alexsarll: (crest)
It's almost fifteen years since I was first introduced to Audrey Hepburn with, what else, Breakfast at Tiffany's. Since then I've seen a lot of her films, some of them classics (Charade is my favourite) and some less so (I couldn't make it past the first 20 minutes of My Fair Lady). But not until now have I seen her second most famous film, Roman Holiday. The timing works rather well, making it a companion piece to Waters of Mars - two stories about circumscribed power and the degree to which duty can be avoided, two stories which are going somewhere obvious and then throw you in the final 20 minutes. But then, it also seems like a very ahead-of-its-time story with the princess as a proto-Britney (drugged up to help her keep to a punishing schedule, she goes off the net and cuts off all her hair, only to end up palling around with someone plotting to sell her story). Except in other ways it really shows its age* - all that manoeuvring to conceal the fact that someone's taking photos! Admittedly I remember an episode of Frasier which did the same, but even at the time I thought that was a pretty nonsensical episode.
And it should go without saying that Hepburn, in all three iterations of her role, is delightful. Look, got through that whole thing without using the G-word!
Later that evening, flicking through an anthology I picked up years back, I was reading a Keith Roberts story I didn't know which again, felt like Roman Holiday, but this time from another angle - the brief romance that cannot be consummated or continued because they come from different worlds. Except this one was about a hedge witch and a scarecrow (the collection also contained Terry Pratchett's 'Troll Bridge', which I've read before and loved but which is even sadder read in the knowledge that, like Cohen the Barbarian, Pratchett himself now knows he hasn't got so long. Why haven't his short stories been properly collected? Surely there'd be a market for them).
The next day, in the Conan collection I've been reading on and off for ages, I reach the centrepiece, 'People of the Black Circle'. The plot of which? A moment of connection between Conan and a queen, but they can't stay together because different lives and all that. Same as Roman Holiday, though admittedly with more about how the "elemental woman" takes over from the Queen when she gets a thrill from how easily Conan kidnaps her. Also, can't see the massive bloodshed, giant snake or necromantic rape scene really fitting into an Audrey Hepburn film (though Robin and Marian wasn't all that far off...
As a control to prove it's not just me getting obsessional, since last posting I have also watched something like a whole season of Invader Zim and I did not identify the same plot in any of that. Although it was, clearly, brilliant. SPACE MEAT.

More on the Prisoner remake: "The catchphrase and key theme of the original show was Number Six’s weekly decree, “I am not a number, I am a free man!” In an interview in last week’s New York Times, the writer of the remake said he felt the need to modify that sentiment into something more moderate, less individualist, more… community-minded." DO NOT WANT.
The article also has some interesting stuff about what went wrong, for similar reasons, with the Judge Dredd film.

