The Amerindian Flapping Eagle has just crashed on the shores of Calf Island (via a special portal a la LOST season 5), an island of immortals like himself, and meets the immensely fat and eccentric Virgil Jones and his hunchback companion Mrs. O’Toole. In his quest to find his sister, Flapping Eagle must enlist Virgil’s help in ascending the ominous mountain of Calf Island to reach the town of K from which Virgil left in shame. While not thrilled to return to his ex-wife and myriad of enemies, Virgil hopes that Flapping Eagle is the key to course-correcting the problems that Grimus has inflicted on their lives and the Island.
Grimus combines familiar elements from science fiction, fantasy, and cultural folklores as framework for a compelling narrative. This is the first novel by Salman Rushdie, one of the world’s greatest writers, and his sense of voice and style are just apparent here as they are in his most recent work, the memoir Joseph Anton. Although critically derided in its day, Grimus feels like a very contemporary novel. The exploration of inter-dimensions could easily serve as a textbook for understanding the works of J.J. Abrams—I swear the answers to LOST are unwittingly contained within these pages.
When undertaking this small, yet dense, novel it is important to be open-minded and ready to expand your imagination. There is a vast wealth of stunning imagery and cultural allusions that serve for both foreshadowing and winking asides.
This is a thoroughly rewarding novel, and I welcome its inclusion on The List (much of Rushdie’s writing is, and rightfully so). Even if sci-fi stories don’t intrigue you, Grimus relies more heavily on cultural mythologies, giving it a universally appealing quality. While I loved Fury (my first personal introduction to Rushdie’s writing), Grimus is a much stronger novel and far more engrossing. (And I’ll keep you posted as I delve into Rushdie’s expansive oeuvre this year.)
The film The Shining is beloved by many, but how many of them have actually read the book? Turns out: hardly any. One fan even said he heard that films adapted from Stephen King’s novels are better than his actual books. While I can’t categorically attest to that, I can say that the film The Shining pales in comparison to the novel The Shining. It is one of King’s best novels, combining brilliant imagery with complex psychology for a truly haunting experience. It’s no small wonder that this is the only of his novels to land a spot on The List.
The story focuses around Jack Torrance who is so desperate for a job that he becomes the off-season caretaker for the secluded Overlook Hotel. He, along with his wife Wendy and 6-year-old son Danny, will spend 8 months alone in the hotel, preventing the pipes from freezing over and the boiler from overheating. Wendy is frail and fearful of her husband whose previous history of alcoholism led him to break their son’s arm (and attack a student); yet she loves him enough to follow him to the Overlook in the hopes that a secluded season of writing will rehabilitate him. It is only little Danny whose “shining” premonitions of the horrors within the Overlook give him trepidation for this venture.
The chapters shuffle through the main characters’ perspectives, giving striking point-of-view perceptions of what is occurring in the present while also imparting insight into the characters’—and hotel’s—backstories that help frame their deteriorating psychological states. While this helps provide the framework for the story, it’s the recurring imagery used throughout that elevates this novel into profound horror. Iconic images and phrases like the roque mallet, the topiary animals, Room 217, and, of course, “REDRUM” enhance the eerie mood and building tensions of the story. Thus establishing King as a renowned horror genre writer.
As iconic as the novel is, the film is equally iconic in its own regards. Stanley Kubrick’s film is considered one of the best horror films, and that’s a worthy assessment. The film sets an uneasy mood with flashes of horrific images that Danny (Danny Lloyd) can see combined with Jack’s (Jack Nicholson) descent into mania—not to mention a creepy score by Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind. The overall look of the film is brilliant thanks to help from Roy Walker, for production design; Les Tomkins, for art direction; and John Alcott, for cinematography. These elements combine to make a visually appealing and eerie film.
But, as great as the film is, it seems to miss the point of the book. In King’s Shining the Overlook itself is an important, menacing character. It has motivations and manipulations that slowly become central to the story. In Kubrick’s Shining the Overlook is just an expanse of open rooms with mismatching color schemes spread throughout. It acts as the playground for Jack’s psychotic breakdown but has very little influence on his actual mental state. The film also eliminates nearly every piece of character backstory; sacrificing story for languorous shots of the empty hotel or Danny pedaling around in his little tricycle.
