"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference." - Elie Wiesel
I am glad that Singaporeans are no longer indifferent about politics or issues or voting.
29 April 2011
18 March 2011
The Human Condition
This is taken from John Armstrong's In Search of Civilisation:
"A human being is the only creature which can reflect upon its own existence, conceive of its own death, and fake orgasm"
So much for writing, or speech and language, or the use of our opposable as what separates us from being mere animals.
"A human being is the only creature which can reflect upon its own existence, conceive of its own death, and fake orgasm"
So much for writing, or speech and language, or the use of our opposable as what separates us from being mere animals.
3 March 2011
More on Books and Love
This quote is from a character in the classic novel Zorba the Greek: "I had fallen so low that if I had had to choose between falling in love with a woman and reading a book about love, I should have chosen the book".
This had a painful sting of truth to it.
This had a painful sting of truth to it.
28 February 2011
Oscar Remarks
So the Oscars have been given out again, and most of the predicted favourites have won. Of the main contenders, I have seen The Social Network, The King's Speech, Black Swan, The Fighter and Inception.
Of the lot, I believe that the two supporting awards given to Melissa Leo and Christian Bale were enormously deserved in a movie where the acting was just all around superb. Amy Adams was excellent as well but lost out to Leo and Mark Wahlberg was unfortunately overlooked due to him having the most understated of the roles. Bale, in particular, did an excellent job of embodying the accent and mannerisms of a great prize fighter turned junkie.
I was less enthused by the main acting awards. Firth worked suitably hard in the role, putting on a stammer and doing an excellent job mimicking the accent. But it certainly seemed a case of him being rewarded for a string of work rather than a particular stand out piece. I am a huge fan of Natalie Portman and I have had a schoolboy crush on her since I saw her in Leon (The Professional), but I thought the film as a whole (and her performance) rather overcooked. It was a perfect role for her in many ways (sweet, innocence finding a darker side) and one almost paralled by her taking on edgier roles (for her) - Closer, V for Vendetta, No Stings Attached.
The techncal awards largely went to Inception, though a thought must be spared for the great cinematographer Roger Deakins. That he is still Oscar-less is a great travesty that the Academy must rectify at some point.
In terms of the Best Picture winner, the King Speech was a very well made film. A film that used the best of what it had to the maximum in what was essentially just a film about a friendship between two strong individuals (albeit a rather unique friendship). The Social Network might have been edgier, and more consistently captivating throughout, but the King's Speech featured understated direction, an excellent cast (Rush, Bonham-Carter, Firth, Guy Pearce and Michael Gambon among others in cameo roles!). Though making the audience feel a sense of sympathy for a character like Mark Zuckerberg (as played by Jesse Eisenberg) was perhaps a harder feat than the unashamedly sentimental patriotism of the King's Speech.
Of the lot, I believe that the two supporting awards given to Melissa Leo and Christian Bale were enormously deserved in a movie where the acting was just all around superb. Amy Adams was excellent as well but lost out to Leo and Mark Wahlberg was unfortunately overlooked due to him having the most understated of the roles. Bale, in particular, did an excellent job of embodying the accent and mannerisms of a great prize fighter turned junkie.
I was less enthused by the main acting awards. Firth worked suitably hard in the role, putting on a stammer and doing an excellent job mimicking the accent. But it certainly seemed a case of him being rewarded for a string of work rather than a particular stand out piece. I am a huge fan of Natalie Portman and I have had a schoolboy crush on her since I saw her in Leon (The Professional), but I thought the film as a whole (and her performance) rather overcooked. It was a perfect role for her in many ways (sweet, innocence finding a darker side) and one almost paralled by her taking on edgier roles (for her) - Closer, V for Vendetta, No Stings Attached.
The techncal awards largely went to Inception, though a thought must be spared for the great cinematographer Roger Deakins. That he is still Oscar-less is a great travesty that the Academy must rectify at some point.
In terms of the Best Picture winner, the King Speech was a very well made film. A film that used the best of what it had to the maximum in what was essentially just a film about a friendship between two strong individuals (albeit a rather unique friendship). The Social Network might have been edgier, and more consistently captivating throughout, but the King's Speech featured understated direction, an excellent cast (Rush, Bonham-Carter, Firth, Guy Pearce and Michael Gambon among others in cameo roles!). Though making the audience feel a sense of sympathy for a character like Mark Zuckerberg (as played by Jesse Eisenberg) was perhaps a harder feat than the unashamedly sentimental patriotism of the King's Speech.
Ideal Partner
A friend posted this a link to this wonderful blog post on Facebook titled "Date a Girl Who Reads". She also commented that if it had been written by a guy, she and others should date him immediately (it was not). The post struck a chord, because I might have written something like that (though in a wistful what if tone of voice, as opposed to the exhortative it currently is).
I wish I could date a girl who reads, who loves books. I wish I will find a girl who will find the fact that I have a personal library of 2,000 plus books, an enormous turn on rather than a puzzling, impractical extravagance.
I wish to find a girl who reads, and loves good movies, and who loves the theater like me, who likes long rambly conversations over a glass of wine. A girl who is intense and intellectual. Who might possess a somewhat mordant wit.
I would date a girl who reads. Now I just have to find her.
I wish I could date a girl who reads, who loves books. I wish I will find a girl who will find the fact that I have a personal library of 2,000 plus books, an enormous turn on rather than a puzzling, impractical extravagance.
I wish to find a girl who reads, and loves good movies, and who loves the theater like me, who likes long rambly conversations over a glass of wine. A girl who is intense and intellectual. Who might possess a somewhat mordant wit.
I would date a girl who reads. Now I just have to find her.
10 February 2011
The Accidental Asian
The Accidental Asian | Eric Liu
Eric Liu epitomizes the typical second generation American: the son of two Taiwanese immigrants (who met in America) he went on to graduate from Yale and serve in the Clinton White House. This is a deeply personal collection of essays, which is equal parts memoir, and equal parts reflection on race, culture, and identity. Liu examines issues ranging from his own 'Asian-ness', the typical ideas associated with Chinatown, the Asian as the 'other', and the viability of the Asian American identity, in the prism of his own experiences and those of his immediate family.
One powerful aspect that ties his essays together is a ceaseless questioning, and a refusal to accept the widely held notion or the commonplace assumption. This is immediately evident in his first piece, a deeply moving reflection on his father rooted in questions about Chineseness and assimilation - both his own and his father's. His father was in many ways typically Chinese, proud of Chinese culture, deeply familiar with the Chinese classics with a grasp of the language equal to that of any Confusian scholar-official. Liu, despite attending Chinese classes, soon lost all facility for the language and with it his cultural roots as he grew increasingly American.
