Tagged: reviews
Get A Free Blog Review
Last summer an entrepreneur, friend, and sometimes blogger told me, “If you blog daily for six months, you should have 1000 followers at the end of those six months.” Well, it’s been more than seven months of daily posts on Captain’s Log, and I’m sitting at 199. As is the case with most facts, this amuses me. Just the same, seeing that I am a part of the human race, and therefore partial to round numbers, I’m excited to amass follower number 200. And I’m shameless when it comes to getting what I want. So here’s what I’m offering: the blogger who follows me as number 200 will get a free review of their blog. That’s right. I’ll take some time between now and Monday to peruse your blog and then I’ll write the review for Monday’s post. You can trust that I will be sure to say nice things as well as true things. If you’re on the fence, think of it this way: in return for a simple click of a mouse, you’ll get exposure to 199 readers who possibly aren’t aware of your stuff. Heck, I might not be aware you exist.
This is a one time offer, and it is sure to go fast. A little book called “The Magic of Thinking Big” mentions that “everyone you know craves praise”. Well, I’m offering praise in exchange for bliss. Whatdya say?
****
Schwartz, David Joseph. The Magic of Thinking Big. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1959. Print.
5 Reasons Why Sylvester Stallone Might Overtake Tom Cruise As Top Actor and 1 Thing TC Can Do To Ensure That Never Happens
1. Rocky Balboa (Rocky 6)
2. Rambo (Rambo 4)
3. The Expendables
4. The Expendables 2
5. The Expendables 3 (This time he’s pulled together Antonio Banderas, Wesley Snipes, Mel Gibson and Harrison Ford. And those are in addition to Arnold, Statham, Li, and Ivan Drago. Oh, and Kelsey Grammar, too.)
For any of you who haven’t seen “The Expendables” movies, you’re missing out. Missing out like I thought I was missing out in the late 80s and 90s. I hated that I couldn’t go see rated R movies. It seemed like every good movie was rated R and starred Stallone or Schwarzenegger. When I finally checked those movies out, man was I disappointed. Then Sly shocks the world with “Rocky Balboa” and “Rambo”, only to top them a few years later with “The Expendables”. The movies are over the top in every way imaginable. It’s a formula that can’t lose. Lose the ego, bring the heart, and have a little fun while you’re at it.
Tom–don’t worry. You’re still tops in my book. The easiest way to ensure you never lose the spot is follow Stallone’s lead and give us what we want. You know what I’m talking about TC. That’s right. It’s time for the sequel. (Cue the Anthem.)
Review of Killing Season starring Bobby D. and Johnny T.
The previews looked like someone had re-tooled Hopkins and Baldwin’s 1997 thiller The Edge. Two elderly-ish men trying to survive, and possibly kill each other in the woods. But what we have here is something new. It is at once a simple action flick–kinda B-movie action at that–and a portrayal of one of the most challenging commandments Jesus of Nazareth issued.
The film begins with scenes of the not-so-familiar Bosnian war. We are shown images of genocide which would be striking if they weren’t nauseatingly familiar. Like Shutter Island before it, we are then shown that even the good guys sometimes commit atrocities. While in Bosnia we think we see Travolta killed. Moments later we are introduced to DeNiro’s character and discover he has taken to hunting in the woods…with a camera instead of a gun. Nothing surprising here.
The fact is nothing too surprising happens for the next hour or so of the film. There is a game of cat and mouse that seems to drag on and on with no point. But then something magical happens–the point appears.
Movies which improve with their run-time are few and far between. I grew up on the idea that most movies can be recognized for what they are in the first minute. This one is a rare exception to that rule.
Now Ma–before you think that you’re ready for this film, allow me to offer a word of caution. There are two surprisingly gruesome scenes that even caught me off-guard. So, just ask me about the movie next time you call and I’ll tell you what is so neat about it.
The rest of you, proceed at your own risk. It’s no Saw, but it still isn’t for the faint of heart. Too bad really, because it’s message is so full of heart.
Review of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami
Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World continues the post-modernistic tradition that aware readers have come to love. Upon completing the second chapter, it is clear that something different, something unfamiliar is occurring. The story is rife with metaphors and characters that work enough to keep us engaged, but it is really the storytelling’s style itself that causes our fingers to seek an instantaneous transition from one page to the next.