There are smaller things that are altered or lost in the adaptation as well. Would it have been so hard to have Jack chase Wendy around with a roque mallet? (A baseball bat makes an appearance, however.) The sound of the clock chiming still rings in my ears from reading the book, yet that inciting moment for the climactic chain of events is missing from the film. The overheating boiler and creepy topiary creatures are swapped out for intense outdoor blizzard shots and a hedge maze chase scene (presumably for budgetary reasons). Even the haunted Room 217 is changed to 237 in the film (presumably for superstitious reasons). It seems that only the slight alteration to how “REDRUM” is written (with the inverted letters) manages to add the visual punch needed for its reveal.
All such changes make for a disappointing cinematic experience (when read in close conjunction with the book). King’s novel is rife with delicious visual imagery that yearns to be depicted onscreen, yet the film fails to capture much of that. An inevitable remake of the film may be able to capture these, but without Nicholson’s ingenious and iconic performance will it be as effective? Even Shelley Duvall as Wendy, with deeply hideous costumes, perfectly captures the intense anxiety of the character. Only the depiction of Danny and his imaginary friend Tony was a major acting disappointment. When Danny first spoke as Tony through his finger, the film nearly lost all sense of believability. A new adaptation would better capture Tony as the distant figure who subconsciously speaks to Danny.
It should come as no surprise that the book is overall better than its filmic adaptation. (When, if ever, has the reverse been true?) The film is a visually stunning piece that has impacted pop culture for decades, but the novel is much more effective at telling the story while greatly engaging the reader. So this is one case where I can safely advise that you see the film first before tackling the novel—yet I certainly recommend that you do both.
Margaret Drabble’s The Red Queen blurs the lines of fact and fiction to tell the rise (and fall) of Korea’s Crown Princess. Synthesized and fictionalized from various memoirs and biographies concerning the Crown Princess, the first half of the novel is her own firsthand account of the events of the Royal Family (as told by the Crown Princess some 200 years in the future). The second half of the novel follows Dr. Babs Halliwell as she reads these memoirs and how it affects her trip to Korea for a conference.
The first half is a deeply engrossing story that is easy to get sucked into (like Halliwell does in the second half). It has a Memoirs of a Geisha feel that brings the culture of Korea to life in a fascinating way. Just as the Crown Princess becomes posthumously obsessed with royal biographies, her own royal story is just as interesting to read and share.
The second half is somewhat underwhelming compared to the first. Babs is on her way to a conference in Korea when she becomes deeply engrossed in the Crown Princess’ memoirs. The story then delves into the minutiae of her time in Korea in similar fashion to Ian McEwan’s Saturday or Solar. She gets involved with two different men and explores the historical sites that were mentioned in the memoirs.
It’s not until the final 30-odd pages that Drabble tries to tie everything together and make a point. But by then the fascination with the novel has faded greatly from the piquant first half. Her writing style is exact yet stark, easy to become engrossed in but still leaving something to be desired. Her transcultural themes, too, leave something to be desired, as the tie between the two halves of the novel feels too weak. But the memoirs in the first half are enough to make this novel a worthy read and land it a spot on The List.
Holden Caulfield is an iconic character in American literature. He’s an antihero, a rebel without a cause, who dislikes everything and everyone. As such, he endears himself to teenagers of any generation, who feel the angst and alienation he experiences. But there’s a time for rebellion and there’s a time to grow up.
Reading The Catcher in the Rye as an adult exposes Caulfield as a problematic character. He considers everyone a phony (even hating actors because they are inherently phony in their acting), which just serves to make him, in turn, feel like a phony. His disdain for everything feels like a forced affectation he uses to make himself feel superior to everyone else—although he’s the one flunking out of schools left and right. It’s no wonder that disaffected teens find solace in this novel, but as an adult it is nearly impossible to find anything likable about him (I so desperately wanted him to get hit by one of those Madison Avenue buses he so despised).
It’s no surprise, however, that this novel is included on The List. J.D. Salinger’s writing so perfectly embodies the character of Caulfield that he feels all too real. And any novel that isn’t about wizards or vampires yet can still grab a teenagers’ attention should deserve some praise. Caulfield serves as a prototype for hipsters, disliking mainstream things (like movies!) and wearing his red hunting cap as his own personal fashion statement. His imprint on American culture may be timeless, but the novel itself should only be experienced when you’re a teenager.
Casino Royale is the first of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. And if you’ve seen the Daniel Craig film, then you’ll be familiar with the story’s premise. Bond must play a high-stakes card game to bankrupt the corrupt Le Chiffre. The novel also sets up the character of Bond for Fleming’s future stories. The fundamentals behind his classic traits and belief systems are grounded in the events that happen in Royale.