This could be seen as the typical immigrant story as Liu so eloquently writes:
More than that, assimilation is never the easy transformation for the second generation child as it is made out to be. As the author himself freely admits he often attributed his father's actions to his "Chineseness" but as he admits, with considerable insight this was often in response to his own cultural insecurities : "it was I who boxed against the shame and shadow of racial stigma" as a Chinese boy in an American world; to "cloak any handicap, real or imagined" that might accrue, to his race. Often, it is the second generation that is the one truly caught in between.
This overturning of easy assumptions is again at play in his essay "The Chinatown Idea". The very idea of a 'Chinatown' is often cited as evidence for a Chinese tendency to cling together, to refuse to assimilate. He again examines this through the lens of personal experience, in this case a powerful and touching portrait of a grandmother who lived for more than two decades in the same cinder-block apartment in New York's Chinatown. She seemed a powerful symbol of the typical immigrant Chinese, separated by a linguistic and cultural chasm, comfortable only in a familiar environment. Except Liu always felt that she had a desire to be somewhere else.
As Liu notes, we all have a certain idea of Chinatown, specifically that:
Liu calls this the "cruellest myth" because many of those who are in Chinatown do not wish to stay there, like his grandmother. Far from cloistering themselves they too wish for the American Dream but for them, whether due to their illegal immigrant status, or some vast linguistic chasm, assimilation is distant and unattainable.
It is thus not the insularity of the Chinese that sustains Chinatown, but the determined blindness of the rest of America in creating this myth of a separate entity, where the Chinese often exploit the Chinese, subject to different rules and standards, a "potemkin village" that hides a "nasty brutish shadow world".
After reading the essay, I felt a distinct sense of unease. But as Liu notes there are many Chinatowns: the insular enclave of foreignness, the shadowy world of exploitation, the thriving self sufficient community and the worst mistake one could make is the one that I made: to try simplify and generalize such a diverse portrait.
Ultimately, though, it is Liu's second essay that I could relate the most deeply to. The larger question of the essay (the "accidental Asian") is presented immediately and forcefully in a list of what makes him "white". Among the items he lists are: listening to NPR; marrying a white; speaking flawless, accentless English; subscribing to Foreign Affairs; not being too ethnic; and being mindful of minority militants, among others. As he notes: he never asked to be white, never sought out such a status but he found himself being "white by acclamation". Thus he has become an honorary white to some, a banana to others.
That certainly brought back memories. Of being called Sergaent Kantang (potato) in the army for my english speaking proclivities, as opposed to the Chinese speaking Hokkien swearing rice eaters that were typical of my race. I was a banana (yellow on the outside, white inside), a man with 'atas' (high) tastes - i.e. European cultural tastes. White by proclaimation, then?
I've made my own list: I am functionally monolingual, I speak in grammatically correct, complete sentences, I love the theater and musicals, I enjoy trivia nights, I drink my beer in British pubs or trendy bars (not coffee shops), I listen to jazz, I listen to classical music, I read literary novels, I have many foreign friends.
Of course this status came as much from the things I didn't do, a negation of the typical Chinese Singaporean: I don't speak mandarin (well), I don't speak a dialect, I do not listen to Chinese pop music, I don't watch Korean or Taiwanese TV serials, I hardly karaoke (and only English songs if I do), I don't use singlish. The only mainstream local custom I seem to enjoy doing is eating. That if anything is something that is truly universally Singaporean.
The bizarre fact is that our experiences are parallel, very similar, but like two lines running opposite to one another. As much as we have both become white, or been labeled white, for him it is as a minority Chinese attempting to assimilate into the larger culture. For me it is being born into the racial and cultural majority but have been emplaced into my own cultural (even linguistic) niche, as a result of background and education. As he has become part of the status quo, I have lost my place in it.
Yet in a sense he has become part of the majority, but a minority within the majority. He is not just white, but a certain type and class of white. Upper middle class, confident, socially mobile a far cry from the white trailer trash that used to hurl abuse at him on the bus. I too am a minority within a majority, culturally and linguistically. In that regard, though for different reasons, we are the same. We are both "accidental Asians".
Even though Liu's essays are deeply personal, it is has voice and his aptitude for the stirring image that captures the imagination. This is something unsurprising given that he was a Presidential speechwriter. I wish to end off with a sample from his final essay, Blood Vows about his marraige to his wife:
In this powerful memoir, and in his hands, one is impelled to believe that race doesn't really matter that much, and if it does, there are other greater things that can surpass it.
Eric Liu epitomizes the typical second generation American: the son of two Taiwanese immigrants (who met in America) he went on to graduate from Yale and serve in the Clinton White House. This is a deeply personal collection of essays, which is equal parts memoir, and equal parts reflection on race, culture, and identity. Liu examines issues ranging from his own 'Asian-ness', the typical ideas associated with Chinatown, the Asian as the 'other', and the viability of the Asian American identity, in the prism of his own experiences and those of his immediate family.
One powerful aspect that ties his essays together is a ceaseless questioning, and a refusal to accept the widely held notion or the commonplace assumption. This is immediately evident in his first piece, a deeply moving reflection on his father rooted in questions about Chineseness and assimilation - both his own and his father's. His father was in many ways typically Chinese, proud of Chinese culture, deeply familiar with the Chinese classics with a grasp of the language equal to that of any Confusian scholar-official. Liu, despite attending Chinese classes, soon lost all facility for the language and with it his cultural roots as he grew increasingly American.
This could be seen as the typical immigrant story as Liu so eloquently writes:
In our archetype of the immigrant experience, it is the first generation that remains wedded to the ways of the Old Country and the second generation that forsakes them. This we learn is the tragedy of assimilation: the inevitable estrangement between the immigrant father who imagines himself in exile and the American son who strains to prove his belonging.Except that Liu questions this assumption of the first generation immigrant, and the inevitable estrangement with their new adopted culture because:
we let ourselves think of the first generation's life as a mere chrysalis, an interlude between the larval existence of the homeland and the fully formed Americaness of the second generation. But the truth is that the father can become his own form of butterfly.In fact, his father did transform. A deep love and facility for languages was soon applied to English, and an understanding of culture enabled him to rise to respectable middle management in IBM. It was this very ability to adapt, and this openness to a new culture that gave his son the opportunity to transform himself fully into a typical American.
More than that, assimilation is never the easy transformation for the second generation child as it is made out to be. As the author himself freely admits he often attributed his father's actions to his "Chineseness" but as he admits, with considerable insight this was often in response to his own cultural insecurities : "it was I who boxed against the shame and shadow of racial stigma" as a Chinese boy in an American world; to "cloak any handicap, real or imagined" that might accrue, to his race. Often, it is the second generation that is the one truly caught in between.
