Transatlantic multimedia consumption
Three books, five films and fourteen hours
On the flight on the way out to yapan I raw dogged it. I’m an intéllectual, I ain’t getting my hands dirty in the BA film selection box. There I sat, a maiden of the middle seat, forcing my stolid way through Sarah Hall’s novel Helm. Soz, sazza, but I did not enjoy it. What’s with all the tangled multiple narratives? I’ll tell you what. Confusion and despair. Unfortunately I only enjoyed one of the narratives, and only when it was halfway through, and wished she had made that particular sub narrative the main story of the book. But she did not, so I left my contact lenses in for 24 hours and forced myself to finish the damned thing so it didn’t haunt me throughout the trip. When we landed in Tokyo my eyes were dry, my hair smooth from the nylon headrest and my knackered kindle stowed. Phew. Onto bigger and better things.
After this, followed Look What You Made Me Do by John Lanchester. Bless him, he’s got a few axes to throw, but honestly gie’ it a read, it’s the first page turner I’ve read in a long, long, long, long time. Where did all the page turners go? Who will start writing them again?
Then, according to my kindle, I read twenty one percent of Ann Napolitano’s Hello Beautiful (0/10.) To get to the point, who on earth commissions this kind of literary crud !?!?! Been a long time since I couldn’t finish a book. Try again next time Ann.
Ooooooh. Just when I am about to despair James Salter makes an unexpectedly sexy appearance. His novel A Sport And A Pastime has been downloaded on my kindle since forever (since last year, when I was pointed his direction after researching titles similar to Clarice Lispector, who I am obsessed with). The plotline is sparse and sexually explicit and describes a rambling love affair between a Yale dropout and a mysteriously dirty (‘grey toothed’) French mademoiselle. It has a lyrical poetic quality that I found to be addictive. Unlike a page turner, which you inhale with your eyes, it was more of a syrupy read, all cool balm on hot legs. J’adore, 9/10.
Film mania
Yeah, so apparently I 'ent that perfect, or puritanical, or strictly intelléctual (phew). On the way back I alighted the cargo-ship plane, fifteen hour flight looming before me, thinking quite frankly fuck this. Unfortunately I didn’t bring sleeping pills or anything stronger nor illegal to knock me into blissful oblivion and so decided to succumb to the numbing and glorious pleasure of films. Yes, reader, I watched five films one after the other, without even the snifter of a break. You heard me. Five. My appetiser was the tame romp Atonement. After a bit of breathy and gaping Keira Knightley swanning about demanding Bolshevik rollups my appetite was sufficiently whetted. Let the fruits be plucked! And oh, weren’t the fruits of this intentional digital numbing bountiful. Not only did I belatedly discover the incredible and hilarious camp romp that is Pirates of the Caribbean (especially Penelope Cruz; sir director sir if you please her accent is crayZe!) but I also managed to blitz myself with two retro rom coms - Wimbledon and Erin Brockovitch, followed by a tragic decline into idealistic hippiedom and a mournful despair through an emotional watching of Taking Woodstock about Woodstock festival in 1969 (an ‘American historical musical comedy-drama film’). It has a heartwarming queer subplot and enough hopeful irresolution as to make you believe in your dreams once again. Highly recommend, 12/10. (12 is my lucky number, so a special score.) The only downside to watching Woodstock was that it resurfaced my only very thinly repressed hippie community dreams that take place in a far off garden of eden. I am now tragically crying in suburbia once more.
After watching Wimbledon I decided that sports romcom may be my new favourite genre. And tennis is such a naughty sport, what with all the grunting and tight little outfits! Predictable, ridiculous, 6.5/10. Knocked a few points because of the unfortunate cringe performance from Paul Bettany. I also enjoyed the more grounded casting of Kirsten Dunst, who I had never heard of before. After watching wide mouthed long legged Julia Roberts break a badboy-biker-secret-softie’s heart in Erin Brockovitch I appreciated the beautiful normalcy of good old Kirsten.
I toppled off the plane like a zombie, deciding that puritanism, when undiluted, is a curse. How have I never watched Pirates of the Caribbean??? What have I been doing with my life? Wasting it, apparently.
Ciaooo!