Crosspost: Review: The Ocean at the End of the Lane

My instinct was to write this review longhand, which probably won't mean much to you (except that I am old), but says something to me about the emotional space I was in after finishing the book. I took out my boarding pass, thinking I'd write on the back, not wanting to put it into my just-started professional notebook (it's teal, and has a fabric placeholder, and only has writing on one page -- a to-do list, most of which remains to be done). That was my instinct but, as it turned out, I'd left my pen in my backpack, which was safely stowed in the overhead compartment, and which I did not feel like retrieving just to get a pen. So, I "wrote" on my phone, in an app designed to look like a pad of yellow paper. I like the lines, but I miss the feeling of pen, and the imaginary lines on the imaginary page made me think of Lettie Hempstock saying that nothing is really what it looks like on the outside. 

I read The Ocean at the End of the Lane in less than the time it takes to fly from New Orleans to New York. I started during takeoff and when I finished, and checked the map, it told me that we were somewhere over North Carolina. It was a quick read, and the story is fairly simple: a man returns to a place he once called home and he remembers a time when he was a boy, when he met a girl and lost his heart. But it's better than that, and not quite like that at all. It was, as the best books are, full of more than you think will possibly fit in its pages. It was A Story, in the way Isak Dinesen might have meant -- bigger and more true than you'd imagined at the start. It was not unlike Lettie Hempstock's ocean, even knowing that it really was an ocean. 

And now I'm not sure what to say about it, though I felt, immediately, like I wanted to say something. Hm. That seems like a problem for a book review. So, here's what I think you need to know to understand what I thought of the book, which is really the point of a review: I mostly didn't think about it and I consider that a good thing...

Read more @ No Shortage of Opinions

This is how it is.

[CROSSPOSTED AT No Shortage of Opinions]

I am tired, and I am angry. I am overwhelmed by the sense that nothing will stem the tides of violence against black bodies. I am afraid that no amount of hope or change or dialogue or legislation can undo centuries of dehumanization and disregard. I feel sad that the arc of history bends too slowly for so many. I feel powerless. But I do not feel surprised. The Zimmerman trial ended exactly the way I expected it to. I do not feel surprised, and that hollow feeling of "this is how it is"-ness really scares me.

Last night, I did something I'd avoided doing for almost a year and half: I allowed myself to see a picture of Trayvon Martin's dead body. It was attached to an article at Gawker, written by Adam Weinstein, entitled "This, Courtesty of MSNBC, is Trayvon Martin's Dead Body. Get Angry"--I'm not linking because the article is easy to find, and the picture is right up at the top. I didn't really want to see the picture, but I felt like I needed to. I needed to remind myself in the most visceral way possible that this is how it is. Beneath the rhetoric and abstract arguments of the trial and the public discourse, this - this dead black boy - is how it is. George Zimmerman follows, threatens, and fatally shoots an unarmed young man. He walks free, because he was "standing his ground." Elsewhere in Florida, Marissa Alexander fires shots to scare off a man who admits to beating her: she is denied the right to "stand her ground," and is sentenced to 20 years in prison.

Things have changed in America, and often for the better. But things have also remained the same.

Last night, I did something I haven't done in years: I cried because I was so angry that I couldn't express it any other way. I heard the verdict and it filled me with sadness and rage. I looked at the picture because I needed to let that out, and I knew that the reality of that image would give me permission to do so. Sometimes crying is cleansing -- a way to expel negative feelings and make room for positive ones. I don't know what I made room for last night. I know that, when I stopped crying, I still felt full. When I started writing this, last night, I felt too full to collect my thoughts in any coherent fashion. (I'm still not sure how coherent this is, but believe me when I say that it's an improvement.) I gave up on trying to let this out and turned instead to taking things in. I let myself get lost in the Facebook posts, Tweets, and text messages full of outrage and sadness and resignation. This sadness, this anger, is how it is. I found some comfort in knowing that I was not alone in those feelings, but it did little to help me settle my thoughts before bed. I thought I could do that by reading something frivolous, but what started out pleasantly escapist soon became too real. I was too full to handle themes of bullying, loneliness, and the emotional damage of being constantly told that you are less-than, so I gave up on that, and went back to my laptop, to see what I'd left open to read from the past few days. As it happened, I'd left open on my browser a transcript of Malala Yousafzai's address to the UN. Malala, who was also shot by a coward who feared the threat that her existence posed to his narrow-minded beliefs, was speaking to the UN on the importance of education. It is worth noting, though, that she ties her focus on women's rights and girls' education to wider ideals of justice, and the lack thereof. "Poverty, ignorance, injustice, racism and the deprivation of basic rights are the main problems faced by both men and women," Malala said. This is how it is. But Malala also reminded me that my initial sense of powerlessness and insurmountable sadness are not the final word.

