So I saw Shutter Island on yesterday and I really really enjoyed it, save it being a bit too long. Alot of professional critism directed at the film is that the plot is thin, and the twist at the end is just, like, so so obvious, you could see it coming from the first scene. Obviously.
Really?? I hate film critics that talk to readers like they are fellow film critics. I didn't see the twist coming at all, I wasn't thinking ahead, I was just enjoying the damn thing as it unfurled in front of me. Can film critics really enjoy a film or are they jotting down thoughts on a mental blotter in their mind, proudly picking up on bits that frankly the average film goer doesn't?
I especially loved the beginnning of the film, being led into the institute... it was so nightmarish and really well shot. It reminded me of one of the most eerie photographs I have ever seen from the fantastic abandoned britain website which if you have any time you should really check out:
http://www.abandoned-britain.com/PP/canehill/1.htm
So the film was good, I've seen so much crap at the cinema so it was nice to justify the £6.00 spenditure, even if some kids in the cinema would not stop laughing at the back for the first 10 mins... Why come to the cinema to talk? Sheesh. Thankfully an old man shushed them into silence. God bless the elderly.
Book wise... I haven't read at all these last two days. I have the time but I've just been pre-occupied with other things, like going out, walking the dog, long baths and my brothers PS3 (damn that thing, and Modern Warfare 2, the most addictive shooting game ever). Next week I really have to start doing some university work to. I'm down at my parents for one more week come Saturday... It has to be productive!
And what is it with late night TV advertisments? Just saw (or rather heard) adverts for thrush and gay exchange chat. Now my brother has turned over to something with Chris Moyles, the most annoying radio host (and now TV personaility apparently) in the world. I think i prefered the adverts.
Friday 2 April 2010
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Gearing up for the read
I find that writing, like reading, is something you really have to be up for, in the mood, totally 100% focused, to really get the most out of the experience. I read an interview recently with poet Fiona Sampson (and apparent lecturer at my university) who spoke of two types of writers: those who write out of appreciation for language, and those who feel simply compelled to write. While I can appreciate language and have tried (with little success) to speak and understand French, Spanish and Greek at different times on some level, I don’t believe that is why I write. Neither am I compelled to write. I have friends who are driven by this need, this seeming desire to record, and others who I believe see the finished product in their heads, and have the persistency to write every day, never letting the well run dry. Perhaps like Ernest Hemingway they have realised that the key to persistency in writing a manuscript lies in maintaining a momentum, a rhythm, a rigid system of which within contained a golden vein to creativity. Either way, setting up the system is fine enough, but to live by it really is another matter. Toni Morrison gets up at 4am every day to write. Enid Blyton in her writing days somehow managed 6000 words every day (6000 words!) and would let little interrupt the process. Could I do either of those things?
Seriously, I don’t need to answer that. That I couldn’t live by any system anyway is second focus to the fact that I find it difficult and not entirely enjoyable to write. For me the difficulty is in forming the thoughts coherently in my mind before squeezing them out on the page, while all the while my mind is racing ahead to all the doors in the plot I could open, glimpsing at them all, while also trying to remember that thing I had to do that I didn’t do yesterday; that person whose birthday I forgot which was 2 weeks ago and if I leave any longer which I certainly will there will just be no point anyway, which is kind of inconveniently convenient… Anyways, a bit like a brilliant scene on The Simpsons, (where Homer gets duped into buying a juicer on a TV ad), it’s like putting a bag full of oranges in the juicer and getting a few drops in return. (“You mean, you got all that juice from just one bag of oranges?!”)
Even now at my parents house I’m sat in the lounge typing this while my Dad, brother and his girlfriend are watching something on TV that talks about difficulty, dreams and disaster… voiced over a picture of a woman with an alarming beaded necklace that is big and red. This is where I’m temporarily living, in a fold out bed, and I’m finding it quite difficult to focus on writing this even when I’m not saying anything. I tried reading before but I just glossed over words that bounced off my eyes into the glare of the TV screen. It’s not that I need silence (it helps, but there will always be background noise of some sort) just a sound that is consistent in its nature, like traffic, a hum of electricity, or some bland 90’s pop music. TV, is the worst, with its highs and low much like classical music, only it has colours which will always tempt you to look up just for one pointless, meaningless second, within which you will learn nothing but lose completely your train of thought you slipped into.
I was saying?