This overturning of easy assumptions is again at play in his essay "The Chinatown Idea". The very idea of a 'Chinatown' is often cited as evidence for a Chinese tendency to cling together, to refuse to assimilate. He again examines this through the lens of personal experience, in this case a powerful and touching portrait of a grandmother who lived for more than two decades in the same cinder-block apartment in New York's Chinatown. She seemed a powerful symbol of the typical immigrant Chinese, separated by a linguistic and cultural chasm, comfortable only in a familiar environment. Except Liu always felt that she had a desire to be somewhere else.
As Liu notes, we all have a certain idea of Chinatown, specifically that:
Chinatown chooses to exempt itself from America: that it is purely the product of Chinese clannishness and insularity.Indeed, this is a particular cliche that I am ashamed to say I have repeated on countless occasions. After all it is only us Chinese who have Chinatowns all over the world (San Francisco, New York, Sydney). It must be a sign of our unique unwillingness to adapt to cultural morays, to assimilate. After all, Americans go abroad all the time and do not create "little Americas" all over the world now do they?
Liu calls this the "cruellest myth" because many of those who are in Chinatown do not wish to stay there, like his grandmother. Far from cloistering themselves they too wish for the American Dream but for them, whether due to their illegal immigrant status, or some vast linguistic chasm, assimilation is distant and unattainable.
It is thus not the insularity of the Chinese that sustains Chinatown, but the determined blindness of the rest of America in creating this myth of a separate entity, where the Chinese often exploit the Chinese, subject to different rules and standards, a "potemkin village" that hides a "nasty brutish shadow world".
After reading the essay, I felt a distinct sense of unease. But as Liu notes there are many Chinatowns: the insular enclave of foreignness, the shadowy world of exploitation, the thriving self sufficient community and the worst mistake one could make is the one that I made: to try simplify and generalize such a diverse portrait.
Ultimately, though, it is Liu's second essay that I could relate the most deeply to. The larger question of the essay (the "accidental Asian") is presented immediately and forcefully in a list of what makes him "white". Among the items he lists are: listening to NPR; marrying a white; speaking flawless, accentless English; subscribing to Foreign Affairs; not being too ethnic; and being mindful of minority militants, among others. As he notes: he never asked to be white, never sought out such a status but he found himself being "white by acclamation". Thus he has become an honorary white to some, a banana to others.
That certainly brought back memories. Of being called Sergaent Kantang (potato) in the army for my english speaking proclivities, as opposed to the Chinese speaking Hokkien swearing rice eaters that were typical of my race. I was a banana (yellow on the outside, white inside), a man with 'atas' (high) tastes - i.e. European cultural tastes. White by proclaimation, then?
I've made my own list: I am functionally monolingual, I speak in grammatically correct, complete sentences, I love the theater and musicals, I enjoy trivia nights, I drink my beer in British pubs or trendy bars (not coffee shops), I listen to jazz, I listen to classical music, I read literary novels, I have many foreign friends.
Of course this status came as much from the things I didn't do, a negation of the typical Chinese Singaporean: I don't speak mandarin (well), I don't speak a dialect, I do not listen to Chinese pop music, I don't watch Korean or Taiwanese TV serials, I hardly karaoke (and only English songs if I do), I don't use singlish. The only mainstream local custom I seem to enjoy doing is eating. That if anything is something that is truly universally Singaporean.
The bizarre fact is that our experiences are parallel, very similar, but like two lines running opposite to one another. As much as we have both become white, or been labeled white, for him it is as a minority Chinese attempting to assimilate into the larger culture. For me it is being born into the racial and cultural majority but have been emplaced into my own cultural (even linguistic) niche, as a result of background and education. As he has become part of the status quo, I have lost my place in it.
Yet in a sense he has become part of the majority, but a minority within the majority. He is not just white, but a certain type and class of white. Upper middle class, confident, socially mobile a far cry from the white trailer trash that used to hurl abuse at him on the bus. I too am a minority within a majority, culturally and linguistically. In that regard, though for different reasons, we are the same. We are both "accidental Asians".
Even though Liu's essays are deeply personal, it is has voice and his aptitude for the stirring image that captures the imagination. This is something unsurprising given that he was a Presidential speechwriter. I wish to end off with a sample from his final essay, Blood Vows about his marraige to his wife:
Let me explain why I married a white woman. It wasn't as if I had a plan. I wasn't trying to prove a point or defy convention. It was simply a matter of who was there and what was possible. Why did Carroll marry a Chinese man? Why do people of different races marry at all? For the same reason today that they go to school together, live together, travel together, work together: because they canwhat should immediately strike you is the fact that any explanation is even necessary. As he soon makes clear:
I chose. I chose to enter into a relationship with Carroll. Not with a "white woman", not with some nameless paragon of "white beauty" but with Carroll Haymon, who has always had an uncanny knack for finishing my sentences; who knows when to humour me and when not to; who, as a Southerner schooled in the North, is no stranger to acculturation; whose neck bends just so when she reads; who sings a soulful alto and scorns the designated-hitter rule; who has a way of putting complete strangers at ease. Nobody - and nobody's subconscious tricked me into falling in love with her.
In this powerful memoir, and in his hands, one is impelled to believe that race doesn't really matter that much, and if it does, there are other greater things that can surpass it.
7 February 2011
30 Books Before 30
I've decided to amend my previous list to keep things along the lines of the '30' theme. The 30 selections I have made are a rather eclectic bunch. The only defining criteria was that I do truly want to read all of the books on this list, and more than that I can actually stomach reading them.
It is for that reason that you won't fine Dante's Divine Comedy (too intimidating), Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (yawn), Chaucer's A Canterbury Tales (interesting but just too long and difficult), James Joyce's Ulysses (I would probably end up going what the hell?). There is one notable exception. I forced myself to include the Chinese classic Romance of the Three Kingdoms; it is shameful enough that I am reading it in an English translation.
I will try and explain the stranger of my choices at some point, but here is the list for now in random order. Suffice to say this is quite a daunting list, and I had better get cracking!
It is for that reason that you won't fine Dante's Divine Comedy (too intimidating), Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (yawn), Chaucer's A Canterbury Tales (interesting but just too long and difficult), James Joyce's Ulysses (I would probably end up going what the hell?). There is one notable exception. I forced myself to include the Chinese classic Romance of the Three Kingdoms; it is shameful enough that I am reading it in an English translation.
I will try and explain the stranger of my choices at some point, but here is the list for now in random order. Suffice to say this is quite a daunting list, and I had better get cracking!