So here I stand...one girl among many. I speak – not for myself, but for all girls and boys. I raise up my voice – not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard. Those who have fought for their rights:  

Their right to live in peace.  

Their right to be treated with dignity.  

Their right to equality of opportunity.  

Their right to be educated. 

--Malala Yousafzai

Yesterday, I was filled to capacity with sadness and anger. This morning, watching the video of Malala's speech, I was struck by her courage and her capacity for forgiveness. I remember, today, that my hope, though certainly shakeable, is not yet uprooted. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will again find some comfort in the knowledge that what was shared on Saturday night was not just the understanding that this is how it is, but also the conviction that this is not how it should be. I will, again, find some comfort in the hope that it will not always be this way -- that though some of us may be silenced, others will speak out in the face of injustice.

Malala believes that illiteracy, poverty, and terrorism of all kinds can be fought -- that our situations are not hopeless, and that we are not powerless. I hope that I can learn from her example that this, also, is how it is.

Quick Thoughts on Entertainment and Critical Thought

My geekery would probably be much easier for me if I didn’t think so much, but I also think that would just enable me to be passively part of the problem. And I’d like to be a part of the solution. If only to make it easier for me to enjoy the geekery.

Me, in response to Aamer Rahman's "Game of Thrones and Racist Fantasy." Read the full post over at No Shortage of Opinions.

Man of Steel (***1/2)

CROSS-POSTED FROM NO SHORTAGE OF OPINIONS

Catching up on "summer movie" reviews. Seems strange to feel like I'm playing catch-up here, since summer doesn't actually start until Friday…

Anyhow, I'm digging out the old movie rating system:

5 *s = "WOW!"
4 *s = "Good."
3 *s = "Stupid fun, decent, or at least not bad enough to get 2 *s."
2 *s = "Bad, but not awful; or awful, but enjoyable either despite or because of that."
1 * = "The best part was the end, because then it was over."
no *s = "*Deep, pain-filled sigh*...I will never get that [insert running time here] of my life back."

First up is the most recent one I've seen: Man of Steel. My prediction was: good action, mediocre plot, bad gender. So, how did it do?

Well, the action was good, sometimes. I think the story held together better than I expected. I liked the themes they chose to focus on (hope, use of power vs. restraint, and self-determination), though I don't think they did them as well as they could have. And, the gender stuff was  less aggressively bad than I'd thought it would be. So, I have quibbles, but I think it was entertaining. It's definitely worth watching, if you're into the idea of a Superman movie (or a movie with Henry Cavill in it). It's especially worth it if you, like the gentleman I recently overheard at a coffee shop, "just want to see a big, loud movie, where Zod and Superman break some shit, and Superman eventually saves the day, and Lois Lane is a hottie."

But, therein lie the quibbles. (And, herein lie the spoilers.)

Read the rest at No Shortage of Opinions.

Breaking Dawn, part 1 review (kind of)

So, you're probably wondering why I've been so quiet about the new Twilight movie. Maybe you even thought I'd developed some sense, and renounced my utterly undignified love for those poorly written, badly acted, so-called films. Maybe you thought...

You didn't really think that, did you?

No, as you might imagine, I could not wait to see the newest installment of The Twilight Saga (Twilight: Breaking Dawn, part 1). I saw it on Saturday afternoon with S., C., C., and E, and we even made a picnic in line beforehand (where we were, embarrassingly enough, the first and, for a while, only people in line). Should I bother to review it? I mean, you already know it wasn't good. It was a better movie that the first one, but that's a really low bar. It was, I believe, the best of all 4, but that's not really saying much, either. It was beautifully shot, they continue to try to tone down the creepiness of the books, and they continue to make really unwise choices with the werewolves. I mean, in the scene where Jacob finally tells Sam and -- oh, whatever, there's this scene, and it's full of wolves, and there's this really terrible echo effect, and the audience laughed and laughed, which *has* to be their intention by this point, right?

Anyway, rather than wasting my time reviewing it in depth, I'll just say that it was bad, thoroughly entertaining, with moments of hilarity -- mostly due, again, to Billy Burke and Anna Kendrick, but with an assist from the most hilarious/disturbing morning-after scene ever written. And I actually think they should get nominated for a makeup award, because I really hope they didn't make KStew lose that much weight for the dying-for-the-fetus scenes.