But don’t expect it to play quite like a Bond film. There are no extensive action sequences or steamy sex scenes (although Bond’s passionate feelings for Vesper Lynd do come close). Instead, Fleming explores the mind of Bond and his skills as a double-oh agent. It’s fascinating to follow his thought processes as he tries to escape various dangerous scenarios and how he gets to the bottom of certain mysteries. This is the main aspect that really sets the book apart from the films. Going into his personal motives and thinking behind actions makes him a far more fascinating character.
That being said, the film did a fantastic job of adapting it from this classic novel while still staying true to the film franchise. Of course, the novel’s tone more closely resembles the original Bond films—with SMERSH instead of SPECTRE and general anti-communism spread throughout. Yet on its own, Casino Royale is a tightly written spy thriller that literary Bond fans would adore.
It’s inclusion on The List is not surprising giving its influence on pop culture. Although there are many literary spy thrillers on the list, this one definitely has earned its own spot among fellow greats like John le Carre.
J.G. Ballard’s novel Crash revolves around a form of symphorophilia—a sexual arousal from staging and watching a disaster. In this case, the main characters get their sexual kicks from watching or performing in car crashes. While this sexual fetish sounds straight out of Chuck Palahniuk novel, it lacks his sense of humor and transcends into new levels of graphic imagery.
The narrator, James Ballard (distractingly named after the author), meets car crash sexual enthusiast Dr. Robert Vaughan after being involved in a car crash of his own. He quickly picks up Vaughan’s sexual predilections and rides around with him, sexing in crashed cars and so forth. But Vaughan’s addiction continues to reach new levels of destruction as he tries to stage his ideal death as a head-on collision with Elizabeth Taylor.
The most remarkable thing about this novel is that Ballard, the author, uses blatantly graphic language to convey all the sexual acts the characters perform. He doesn’t try to mask any of the sexuality in the book with euphemisms as is often found in literature, but instead calls a penis a penis (and many other more scientific terms for areas of the body). Yet, after the initial shock of reading about such sexual perversions (and all the semen!), it becomes almost tedious and dull to read. You get bored reading about their car crashes and sex in the ultimate form of desensitization.
This is not a novel with many likable characters. Ballard remains the most likable as he slowly grows terrified of Vaughan’s increasingly dangerous tactics. And his slow boil of homosexual attraction to Vaughan becomes more fascinating than his disturbing relationship with his wife, who even helps fuel his attraction to Vaughan.
Crash’s inclusion on The List can only be ascribed to the sensationalism of the writing and the controversiality it inspired. I can certainly say I’ve never read a book quite like this (although Palahniuk’s Snuff comes pretty close); and I can safely say I’ll be glad not read another one like it. If you do attempt this novel, just be warned that you won’t want to have sex for a few weeks after reading it.
“All the world’s a stage” according to the Bard; and it remains true for Russian high society in the new Joe Wright adaptation of Anna Karenina. With the rise of auteurs adapting classic literature with insightful new commentary (see also: Wuthering Heights, Dangerous Liaisons), Wright adds creative commentary to imperialist Russia while adapting the classic story. The film takes place almost exclusively inside a decaying theatre, with society members watching from their seats as various dramas occur on and off stage.
The drama, of course, is centered on Anna Karenina (Wright’s muse Keira Knightley) and her illicit affair with Vronsky (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) that shocked the nation. Bored with her cold, aging husband, Karenin (Jude Law), Anna becomes immediately enraptured with Vronsky’s youthful beauty. She ironically falls for him while on a trip to save her brother Stiva’s (a deeply unattractive Matthew Macfadyen) marriage to Dolly (Kelly Macdonald), after she, Dolly, learns of Stiva’s affair with the governess. If there is a biological gene that predisposes one to cheat, then the Oblonsky family—Anna and Stiva—certainly has it.
Anna’s passion for Vronsky isn’t one-sided. He quickly ditches young Kitty (Alicia Vikander) right before he is intended to propose to her, so he can chase after Anna. Poor Kitty is devastated, having just spurned her other suitor, Levin (Domhnall Gleeson), in anticipation of Vronsky’s proposal. Passionate love is a dangerous thing in the world of Anna Karenina.
Because it is 1874 Russia, divorce is still a relatively new and shameful thing. Fearful of being shamed by society and losing custody of her beloved son, Seryozha (Oskar McNamara), Anna tries to keep her affair secret from Karenin. But her unbridled passion for Vronsky makes her the center of gossip in Moscow. When she discovers that she’s pregnant with Vronsky’s child, Anna must confess all to Karenin and place herself at his mercy.
