Book Reviews, Reviews

The Secret History Review

A book review? On my book review blog? It’s more likely than you think.


This review contains spoilers, so be warned.

I realise I’m quite late to the party with this one (the book came out in 1992, but it’s recently done the rounds on all the book blogs in the past year or so), which honestly surprises me because this is totally up my alley; incredibly pretentious Classics students quoting literature at each other while wrapped up in a reverse murder-mystery? Yes please! I dove into this book expecting a sort of Riot-Club-meets-Dead-Poets-Society, which honestly sounds like the best thing ever and if it doesn’t exist it should.

Bunny Corcoran is dead, and the narrator Richard had a part in killing him. That’s not a spoiler – the book opens with this information. I’m not sure how I feel about being told this straight away; I don’t object to this style of backwards storytelling, but I do wonder what it might have been like if the murder had come as a surprise. We go into this novel knowing that Richard and the rest of the group are capable of murder, so we view all of their actions through this lens. That’s possibly part of the point, but I think it would be interesting to know what I would make of the characters based purely on their first impressions rather than pre-gained knowledge. That said, I did enjoy the premise of a  ‘why-dunnit’ in a sort of reverse murder mystery.

The book is split into two halves based around the killing. The first half is set pre-murder and introduces us to Julian, the enigmatic Classics teacher, who has handpicked an elite group of students The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie style. The students are hugely secretive and isolated from the rest of the school and Richard attempts to integrate himself into this group. The tight-knit group have complex relationship dynamics that are gradually teased out in a fascinating way. The narrative effectively and gradually builds the tension which eventually results in the killing of Bunny.

The second part explores what happens after the murder, both plot-wise – the police investigation and risk of discovery – and even more interestingly how the characters cope – or don’t cope – with what they did. This half was the more fascinating for me. I enjoyed seeing how Tartt explored the psyches of the members of the group, pulling apart the enigma surrounding the members of the group that she built during the first part of the book.

That’s what I enjoyed most about The Secret History. The characters are initially presented as aloof, mature and each one is more pretentious than the last (don’t even get me started on Henry). They smoke and drink whiskey and have discussions on the nature of beauty. All of them except Richard come from rich privileged families and the first half sees Richard lying desperately and trying to pretend to be one of them. But Tartt completely tears this facade apart in the second half. These are just children pretending to be adults but they’re all screwed up in some way and it’s tragic. Even before Bunny’s death their relationships are a mess, they’re anxious and needy, and they’re just self aware enough to see that it’s all falling apart but not aware enough to realise that they’re their own worst enemies. Tartt has created a Greek tragedy in a modern setting with teenagers and I love it. (This idea is explored in a much better way than I could ever explain it in this article.)

If I had one complaint about this book, it’s the character of Julian. Julian is a mystery, fiercely intelligent and the inspiration for the group’s desire for the divine and the hedonistic. In everything I saw before reading from reviews to the book’s own blurb he’s presented as the driving force behind everything. So I was a little surprised to read the book and realise that he doesn’t actually do anything. Sure, he introduces them to the concepts of the Bachannal, but Henry’s the one that leads them. He has no part in the murder or its subsequent cover up, and he disappears for large portions of the story. He mainly seems to be there as a reason for the group to be together and as isolated as they are and to provide exposition on the Classical concepts to the reader. It didn’t detract too much from the story, but it seemed a little odd that he was built up so much only for nothing to be done with that.

That said, I adored this book. It definitely has a place on my favourites shelf – I’m a sucker for dark academia – and I’m planning on picking up some more of Tartt’s writing very soon. I cannot recommend this book enough, especially if you have an interest in Classics.

Book Reviews, Reviews

Our Numbered Days Review


I was introduced to Neil Hilborn by a friend during my I Hate Poetry phase that I had in high school, and I credit him with providing the turning point when I realised just how stupid and stubborn I was being.

Hilborn writes mostly from his own experiences with a heavy focus on mental illness. He’s found a cult following amongst those with their own struggles and as one of their number I can absolutely see why. Hilborn is refreshingly honest throughout his poetry. It’s definitely not all sunshine and puppies because mental illness isn’t like that and it’s wonderful to hear someone expressing that instead of trying to paint over the painful moments. Our Numbered Days embodies one of my favourite quotes from Alan Bennett’s The History Boys:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met […] And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”

But he doesn’t fall into the very common trap – which I know I have – of writing about depression as though everything and everyone is terrible with the paradoxical sense of superiority that can only come from feeling worthless (for examples of this see The Catcher in the Rye, or literally anything ever written by a teenager). Hilborn comes across as a man who knows that the world is good even if he can’t feel it. His work is punctuated with moments of true hope and emotion, and many of his poems had me bawling. I would be interested to hear what someone without experience of mental illness makes of his work seeing as how deeply rooted a lot of his poems are.