I won't bother reviewing it in depth, but I did take a few moments to think about why I watch those crapfests in the first place, and why I tore through the books like the pages were laced with crack. Twilight is one of my few honest-to-god guilty pleasures, and the ladies over at Pop Culture Curmudgeon were kind enough to invite me to do a guest post on. You can check it out here, if you like: "Even My Displeasure is Guilty." Here's an excerpt:

If you were around when I read the books, you know I consumed them voraciously. You also know that I spent a lot of time being absolutely horrified by the images of femininity, masculinity, and life in general Meyer propagates. I honestly believe that Stephenie Meyer hates women, or at least the ones in her novel, and just doesn't realize it. Why, then, I wondered, did I keep reading? And why did I go to see the latest move in the series last weekend? The answers there may be a little different. I kept reading the books because they were addictive, in the way that immature, unhealthy melodrama often is (see soap operas, romance novels, the GOP debates). Bella and Edward's so-called-romance was an extended train wreck, and I rubbernecked my way through with glee...

Go check it out!

Even My Displeasure is Guilty (originally posted @ Pop Culture Curmudgeon)

Wednesday, 23 November 2011 14:30

So, boys and girls, we have something special just in time for Thanksgiving: a guest post about the Twilight saga from one of Katie’s oldest friends, elisamaza. Be sure and leave your comments below. Enjoy!

A few days ago, a friend posted a link to an article called “11 Things to Know at 25(ish).” It was a good read, alternating between advice on coming to know yourself and advice on honoring your interpersonal relationships. It may look like the only link between that article and this post is the link that was at the top of the page: Kent Woodyard’s “You Can’t Marry a Hot Vampire.” But I think that self-knowledge and interpersonal relationships are at the core of the subject of that article, and the subject of this post: the Twilight series. Now, I think that Twilight demonstrates and promotes a disturbing lack of self-knowledge (in its characters, perhaps by the author, and, I would argue, by many of its fans), and I think that the models of interpersonal relationship are wildly unhealthy. But, as many of you know, the Twilight series is one of my few guilty pleasures. This is obviously not because I don’t take pleasure in other things that other people might call “guilty pleasures” — I certainly do. But I don’t actually feel guilty about any of those. As long I feel like I can distinguish between “it’s good” and “I like it,” I’m alright.

Sometimes, though, it feels wrong to like something. And for me, Twilight is one of those times.

 If you were around when I read the books, you know I consumed them voraciously. You also know that I spent a lot of time being absolutely horrified by the images of femininity, masculinity, and life in general that Meyer propagates. I honestly believe that Stephenie Meyer hates women, or at least the ones in her novel, and just doesn’t realize it. Why, then, I wondered, did I keep reading? And why did I go to see the latest movie in the series just last weekend? The answers there may be a little different.

I kept reading the books because they were addictive, in the way that immature, unhealthy melodrama often is (see soap operas, romance novels, the GOP debates). Bella and Edward’s so-called-romance was an extended train wreck, and I rubbernecked my way through with glee.

Don't get me wrong: there are, in fact, aspects of the book that are compelling. Meyer does a good job of ratcheting up the tension, for example. Then again, most of what she does to accomplish that involves putting Bella in danger. Again and again and again. The real problem, of course, is not that Bella is constantly under attack from enemies, but that her boyfriend is the biggest threat. She’s “dating” (which, to Meyer and, I fear, a generation of un-critical readers, means being stalked by, and then ragingly codependent on) a guy who loves her so much that he not only wants to be with her at any cost, but quite literally wants to consume her. For those keeping score at home, this is not ok. This combined lover/hunter is also someone whose supernatural existence means that he can be both father figure and peer simultaneously. For those keeping score at home, this is also not ok. His monstrousness makes him a warrior, willing and able to rip things limb from limb if they pose a threat to his beloved, but this really only distracts from the fact that the only appropriate threat to his beloved is him. Again, so not ok. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be wanted. I don’t even think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be protected. But everything in moderation, kids. Being stalked by someone whose desire to harm you is so powerful that it’s physically painful is not romantic. Being controlled by someone whose idea of protecting you is removing the engine from your truck, so that you can’t go and see your friends, is not sweet.

 But I digress.

