there was a question about how many movies the hosts of Answer Me This had seen. So, I've seen seven of the top ten, and overall, a paltry 41. Boo. Still, I'm pleased with my top ten results. And, of course, Casablanca is second in the list, and as I have discussed at length elsewhere, I adore this film. So I'm watching this and I plan to make my way through at least some of the rest of this. Although given the results of my attempts to get through The Observer list, maybe I should avoid it and just watch some good films rather more informally.

Nadir

As Cerebus points out, I have my own unique brand of snobbery. For example, I get very uptight about the I'm-smarter-than-you-art-so-I-have-to-point-out-everything highbrow stuff, as I have discussed previously on this blog. I'd much rather watch/read something supposedly "low brow" but completely unaffected than ever, ever have to sit through American Beauty again. On the other hand, the "low brow" cannot be anything related to a shopaholic, anything with Kate Hudson or Matthew McConaughey, the "He's not that into you" film and its brethren and anything with the manic pixie dream girl as a main character. Or, indeed, anything trying to teach young girls that having sex is dangerous, you need to be protected from yourself by a man who may kill you with his passion if he does have sex with you, and if you have sex you'll end up with a weird mutant monster baby. And yes, the third installment of that movie series is out in cinemas now!

The problem is, I like low brow, but am picky about what constitutes good lowbrow as opposed to terrible lowbrow. Why, for example, do I find Jackass repeatedly compelling, whereas any reality show (more or less) is just too infra dig.? I haven't quite worked that out, but this weekend I've had a dear friend staying with me, and we've watched numerous incarnations of "The Real Idiots of Wherever" and their spin-off shows, and it really has just been too much for me. I don't know why, when I really can watch terrible things over and over and over, including horrible toilet humour, crass and revolting sexual jokes made by awful and grotesque human beings (hello It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia) and those are my favourite programmes, but when it comes to real people doing those things I am just horrified and find it all beneath me. I find their grotesqueness horrifying, not amusing; I need to turn away, hide under my cushion. But then, I do that with Peep Show and Extras but can watch those over and over and over again.

This is a remarkably useless post. I just wanted you to know that I really, really, really cannot bear reality tv and it's not because I think I should only watch Mad Men and things on HBO. I've tried, but unless it's neatly packaged and contained for me by Joel McHale, it's just not for me.

Thud, thud, thud

There is a school of art - be it books, music or film - that I find excruciating beyond belief. It's a genre I like to call "patronising highbrow," and I would rather read/listen to/watch a million terrible "lowbrow" items before having to deal with this stuff.

It's the type of prose that tells you that it is meaningful; that this observation is very important indeed and that it is telling you something about the profundity of the human experience - so listen up, buster, because this author is highly important. My real problem with this is that the creators of such work are so pleased with themselves for such astuteness that they are incapable of believing that you, little reader/observer/listener could possibly understand such greatness. So, just in case a) you didn't get profundity of the observation and b) therefore, you have failed to accredit the author of the observation with sufficient praise/awe, the author will point. it. out. to. you. In bold letters.

The first work that provoked my observation (portentous and extremely profound, obviously) of this style was the unbelievably over-rated American Beauty. Apart from the pretty hackneyed and cliched treatment of suburbia and sexuality--did you know that teenage girls can appear sexually provocative and yet be inexperienced and/or virgins? And that men who hate gays are, of course, gay themselves and repressing their feelings? I'm pretty sure you didn't before this movie--we have that utterly annoying montage with the black plastic bag, that floats and floats. With the voice from beyond the grave. Who tells you repeatedly how beautiful this is, because there is beauty in small things and this is the true beauty - but you couldn't have worked that out for yourself.

I was reminded of this after just finishing The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. This is a book published in 1940 that screams its profundity at you. This passage particularly irked me. It's about the owner of a cafe in the small southern town, who has strongly lustful and tender feelings for a girl of about 13:

Always he wanted to set her up to something, to give to her. And not only a sundae or some sweet to eat--but something real. That was all he wanted for himself--to give to her. Biff's mouth hardened. He had done nothing wrong but in him he felt a strange guilt.

Now, you see, why not leave it at that? Why not leave it there, hanging, so that you wonder about the guilt, about how much he realises that his feelings are wrong, cannot be acted on, and how common this is? No, McCullers doesn't finish the paragraph there, but with this:

Why? The dark guilt in all men, unreckoned and without a name.

We get it, Carson. We get it. Then the next passage is about a small meaningful thing where he picks up a penny. Wow.

This book is frustrating because there's a lot of beautiful prose and it gives you a sense of the despair of the post-Depression South, of how it never financially recovered from the Civil War, and the anger inside people, black and white. Yet it can't let you observe for yourself: it constantly points out the seething anger inside the protagonists, because you can't realise that without her pointing it out to you. You're just not as smart as she is.