Hilborn’s style manages to be sophisticated without seeming pretentious or overworked. Reading his work feels like talking to a friend, albeit one who has a wonderful way with metaphors (and boy does he have some beautiful ones. Plus there’ll always be a place in my heart for the “slutty chicken” simile.) His roots in slam poetry are evident in his writing, but this works to create a personal connection with the reader rather than being distracting. That said, if you have the chance to see him read his work I would absolutely recommend you leap at it. I had the pleasure of hearing him at the Bullingdon in Oxford at the end of August and he is a brilliant performer as well as one of the funniest people I’ve met.

To finish, here are two of Hilborn’s poems. The first is OCD, his most popular poem and the one that went viral to gain him his following. It’s based on his own experiences with the illness and is a captivating performance from him (and it’s just as spellbinding in real life):

The second is The Future, which isn’t in Our Numbered Days but is my absolute favourite of his. It’s another personal look at his struggles with Bipolar Disorder, and the final note of hope never fails to make me cry.

Film Reviews, Reviews

Sucker Punch Review: I Hate Zach Snyder


Beware of spoilers if you haven’t seen this yet. Also beware of anger. Lots of anger.

Sucker Punch came out in 2011 and I saw it a couple of years after. I’ve been thinking about it recently and I’ve only just been able to put into words quite what I think about it.

The plot is slightly convoluted but definitely interesting: Babydoll is committed to an asylum by her evil stepfather who pays off a corrupt official to have her lobotomised. In her head Babydoll creates a fantasy world where she envisions the asylum as a strip club/brothel where she teams up with four other girls to escape before she has to meet the High Roller, a wealthy man who has ‘bought’ her. Every girl has to dance, and it turns out that Babydoll’s dancing is hypnotising to men. The girls use this as a distraction while they steal the items they need to escape. We never see Babydoll dance; instead we see a post-apocalyptic fantasy/sci-fi world where the girls fight through armies of robots and literal dragons to get the fantasy representation of the items they need to escape the brothel. The film switches frequently between layers of the story, and each version of events parallels the other two.

There’s a lot about the film that I really like. The action sequences are great, and I like the multi-levelled plot even if it is a little up itself. The general idea of girls working together and empowerment is great. If this film had played itself straight then I could even have accepted the skimpy outfits (I would have rolled my eyes a lot, but it’s hardly anything new and the film’s based on video games, so what do you want?) and I would have probably enjoyed it. The problem is that the director, Zach Snyder, claims that this is the ultimate feminist film.

When faced with accusations of sexism in the way he dressed his female characters Snyder threw back this:

Someone asked me, “Why did you dress the girls like that, in those provocative costumes?” And I said, “Well, think about it for a second. I didn’t dress those girls in the costume. The audience dressed those girls.” And when I say the audience, I mean the audience that comes to the movies. Just like the men who visit a brothel, [they] dress the girls when they go to see these shows as however they want to see them.

I’m not entirely sure what he’s trying to say here, but it seems to be his slightly pretentious way of saying that the characters are only dressed like they are because that’s what the audience wants to see, and it’s the audience projecting the sexuality they want to see on to the girls. I remember reading an interview (although I can’t find it now) where Snyder claimed that the people who thought the film was overtly sexual were of the same ilk as the men who frequent the brothels in the film. Basically, if you interpret the women as sexual, you’re projecting your own debauched sexual perceptions onto them and don’t you feel stupid and dirty now you disgusting pervert.

This argument is bullshit. No Snyder, the audience didn’t “dress the girls”, you did (or at least the wardrobe department under your direction). The film purposely uses traditionally sexualised imagery – girls in short skirts and tight crop tops, pigtails, the name ‘Babydoll’ – in a sexual context – a brothel/strip club – with camera angles designed specifically for the male gaze – hello panty flashes and between-leg shots – and then tries to turn around and tell the audience off for interpreting these things as sexual. Don’t get me wrong, I get what Snyder thinks he’s trying to say: that these things shouldn’t be inherently ‘immoral’ and that not everything that women do or wear should be sexualised. I’m totally all for this message! It’s just that there’s a huge difference between subverting a trope to a get a point across and just doing the thing and claiming that it’s a critique. Someone filmed all those upskirt shots, Snyder, and it wasn’t me.