I guess I find it harder to focus on the kind of fiction that I really do enjoy, the books that really blow you away by their depth and intelligence and sheer completeness. I get distracted far too easily about such inconsequential things like TV and Internet… I want to stay in-tune and up to date with everything that’s going on, but you just can’t read, learn, and know everything. ‘The more you know the more you know that you don’t know shit’ MF Doom speaks on the fantastic hip-hop album Operation Doomsday (I love rap music), so I just have to pick and choose and do away with the crap and mundane. And I guess that is why I write, to be an author, to own something attached to me in a way that will never be duplicated, that won’t be mirrored by millions of people doing exactly the same thing at the same time, no matter how pointless or ultimately useless it is. Writing is seen by many as a kind of therapy, and I think there is truth in that. Whenever you hit that big publish button or finish that chapter, when you see the fruits of your labour, it makes you feel satisfied. If just for a moment, and that alone makes writing it worth it.
Seriously, I don’t need to answer that. That I couldn’t live by any system anyway is second focus to the fact that I find it difficult and not entirely enjoyable to write. For me the difficulty is in forming the thoughts coherently in my mind before squeezing them out on the page, while all the while my mind is racing ahead to all the doors in the plot I could open, glimpsing at them all, while also trying to remember that thing I had to do that I didn’t do yesterday; that person whose birthday I forgot which was 2 weeks ago and if I leave any longer which I certainly will there will just be no point anyway, which is kind of inconveniently convenient… Anyways, a bit like a brilliant scene on The Simpsons, (where Homer gets duped into buying a juicer on a TV ad), it’s like putting a bag full of oranges in the juicer and getting a few drops in return. (“You mean, you got all that juice from just one bag of oranges?!”)
Even now at my parents house I’m sat in the lounge typing this while my Dad, brother and his girlfriend are watching something on TV that talks about difficulty, dreams and disaster… voiced over a picture of a woman with an alarming beaded necklace that is big and red. This is where I’m temporarily living, in a fold out bed, and I’m finding it quite difficult to focus on writing this even when I’m not saying anything. I tried reading before but I just glossed over words that bounced off my eyes into the glare of the TV screen. It’s not that I need silence (it helps, but there will always be background noise of some sort) just a sound that is consistent in its nature, like traffic, a hum of electricity, or some bland 90’s pop music. TV, is the worst, with its highs and low much like classical music, only it has colours which will always tempt you to look up just for one pointless, meaningless second, within which you will learn nothing but lose completely your train of thought you slipped into.
I was saying?
I guess I find it harder to focus on the kind of fiction that I really do enjoy, the books that really blow you away by their depth and intelligence and sheer completeness. I get distracted far too easily about such inconsequential things like TV and Internet… I want to stay in-tune and up to date with everything that’s going on, but you just can’t read, learn, and know everything. ‘The more you know the more you know that you don’t know shit’ MF Doom speaks on the fantastic hip-hop album Operation Doomsday (I love rap music), so I just have to pick and choose and do away with the crap and mundane. And I guess that is why I write, to be an author, to own something attached to me in a way that will never be duplicated, that won’t be mirrored by millions of people doing exactly the same thing at the same time, no matter how pointless or ultimately useless it is. Writing is seen by many as a kind of therapy, and I think there is truth in that. Whenever you hit that big publish button or finish that chapter, when you see the fruits of your labour, it makes you feel satisfied. If just for a moment, and that alone makes writing it worth it.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
What are YOU reading?
So writing my intro led me to thinking about how we judge people by what they read. What is worst book you have ever read? What is the most insignificant book you've ever read? What was the most disappointing? These are questions people love to answer, and we share a quasi-sadistic delight in ripping into books that we hate, shredding their plotlines, piling scorn on uncharacteristic character traits. These otherwise infallible authors; we see a weakness and we pry it open, we are the royal subjects mocking the queen, not caring how bloody angry she'd be if she heard us.
The worst book I have read in recent times is The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak (2007). It's a book I was expecting big things from, it had international acclaim, huge sales, and topped the American bestseller lists. For a book about one of the most saddening periods in human history it promised much, and delivered something I found rather empty, something that later my brain (of its own accord) picked apart; at least all the elements of the book that didn't work for me. Anyway, it was and still is a popular book and a particular favourite of Waterstones, and seeing strangers read it I really wonder: how is it playing out for you? Does it really work?
