Tagged: reviews

Teaser – Icarus and the Wing Builder, by Robert William Case

My mother (Djaynn-net) once read somewhere that you can tell within the first minute of a movie whether you’ll like the movie or not. Or maybe she just said that. In any case, thanks to her provocative idea, I am now unable to begin movies or read books without wondering if it will prove true–again. This is relevant because my friend, Robert Case, wrote a book. And I helped him edit it. We’re both very excited about it, and I told him I’d publish a bit of it, as a teaser of sorts, on here. He told me I could pick whatever section I wanted to. I’m going with the first minute of the book. Enjoy! Then click the link I provide below (and here) and buy it. My honest review will be tomorrow’s post.

Oh, and I guess for this to work, you need to have some idea of what you’re getting into to. So, as if a movie teaser, picture these images flash across the screen: a rocky beach landscape that can be nowhere other than Ancient Greece; an unfairly wronged man finding hope in a bird’s effortless flight against a cerulean sky; a young orphan boy answering, “Icarus,” when asked his name; a strong captain sailing a ship that’s carrying an unlikely pair across the Mediterranean; a tribal king leaning back on his over-sized throne with authority after having just pronounced a passionate, yet never uncontrolled, decree; willing courtesans listlessly walking by, hinting at nights filled with passionate love-making; the man concluding a fatherly wisdom spiel with a look which says, “Don’t you know I love you?”; the young man Icarus leaving on a walk-a-bout that he just might not return from; a back-lit image of the man standing on a cliff wearing giant clearly hand-made wings that somehow possess a they-just-might-work quality to them; the man wearing wings falling off a cliff out of sight then rising up as background music enhances his extraordinary success; then the words “Icarus and the Wing Builder” accompanied by a deep percussive sound and an authoritative voice saying, “Read it this weekend on your favorite couch.”  

Okay, that should do it–now read! 

Long ago, on a verdant island in the middle of an azure sea now called the Mediterranean, a man named Daedalus designed and built wings. Naturally, inevitably, he had to test them.

On that momentous sun-filled day he stood on a ledge of earth and stone beneath a cloudless sky, long cumbersome wings of his own design draped across his arms, shoulders, and back. The wind was steady and strong and blowing directly into his bearded face. It was a perfect day for flight. But he stood on the ledge of earth for a long while, anxious and uncertain, staring out at the distant gray fusion of water and sky.

The harness and wings carried an unnatural bulk and he constantly shifted his weight to compensate and keep his balance. If he slipped now or was knocked off his feet, the fall onto the rocks and dirt would likely damage the wings. He had labored too long, journeyed too far for that. So he leaned forward with bent knees, opposing the wind’s power and keeping his weight over his feet.

Far below and before him, as far as he could see, sparkling waves reflected the sun’s warmth and light. The majesty of the seascape called out its siren song, clear and serene. High on this remote perch he could not help but feel it. The attraction was irresistible, enticing him into the sky. As he stood on the shared boundary between the sea, sky, and land, it pulled on him as if his ears were at the center of his heart. But once again he was able to shake his head and look away, shifting his weight and keeping kept both feet firmly on the ground.

How long do I stand here, waiting?

In silence, Daedalus turned his gaze back toward the sea, compelled  to feel the power of the sky just one more time; that place where the wind  caught under the wings and the uplift began. He rotated his shoulders and held the wings fast. The steady breeze blew across the outstretched wings, its energy flowing through them into the muscles of his shoulders and back. It teased and taunted him, assuring him that now was the best of times–possibly the only time there would ever be–for making this essential leap of faith.

He leaned forward once again and braced against the force, testing the limits of his fragile equilibrium. Once more he opted for the safety of the rocky ledge. But this time, and before he could look back down to the earth beneath his sandaled feet, a burst of windblown sand struck his face and chest. Instantly he closed his eyes and shifted one foot back for balance, squaring his shoulders into the gust, the wings fully extended.

The wind did not relent. It tore across the surface of the wings. Uplift gripped at his shoulders and spine. And now, instead of struggling for balance the wingbuilder pushed hard against the earth, up and away from the rocky ledge. Heart pounding, he dove into the sky. At the apogee of the leap he hung suspended, balanced between time and the jagged rocks of the shoreline below. Gravity, it seemed, had released its hold. Filling his lungs with an intake of breath, he willed his chest forward into an awkward glide, arms and wings outstretched, reaching for the currents of air. Daedalus soared.