- The Illiad
- The Odyssey
- The Analects | Confucius
- Romance of the Three Kingdoms
- Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained | John Milton
- The Rights of Man | Thomas Paine
- Moll Flanders | Daniel Defoe
- Emma | Jane Austen
- Jane Eyre | Charlotte Bronte
- Wuthering Heights | Emily Bronte
- Middlemarch | George Eliot
- Great Expectations | Charles Dickens
- Madame Bovary | Gustav Flaubert
- Huckleberry Finn | Mark Twain
- War and Peace | Leo Tolstoy
- The Brothers Karamazov | Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- The Moonstone | Wilkie Collins
- Walden and Civil Disobedience | David Henry Thoreau
- Democracy in America | Alexis de Tocqueville
- On the Origin of Species | Charles Darwin
- The Complete Sherlock Holmes | Arthur Conan Doyle
- Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man | James Joyce
- Lolita | Vladimir Nabakov
- Catch-22 | Joseph Heller
- 100 Years of Solitude | Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- The Trial and Metamorphoses | Franz Kafka
- Under the Volcano | Malcolm Lowry
- Murphy, Malloy, Malone Dies | Samuel Beckett
- The Spy Who Came in From the Cold | John Le Carre
- The Book of the New Sun | Gene Wolfe
5 February 2011
30 Movies Before 30
I had earlier created a list of fifty movies to see as part of a thirty before thirty list. After a conversation with my sister who is creating a similar list (albeit with much more time to spare), I have decided to trim the list to thirty, in keeping with the general theme of 'thirty' before 30.
The new list is largely based on the previous one, with some simple rules: obviously only movies which I have not already seen will be added to the list. Additionally, there can only be a single film from a particular director represented on the list (this made for some very difficult choices).
Finally and this turned out to be a very important rule, the list is a mixture of aspiration and personal pleasure. In other words, this list in part represents films that are definitive, critically acclaimed, and otherwise essential works which I feel is vital to my film 'education', but tempered by the simple rule that I have to want to watch them. We often feel compelled to watch or read things which are recommended by critics, on the supposition that they are supposed to be good because some superior authority has decided it to be so. Part of turning 30 is the realization that life is too short to slavishly follow critical opinion and must see lists. Trust informed judgment but in the end, watch what you really want to. It is in this spirit that the following selections were made.
The list (with short explanations where appropriate) can be found below, followed by a section detailing some discarded choices and the rationale behind them:
More interesting are some very well known films that I have chosen not to include because they fail my acid test rule (I just don't feel like watching it):
First, All About Eve. Screwball comedies or even intelligent comedies have just never been my thing, besides which I find I am much more attuned to British as opposed to American humour. Besides, Wilder, despite being famous as a comedic director, also made Double Indemnity, which I consider to be one of the greatest of film noirs, and of course Sunset Blvd. another noir masterpiece whose cynicism I can relate to far more than his later comedic works.
Some Like It Hot is probably considered to be the greatest American comedic film of all time. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon are supposed to be one of the greatest comedic duos on film. It has Marilyn Monroe in one of her strongest performances, where she transcends her dumb blonde persona. Sadly it just doesn't appeal.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a huge academy favourite. It did the grand slam of big five Oscars (only It Happened One Night and Silence of the Lambs can match that feat), it has Jack, well being Jack. A good friend, Jake, who knows more about movies than most people I know, loathed it, saying it was completely over the top (then again Jake also disliked Shawshank for being fake, and sentimental). Still, based on what I saw of Amadeus, I could see how this criticism of Milos Forman might be accurate. Also, I already have Jack in Chinatown. If anything, I would be more curious to see another Forman film - the adaptation of the notorious 70s musical Hair featuring hippies, LSD, marijuana and unusual sex practices.
American Graffiti is a cult movie. It shows a different side of George Lucas before he went megabucks. But do you really want to be watching a coming of age in 60s America movie when you're going to be turning 30? Forget the post WWII boomer generation optimism. You're supposed to be far too close to a mid-life crisis to be watching stuff like this. If you feel nostalgic you could at least put on a re-run of Grease. And realise that John Travolta is now fifty. And Olivia Newton John has sagging breasts.
Easy Rider - yet another cult movie movie involving Jack. Two men riding around on motorcycles going against the establishment. You know what they say about mid life crisis - you know you are having one when you buy a Harley, and a motorcycle jacket to go with it. Do I really want to see a movie about two men riding on motorbikes exploring "freedom"? On the one hand it is cliched; on the other, it might just cause me to wonder what the hell I am doing with my life and quit my job and move to Tijuana. Better not push my luck.
E.T: The Extra Terrestrial - I know this is supposed to be brilliant. But I just could not bear a film that was liable to be far too sentimental (an early Spielberg trait). The thought of watching a little alien that looks like a shriveled prune riding in a bicycle basket is vomit inducing enough, worse is me remembering that when I was five and on a visit to Universal Studios, I was chosen to stand in for Elliot in showing how the shot was created (the magic of cinema!). Ergh, no.
The Exorcist: probably the greatest horror movie ever made. Problem is, I have never seen a point to horror movies, period. Except campy Zombie ones. Go George Romero.
Early silent classics: The Battleship Potemkin, Metropolis, Intolerance, Birth of a Nation, early works of Luis Bunuel. Sound is an essential part of the cinematic experience. That is why movies have been shot in sound since The Jazz Singer. I've made one exception - a Charlie Chaplin film, given the man's endlessly acclaimed genius, and out of sheer curiousity. Besides, physical humour I can see transcending the need for speech or sound (there is a reason why one of the most popular comedies of recent times is Mr Bean).
The new list is largely based on the previous one, with some simple rules: obviously only movies which I have not already seen will be added to the list. Additionally, there can only be a single film from a particular director represented on the list (this made for some very difficult choices).
Finally and this turned out to be a very important rule, the list is a mixture of aspiration and personal pleasure. In other words, this list in part represents films that are definitive, critically acclaimed, and otherwise essential works which I feel is vital to my film 'education', but tempered by the simple rule that I have to want to watch them. We often feel compelled to watch or read things which are recommended by critics, on the supposition that they are supposed to be good because some superior authority has decided it to be so. Part of turning 30 is the realization that life is too short to slavishly follow critical opinion and must see lists. Trust informed judgment but in the end, watch what you really want to. It is in this spirit that the following selections were made.