It’s not the point he’s trying to make that I don’t like; I’m all for women in both film and real life wearing whatever they want as they kick robot ass. What really rubs me up the wrong way is Snyder’s attitude. When people said that they thought the film was sexualised, he threw his head back dramatically and cried that ‘People just don’t understand my art!’, and even went as far as to suggest that the people who didn’t like the film were perverted idiots. It didn’t seem to occur to him that if people weren’t ‘getting it’ then he probably communicated his message badly – really badly.

However, the outfits aren’t even the thing that made me really angry. There’s so much more.

Not on the ‘unnecessary sexualisation’ track but definitely on the topic of ‘Zach Snyder doesn’t know how to tell a story’, it also pulls a ‘twist’ ending where the film tries to claim that the protagonist is actually Sweet Pea because she survives to carry on the story, suggesting that Snyder doesn’t understand basic narrative concepts; the protagonist is the main character, the one that drives the story i.e. Babydoll. Sweet Pea survives, sure, but only because of Babydoll’s actions and sacrifice that form the entirety of the plot. Sweet Pea has barely any screen time and does very little other than argue with Babydoll. Survival does not a protagonist make. This is a very mild complaint compared to the others, but it still irritated me a lot.

On a more severe note: obviously the women are constantly under threat of sexual violence with several attempted rapes for multiple characters (but they’re definitely not sexual beings guys), which is an unfortunately common thing in fictional media. It’s a disgusting and unnecessary shorthand for disempowering a female character that shows up in stories that really don’t need it, and this film is particularly guilty of fetishising it; a lot of the dramatic tension comes from the fact that the girls are under constant threat of assault, and you almost anticipate the moment when it will happen. A large part of the plot is the build up to the unwanted encounter between Babydoll and the High Roller who she has been ‘sold’ to, and this is literally what Babydoll is fighting to avoid.

This leads me on to the thing that angered me the most: the High Roller. In the theatrical cut he’s curiously omitted, and the film ends up making very little sense. What happens to Fantasy!Babydoll after Real!Babydoll’s lobotomy? How does her meeting with the High Roller turn out? What’s up with that doctor? Despite the fact that the film is practically incoherent without it, however, I think I’d really rather watch that version than the extended cut which includes a proper meeting scene between Babydoll and the High Roller. The reason? It’s disgusting.

Babydoll is captured, accepts her fate and goes to meet the High Roller who has ‘bought’ her. She expects a rape; however, he’s gentle with her and talks to her like a human being. He has no intention of raping her, but instead he’ll wait until she comes to him willingly. The scene is painted both by the film itself and the actors and directors as a love scene and as Babydoll finally owning her sexuality. Babydoll has found a man who doesn’t seem to want to hurt her. Awww, how sweet.

But we seem to be forgetting the tiny fact that this man has literally bought her virginity. He basically says to her “You’re going to sleep with me, but you’re going to enjoy it. Also, I totally own you.” Does Snyder just completely not understand what rape is? Just because it’s not violent doesn’t mean it’s consensual! He may not be going to take her by force, but other than when it happens Babydoll has absolutely no choice in the matter: she will sleep with him. How is it possible for Babydoll to consent to a man who literally bought her? WHY DID YOU DO THIS SNYDER?

So please, if you’re going to watch this film, do so with a critical eye. Enjoy the baddass action scenes. Enjoy the multi-layered plot and the connections between the worlds. Enjoy Oscar Isaac’s face with his stupid moustache. Hell, even enjoy the skimpy costumes; that’s what they’re there for after all. Just please, never call this film feminist.

And Zach? If we ever meet in real life, we’re going to have words.

What I'm Listening To, What I'm...

What I’m Listening To: Hello From The Magic Tavern


I’ve been away with this weekend for my granddad’s 90th birthday, so I haven’t had much of an opportunity for reading or writing anything (hence this post being a day late…whoops). I thought instead I’d talk in a little more detail about something I mentioned in my Some Good Things post. I stumbled across Hello from the Magic Tavern while searching for a new podcast once I’d caught up on Welcome to Night Vale. It has some of the same bizzare humour of Night Vale but with its own very individual charm.