The story’s feint is that it’s about a detective. Of course, no tale worth its salt is ever about what it portends. Some authors make their points directly. For Murakami, who convincingly communicates that he is well-read, however, it is simply no longer interesting to tell the reader what to think.
As with other post-modern and fabulistic works, this book is a reaction. It is a plea to cause readers to never forget that no one should be taken for granted. In using these artistic movements, Murakami firmly plants his feet and announces to the world that he is not to be trifled with.
In the end, there is certainly nothing new under the sun. Yet Murakami has found a way to take his readers on a journey that is fun, difficult to predict, challenging and finally, rewarding. If you’ve been in a reading rut and need a book to shake things up, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to discover that you can’t put this one down.
****
Murakami, Haruki. Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: A Novel. New York: Vintage, 1991. Print.
Review of The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer
Like the British accent today, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales charms at first, but in the end sounds ridiculous. Buh-dumh-ching! Really, though, the book is just too old. Reading it under the tutelage of a doctoral professor of Middle Earth (or is it middle-English?) is the only way to do it, and even then it is slow going at best.
After finding out that the rape that appalled you was supposed to be funny, you’ll find yourself being chided for laughing at the next rape–because that one was not funny. The entire collection is a roller-coaster of meanings and double meanings, which all need to be explained step by step. They need to be explained not because they were written in another language, no, middle-English is actually the first version of English we are told; the reason they need to be explained is because life was so very different back in the 14th century. Well, no, that’s not right either. Or is it? Wait, what’s going on?
After three months of reading and studying, I am still not convinced why I should value so highly a work that requires so much explanation. Does the Mona Lisa require explanation? The pyramids of Giza? Plus, the apparent result of fully investing oneself in Chaucer’s genius leads only to wanting to sleep with the man. While intriguing to some, I can’t get there from here.
This review might have become more a review of the course or the way the Tales were presented than the Tales themselves. Oh well. While there were enjoyable moments, for any reader that hasn’t skipped reading books written in the last 700 years since the Tales, there was nothing new.
In the end, The Canterbury Tales may have been new in their day, but the serious reader need not feel guilty for skipping this seminal work.
Review of Mere Christianity, by C. S. Lewis
The back cover C. S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity has the word “Religion” printed in the upper left corner. This should be the first clue as to who the publishers thought Lewis’ audience would be. Mere Christianity, which is mostly the printed version of several radio talks Lewis gave, does little more than preach to the choir. Granted, every writer or speaker must choose a target audience. And in this book, Lewis chooses Christians. Throughout the 192-page book, concepts familiar to Christians and lay-theologians abound. Lewis’ voice is clear and his intent, noble. When it comes to religion, though, results seem to be more important than intent, and here is where we begin to question Lewis’ work.
At every turn Lewis remarks, “If this is useful, use it. If not, skip it.” It’s all very heart-warming until we stop and consider the repercussions of failure. As a Christian, Lewis relentlessly forces the reader to acknowledge the unpleasant parts of Christianity, most notably–though he never addresses it outright–an afterlife in hell. We find it disconcerting that a book would be geared towards those who have already avoided this hell. We can’t but think of Sunday school stories of Jesus seeking out the sinners, not the saints. Instead of mirroring this trend, Mere Christianity decides to tackle such high-brow concepts as the nature of God, the Trinity, Jesus, predestination, usury and more. In fact, he offers commentary on such a breadth of topics that it would be impossible for him to come out squeaky clean. Take the following example. At one point Lewis tries his hand at explaining why Christianity hasn’t fared better throughout history, assuming it is true. He writes:
You will find this again and again about anything that is really Christian: everyone is attracted by bits of it and wants to pick out those bits and leave the rest. That is why we do not get much further: and that is why people who are fighting for quite opposite things can both say they are fighting for Christianity (81).
With this assessment Lewis opens the door to debating why Christianity hasn’t/doesn’t/isn’t (fill in the blank). Our own unending curiosity already led us to an answer that even Lewis can’t top. To be specific, in his own attempt at clarity Tolstoy infects his readers with idea that Christianity has continually missed the mark because, as a religion, it harmonizes that which was never intended to be harmonized.