*Something else weirdly dated: Sudhir Venkatesh's Gang Leader For A Day. If you've read Freakonomics, he's the American-Indian (as in ethnically from India, not redskin) sociologist who spent years hanging with Chicago gangs, with things winding down by 1996. His fuller account of his experiences is pretty interesting, and some details of that seem oddly out-of-time too, like the lack of mobiles. But what really intrigued me is how many ghetto kids he meets seem to have no idea whatsoever what an Indian is (and some of the local cops are no better). He's initially accused of being a spy for a Mexican gang, other people keep calling him an Arab, such as do grasp he's an Indian start talking about Geronimo and Custer...and not that I know Chicago projects all that well, but I bet after two decades of The Simpsons, Mohinder in Heroes and such, the people there would at least have some conception of an Indian.
alexsarll: (crest)
So it's precisely 105 years since the day on which it's set, and I've just finished Ulysses. Which in places is precisely as obscene and as incomprehensible and as up its own (and other) arses as the haters ever claimed - a particularly trying section for me being 'Sirens', which felt like trying to read a ringtone. But which is also so rich and so full and so alive. Whenever people bug me to write a novel, I tell them that I've only ever had two ideas for one, and I got beaten to them both. One was about a city in a state of existential collapse, citizens caught in the fall-out from a war they couldn't even comprehend - and just as I was starting to work out how that might play, three other people produced it (two of them called Jeff, which left me suspicious of Jeffs for a while). All very good, though, so if anything it just saved me some trouble. The other didn't even have a plot, so much as a style - the idea of a story which was perfectly in every moment, protean, shifting its form to follow the defining mood of each incident. Well, it turns out James Joyce beat me to it 55 years before I was even born, even if he left out the full-on action adventure chapter I think might have made it even more complete. I suppose in expressing the infinite richness of a single day, Ulysses might have inspired my favourite album ever, The Divine Comedy's Promenade, and that was always going to incline me in its favour. But still I thank heavens that I read it for pleasure rather than studying it. With something like this, or Gravity's Rainbow, I have to get into the flow of the prose, let it wash over me, appreciate it like music rather than trying to make sure I have the full measure of each individual word. If I'd run into it during my degree, I'd have managed maybe two chapters of notes, quit and bluffed, like I did with Henry James (to whom I've never returned). And I was going to say now that this was the last book I felt any obligation to read, that now I'm truly free...except I just caught sight of that copy of Don Quixote on the shelf. Not just yet, though, eh?
(I forget - has League of Extraordinary Gentlemen referenced Ulysses yet? If not, the obvious point of contact would be M'Intosh. We never do find out who he is, so I think maybe Quartermain)

Of course, because I had to finish this on Bloomsday, and didn't really want to get underway on any other big reads in the meantime, I was rather kicking around for shorter stuff to read these last few days, having got to the end of the penultimate chapter on Friday. So I very nearly finished Saturday's paper on Saturday, and have been getting through a lot of short stories, and yesterday I went to the park to read about two outsiders who rose to lead great empires - Benjamin Disraeli and Conan. Somehow I don't think those points in common would have seen them become great friends, though. Anyway, there was some canine event in the park, but I didn't notice any more dogs than usual - just bigger dogs. At least three which were bigger than most people I know, each of a different breed and each with a different owner. Also, I noticed grave goods. I'm used to floral tributes and pictures when someone has died young, but on a tree in the park it was instead a birthday of the deceased being marked, and as well as photos, notes and flowers, the friends had left vodka and Red Bull.

Primeval cancelled; should have known ITV wouldn't want to spoil their record by continuing to produce a decent show. You can't leave Danny Quinn stuck at the dawn of man, you sods!

bongocrime

Feb. 20th, 2009 11:34 am
alexsarll: (seal)
A Day And A Night And A Day by Glen Duncan )
Since which I decided, after a few Conan stories which were dubiously racist and rapey even by Robert E Howard's standards ("Women are cheap as plantains in this land, and their willingness or unwillingness matters as little" - this is the hero speaking, remember - "But I am not such a dog as to leave a white woman in the clutches of a black man."), to read some nice light space opera. Except it turns out that like the Glen Duncan book, James Blish's 1956 They Shall Have Stars is about the spiritual malaise of humanity in the first decades of the 21st century. The USA's democratic traditions are wounded after certain elements of the administration decided, for reasons of "security", to place themselves above the law. A key government position became hereditary, building on trends initiated when "a stunningly popular Man-on-Horseback who dripped charisma but had no brains to speak of" was President. Space exploration has stalled, tangled in bureaucracy and vested interests*; "scientific ideas have become so abstract that even their originators can't suggest ways to test them", except by ever more grotesquely massive and experimental means (although at least unlike CERN, theirs seem to work). It's not so much a space opera as a prologue to a space opera in the other books - for one junior senator, against all odds, finds himself in a position to turn things around...and no mention is made of his race, but Bliss Wagoner is at least as silly a name as Barack Obama, right?

*As with Brunner's Stand on Zanzibar, this dystopian vision of pretty much now is slightly too optimistic, in that apparently no major moves were made in space since the 1981 establishment of a base on Titan. We should be so lucky as to live in that dystopia.

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