The premise is simple: Arnie falls through a portal behind a Burger King and finds himself in Foon, a stereotypical High Fantasy world. He sets out to document the world he’s found by setting up his podcasting equipment in the local tavern and, with the help of two local co-hosts, he interviews a different fantasy trope character each week. There are a few podcasts of this type out there, but what sets Magic Tavern apart is the fact that the show is entirely improvised.

Because of this the characters are all wonderful, if a little weird. They’re all based on fantasy tropes but become something much more in the hands of the improv actors. Arnie’s co-hosts each week are Chunt, a shape-shifter currently in the form of a badger who changes form whenever he has sex with a different creature, and Usidore the Blue Wizard, who has hundreds of names and questionable magical ability. Some of my favourite guests have been Flower, a sentient flower with a serious attitude problem, Baron Ragoon, the very polite but clearly evil Steward of the Shrike Valley, and the Great Eagles who constantly have to rescue Usidore the Wizard (*cough*Tolkein*cough*). Arnie plays an affable everyman to these crazy characters, asking the important questions, usually involving the sex lives of the guests.

Despite the playful and slightly slapdash nature of the show Magic Tavern has actually managed to create an extensive and detailed fantasy world. I’m always hugely impressed by how much the actors remember from previous episodes, and I do wonder if they make notes on every throwaway comment and have crib notes in front of them. It’s great fun when two world-rules contradict each other and the actors fight to enforce them both in the most convoluted ways possible. The world of Foon draws from both fantasy tropes and the real world, and I really love is the actors’ habits of taking very familiar Earth things (often because they slipped up) and making something quite literally magical out of them. Probably my favourite one of these is Offices & Bosses, Foon’s version of Dungeons & Dragons where you navigate office politics and fight the terrifying Photocopier. They take these things and run with them – there’s even a separate Offices & Bosses podcast episode – and it actually creates a world that, while it can’t quite be called realistic, is definitely rich in detail.

However, the real triumph of the show is the camaraderie between the actors. The three main characters (Arnie Niekamp as himself, Adal Rifai as Chunt and Matt Young as Usidore) have great chemistry and riff off each other well with quick wit and a healthy dose of deprecating humour. This attitude extends to the guests too; it probably helps that most guests are part of Chicago’s extensive improv scene and likely know and have worked with each other before. The result is a beautiful mess of pop culture references, stupid catchphrases, attempts to make the others corpse and forcing each other to make up songs and limericks on the spot. It’s a delight to listen to and is really what makes Hello from the Magic Tavern worth checking out.

So if you like fantasy or improv comedy or even just podcasts then I would highly recommend Hello from the Magic Tavern.  You can find all the episodes on their website or on any podcast-streaming site. It’ll definitely brighten up your day to hear the jingle or another one of Chunt’s catchphrases. Go check it out!

Film Reviews, Reviews

La La Land Review

Beware of spoilers!


I went to see the current darling of Hollywood with my housemates last night. If you haven’t come across La La Land then I don’t know what to say to you, other than to ask you what it’s like under your rock. It’s been everywhere, and has blasted onto the awards scene with 200 nominations including for 14 Oscars – tied for the highest number ever with Titanic and All About Eve – and has rave reviews from both critics and viewers in one of the few cases where the two seem to agree. I went into the cinema quietly hopeful; true, there was no way that it could possibly live up to the hype, but it had several things going for it as far as I was concerned. I love musicals, I’d heard the cinematography was amazing (a passion of mine), and it starred Emma Stone, who holds a special place in my heart ever since Easy A. Should be great, no?

Well, no.

I realise that I’m in the minority in saying this, and I’m in no way trying to tell people what they should and shouldn’t like. If you loved it, great. You clearly saw something I didn’t, and feel free to keep on loving it. I really wish I could join you; I so wanted to love this film and it had so much potential, but there were just several major stumbling blocks that prevent me from joining the parade all the way to the Oscars.

I feel like if La La Land had committed to its concept then it could have been good, but in reality it was just messy. Stylistic choices were made just for aesthetic purposes and cluttered and confused things. The mood switched between quirky and ‘deep’ so quickly it gave me whiplash. It didn’t even feel like it had committed to being a musical: after opening with a huge musical number the film gets bored and wanders into romantic-drama territory before remembering that it’s supposed to be a musical and shoehorning a song in at the end. Admittedly those songs are quite good, although there are only a couple I’d want to hear again, but I feel like if a film’s going to be a musical then it has to be a musical. La La Land seems to want to be a musical because that’s quirky and different, and because musicals are Oscar Bait.