And herein lies our most pointed criticism of Lewis’ “beloved” classic. Our problem with his enterprise comes after reading many of his eloquent metaphors which do kind of make sense. A man of his skill should have recognized his limitations. A man of his skill should have recognized the problem as it stood in front of him, and stands in front of us today.
C. S. Lewis can’t offer us salvation.
Christianity can’t offer us salvation.
There is only one man who can offer salvation–and his name is Jesus.
In the end, Mere Christianity is nothing more than another misguided, divisive attempt to unite a religion seemingly set on a path of unending fragmentation.
****
Lewis, C. S. Mere Christianity: Comprising The Case for Christianity, Christian Behaviour, and Beyond Personality. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996. Print.
Review of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
In Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Marlow’s apathetic voice is Conrad’s gift to readers. Through this apathy readers have a defibrillator to use on their hearts, which have slowed to a stop after contemplating the full meaning of the tale. Without this literary device, countless souls would be unable to return to their pleasant state of existence.
Conrad introduces Marlow as the novella opens. Within two pages we discover Marlow has decided to tell an unrequested tale containing an uncommon bleakness that offers no immediate value to the audience. By the end, we are left feeling despondent, depressed, and largely in a state of wonder. We ask ourselves, “If this horror happened to a man such as Kurtz, it surely would happen to little ol’ me. And that being the case, what’s the point of even trying?”
Add to these feelings the fact that the story is only 70-pages, and we find ourselves returning to page one with a singular goal. We long to discover that we overlooked the hope. Returning to page one with this new sense of purpose, we begin to notice that Marlow’s story is preempted by the notion that “the bond of sea…had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions.” Likewise, Conrad demonstrates his value by creating this tolerance in those of us without this bond.
Marlow’s apathy is palpable throughout the tale—evidenced by his ability to remain a detached observer. During this re-read we notice that this apathy, then, is Conrad’s gift to us. This apathy lights the path which will lead us out of darkness. Conrad doesn’t intend for us to remain in darkness. He wants us to take Marlow’s journey; not believe that we’re Marlow. The key to coming out whole is to remember this–remember that, unlike Marlow, we still care.
****
Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. New York: Dover, 1990. Print.
Netflix Laughs Out Loudest
Groggy only began to describe his morning. This was confusing because this was the morning after he was given the gift of time. One whole hour to use as he saw fit. Like any good American, he used the time to watch movies he’d already seen. Not movie, movie-zz. He had just read Joseph Conrad’s seminal Heart of Darkness for the first time on Friday, so afterward he was motivated to re-visit Francis Ford Coppola’s seminal Apocalypse Now: Redux. Unfortunately, he didn’t possess the staying power to make it through the additional 49 minutes this version contained Friday night, so last night was the night to finish that off. Next, he felt like regretting that his relationship with his brother wasn’t that great, so he turned on Warrior. It worked. And it gave him hope that maybe someday he and his brother could have some metaphorical fight which causes them to live happily ever after until the credits scroll. Wanting to immerse himself deeper in hope, he decided–for a reason he’s never going to explore–to run with a desire for more Tom Hardy and naturally began watching TDKR. (Mother: that’s the latest Batman movie–you know, the one that came out on my birthday last year). Taking great pride in his level of discipline, even before the caped crusader made his first appearance, he realized it was late, and went to sleep.
Opening the laptop this morning then, he stared at Netflix’s homepage. Then it happened. Nirvana. The sound of his jaw hitting the floor was the only thing that brought him back. Excited beyond belief, he saw staring back at him in Netflix’s personalized “Top Ten for Pete” category Miley Cyrus and Demi Moore’s LOL. How does Netflix do it? He didn’t even know LOL was out, and yet Netflix knew to place it where he couldn’t miss it. Immediately, though, not wanting to give Netflix too much credit–they were still just a group of flawed individuals doing their best–he began unraveling the mystery. After all, he did watch Mission Impossible’s 1-4 in a ten hour window that one night. Oh, and There Will Be Blood has streamed down to his screen more than a few times. Now that he really thought about it, anyone who has watched The Avengers is sure to have a Demi Moore poster or two on their bedroom ceiling. Now he was starting to actually reconsider whether he should so readily praise Netflix. And come to think of it, he did recently read that the people behind Mel Gibson’s latest film, Get the Gringo, were coming out with a similarly flavored mother-daughter how-did-you-become-such-a-screw-up-when-I-put-all-my-energy-into-raising-you-to-not-be-just-like-me-even-though-I-am-still-a-screw-up-to-this-day chick-flick starring two females who people actively hide their children from. It seemed there was no mystery to Netflix’s methods after all.