The list (with short explanations where appropriate) can be found below, followed by a section detailing some discarded choices and the rationale behind them:
- 81/2
- 400 Blows
- Apu Trilogy, The
- Apocalypse Now
- Bicycle Thief, The
- Big Sleep, The
- Blade Runner
- Blue Velvet
- Bonnie and Clyde
- Brazil
- Breathless
- Brief Encounter
- Chinatown
- Chunking Express
- Clockwork Orange, A
- Donnie Darko
- Fight Club
- Great Dictator, The
- On the Waterfront
- Roman Holiday
- Rules of the Game
- Seventh Samurai, The
- Seventh Seal, The
- Shoah
- Taxi Driver
- Touch of Evil
- Tokyo Story
- Umbrellas of Cherbourg
- Unforgiven
- Vertigo
More interesting are some very well known films that I have chosen not to include because they fail my acid test rule (I just don't feel like watching it):
First, All About Eve. Screwball comedies or even intelligent comedies have just never been my thing, besides which I find I am much more attuned to British as opposed to American humour. Besides, Wilder, despite being famous as a comedic director, also made Double Indemnity, which I consider to be one of the greatest of film noirs, and of course Sunset Blvd. another noir masterpiece whose cynicism I can relate to far more than his later comedic works.
Some Like It Hot is probably considered to be the greatest American comedic film of all time. Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon are supposed to be one of the greatest comedic duos on film. It has Marilyn Monroe in one of her strongest performances, where she transcends her dumb blonde persona. Sadly it just doesn't appeal.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a huge academy favourite. It did the grand slam of big five Oscars (only It Happened One Night and Silence of the Lambs can match that feat), it has Jack, well being Jack. A good friend, Jake, who knows more about movies than most people I know, loathed it, saying it was completely over the top (then again Jake also disliked Shawshank for being fake, and sentimental). Still, based on what I saw of Amadeus, I could see how this criticism of Milos Forman might be accurate. Also, I already have Jack in Chinatown. If anything, I would be more curious to see another Forman film - the adaptation of the notorious 70s musical Hair featuring hippies, LSD, marijuana and unusual sex practices.
American Graffiti is a cult movie. It shows a different side of George Lucas before he went megabucks. But do you really want to be watching a coming of age in 60s America movie when you're going to be turning 30? Forget the post WWII boomer generation optimism. You're supposed to be far too close to a mid-life crisis to be watching stuff like this. If you feel nostalgic you could at least put on a re-run of Grease. And realise that John Travolta is now fifty. And Olivia Newton John has sagging breasts.
Easy Rider - yet another cult movie movie involving Jack. Two men riding around on motorcycles going against the establishment. You know what they say about mid life crisis - you know you are having one when you buy a Harley, and a motorcycle jacket to go with it. Do I really want to see a movie about two men riding on motorbikes exploring "freedom"? On the one hand it is cliched; on the other, it might just cause me to wonder what the hell I am doing with my life and quit my job and move to Tijuana. Better not push my luck.
E.T: The Extra Terrestrial - I know this is supposed to be brilliant. But I just could not bear a film that was liable to be far too sentimental (an early Spielberg trait). The thought of watching a little alien that looks like a shriveled prune riding in a bicycle basket is vomit inducing enough, worse is me remembering that when I was five and on a visit to Universal Studios, I was chosen to stand in for Elliot in showing how the shot was created (the magic of cinema!). Ergh, no.
The Exorcist: probably the greatest horror movie ever made. Problem is, I have never seen a point to horror movies, period. Except campy Zombie ones. Go George Romero.
Early silent classics: The Battleship Potemkin, Metropolis, Intolerance, Birth of a Nation, early works of Luis Bunuel. Sound is an essential part of the cinematic experience. That is why movies have been shot in sound since The Jazz Singer. I've made one exception - a Charlie Chaplin film, given the man's endlessly acclaimed genius, and out of sheer curiousity. Besides, physical humour I can see transcending the need for speech or sound (there is a reason why one of the most popular comedies of recent times is Mr Bean).
25 January 2011
Sexism in Football: No Gray Areas
Richard Keys and Andy Gray should be asked to leave their jobs as commentators on Sky Football with immediate effect. There is just no two ways about it. This might seem strong words, but given their blatant and inexcusably sexist comments caught off air about an assistant referee, I see no other recourse.
For those of you who haven't heard, Keys and Gray suggested that someone needed to explain the offside rule to female assistant referee Sian Massey after a controversial decision (which ironically she actually got spot on and they got wrong), saying the league had "f**ked up big time" in appointing female officials, and castigated a previous female referee's assistant as "f**king hopeless".
The response? Sky called their comments completely unacceptable and stated that the pair had been suspended from broadcasting the Monday night match between Chelsea and Bolton. I find this woefully inadequate. By way of comparison, let's examine instances where broadcasters have made blatantly racist comments (both on and off the air) and the consequences they suffered.
One famous incident involved Ron Atkinson, who was commenting for ITV on a Champions League semi-final match between Monaco and Chelsea when he stated that Marcel Desailly was "stated in some schools as a f**king lazy thick nigger". He had thought he was off the air, but the remarks were broadcast. He immediately resigned.
In another non-footballing incident, a New Zealand TV anchor Paul Henry deliberately mispronounced Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit's name as "dick shit" and "dip shit" adding that it was somehow additionally appropiate "because she is Indian, [so] she would be walking down the street dick in shit wouldn't she, you know what I mean?". He resigned shortly afterwards.
The footballing community has sent out a very strong message that racism will not be tolerated in the sport, in any shape or form. This has gone a long way to address the blatant and horrific racism that pervaded the game. In the past, fans found it not merely acceptable but fun to make monkey noises whenever an opposing black player touched the ball. Bananas were even thrown onto the pitch.
Racism has not been completely eradicated. The treatment Marco Balotelli has received from opposing fans in Italy is just one case in point, more so our own intrinsic tendency to still stereotype players based on race (black players are big, physical; white players are smart and cultured footballers). However, a clear message has been sent that any blatant racism will not be tolerated. When Atkinson made those comments, he knew immediately that he had no recourse but to resign.
Keys and Gray are not about to resign. The fact that do not feel the need to is telling. Sexism is as ingrained in football as racism was in the past. Football is a lads game after all, a Saturday afternoon pastime at the pub with your mates. We've all made similarly sexist jokes about the game. How many of us have casually joked about our girlfriends never being able to understand the offside rule? Women also do the same and laugh about the fact that only men would take pleasure and interest in watching 22 other men run around a field for 90 minutes.
What is not tolerable is when gender becomes grounds for baseless facile personal attacks as was the case with Keys and Gray. What is most shocking, as a colleague and friend put it, is their casual banter suggested that they thought every other footballing bloke would feel the same way, though they might not express it as openly (and as unwisely) as the two of them did. The notion of female assistants, let alone referees? Woman having a serious part in top flight football? Ludicrous!
Really? There are female referees in many other top flight leagues such as the Bundesliga, which can lead to the occasional awkward moment as Peter Niemeyer of Hertha Berlin found out recently. Women have run the lines in the last two Champions League. Women are refeering at the Rugby World Sevens, even at the Snooker World Championships (arguably a sport which is even more of a male preserve).