In fact, La La Land seems to do a lot of stuff for quirkiness’ sake. The opening number is a good example of this; it comes across as more a series of stylised ideas than a cohesive sequence, and this just gives the impression that it’s just showing off. Now, there’s nothing necessarily wrong with showing off in film – Tarantino’s movies are nothing if not hugely self-involved and I still love those – but I get the impression that Damien Chazelle confused being ‘different’ with being ‘clever’. The cinematography is ‘clever’, the dialogue is ‘clever’, the message is ‘clever’. It’s like that one hipster friend who dresses well and takes nice photos but is generally insufferable and won’t stop criticising your music taste.

General consistency issues and self-important quirkiness aside, La La Land has potential. There are some nice moments in there, even if they’re sparse and disconnected, and it does manage to evoke the atmosphere of some classic musical films, so props to it for that. But there is one error, one major failing that ruins the whole film (for me at least), that La La Land is guilty of: the characters are fundamentally unlikable.

This really is the sticking point for me when people talk about how much they love the film. I came out of the cinema completely unable to comprehend how people liked, let alone identified with, these people. Mia, played by Emma Stone, has no discernible personality beyond A) wanting to be an actress and B) being Emma Stone, which is normally something I love, but unfortunately silly faces and dancing is not enough to make up for a character who is less than two dimensional. Sebastian (Ryan Gosling) is the embodiment of everything I hate: rude, obnoxious and incredibly pretentious (it’s possible for people to just not like jazz, okay?!), and I can totally understand the ‘white saviour’ criticisms levelled at him for his belief that he can single-handedly save jazz. Their problems are very much middle-class white people problems, and while I’m not saying it’s impossible to feel sorry for struggling actresses and musicians it’s more difficult when they’re living in really nice apartments, going to huge parties and just moaning all the damn time.

The characters are just a series of all of the worst tropes from romantic comedies. They bitch at each other in place of flirting, then have a musical number together and are suddenly madly in love. Instead of actually showing them being a good couple, they have a montage of them doing clichéd romantic things. Worst of all, they’re absolute arseholes to everyone around them because it’s ‘quirky’. Sebastian gets Mia’s attention by blasting his car horn until she comes out of the house (people in the cinema were actually laughing at this, while I was considering what heavy object I would use to bash his head in). Mia’s even worse: she runs out on a dinner with her boyfriend and family because she realises that she’d rather be on a date with another man – a date she made while still dating her boyfriend, no less – abandoning her boyfriend with no explanation and definitely no proper apology.

The more I think about this film the more I dislike it, which is actually quite an achievement. I sat in the cinema waiting, desperately hoping, for it to get better, but it just…didn’t. If you haven’t seen it and you think you might then definitely go, but make up your own mind about the film. Sometimes I do have to wonder if critics have seen something in a film that I haven’t, or, as seems more likely in this case, watched an entirely different film altogether.

Book Reviews, Reviews

The Disaster Artist Review

Apologies for the long hiatus from any content at all, let alone book related content! 


First of all, let me start by saying that if you haven’t seen Tommy Wiseau’s cult masterpiece The Room then you haven’t lived. It is one of the most beautiful messes ever to exist and everyone should see it at least once before they die.

Some context: long ago, in distant 2001, Thomas Wiseau decided to make a film. For those who haven’t seen it, The Room is an attempt at a serious romantic drama written, directed and starred in by Wiseau, who unfortunately has very little talent at any of those three things. The film is only still around because it reached cult status for its sheer awfulness. People attend screenings of The Room like they do Rocky Horror Picture Show, heckling the screen, throwing spoons and joining in with every iconic line (“You’re tearing me apart Lisa!”). It transcends all possible description with mere words, so I can only advise that you seek it out and watch it as soon as possible. You can thank me later. If you can’t watch it right now, all you really need to know can be summed up by this quote from Professor Ross Morin:

It is one of the most important films of the past decade…the Citizen Kane of bad movies.

What The Disaster Artist reveals is that the making of the film was just as painfully entertaining as the film itself. Written by Greg Sestero, Wiseau’s (possibly only) friend who was dragged into starring in the film, this book gives an enthralling insight into every aspect of the film and the genius(?) behind it.