When doing work experience for a children's publisher I recall a few of the publicity girls gathered around a printer discussing how fantastic the book was... At these times I feel I'm just another cynic outside the walls of Eden, only the gate is open but I just can't bring myself to go inside. And I HATE literary critics. Joseph Heller wrote about a character in his novel Closing Time who knew 'everything about literature except how to enjoy it', and reading book reviews from the broadsheets of today you can understand what Heller was writing about all them 10 years ago. The review for The Book Thief in The Guardian praised the book, but The Times was brutal in its assessment, even giving away the ending by the 4th paragraph, like a car dealer pricing you out of a sale before you've even opened your mouth. Was it horribly snobbish or was it just refreshingly honest? How much opinion can you afford in a broadsheet newspaper review? Well, lots these days to be honest, and I agreed with the guy, just not the way he went about saying it. People like the book, and it needs to be acknowledged in some ways why this is the case. Critics may pine for the literary classics of yesteryear but they have to at least be aware of the trends of modern pop culture, and how quickly it can change direction: yesterday's necessity soon turns to today's joke. Though in all fairness to our critic looking at our celebrity obsessed culture and the books that it spawns you could almost sympathise with Heller's character. In fact if you dragged him kicking and screaming into the 21st century and force-fed him Twilight you may even feel a bit sorry for the guy.
The worst book I have read in recent times is The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak (2007). It's a book I was expecting big things from, it had international acclaim, huge sales, and topped the American bestseller lists. For a book about one of the most saddening periods in human history it promised much, and delivered something I found rather empty, something that later my brain (of its own accord) picked apart; at least all the elements of the book that didn't work for me. Anyway, it was and still is a popular book and a particular favourite of Waterstones, and seeing strangers read it I really wonder: how is it playing out for you? Does it really work?
When doing work experience for a children's publisher I recall a few of the publicity girls gathered around a printer discussing how fantastic the book was... At these times I feel I'm just another cynic outside the walls of Eden, only the gate is open but I just can't bring myself to go inside. And I HATE literary critics. Joseph Heller wrote about a character in his novel Closing Time who knew 'everything about literature except how to enjoy it', and reading book reviews from the broadsheets of today you can understand what Heller was writing about all them 10 years ago. The review for The Book Thief in The Guardian praised the book, but The Times was brutal in its assessment, even giving away the ending by the 4th paragraph, like a car dealer pricing you out of a sale before you've even opened your mouth. Was it horribly snobbish or was it just refreshingly honest? How much opinion can you afford in a broadsheet newspaper review? Well, lots these days to be honest, and I agreed with the guy, just not the way he went about saying it. People like the book, and it needs to be acknowledged in some ways why this is the case. Critics may pine for the literary classics of yesteryear but they have to at least be aware of the trends of modern pop culture, and how quickly it can change direction: yesterday's necessity soon turns to today's joke. Though in all fairness to our critic looking at our celebrity obsessed culture and the books that it spawns you could almost sympathise with Heller's character. In fact if you dragged him kicking and screaming into the 21st century and force-fed him Twilight you may even feel a bit sorry for the guy.
About me
Like lots of people, I like to read. I guess that's as good a start as any into the world of the blog. More (or less) specifically I like to read everything. I read what friends recommend, what strangers recommend through the meduim of random blogs and the acquired art of peering over shoulders on trains and buses. I always find it a bit astonishing how quickly you can judge someone just by the book they are reading. She's probably buying Raymond Carver for a friend but you'll still fall in love with her until she walks off the platform and out of your life forever. When she returns the next day engrossed in Katie Price's latest effort you'll wonder where it all went wrong.
Of course I'm being a massive, massive hypocrite, trashy novels are good fun at the best of times and if you enjoy them, brilliant, that's why there are so many books out there. There really is something for everyone!
I'm studying an MA in Publishing at a London University so while I'm a newbie in terms of experience, in the insular world of the publishing house I have picked up on a few things worthy of comment, which I will duely do. I also like to write occassionly (many students seem to do the course because they are writers interested in the process, and are aware of the commerical realities of an MA).
On this little patch of internet I'll stick close to book reviews. I say book reviews, I'll basically write why I liked/didn't like said book, which could be anything everything, old and new. I'll also ramble about all kinds of book related issues, and maybe even drop in a short story or poem now and then... you have been warned.
Of course I'm being a massive, massive hypocrite, trashy novels are good fun at the best of times and if you enjoy them, brilliant, that's why there are so many books out there. There really is something for everyone!
I'm studying an MA in Publishing at a London University so while I'm a newbie in terms of experience, in the insular world of the publishing house I have picked up on a few things worthy of comment, which I will duely do. I also like to write occassionly (many students seem to do the course because they are writers interested in the process, and are aware of the commerical realities of an MA).
On this little patch of internet I'll stick close to book reviews. I say book reviews, I'll basically write why I liked/didn't like said book, which could be anything everything, old and new. I'll also ramble about all kinds of book related issues, and maybe even drop in a short story or poem now and then... you have been warned.
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