Football is lagging behind. What needs to be done is to send out as clear and unequivocal a message condemning sexism as the sport did in taking a zero tolerance policy towards racism. That is the only way we can eradicate it from the game.
Let there be no gray (pardon the pun) area about how football deals with blatant sexism. It is completely and utterly unacceptable. Anyone guilty of it should have no place in the game, in any capacity. Keys and Gray have to go.
For those of you who haven't heard, Keys and Gray suggested that someone needed to explain the offside rule to female assistant referee Sian Massey after a controversial decision (which ironically she actually got spot on and they got wrong), saying the league had "f**ked up big time" in appointing female officials, and castigated a previous female referee's assistant as "f**king hopeless".
The response? Sky called their comments completely unacceptable and stated that the pair had been suspended from broadcasting the Monday night match between Chelsea and Bolton. I find this woefully inadequate. By way of comparison, let's examine instances where broadcasters have made blatantly racist comments (both on and off the air) and the consequences they suffered.
One famous incident involved Ron Atkinson, who was commenting for ITV on a Champions League semi-final match between Monaco and Chelsea when he stated that Marcel Desailly was "stated in some schools as a f**king lazy thick nigger". He had thought he was off the air, but the remarks were broadcast. He immediately resigned.
In another non-footballing incident, a New Zealand TV anchor Paul Henry deliberately mispronounced Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit's name as "dick shit" and "dip shit" adding that it was somehow additionally appropiate "because she is Indian, [so] she would be walking down the street dick in shit wouldn't she, you know what I mean?". He resigned shortly afterwards.
The footballing community has sent out a very strong message that racism will not be tolerated in the sport, in any shape or form. This has gone a long way to address the blatant and horrific racism that pervaded the game. In the past, fans found it not merely acceptable but fun to make monkey noises whenever an opposing black player touched the ball. Bananas were even thrown onto the pitch.
Racism has not been completely eradicated. The treatment Marco Balotelli has received from opposing fans in Italy is just one case in point, more so our own intrinsic tendency to still stereotype players based on race (black players are big, physical; white players are smart and cultured footballers). However, a clear message has been sent that any blatant racism will not be tolerated. When Atkinson made those comments, he knew immediately that he had no recourse but to resign.
Keys and Gray are not about to resign. The fact that do not feel the need to is telling. Sexism is as ingrained in football as racism was in the past. Football is a lads game after all, a Saturday afternoon pastime at the pub with your mates. We've all made similarly sexist jokes about the game. How many of us have casually joked about our girlfriends never being able to understand the offside rule? Women also do the same and laugh about the fact that only men would take pleasure and interest in watching 22 other men run around a field for 90 minutes.
What is not tolerable is when gender becomes grounds for baseless facile personal attacks as was the case with Keys and Gray. What is most shocking, as a colleague and friend put it, is their casual banter suggested that they thought every other footballing bloke would feel the same way, though they might not express it as openly (and as unwisely) as the two of them did. The notion of female assistants, let alone referees? Woman having a serious part in top flight football? Ludicrous!
Really? There are female referees in many other top flight leagues such as the Bundesliga, which can lead to the occasional awkward moment as Peter Niemeyer of Hertha Berlin found out recently. Women have run the lines in the last two Champions League. Women are refeering at the Rugby World Sevens, even at the Snooker World Championships (arguably a sport which is even more of a male preserve).
Football is lagging behind. What needs to be done is to send out as clear and unequivocal a message condemning sexism as the sport did in taking a zero tolerance policy towards racism. That is the only way we can eradicate it from the game.
Let there be no gray (pardon the pun) area about how football deals with blatant sexism. It is completely and utterly unacceptable. Anyone guilty of it should have no place in the game, in any capacity. Keys and Gray have to go.
14 January 2011
Books Bought Recently
In a vain attempt to reduce my already overflowing bookshelves (or rather to prevent further additions to them), I decided to begin taking note of my book purchases, and the rationale behind them. At year end, I will also do a review of how many of these books actually got read. This is also part of my long term aspiration to try and write about the books that I read, given my utter inability to remember anything I have read more than a few months afterward. Anyhow, this is the latest installment from January:
Beginner's Guide to Epistemology | Robert Martin: I obviously do not need yet another introductory book on epistemology, at least not for my own purposes. Since I am teaching it for Knowledge and Inquiry this year, I am buying this in view of mining it for teaching resources later this year. Or so I tell myself.
Lectures in the History of Political Philosophy | John Rawls: Despite the mind-numbing dullness of much of A Theory of Justice, Rawls was actually a good engaging lecturer, by all accounts. Given my genuine interest in political philosophy, this is a good addition, particularly since I never had a chance to examine historical thinkers (Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau) at University. I also managed to justify this on account of my involvement in the Raffles Renaissance Programme - I will be doing the Social Contract later this term and I need to read up. As a programme covering great books of social and political thought, this book will definitely come in handy.
Justice: Key Concepts Series | Tom Campbell: I have been eyeing this book for some time and I was initially put off by the price before I finally caved. It looks to be an excellent summation of the various theories of justice. I have learned never to underestimate the usefulness of books which effectively summarize complex ideas and debates. This looked to be one of them. Now, I just have to get round to devoting time to examining the issue of justice in greater detail and reading all the stuff I accumulated on political philosophy in the first place.
The Wind-Up Girl | Paolo Bacigalupi: Who would have thought! A book purchase made as a result of reading the Straits Time Sunday life section! It is a sign of how much I have neglected Science Fiction that I had no idea that this novel won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards for best novel. In times past I read Hugo and Nebula winners fairly voraciously. Bacigalupi was interviewed in the paper and my interest was definitely piqued. A novel set in 2030 Bangkok involving genetic manipulation and a mysterious made to order (genetically that is) girl? I just had to get it!
Worlds of Exile and Illusion | Ursula K Leguin: I was speaking to one of my student's last year about Ursula K LeGuin and she was lamenting how Le Guin's earlier "Hainish" novels were largely out of print and very difficult to find unlike The Left Hand of Darkness (which won both the Hugo and Nebula). Then I chanced upon this reprint, a compendium of the first three hanish novels, and I decided that I just had to get it. One of my quirks is that I still try and collect out of print, good science fiction, despite largely neglecting the genre in the past two years (or more). Science Fiction is probably the only field in which my knowledge extends beyond the status quo (what you would find in bookstores) to past works which are no longer well know, or commonly available. As an aside, I used to bump into that student many mornings coming out of the MRT station on the way to school. Inevitably, we both would have a different book in our hand each time. As two of the few people who were truly voracious readers, we would have a short chat about books, and authors. I certainly will miss those conversations.