Wiseau is a fascinating and often quite sinister character, both as a man and a filmmaker, and Sestero is perfectly situated to give us a reasonably in-depth look into both. The book alternates between ‘past’ (how Sestero met Wiseau, their friendship and how The Room was conceived) and ‘present’ (describing the making of the film), ending with the glorious premiere. It’s hard to say which chapters I enjoyed more; the filming chapters were great fun and full of hilarious anecdotes about Wiseau’s odd directing choices and his inability to read the lines he wrote himself, and if you’ve seen the film then you’ll find lots of explanation for some of the more…unusual…aspects of the film, such as why there are pictures of spoons everywhere or why there’s a scene where the characters play football in tuxedos for no discernable reason.

But Sestero goes beyond just writing a funny book about a terrible film in the ‘past’ chapters and actually gives some thoughtful insight into Wiseau’s past and how it affects his behaviour and motivations. In some ways this is even more interesting than the amusing anecdotes from the film set, and goes a long way to explain how The Room ended up the way it did. Somehow the film is all the more interesting when you have a glimpse into the psyche of the man who made it. Of course, there’s no way to confirm Sestero’s stories about Wiseau’s past – Wiseau is notorious for lying and avoiding questions about his history – but he makes some educated guesses that turn his friend into more than just a strange comedic caricature.

This is definitely a book I’d recommend to anyone who’s seen The Room, or even anyone with an interest in film-making because it gives such a unique and in-depth perspective of the process. It’s a light and engaging read that offers a little more than most books of its kind. I’ll be interested to see how the film adaptation that’s coming out later this year treats it (yes, they’re making a film about a book about making a film). It’s bound to be entertaining with a great cast, but I’ll like it all the more if it keeps some of the heart that makes this book so readable.

Book Reviews, Reviews

The Firebird Chronicles: Rise Of The Shadow Stealers Review


Apologies for the long unplanned hiatus. It turns out that moving cities and starting a new job takes up a lot of your time! Hopefully I’ll be able to start posting with more regularity. To kick us off again, a book I was sent for review by its author, Daniel Ingram-Brown, who may be the world’s most patient man and who you should definitely check out here or on his Twitter.

Rise of the Shadow Stealers is one of those books that you would never normally find but somehow stumble across – or in my case, get sent a copy after a Twitter connection – and reading it makes your week. The premise is charming, fanciful and wonderfully meta: set on an island where fictional characters are trained to fit their roles in their respective novels, Fletcher and Scoop team up for a quest to restore their lost memories of their lives before they were at Blotting’s Academy and to attend the wedding of the mysterious Storyteller.

I have to say I found Rise of the Shadow Stealers rather surprising, and not in a bad way. I came to it assuming from the cover and blurb that it would be children’s fiction (not that that’s a bad thing in the slightest. Critics sniffily dismissing something as children’s fiction irritates me no end). It’s actually quite sophisticated for that genre though, interweaving a delightfully whimsical fantasy plot with more mature themes, like maintaining morality in difficult times and finding your purpose, and drawing heavily on religious symbolism and metaphor throughout. This can get a little heavy-handed in places, particularly the religious parallels, but for the most part it’s skilfully interwoven with the fantasy narrative that means you can read it on whatever level you’d like: whimsical fantasy, Christian literature, good old fashioned morality tale and so on. A lot of reviews made comparison to the Narnia series and I can definitely see their point. Rise of the Shadow Stealers stands on its merits as a charming fantasy novel, but it really comes into its own when you delve deeper and think about the messages behind it all.

While the plot is technically about Fletcher and Scoop’s quest to reach the Storyteller’s wedding, it’s as much about their growth as characters as it is about getting from to B. This is a world inhabited by purposeful stereotypes (the infinitely wise but slightly batty old mentor, the outrageously evil witch, and even one character who proudly identifies herself as a Snob), who can at times feel a little 2-D by themselves, but this does help to emphasise the fact that the two protagonists develop naturally and realistically enough that I was really very fond of them by the end. Their flaws are what make them important as characters, and so they’re nicely fleshed out and allowed to make mistakes. Fletcher in particular undergoes some notable development, and his transformation is well handled and enjoyable to witness, because the characters, like the rest of the book, are charming and you find yourself really rooting for them as they undergo their quest.