The moment was sublime, the splendor of flight on wings of his own design. The sky responded, greeting him with a mighty thermal, lifting him into its invisible spiral and carrying him into the cerulean heights far above the island. Sweat streaking down his face, he banked away like a great soaring bird. It was a dream realized. He felt so alive, his heart singing with joy, so loud and so strong. He never wanted it to end.

Okay, so it was more like three minutes. Sue me. If you like what you read, or you are simply up for something a little off the beaten path, purchase the book from Amazon by clicking here: Icarus and the Wing Builder

Life In The Oil Fields Is No Movie

Well, that’s not entirely true.  One movie came to mind on about day four as I was beginning to realize that a lot of family, not to mention my one friend, would want to know what exactly it was like to work on a rig.  Maybe even you are curious to know.  Here’s my best effort to convey understanding and feeling of the job, and why it appeals to me.

It’s a lot like Lord of the Rings.  Like the quest to destroy the Precious, in which all participants agree that there is no value in attempting any action that does not assist in accomplishing that invaluable end, the oil fields have one goal.  One.  Every single activity supports that goal.  In other words, the concept ‘efficiency’ has yet to be developed as there is no need to distinguish efficient action from inefficient action.

Also like LOTR, meals are on the go.  And every once in a while a Legolas shows up with a food whose calorie content is such that “one small bite will fill the stomach of a grown man.”  Naturally, the food is consumed with little regard for this fact.  And in similar fashion to Samwise’s indefatigably loving disposition towards food, all conclude that it tastes great.

Moreover, there is a comedic relief at every turn, and something about the nature of being part of such a singular mission attracts people with fully-developed personalities. Put simply, characters abound.

Lastly, just as no one but Frodo can carry the ring to Mount Doom, in the oil fields there is no one else coming to do the work.  If something heavy must be lifted, if something stuck must be unstuck, if something dirty must be cleaned, if someone clean must get dirty, that’s what must happen.  Nothing stops the mission.  Not the clock, not the weather, not the calendar.  Not past performance, not best intentions, not relationships, not feelings.  Nothing.

The ring must be destroyed.

It’s glorious.

Review of The Martian, by Andy Weir

Finally there’s proof that I’m not the only one with Mars on the brain.  Originally published as an ebook in 2009, Andy Weir’s The Martian was destined for broader horizons.  Recently picked up by Crown Publishing (a subsidiary of Random House Publishing), it spent a handful of weeks on the NY Times Bestseller list earlier this year.  Must be nice.

Weir’s first novel is all heart.  And by heart, I mean comedy.  Maybe that sets the wrong tone.  Beginning again then.  The book is all Watney.  Mark Watney is the first astronaut (we all know there’s going to be one) to be stranded on Mars.  And The Martian, first and foremost, is about Mark Watney.  From the opening line, to the last page, Weir’s development of Watney through how he handles the obstacles that present themselves to him as he attempts to live on Mars acts as the life-giving oxygen necessary to sustaining his life on Mars.

The critics (really anything you’ll read about the book) frequently laud Weir’s attention to detail and eloquent grasp of the science behind traveling to and living on the red planet.  But that’s not what kept my attention.  (Like I have any way of verifying any of the story’s science anyhow.)  What I do know is that I enjoy the feeling I get as bursts of unexpected air come out of my mouth or nose. And this book causes plenty of that.  It’s a weird feeling, the feeling that accompanies laughing at unmoving text.  But it is as enjoyable as any other feeling I can think of.

If you’re like me, you probably won’t rush out and buy the book based on a recommendation.  But you might pick it up off the bookstore shelf and begin reading it.  Here’s what you need to know as you begin to feel guilty for reading so long and hurriedly put the book back before anyone can claim that you must now purchase it because you’ve read too much of it: despite the opening chapters, the book is not just a diary.  I started chapter’s four and five with a bit of a groan because while funny and interesting, it was a little too much Mark Watney.  Then chapter six arrived in a much welcomed third person omniscient point of view.  From there on out, it is a nice balance between the two.

In the end, it is a page-turner.  It is funny.  And its theme is hope.  If you have any interest in one of those three things and are space-curious, read it.

As the Credit’s Roll–What It’s Like to Watch Fast and Furious Six with George

Bad guys fight for many things.  They fight for fame, money, reputation–sometimes they fight just because they can.  Good guys, on the other hand, fight for one thing:  family.  Because good guys fight for their family–because family is the only thing worth dying for–they do really cool things to win.  And because we want good guys to win, most of us movie watchers give filmmakers a tremendous amount of liberty with little things such as physics.  Of course, however, each of us has our own internal sliding scale when it comes to these liberties.