The Secret Speech | Tom Rob Smith: I first chanced upon Tom Rob Smith when I borrowed his debut novel Child 44 from a university library. It was one of those impulse borrows ( book looks interesting, let's just grab it) which are less damaging that the impulse buys that might result from one being at a book warehouse sale or a bookstore. I was looking for an easy read on the train ride home, instead I got that rare thing - a taunt well written thriller which was an intelligent exploration of Stalinist Russia. The premise itself was mind-bogglingly simple, yet compelling. A young child is found murdered, a detective sets out on the trail and discovers more deaths. What seems a simple run of the mill idea takes on huge significance in the context of an utopian communist system, where serial killing is simply deemed to be impossible. I was delighted when the book was longlisted for the Booker Prize in 2008 given its obvious quality, but still surprised (how often do thrillers get such recognition?). On the strength of Child 44 alone, I bought this follow up novel. While it has been out for some time, I haven't seen a copy in a bookstore until now, so once I chanced upon it, I naturally bought it rather unthinkingly. Let's just hope Tom Rob Smith doesn't suffer from the curse of the second novel.
In Other Rooms, Other Wonders | Daniyal Mueenuddin: The subcontinent is known for producing brilliant writers, and a seemingly never-ending conveyor belt of new talent - Arundhati Roy winning the Booker prize with her debut novel, Kiran Desai with her sophomore effort, Aravind Adiga rising suddenly to prominence with his first book. Mueenuddin seems to be the latest subcontinent writer to rise to garner such attention. He certainly fits the mould - ivy league educated, worked in white collar job (banking) before returning to his home country to manage a farm. Mueenuddin is Pakistani and is already being touted as an authentic voice of his country. I bought it, as one often does, purely due to the lavish praise heaped on it, and the fact that it was nominated for a slew of awards. I also thought of a colleague who loves fiction from the subcontinent when I bought it - the fact that I could lend it to her, and introduce her to yet another exciting young writer somehow added justification to the purchase.
A History of Christianity | Diarmaid McCulloch: Why oh why do I keep doing this? If there is one area where I have collected massive (both in quantity in number and the size of the books themselves) unread volumes it is history. I find a new history of say The Nazi Regime, or a new volume in a multi-volume history of Europe, or a new book chronicling Krushchev in the Cold War. It is highly acclaimed (by fellow historians). I, of course, would love to find out more about that particular historical period. I buy the book. I put it on a shelf - all 600-700 pages of it. At best, I skim a couple of chapters. The book is never read. When it comes to volumes of authoritative history, I suffer the ultimate manifestation of the book buyer's curse - the myth of best intentions. That myth goes along the lines of - I have always wanted to learn more about this subject; this book is well written and critically acclaimed; I might not read it immediately and it does look a bit daunting, but of course it will be worth the effort and I will get round to reading it eventually. Eventually never happens. So why did I buy a 900 page history of Christianity? Because I am interested in the subject. Because Diarmaid McCulloch is the foremost historian of Christianity writing today, because the book was lavished with great praise, and book of the year awards from individuals ranging from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Melvyn Bragg. Because I will read it someday. Perhaps after I finish McCulloch's own history of the Reformation (purchased at Oxford in 2005, not yet started), or perhaps after I have read equally noted historian Paul Johnson's own History of Christianity (purchased Sunny bookstore Singapore, read first 60 pages out of 700). Perhaps never.
Beginner's Guide to Epistemology | Robert Martin: I obviously do not need yet another introductory book on epistemology, at least not for my own purposes. Since I am teaching it for Knowledge and Inquiry this year, I am buying this in view of mining it for teaching resources later this year. Or so I tell myself.
Lectures in the History of Political Philosophy | John Rawls: Despite the mind-numbing dullness of much of A Theory of Justice, Rawls was actually a good engaging lecturer, by all accounts. Given my genuine interest in political philosophy, this is a good addition, particularly since I never had a chance to examine historical thinkers (Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau) at University. I also managed to justify this on account of my involvement in the Raffles Renaissance Programme - I will be doing the Social Contract later this term and I need to read up. As a programme covering great books of social and political thought, this book will definitely come in handy.
Justice: Key Concepts Series | Tom Campbell: I have been eyeing this book for some time and I was initially put off by the price before I finally caved. It looks to be an excellent summation of the various theories of justice. I have learned never to underestimate the usefulness of books which effectively summarize complex ideas and debates. This looked to be one of them. Now, I just have to get round to devoting time to examining the issue of justice in greater detail and reading all the stuff I accumulated on political philosophy in the first place.
The Wind-Up Girl | Paolo Bacigalupi: Who would have thought! A book purchase made as a result of reading the Straits Time Sunday life section! It is a sign of how much I have neglected Science Fiction that I had no idea that this novel won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards for best novel. In times past I read Hugo and Nebula winners fairly voraciously. Bacigalupi was interviewed in the paper and my interest was definitely piqued. A novel set in 2030 Bangkok involving genetic manipulation and a mysterious made to order (genetically that is) girl? I just had to get it!
Worlds of Exile and Illusion | Ursula K Leguin: I was speaking to one of my student's last year about Ursula K LeGuin and she was lamenting how Le Guin's earlier "Hainish" novels were largely out of print and very difficult to find unlike The Left Hand of Darkness (which won both the Hugo and Nebula). Then I chanced upon this reprint, a compendium of the first three hanish novels, and I decided that I just had to get it. One of my quirks is that I still try and collect out of print, good science fiction, despite largely neglecting the genre in the past two years (or more). Science Fiction is probably the only field in which my knowledge extends beyond the status quo (what you would find in bookstores) to past works which are no longer well know, or commonly available. As an aside, I used to bump into that student many mornings coming out of the MRT station on the way to school. Inevitably, we both would have a different book in our hand each time. As two of the few people who were truly voracious readers, we would have a short chat about books, and authors. I certainly will miss those conversations.
The Secret Speech | Tom Rob Smith: I first chanced upon Tom Rob Smith when I borrowed his debut novel Child 44 from a university library. It was one of those impulse borrows ( book looks interesting, let's just grab it) which are less damaging that the impulse buys that might result from one being at a book warehouse sale or a bookstore. I was looking for an easy read on the train ride home, instead I got that rare thing - a taunt well written thriller which was an intelligent exploration of Stalinist Russia. The premise itself was mind-bogglingly simple, yet compelling. A young child is found murdered, a detective sets out on the trail and discovers more deaths. What seems a simple run of the mill idea takes on huge significance in the context of an utopian communist system, where serial killing is simply deemed to be impossible. I was delighted when the book was longlisted for the Booker Prize in 2008 given its obvious quality, but still surprised (how often do thrillers get such recognition?). On the strength of Child 44 alone, I bought this follow up novel. While it has been out for some time, I haven't seen a copy in a bookstore until now, so once I chanced upon it, I naturally bought it rather unthinkingly. Let's just hope Tom Rob Smith doesn't suffer from the curse of the second novel.