The real triumph of the novel, however, is the world building. You can really tell that Ingram-Brown had great fun creating Fullstop Island (which is just the most adorable name ever) from the ground up to create a setting that lives beyond what we see in the story. It’s my favourite kind of world building too, where tiny details and minor characters are fleshed out beyond just filling their role to advance the plot, even if they just appear in once scene. Particular favourites of mine were the batty and slightly weird ladies who run the tea shop and one very special character who appears at the end, who you will have to read the book to find out about. If nothing else convinces you to give Rise of the Shadow Stealers a go, the joy of it’s construction should be all the persuasion you need.

You’ve probably noticed the common theme in this review: ‘charming’. You can’t help but enjoy yourself while reading this book, and I would recommend it to anyone out there who needed a little cheer to brighten their week. I’m definitely looking forwards to the sequel and what Daniel Ingram-Brown has up his sleeve for his characters next.

Film Reviews, Reviews

A Heathers Review? How Very.

heathersHeathers wasn’t particularly well received when it was first released in 1988, but has recently reached the iconic status of a ‘cult classic’. It also has a kick-ass musical with some of the best music ever that’s going to be on Broadway very soon (and you have no idea how excited I am about that). I can totally see why. Winona Ryder and Christian Slater on a quest of murderous revenge against the popular kids and what they represent in society complete with fast witty dialogue and croquet – what’s not to love?

The answer is not much. The writing is quick and clever with many iconic lines that have found their way into my own idiolect (“What’s your damage?” and “How very” being amongst those) and the main characters are engaging, if not necessarily likable. Veronica is a particular triumph of characterisation, with just the right amount of black humour (“If you were happy every day of your life you wouldn’t be a human being. You’d be a game-show host.”) and unimpressed bewilderment to make the audience root for her despite the fact that she, y’know, kills people. Throw in a dash of 80s fashion (mmm those shoulder pads) and you’ve got yourself a classic.

Check out those shoulder pads.


In fact, as is the case with many of my favourite films, it’s the characters that make this film. Christian Slater does a delightfully creepy turn as Jason Dean (apparently modelled on Jack Nicolson), somehow mixing ‘sociopathic killer’ with ‘kicked puppy’ in such a way that – while you’re never in any doubt he’s anything less than crazy – you can’t help but want to give him a hug, and Lisanne Faulk’s Heather McNamara is nothing short of adorable. For a rollercoaster plot involving death by drain cleaner, a red power scrunchie and multiple people all named Heather it’s the more genuine and low-key interactions between the characters that really bring the film to life, and the ending with Martha Dunnstock honestly melted my heart.

It’s not a film to watch if you’re easily offended, with some of the dialogue straying very close to the risqué (“Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast?”), but then 80s teen films have had a wonderful irreverence that their modern counterparts have never quite managed to capture. There’s just something about them that has a casual confidence; they’re not out to please anyone, they just want to tell a good story. Most modern films try too hard to get us to like them, throwing in explosions and 3D effects and more straight white love triangles than you can shake a stick at. Heathers doesn’t care. Heathers just wants to tell you about homicidal teenagers, and boy does it do that.

There is one major failing of the film that cannot be ignored, however, and that is Kim Walker as Heather Chandler. Chandler is supposed to be the ultimate Queen Bee, the embodiment of every high school bully, the kind of girl even the Pope would want to bitch slap. But Kim Walker’s not scary. She’s not mean. Even the greatest and most iconic line in the entire film, “Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw!”, is delivered reluctantly after an obvious hesitation. It’s a testament to the great writing that the film suffers only a little for it, but when the entire plot hinges on Heather Chandler being mythic bitch it doesn’t work when she seems like the kind of girl you could easily meet in church on a Sunday.

But, as I said, the film still works – it works very well. Heathers is the kind of film that stays with you after you’ve watched it, and isn’t that really the mark of a successful movie? And it’s not just the enjoyment factor – Heathers teaches you life lessons too. Namely not to tell a loner in a trenchcoat who shows up in your garden in the middle of the night that you wish your best friend was dead, because you might just get what you wish for…

Book Reviews, Reviews

The Other Boleyn Girl Review

cover21My past experiences with Philippa Gregory haven’t exactly endeared her to me. I watched the first episode of the BBC adaptation of her novel The White Queen and got as far as the scene where Edward IV raped Elizabeth Woodville in the forest causing her to declare her undying love for him, at which point I promptly stopped watching. I also saw the film version of The Other Boleyn Girl, but was distracted the whole time by watching Natalie Portman chase her English accent around her face (how is it possible for her half-decent accent from V for Vendetta to have got so much worse in 3 years?)