Keira Knightley does a masterful job of expressing her passionate love, while still attempting to keep it in check. And for the scenes when Anna slowly loses her mind, Knightley plays them perfectly. We can see in her eyes all the turmoil that author Leo Tolstoy wrote in the novel. In the book it is far easier to get into the characters’ minds because Tolstoy writes their thoughts, but Wright has put together a very capable cast. Taylor-Johnson captures the naiveté (and beauty) of Vronsky, while still making him a compelling character. Jude Law, too, manages to make Karenin a sympathetic character.
The screenplay, by playwright Tom Stoppard, focuses solely on Tolstoy’s exploration of love. Stoppard cut out the duller parts of the novel, mostly involving Levin’s farm life, allowing Anna’s story to fully take over. (In the novel, Levin gets far more page time, despite the book’s title.) Stoppard does a superb job of drawing out the major themes of the novel, yet the true beauty of the film lies in its stunning visuals.
The production design by Sarah Greenwood is ornately beautiful and intricately complex. As characters walk from room to room, the walls (or stage sets) smoothly transition into each new room. The costumes by Jacqueline Durran embody the decadence of the time period. And Seamus McGarvey’s cinematography captures all the elegance of these elements in the film. With Dario Marianelli’s Russified score perfectly matching the mood and pace, the film threatens to overload the senses. Fortunately, the editor (Melanie Oliver) knows when to tone it down—for the intimate, dramatic scenes—and when to turn it up—for the scandalous society scenes.
Not everyone will be as taken with Anna Karenina as I—pomp and circumstance aren’t for everyone. But the film’s examination of unhappy families will make you rethink your concept of relationships. And whether you love or hate the film, Tolstoy’s novel is truly a must read for everyone (I recommend the lauded translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky).
There have been many adaptations of Emily Bronte’s classic novel Wuthering Heights including a Juliette Binoche-Ralph Fiennes period piece, an MTV contemporary adaptation, and the definitive 1939 adaptation starring Laurence Olivier. So when Andrea Arnold decided to tackle this novel, she wanted to make sure she had a unique take on the story. And her take is definitely a novel one: she focuses the film solely on Heathcliff.
The dark and moody new adaptation of Wuthering Heights also puts an emphasis on the “wuthering.” Writer-director Andrea Arnold includes extensive footage of the natural world around the Heights to represent the beauty and brutality of nature—both in the world and within the characters. She also explores human nature by telling this entire story from the point of view of Heathcliff.
When young Heathcliff (Solomon Glave) is brought to the Heights by Mr. Earnshaw (Paul Hilton), he is immediately treated like an outsider not just because he comes from the streets but also because of the dark color of his skin. He is raised as a laborer by the Earnshaw’s and suffers extreme beatings from racist Hindley Earnshaw (Lee Shaw). Heathcliff’s only sense of comfort and refuge comes from Hindley’s younger sister Catherine (Shannon Beer). As children they form an intense emotional bond that follows them through their lives.
The first half of the film follows these young children and the foundation of their relationship with each other and the other characters in the area. Arnold’s goal in this adaptation was to stay as true to the original text as possible, so she cast young actors to play the younger forms of these classic characters. Both Glave and Beer are making their acting debut in this film, and they perfectly embody the intensity of these characters (and the intense chemistry that these characters have together).
When they have grown into young adults, Kaya Scodelario (as older Catherine) and James Howson (as older Heathcliff—another newcomer) continue with the intensity of these dark characters. Scodelario easily takes to the manipulative nature of Cathy as she pits her weak husband, Edgar Linton (James Northcote), against the vicious Heathcliff. Howson captures the brooding and yearning in Heathcliff while also drawing out his brutality, which he inflicts on naive Isabella Linton (Nichola Burley).
Wuthering Heights is always considered a tragic tale of undying love, but Arnold and screenwriter Olivia Hetreed sought to emphasize the dark side of these characters. Catherine and Heathcliff inflict suffering upon each other and those around them to cope with the pain they feel from being separated. These characters are so cruel it’s hard to feel sympathy for them.
So often, the adaptations of Wuthering Heights give great emphasis to Catherine; yet in the novel she is little more than a supporting character. Heights truly reads as a history of Heathcliff as told by the servant Nelly Dean (played by Simone Jackson in the film). Arnold draws the story of her film from the first half of the book, which follows teenaged Heathcliff and Cathy (the second half of the books follows the next generation of Lintons and how Heathcliff manipulates them into being like him and Cathy). While Nelly is Cathy’s maid (and later Cathy’s daughter’s maid), even her story is constructed around Heathcliff’s involvement in their lives. Thus it is a wonder that there hasn’t been a Heathcliff-centric film before.