In Other Rooms, Other Wonders | Daniyal Mueenuddin: The subcontinent is known for producing brilliant writers, and a seemingly never-ending conveyor belt of new talent - Arundhati Roy winning the Booker prize with her debut novel, Kiran Desai with her sophomore effort, Aravind Adiga rising suddenly to prominence with his first book. Mueenuddin seems to be the latest subcontinent writer to rise to garner such attention. He certainly fits the mould - ivy league educated, worked in white collar job (banking) before returning to his home country to manage a farm. Mueenuddin is Pakistani and is already being touted as an authentic voice of his country. I bought it, as one often does, purely due to the lavish praise heaped on it, and the fact that it was nominated for a slew of awards. I also thought of a colleague who loves fiction from the subcontinent when I bought it - the fact that I could lend it to her, and introduce her to yet another exciting young writer somehow added justification to the purchase.
A History of Christianity | Diarmaid McCulloch: Why oh why do I keep doing this? If there is one area where I have collected massive (both in quantity in number and the size of the books themselves) unread volumes it is history. I find a new history of say The Nazi Regime, or a new volume in a multi-volume history of Europe, or a new book chronicling Krushchev in the Cold War. It is highly acclaimed (by fellow historians). I, of course, would love to find out more about that particular historical period. I buy the book. I put it on a shelf - all 600-700 pages of it. At best, I skim a couple of chapters. The book is never read. When it comes to volumes of authoritative history, I suffer the ultimate manifestation of the book buyer's curse - the myth of best intentions. That myth goes along the lines of - I have always wanted to learn more about this subject; this book is well written and critically acclaimed; I might not read it immediately and it does look a bit daunting, but of course it will be worth the effort and I will get round to reading it eventually. Eventually never happens. So why did I buy a 900 page history of Christianity? Because I am interested in the subject. Because Diarmaid McCulloch is the foremost historian of Christianity writing today, because the book was lavished with great praise, and book of the year awards from individuals ranging from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Melvyn Bragg. Because I will read it someday. Perhaps after I finish McCulloch's own history of the Reformation (purchased at Oxford in 2005, not yet started), or perhaps after I have read equally noted historian Paul Johnson's own History of Christianity (purchased Sunny bookstore Singapore, read first 60 pages out of 700). Perhaps never.
7 January 2011
The Haunted Hotel
The Haunted Hotel | Wilkie Collins
It has been my practice over the past few years to start the year with a flight of fancy, usually a fantasy novel of some kind. I had purchased The Haunted Hotel while browsing at Kinokuniya Bookstore at Bugis Junction, killing time before dinner with a friend. Having read the first forty pages in the bookstore itself, I was intrigued enough to purchase it and find out whether Countess Narona's marriage to Lord Monbarry would result in the dire premonitions she so feared.
Wilkie Collins was familiar to me on the stength of his two most famous works - A Woman in White, a staple of Gothic literature; and The Moonstone, considered by many to be the forerunner to the detective novel. I had never gotten round to reading either of those two works despite studying Gothic literature in school, and being a fan of detective and crime fiction, with The Moonstone being an influence on many fine writers in the genre.
It is tempting to see The Haunted Hotel as an interesting mixture of these two genres - the gothic novel and the detective novel. Elements of the supernatural do seem to be at play in the novel - dark premonitions, disturbing visions (or possibly hallucinations), a clearly overwrought and thus unreliable narrator, but these are tempered with rational explanation based on systematic enquiry (such as a report from an insurance office). This delicate balance is seen most clearly in the denoument of the novel's final act with a clever little plot device that offers the readers the chance to believe the conclusion as either the fantasy of a deranged mind, or the confessions of a dark and deadly crime.
Wilkie Collin's writing style is engaging, and captivating. You won't find here the long, conjuncted sentences of his peers such as Charles Dickens (who acted in two of Collin's melodramas). The novel is very readable (as much as that is an overused term), and it builds up the story and the tension gradually. It takes reading the great Victorian mystery and crime novels to appreciate how dire modern thrillers are (I insist on making a distinction between thrillers which I view as pulp novels, and crime novels which is a genre with more artfulness). This novel, slight at 200 pages, made me want to read Collin's two most famous works mentioned above.
All in all, this was a much darker flight of fancy than I am used to starting the year with. It was certainly no sword and sorcery fantasy novel, but it was perhaps a richer experience for that. Besides which, it is also in keeping with 2011 being a more serious, focused year for me.
It has been my practice over the past few years to start the year with a flight of fancy, usually a fantasy novel of some kind. I had purchased The Haunted Hotel while browsing at Kinokuniya Bookstore at Bugis Junction, killing time before dinner with a friend. Having read the first forty pages in the bookstore itself, I was intrigued enough to purchase it and find out whether Countess Narona's marriage to Lord Monbarry would result in the dire premonitions she so feared.
Wilkie Collins was familiar to me on the stength of his two most famous works - A Woman in White, a staple of Gothic literature; and The Moonstone, considered by many to be the forerunner to the detective novel. I had never gotten round to reading either of those two works despite studying Gothic literature in school, and being a fan of detective and crime fiction, with The Moonstone being an influence on many fine writers in the genre.
It is tempting to see The Haunted Hotel as an interesting mixture of these two genres - the gothic novel and the detective novel. Elements of the supernatural do seem to be at play in the novel - dark premonitions, disturbing visions (or possibly hallucinations), a clearly overwrought and thus unreliable narrator, but these are tempered with rational explanation based on systematic enquiry (such as a report from an insurance office). This delicate balance is seen most clearly in the denoument of the novel's final act with a clever little plot device that offers the readers the chance to believe the conclusion as either the fantasy of a deranged mind, or the confessions of a dark and deadly crime.
Wilkie Collin's writing style is engaging, and captivating. You won't find here the long, conjuncted sentences of his peers such as Charles Dickens (who acted in two of Collin's melodramas). The novel is very readable (as much as that is an overused term), and it builds up the story and the tension gradually. It takes reading the great Victorian mystery and crime novels to appreciate how dire modern thrillers are (I insist on making a distinction between thrillers which I view as pulp novels, and crime novels which is a genre with more artfulness). This novel, slight at 200 pages, made me want to read Collin's two most famous works mentioned above.
All in all, this was a much darker flight of fancy than I am used to starting the year with. It was certainly no sword and sorcery fantasy novel, but it was perhaps a richer experience for that. Besides which, it is also in keeping with 2011 being a more serious, focused year for me.
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