For instance, I found Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s 2-story, 30 foot leap from his moving (and ridiculously bad-ass) Humvee down onto an Indy-car-turned-wedge-with-possibly-magnetic-suspension believable.  He’s a big guy.  Surely those muscles are good for jumping and cushioning.  My friend George agreed.

And when Vin Diesel leapt 50 feet to catch his woman mid-air (she’s also leaping) and has enough situational awareness and foresight to twist to his back so that when they land on an innocent bystander’s car’s windshield she is unharmed, I found myself lowering my just-raised-in-celebration arms and wiping a tear from my eye.  Then, as that now dry eye checked in on George, it discovered he was wearing a large grin and nodding a hushed “Yes!”.

And when I hit STOP on my timer as the giant bad-guy-filled Russian Antonov cargo plane finally comes to a halt on the runway, along with the smiling good guys and their many cars, I discover the car/plane chase that just happened on a runway that can’t be longer than three miles at speeds somewhere near 120 mph lasted all of thirteen minutes.  And that’s impossible.  Then, I quickly remember that my limitation of the runway’s length to three miles is because that’s about how long the longest runway in America is.  I have no idea how long runways are anywhere else on the planet, and the scene did not happen here in the States.  And in that moment, the scene became believable.  Seemingly we both decided the point was not worth debating, so George and I silently waited for the anti-climax scenes.

Did I mention that good guys have great barbecues and hold hands while praying?  They do.  And sometimes, part of the table spread is an enormous bowl of baked beans.

“Did you see that bowl of baked beans?!” George exclaimed.  “No way those seven people can eat all of those beans!  Back it up.  Tell me I’m wrong.”

So we backed it up.  And the bowl was rather large and rather full.  Not noticing it the first time, now that I saw it I just figured someone liked left-over beans.

George did not agree.

And now you know what it’s like to watch Fast and the Furious 6 with George.

 

 

Review of Grudge Match

I will cry when Sylvester Stallone and Robert De Niro die.  In the past I have thought about celebrity deaths that will be difficult to stomach, but only after watching Grudge Match am I sure that those two will cause a genuine sense of loss.

The movie is easy.  The story is straightforward.  And as a bonus, a black man and an old man use their societal advantages to provide the audience with guilty laughs.

The movie is almost good enough to be called “good” even if the viewer hasn’t seen Raging Bull or any films in the Rocky Saga–almost.  Then again, no movie would be comprehensible if all context could be removed.

It’s humorous the way each fighter is equally the underdog.  We have underdog versus underdog.  Luckily, the respective underdog attributes are acted well-enough to birth some curiosity.  By the time we find ourselves calling the filmmakers names for not having the courage to use Rocky’s theme song one last time to accompany the mandatory training montage, we do wonder how the fight will end.  And we nurse a hope that it will end the way we want it to, whichever way that is.  Surprisingly, the film’s writers and director are more on point than we ever could’ve imagined.

In the final round of the fight we arrive at two specific moments that explicitly reveal the film’s theme, and whether these moments are taken together or individually, that theme proves to be well worth the, at times perfunctory, 90 minute commute.

In short, if you remain undecided about watching it, watch it.

Review of Quiet, by Susan Cain

The film V for Vendetta has a line which goes, “Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.”  Growing up, I was under the impression that internalizing the latter sentiment was required in order to call yourself an American.  In other words, when I heard the line, the idea that politicians lie was nothing new.  But I can’t say I had ever heard the first part, the part about artists deliberately using lies for good, until I watched that movie.  Neither a politician nor an artist, Susan Cain attempts to simply tell the truth in her book Quiet.  However, Fyodor Dostoevsky (artist) has this to say about telling the truth in his classic Crime and Punishment: “If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble.”  My experiences have convinced me that Dostoevsky speaks the truth.  What we want to know, though, is how does Susan Cain do?

As best I can tell, Cain’s thesis in Quiet is that between the two major and decidedly different personality types (extrovert and introvert), in America the extroverts have convinced everyone that their type–their personality–is the ideal personality.  More simply, Cain would like to be Luke Skywalker for introverts and return balance to the force.  Unfortunately, there is quite a bit more than a hundredth part of a false note in her book.  Two of them warrant attention here.  