 Why did I read those books? Given that I couldn’t I stop railing against them, why did I keep going? One of those questions is easy to answer: the Twilight story is a bad version of life, and that’s why I critique, in all seriousness, the harmful images of just about everything I think the books and films glorify (though, surprisingly, the latter to a lesser extent). But the Twilight story is also a bad version of fantasy, and I railed against that, too, before admitting that the thing I was defending is problematic. It took me a while to be able to articulate it, but my cracktastic experience of the Twilight books had partially to do with the fact that, while I now critique and often object to the fantasies from which Twilight was born, I have also been steeped in them. What do I mean by that? Well, his being a vampire should be a dealbreaker, but that didn’t stop me from wanting Nick and Natalie to work it out, nor does it stop me from wanting Damon to get his shit together enough to be a worthy companion for Elena. Her being a teenager should be a dealbreaker, but that never stopped me from getting totally sucked into the Buffy/Angel angststravaganza. See, also: my previous comment about Damon and Elena. But, what are the alternatives in Twilight, and other stories of its kind? What would the “better” version be?

It’s tempting to hold up Jacob 1.0 (maybe even 1.5) as a positive option, and that’s part of why I kept reading — I was hoping against hope that she’d pick “the right guy.” I didn’t hope very hard. It’s honestly never *actually* a triangle, and it eventually becomes impossible to root for Jacob, as Meyer transforms him into her ideal man: possessive, controlling, strangely unable to understand the word “no.” But, even before then, his right-guy-ness is as much a fantasy as Edward’s. Jacob is not the dangerous, mysterious, brooder. He’s the awesome friend, waiting in the wings for Bella to notice how sweet and supportive and handsome and perfect and totally in love with her he is. And what of the other featured couples? Alice and Jasper, Rosalie and Emmett, Carlisle and Esme? All fantasies. It’s a story full of soul mates and happily ever afters, none of which are actually healthy pictures to shape a life with (even if they’re less obviously damaging than the hot mess of obsession and self-abjection that is Bells and Eddie). Even the wolves with their imprinting (brought to its uber-creepy height with the Jacob and Renesmee pairing) is a gross twist on love at first sight. Let *that* sink in for a moment.

The Twilight story is an affront to my sensibilities as a feminist and a critical thinker. I worry about how it both was shaped by and is now shaping cultural images of love and life. But, I am also shaped by its predecessors and peers. This understanding of how I’ve been shaped is actually why I think the critique is crucial, but it’s also why at least a small part of me just wanted to keep reading.

I mentioned earlier that my reasons for being drawn to the books and my reasons for being drawn to the movies might be different. I read the books at least partially because they tapped into a lifetime of unrealistic portrayals of love, men and women, and happiness that my critical thinking feminist is unable to believe, but that my Lloyd-Dobbler-loving, MickBeth-shipping, daydream believer is unable to let go of. The movies obviously tap into some of that, but there’s another reason that I enjoy them so: the Twilight movies involve some of the worst actoring I’ve ever seen, and I happen to love bad movies. There’s something I find really enjoyable about watching something you know is of poor quality, specifically for the joy that comes from pointing out (preferably in a group, with a drink in hand) just how poor the quality is. I enjoy pointing and laughing, staring with disbelief at the wreckage of bad dialogue, bad delivery, bad makeup and wigs — oh, the wigs! I enjoy bad movies, and these are bad in a spectacular way.

But I’m also implicated in a culture that fetishizes pretty faces, chiseled abs, love at first sight, and happily ever afters.

I think it’s important to think critically about the disturbingly unhealthy images of love, life, and beauty in the Twilight books and the movies based on them, but also about the problems inherent in countless other romantic comedies, romance novels, etc. I think it’s important to ask what, exactly, we’re absorbing from our media, but I am also aware that I’ve been shaped by what I have already absorbed form those books, those movies, that media. And this is what’s really scary to me. Because you can’t (and shouldn’t want to) marry a hot vampire, but you can’t marry Mr. Darcy either, be it Mark or Fitzwilliam. And, if someone like me, who thinks really hard about what she’s taking into her brain, and into her heart, has to admit that she is always already affected, and in ways that she’s not comfortable with, what of all the uncritical readers and watchers? If they manage to avoid threatening, possessive creepers, what will they seek instead?


elisamaza is both a nerd and a geek. She grew up in the South, now lives out West, and studied religion, ethics, and literature at schools on both coasts. She currently makes a living teaching students to read, write, and speak more critically about things she thinks it is critical to read, write, and speak about. She’s particularly interested in the relationship between selfhood and storytelling, and has written about it in works as varied as Isak Dinesen’s short stories, Joss Whedon’s TV series’, and Neil Gaiman’s comics. She thanks Jennifer and Katie for inviting her to guest post, and invites you to visit her blog at in medias res, where she talks about everything from “media and metaphysics” to “absolute rubbish.”

She does not usually talk about herself in the third person.