Resigned, he closed the laptop and took his cereal bowl to the counter. “I’ll get around to it,” he thought to himself, preempting the angel that was about to tell him to just put it directly in the dishwasher.
Falling into the couch, he shed a tear. Like every other company, it seemed that Netflix was succeeding by simple logic.
****
Incidentally, if you’re not aware, here is a link to a third party site that connects directly to Netflix and actually makes sense. www.instantwatcher.com
Review of The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, by Jean-Dominique Bauby
In The Autobiography of Mark Twain, Twain quotes John Hay regarding the imperative to write an autobiography. Hays says,
And he will tell the truth in spite of himself, for his facts and his fictions will work loyally together for the protection of the reader: each fact and each fiction will be a dab of paint, each will fall in its right place, and together they will paint his portrait; not the portrait he thinks they are painting, but his real portrait, the inside of him, the soul of him, his character (223).
Likewise, Bauby’s The Diving Bell and The Butterfly uses, perhaps unknowingly, modernistic techniques to embody his essence. Like Twain before him, though likely for different reasons, Bauby discards the stifling form of realism. Bauby’s condition renders him able to write only through arduous dictation. Bauby foregoes strict chronology, instead opting for the easier, modernistic stream of consciousness form. As Hay predicted, this form captured Bauby. Lacking any appreciable context, we discover a man full of life. More than that, we find simply a man. Absent is the big-shot editor, the fashion mogul, the womanizer, the playboy, the failed husband, and the absentee father. These simplistic generalizations vanish precisely because Bauby writes within the shattering framework that is modernism.
Beginning with the title’s juxtaposition of the movement continuum’s two ends, Bauby transports the reader to the depths—and heights—which he experiences after entering his condition. Necessarily, Bauby begins with how he learned of his condition. When the story reaches terminal velocity, the slightest thread of a chronological timeline acts as a scarcely visible trace of footsteps which keep us certain that we’ve never strayed far enough to become lost. Besides this, Bauby’s style has the effect of placing us on the wing of his butterfly. We climb, we fall, we climb again; flight without consequence. What does a man like Bauby have to lose if the truth he tells is rejected? Through the book Bauby proves what should–but never will–be common knowledge: the uniting power of truth–not just truth, but being comfortable telling your truth. Through his memoir, then, Jean-Dominique Bauby proves like many before him that courageously announcing to the world that you exist has the power to break down the barriers we build for ourselves over a lifetime. The only question remaining is why won’t we let Bauby move us to act on this lesson?
****
Twain, Mark, Harriet Elinor. Smith, and Benjamin Griffin. Autobiography of Mark Twain. Vol. 1. Berkeley: University of California, 2010. Print.
Review of “The Babysitter”–by Robert Coover
In Robert Coover’s “The Babysitter,” the experimental application of chronology renders it a textbook example of how post-modernistic writing can be a welcome return to storytelling as an end in itself. While clearly based in a very familiar late-twentieth century suburban neighborhood, the short story’s delivery of information elicits a most visceral reaction from the reader. Babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults, television characters and pinball machines are manipulated by men, women, boys and girls in a sequence that screams to be silenced. Not wanting to discover our worst fears, we read on.
More than simply a description of a Friday night gone wrong, “The Babysitter” uses a seemingly unorganized sequence of events (which incidentally can be organized if enough time is given to it—though doing so falls in the category of crime, I think) to simply affect the reader. The successful employment of this technique results in a victorious argument for the joy of reading.
Did a father molest a girl? Did that girl sleep with those evil boys? What the heck happened in the bathroom? Those questions are only asked by readers who just recently finished Aesop’s Fables. For Coover there is no moral. There is no guiding principle. There is no lesson. And this real-time affect the story has on the reader? It dissipates in the same amount of time it takes to read from the opening paragraph to the second paragraph’s first line.
The taboo subject matter is not taboo—though certainly still intended for adults—when conveyed using this post-modern form. There is a certain genius demonstrated in the ability to make what is become what is not. In “The Babysitter,” we enter a house full of distorting confusions and leave feeling better for it.
Captain’s Log 