I’d also heard things about her historical accuracy, or rather lack thereof. My A-Level History class watched a documentary where she was included in a panel of historians and historical novelists, and one of the theories she presented caused several of the others to break into hysterics and one old man looked like he was going to cry.

I therefore chose to ignore The Other Boleyn Girl during my A-Level years so I didn’t pick up any strange ideas that would make old men cry, but having finished my exams and having a historical itch to scratch (is that a thing, or am I just strange?) I decided to pick it up and have a read.

Pinning down my actual problems with this book was difficult. There’s no real overarching problems that make it a Bad Book, but a build up of small niggles just made me feel uncomfortable. And a book making you uncomfortable is possibly even worse than a Bad Book, because at least you can laugh at a Bad Book.

Setting aside the historical accuracy – and you have to, if you don’t want to spend the whole time hitting your head against a wall – Gregory sets out  to humanise these infamous historical figures. This is a lofty goal, with particularly Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn having been so analysed, counter-analysed and over-analysed throughout history that it’s hard to form an opinion without it being informed by some pre-existing social or political school of thought. What they were really like as people we shall never know (although meeting controversial historical figures would be the best use of time travel as far as I’m concerned), so Gregory’s aim to bring them to life is admirable.

Unfortunately she falls at the first hurdle by Characterising them (capital letter intentional) instead of characterising them. You can’t go two pages without being reminded that Anne is self-serving and ambitious, or that Mary is kind-hearted but easily manipulated, or that George is a bit of a slut. It works well enough to begin with, but after the twentieth time of being told that Anne has an enigmatic smile an enigmatic smile is what she becomes to a reader, which puts us straight back to square one on the humanising front.

This also, slightly ironically, causes a few problems for the main theme of the book, namely family. Mary is torn throughout between her own emotions and her loyalty to the Boleyns, but when Gregory makes it so clear that they’re greedy social climbers her protestations of ‘But family!’ only work for so long before they seem a bit unbelievable. It only becomes more strained when Mary gets her own family away from the scheming of court, and yet continues to serve Anne loyally until her arrest and defend Anne to her husband as if she is some kind of misunderstood saint.

In a novel apparently about the vicious rivalry between the two sisters the rivalry appears only in an abstract form in Mary’s head. She insists repeatedly throughout that Anne is both her greatest friend and her bitterest enemy, but the interactions between the two show merely reflect the need for tension in the plot and not any realistic reaction to events. Mary is bitter or loyal as the plot needs her to be; slights are forgotten within pages, even Anne effectively stealing Mary’s son, simply so Anne’s character can be developed. I understand that she is the most historically compelling, but you shouldn’t sacrifice your protagonist’s character for that of another you deem more interesting, especially if the reader is stuck with them as a narrator. To begin with this confusing loyalty can be passed off as self-sacrifice for the family, but, as discussed above, this excuse quickly gets stretched too far to be credible.

Gregory’s actual writing style is a bit wonky at times too. There’s no real consistent issues, but every so often something happens that completely threw me. A prime example of this would be the two pages where Mary describes in intricate details events that she never witnessed and never has described to her. This happens at a few points in the book and, while I guess you could claim that Mary is filling in the gaps with her imagination it just strikes me as clunky. The benefits of using Mary’s point of view is that, other than a few basic details, not much is known about her or her movements. She therefore makes an ideal narrator, being able to witness anything the author needs her to. It seems lazy not to use that to your advantage; in the bustling social world of the court that Gregory paints it would be easy to just write Mary into a corner to overhear the important conversations she needs to. Contrived it may be, but it at least prevents your narrator from being omniscient.

When all is said and done, however, I can’t deny that I found The Other Boleyn Girl a very compelling read. I kept picking it up whenever I could and, despite not setting aside any long periods of time to read it, practically raced through what is a reasonably hefty 529 pages in quite a small typeface. I think it’s due to the short ‘segments’ the book is divided into, as they break it up into manageable chunks you can just pick up easily without dedicating hours of reading time. It also means that Gregory can’t fall prey to the common issue in historical fiction, namely boring the reader to death with lovingly researched detail about what the walls are made of. Gregory’s style is quick and gets both plot details and historical fact across neatly and effectively, making it a good starting point for someone wanting an introduction to the genre, or even someone wanting a light but exciting read.

Just so long as you don’t think about it too hard.