Heathcliff becomes the one that audiences are more likely to sympathize with because they get new insight into this character’s psyche. Arnold explores the nature vs. nurture argument in this film. After being beaten, Heathcliff turns his rage on the only thing that’s smaller than him—animals. There is so much rage within him as he slits that sheep’s throat or break’s the rabbit’s neck—his animal brutality is a motif that continues with him into young adulthood (and even little Hareton Earnshaw emulates the cruelty he sees in Heathcliff). But is Heathcliff cruel because that’s what is buried within him, or has the brutality he suffered at the hands of the Earnshaws turned him into that cruel person.
Arnold and Hetreed have done some major interpretative work to draw out Heathcliff’s psyche. They take single paragraphs narrated by Nelly and turn them into 5-minute scenes that express Heathcliff’s story. After seeing this film it is difficult not to feel the pain that he suffers before becoming the cruel creature we are at first introduced to—which makes rereading Wuthering Heights a truly new experience.
Also, while the new adaptation omits the next generation of Lintons—Catherine 2.0 and weak Linton—they manage to capture the thematic concept that Bronte instilled in the second half of the novel. Between his feud with Edgar and his control of the Heights, Heathcliff manipulates these children into reenacting the romantic tragedy he went through as a teenager. With Hareton’s parents dead, Heathcliff raises Hareton to be a cruel and uncivilized Mini-Me. Arnold and Hetreed embody this theme in showing Hareton’s increasing cruelty to animals mimicking Heathcliff’s own cruelty, giving viewers just a snippet of what these characters’ fates will be.
The moodiness of the film is further illustrated by the lack of musical score. Sound designer Nicholas Becker uses the diegetic—or natural—sounds as the film’s “soundtrack.” The howling of the wind, the creaking of the trees, the yelping of the dogs, even the wetness of the kisses—all of these increase the intensity and tone of the film. This, combined with images of the barren and cruel—and often striking—landscape, truly pulls the audience into the story and world of Wuthering Heights.
This adaptation brings new insight into the story of Wuthering Heights and will urge viewers to pick up the book and read it again (and I urge you to do so, as well), searching for this intense and dark world that they missed when they read it in high school. Arnold set out to create a new take on this beloved classic, and that’s exactly what she has done. The film has a slow pace that emphasizes that this is about more than just plot; this film is a character study of the classic figure of Heathcliff. Fans of Emily Bronte’s novel—or fans of period pieces in general—should enjoy this nuanced exploration of the novel and its themes.
Cloud Atlas is an “infinite matryoshka doll of painted moments, each ‘shell’ (the present) encased inside a nest of ‘shells’ (previous presents)” or a “sextet for overlapping soloists.” Either way you look at it, it’s a complex novel of tangentially interconnected stories that span roughly 1,000 years.
It is frustrating when you begin reading the novel. Just when you reach the halfway point of a story, it stops—usually at a dramatic moment, sometimes even mid-sentence. Then you begin the next story, learn new characters, new environments, new tone of voice and that story abruptly stops as well. Finally you reach the sixth story, and things begin to come together, themes emerge; and you find yourself barreling through the second half of the book as you return to each story, picking up right where you left off.
Yet you find yourself eagerly gobbling up every page of this book because author David Mitchell is a literary master. Each story is so perfectly crafted and fully-realized that it could work as its own book. It oftentimes feels like you are reading six different books, because he makes each story feel like it was written by a completely different author.
I will refrain from going into detail about the stories, because that would ruin some of the books’ effect; but Cloud Atlas has a little bit of everything, jumping from genre to genre effortlessly. Mitchell’s novel is must-read for any fan of literature.
If you still aren’t sold, watch the titillating trailer for the upcoming adaptation of this book and you’ll be hooked.
The Amerindian Flapping Eagle has just crashed on the shores of Calf Island (via a special portal a la LOST season 5), an island of immortals like himself, and meets the immensely fat and eccentric Virgil Jones and his hunchback companion Mrs. O’Toole. In his quest to find his sister, Flapping Eagle must enlist Virgil’s help in ascending the ominous mountain of Calf Island to reach the town of K from which Virgil left in shame. While not thrilled to return to his ex-wife and myriad of enemies, Virgil hopes that Flapping Eagle is the key to course-correcting the problems that Grimus has inflicted on their lives and the Island.