First, there is a section where she attempts to demonstrate that The West has a history of valuing extroverts, while The East has a history of valuing introverts.  How does she go about this supporting this claim?  Like any rhetorician, she uses proverbs.  One of The East’s proverbs she provides comes from the reputable founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu, and reads, “Those who know do not speak.  Those who speak do not know.”**  Fair enough.  The provided proverb for The West, on the other hand, comes from Ptahhotep.  What Westerner doesn’t have a few ol’ Ptahhotep’s sayings memorized?  For the fuzzy, Ptahhotep said in 2400 BCE, “Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.”**  With writing being a relatively new form of communication back then, this guy may have just been saying the what-might-actually-be-a common western proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  And, from where I sit, that has nothing to do with extroverts or introverts.  

Maybe Cain just made a little mistake, but still understands the big picture?  I wanted to believe so, too.  But then she added, as her concluding proverb for the perpetually extrovert-loving West, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”  Now, I am under the impression that a proverb is prescriptive in nature, not just a true, clever sentence.  I have never heard anyone use that truism in a genuinely prescriptive manner.  Maybe I’m sheltered.  I’ve told people, mockingly, to squeak if they want something, sure, but I’m pretty sure they understood the tone of my advice included that I thought they’d lose a part of their soul for doing so.  I think the bigger problem is that, by definition, there aren’t any proverbs that advise self-promotion and talking endlessly.  Quite the opposite.  The thing about proverbs is they have to stand the test of time to earn the title.  In her research for western proverbs promoting extroverted characteristics, I find it hard to believe she didn’t stumble across “the empty can rattles the most.”  But, then, had she included that one in the book, her thesis would’ve lost some bite, I think.  

The second false note, which is not exactly false, though it definitely calls into question the gravity of the entire supposed problem, is deep into the book.  We find ourselves in the midst of a lover’s quarrel.  It seems that extroverts and introverts are often attracted to each other, which can sometimes result in marriage.  This causes problems, it seems.  For Greg and Emily, the problem is dinner parties.  Greg wants to host them.  Emily does not.  As it turns out, once Greg and Emily learn that Emily’s introversion is not wrong or bad, a compromise can be struck.  Cain’s advice?  Don’t focus on the number of dinner parties, but the format.  She says, “Instead of seating everyone around a big table, which would require the kind of all-hands conversational multitasking Emily dislikes so much, why not serve dinner buffet style, with people eating in small, casual conversational groupings on the sofas and floor pillows?”**  A friend of mine recently enlightened me to a witty phrase that defines Greg and Emily’s situation and I think fits here: White whine.  Seriously though, ladies, if you have multiple sofas and throw pillows that you don’t mind replacing every other weekend after your friends prove they’re not the refined diners you’d like to believe they are, then I can already tell you’re beautiful–we should chat.

Is there an extrovert ideal in America?  Has a (perhaps unintended) consequence been that introverts get lost in the shuffle, or worse yet, believe they should strive to change a part of themselves which cannot be changed and live with the resultant shame?  Susan Cain believes so.  I’m not convinced.  Maybe I’m not her target audience.  In any case, I’m attempting to navigate life using something a good friend taught me recently: “Every person has a story.  If you listen to it, you just might avoid judging them.”  When that doesn’t work, I fall back on Billy Joel’s, “Don’t take any shit from anybody.”  But a bibliography containing only two entries probably isn’t robust enough to get published and entice readers.  I guess if I hope to ever be published, I’ll just have to make it up as I go.

****

*Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950. Print.

**Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. New York: Crown, 2012. Print.

 

Review of Noah

My goal is simply to get you into the movie theater.  Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to it.

According to Genesis, Adam lived to be 930 years old.  Noah was born only 126 years after Adam died.  Noah was 600 years old when the flood occurred.  Altogether, then, the flood occurred only 1656 years after creation, which was only 726 years after Adam–the first man–died.  For me, when put that way, Darren Aronofsky had an immense task ahead of him.

They say the president has a difficult time telling the public about foreign policy because there is so much he can’t say.  The same thing is true for any deliberate attempt to re-tell the story of Noah.  Aronofsky’s challenge was not deciding whether to use the NIV or King James translation of the story, no.  His challenge was to determine what Noah would’ve known–Noah, a man who again, as the story goes, was separated from Adam by a mere 126 years.

Are there parts of the movie that surprise and baffle the movie-goer?  Yes.  Does the film blatantly disregard the account of the flood preserved by the book of Genesis?  Yes.  Does the film comically address certain plot holes in the story that viewers would probably have forgiven if ignored?  Yes.  But the film does not miss the theme of the original story.  That’s what makes it remarkable.  I could try to summarize the movie and explain how it does this, but then I’d miss my mark, now wouldn’t I?  You have to decide for yourself whether he accomplishes this feat.