Once More, Defeat

Yes, I have once more got Anna Karenina out of the library and, once more, failed to even open it.

I may never manage it.

Something old, borrowed, new?

WARNING: Spoilers if you have not yet read Pride & Prejudice. Even if your beloved other half bought it for you ages ago. And yes, that OH may not have read all your gifts, but this particular book might just happen to be one of the aforementioned O.H.'s favourite books of all time and if she could be anyone in literature, it would probably be the main character.

Where was I? Ah, yes, after all the preamble of spoiler warnings, I wanted to note that, while away holidaying, I read with a mixture of amusement, fascination and horror, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. It was... pretty good, actually. I have just two grumbles. One, it makes use of puns on "balls" much more than I really think any book needs, let alone an Austen, updated or otherwise (too much of something blue, methinks). Two, part of its very joy - things "falling into place" in the plot - are things that I find on some level troublesome and, really, a failure to understand the importance of the original. For example, Charlotte's decision to marry Mr. Collins makes much more sense, according to some reviews. But of course, in the original, her decision is due to feeling in danger of being left on the shelf, being stuck at home with her parents, and without anyone to take care of her were they to die before she married. The things that don't seem to "make sense" actually do when you look at them through the prism of how clearly women did lack choices and control over their lives.

Nonetheless, I'm not trying to write it off or be (too) humourless about the book. There is an interesting look at gender in both, and knowing the original is essential for getting the point of the later version. In P&P&Z, a large proportion of the nation's defenders the scourge of zombies are unmarried women*; a woman's worth is partly based on her immense strength and ability to kill zombies - Lady Catherine is an absolute legend in that field, which aids the narration by explaining why such an awful woman is so greatly esteemed. P&P&Z elevates women and explicitly recognises how vital they are to a nation's health; it also mocks the things that women were actually valued for - not strength or intellect, but sewing and being gentle and playing the piano - not that playing the piano isn't awesome, but it doesn't make you worth having a relationship with - unless you're really good, I suppose.

What reading P&P&Z mainly brought about was the renewing of my obsession with Austen books, and I have just re-read Persuasion in a day. I do utterly love that book. P&P does win out for me, but the older I get, the more Anne Elliot resonates, and the sadder and more thrilling the story. Maybe it's time to re-visit Emma, too, and of course, Sense & Sensibility - before S&S & Sea Monsters emerges. Would that I were joking.

* When they are married, they cease this work to devote themselves to the presumably much more important job of getting pregnant.

Cross-posted at Grace Goes Abroad.

The Price of Quality

I've been trying to buy some DVDs of classic movies, because recently we've been turning to classics when tired and stressed.  A few weeks ago it was Casablanca, and last night I watched the greatest music movie of all time - including even This Is Spinal Tap - A Hard Day's Night.  But what I really wanted to make sure we have are Top Hat, The Third Man, and A Night at the Opera.  Yet it's impossible to get The Third Man for under $30; Top Hat is not quite as expensive, but similarly uncheap.  Why are they so much?  You'd have thought less in terms of copyright issues, but somehow it's not the case.  

Regardless of the reason, it's annoying.  They're totally worth it, but I resent the movie peeps / retailers making these classics more unavailable to the masses.  Including me.

Getting Round to Things

I finally read two books that I have wanted to read for a long time but have not yet managed.

First, We Need to Talk about Kevin by Lionel Shriver. It won the Orange Prize in 2005. It is a deeply traumatising and utterly compelling book. It is not the book to read if you are worried about becoming a mother. I wondered often what it was like to read this if you do have children. I imagine for some it would be unbearable to read about how this woman fails to connect with her child and her myriad disappointments and misery thanks to her (lack of) relationship with her child. For others, I imagine they repeatedly say "thank you" for identifying the misery and the inability to truly love her child. All this was very interesting in light of an article published by the Daily Mail a couple of weeks ago in which a mother publicly stated that she didn't really like her daughter. That was probably not the way to go about things, particularly when talking about how much she loves her other daughter. Yet, that's what this book is all about. For those of us who doubt whether we do want to have children, I could empathise with much of this book, yet you could see how much damage she did. It was a really extraordinary book. Apparently she had tremendous trouble finding someone to publish it, but I am very glad she did.

The next book was Ender's Game. It is a classic piece of science fiction, and my mother is mad about it. I basically inhaled it last Sunday, and I really, really recommend it. It's such an interesting question of morality, of reacting to things beyond your control with violence or force, and how people channel their gifts and use them for good or ill. Very interesting, particularly in its discussion of pre-emptive force - it's the Bush Doctrine!

Next up: Going to read some more classic fiction. Just not sure what, yet.