Oh, and there is an amazing stop-motion creation sequence that is sure to please just about everyone with a soul that you will not find anywhere else.  So kuddos to Aronofsky for including that.

In the end, forget every detail you think you know about the story except its “why”.  Then fill your mouth the filmy, powdery texture of impossible-to-duplicate movie theater popcorn mixed with diet coke, and “Enjai ta picture show!”

The Motion Picture

Our widening eyes betray our excitement.  The air conditioner kicks on as we finish up our cereal.  It’s ten-thirty.  We’re going to go see a movie after she comes home from work.  We feel like framing the note she used to share this fact with us, and yet, somehow we know this wouldn’t be a strong enough commendation.  Instead, we re-read it a hundred times and blacken our fingertips as we vigorously review the showtimes in the day’s newspaper.

Scanning the areas she’s most likely to notice upon entrance, we clear the table of dishes, pick up a few pairs of shoes from the hallway, and make a few lines on the carpet with the vacuum.  It’s perfect.  Nothing will detour the event.

During the car ride, the escape begins.  Upon purchasing the tickets, we forget that an entire world exists outside the theater.  The pit stop before heading into the theater is where we last think about eating or drinking ever again.  The previews, the last time we consider looking any direction but forward.  The final removal of light marks the beginning of what we hope will never end.  Good-bye pain, good-bye disappointment, good-bye change, good-bye ambiguity, good-bye senselessness, good-bye sadness, good-bye despair.  Hello clarity, hello love, hello passion, hello happiness, hello resolution, hello caring, hello hope.

Hello hope.

Review of The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman

Timeless and universal.

I have a rule.  Well, Ecclesiastes has a rule that I believe is true.  It goes like this:  “There is nothing new under the sun.”  When it comes to “get rich quick” or “relationship” books, it is impossible for me to not use this standard.  If a book claims that it has come up with a new way to make money or keep a relationship strong, then, generally, I discard it promptly.  I just simply refuse to believe that mankind’s soul has changed in any appreciable way in our existence.  That being said, Chapman’s The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate is nothing new.  And that is good.

The book’s largest flaw is that it is a book.  It really could have been a flyer; I’m picturing a large picture representing perfect bliss overlayed by a few sentences at the bottom.  The sentences being something like this:

People express and feel love in different ways.  It seems that there are five ways.  They include physical touch, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and words of affirmation.  Try to speak your partner’s language(s).

Really, though, I’m proud to say that there is an even more fun way to help you figure out your love language(s).  How I like to think about these five languages is via one language:  song.  Want to know which language is yours using songs?  Then continue reading.

To start, if you think Kevin Costner defeats Errol Flynn in the battle of Robin Hood’s, we all know the only reason this happened is because Errol didn’t have Bryan Adams’ classic ballad “Everything I Do (I do it for you)” to accompany his swashbuckling sword fights.  And your choosing Kevin means that your language is likely “Acts of Service.”

On the other hand, if everyone in the room but you noticed that you sat up during Moulin Rouge as Ewan McGregor belted out “My gift is my saw-ong…” in tribute to Elton John’s unforgettable “Your Song“, your language might just be “Words of Affirmation”.

If it is impossible not to feel warm all over when somebody tells a story about the summer of 1991, the summer during which you recall hearing Extreme’s “More Than Words” on every radio station across the nation as you drove to the west coast to greet Gulf War One’s returning victors, then you’re only hurting yourself if you don’t own up to “Physical Touch” being your love language.

Next, and admittedly a bit of a stretch (but then again, it isn’t my language, so I wouldn’t identify with it.  Am I right Gary?), but if the only time you feel like someone really gets you is each year at Christmastime, specifically each time Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” is played, then your love language is “Gifts”.

Lastly, if you  can finish, “Eeeiiff eye-ee-eye-ee-eye (breath) shu-uld stay…” without hesitation, there can only be one conclusion.  Your love language is “Quality Time”.   (That Costner is receiving two shout-outs is beyond me.  By the way Ma, he’s looking great once again in an upcoming action flick “3 Days to Kill”.  Check out the trailer by clicking here.)

In the end, the book only takes a night to read.  Not that you need to anymore.  You’re welcome.

****

*Chapman, Gary D. The Five Love Languages. Chicago: Northfield Pub., 1992. Print.