tragedy

You

admin — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Nuala Ní Chonchúir's début novel tells the tale of a young girl who interprets the life she and her siblings inhabit in their urban Gothic surroundings with simple yet insightful prose. Set against the ominous and symbolic backdrop of the River Liffey, You contrasts the seeming simplicity of the girl's conclusions about her eventful life with the deeper and more complex ramifications of her mother's behaviour.

There is a central, and somewhat obvious, tragedy to Ní Chonchúir's story, and readers who are unfamiliar with her work may see this as the core of the novel itself; however, Ní Chonchúir is a quiet intellect and You is far more complex than the breezy, fast-flowing, colloquial narrative suggests. The real tragedy of You is its framing of society's criterion for a failed woman.

Woman, in all her broken states, is embodied in You's character tour de force, and each has her patriarchal compare. The protagonist's mother takes up with the picaresque Kit, local butcher and lad about town, and in a scene redolent of Joseph Ferdinand Gueldry's The Blood-Drinkers, he takes her a meat offering, which the protagonist turns away from in revulsion. In accepting the bloody gifts, the protagonist's mother is made a prostitute in her daughter's eyes, even if the young girl does not yet know that word, and perhaps an addict in the reader's. The mother's seeming inability to direct her own course in life is a source of consternation to her daughter, yet, in the novel's pivotal scene, it is the inaction of three males that brings about what will be regarded as the books most memorable tragedy.

Ní Chonchúir's skill is her ability to subvert and to break down labels, racism, and sexism included, into their core traits and to show they are seamless, as an estuary. She makes accessible to a wide audience what has often hid in the dense prose of high-end literary fiction and been the seminar agitator of choice for academics. Her prose is both dignifying and empowering to her subjects, and it is her psychological ableness which will mark Ní Chonchúir as a writer of significance.

Cross-posted at Melusine

Written by: Rachel J. Fenton, August 29th 2010

The Solitude of Prime Numbers

admin — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 08:02:00 +0000

By Paolo Giordano

Penguin

My best friend often teasingly tells me that the books I recommend to her are all too depressing and sad. I always counter that I recommend books that make me laugh. Now, that either means that I have a sick sense of humor, or it simply illustrates that the stories I most enjoy reading combine painful topics and awkward characters with humor, sarcasm, and witty writing.

Paolo Giordano’s The Solitude of Prime Numbers is exactly such a book. Giordano’s debut novel is the story of Alice and Mattia, two awkward and painfully lonely teenagers. Alice is marked by a childhood skiing accident that leaves her limping and deeply insecure about her body. In those cruel teenage years, she develops an eating disorder in an attempt to regain some control over her body. Mattia is haunted by suffocating guilt after the disappearance of his twin sister when he was nine years old. Alice and Mattia connect over their pain, their awkwardness, and their acute sense that they don’t fit in. But their bond is fragile, subtle, and built on a silent agreement that neither reveal the source of their pain to the other. Even in their connection, they remain isolated and lonely, never fully able to overcome what keeps them emotionally locked into their own worlds.

Eventually, their lives go in different directions and they separate, without ever openly communicating what they feel for each other. But despite being thousands of miles apart, neither Alice nor Mattia is willing or able to let go of their unusual bond. Reunited by a chance encounter, they are faced with a decision: to truly let the other in or return to a life without the other.

Giordano masterfully paints a world full of pain, loneliness, and love. While the humor in The Solitude of Prime Numbers is very subtle, it is there, in the background. It makes the tragedies bearable, the loneliness less hopeless. So yes, this novel is sad and depressing. But it is also incredibly powerful, and it will make you chuckle softly from time to time as you follow Alice and Mattia in their struggle to survive their childhood experiences.

Written by: Annette Przygoda, July 11th 2010

Goodbye Wifes and Daughters

admin — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 17:01:00 +0000

By Susan Kushner Resnick

University of Nebraska Press

In 1943, as the world dealt with trauma and tragedy in Europe and the Pacific during World War II, another catastrophe unfolded in Bearcreek, Montana. The Smith Coal Mine was one of the largest employers for the town, and the men worked six days a week around the clock to help provide coal for the war effort. But one morning, a fire broke out in the mine and 80 miners were trapped underground with little hope for escape. The rescue effort took days, and many women and children of the town waited with little rest or food outside of the mine waiting to see if their loved ones would come out alive. Only three made it out. One small group of miners holed up in a passageway, trying to trap and save some precious oxygen and block the poisonous carbon monoxide. As they waited, they wrote messages, and one wrote “Goodbye wifes[sic] and daughters.”

In the book of the same name, Susan Kushner Resnick tracked down the stories of what had happened. She interviewed family members and townspeople and tracked down newspaper reports, correspondence and other information to bring the 60+-year-old story to life. It reads quickly and smoothly. As a reader, you know what’s going to happen, the explosion is inevitable as is the death toll, and yet, Resnick keeps the book moving and engaging throughout.

The tragedy tore the community apart with the deaths of main earners in many families. Some women lost multiple loved ones: husbands, fathers, brothers, and uncles. Some men had to pull their fathers, grandfathers, or brothers bodies from the mine. But, it has also held the community together in a way. In present day Bearcreek, there are still anniversary events that commemorate the tragedy.

Resnick looks into those at fault for the fire and subsequent explosions. Faulty equipment, mismanagement, safety measures ignored in place of higher profits seemed to combine to cause the disaster, and yet the widows of the miners were given no money by the Montana Coal and Iron Company, who was, arguably, to blame.

I would have liked more information about the responses of the women after the tragedy, though the women are definitely mentioned and featured throughout. How did the women piece their lives back together? For those who left the town, were they ever able to leave the tragedy behind? For those who stayed, did they ever revisit the mine? Were all the deaths mourned? How did those who may have lost abusive or angry husbands or fathers responded (sadness, relief, and guilt, I would imagine)? Resnick touches on these questions, though I wanted more. Yet, perhaps it is unspeakable to sit and wait for days on end for the body of your husband or father. Perhaps some stories cannot be told.

Written by: Kristin Conard, February 10th 2010

Against the Current

admin — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 17:01:00 +0000

Directed by Peter Callahan

Fortissimo Films

As Paul Thompson in the surprising and moving Against the Current, Joseph Fiennes has the deep, burned out eyes of a man who no longer cares for life and yearns for his misery to end. Yet he still has a dream: to swim the length (150 miles) of the Lower Hudson River. He also has another goal when he completes the first one: to make a decision whether or not to kill himself.

It’s not easy to pull off a film about a thirty-something, handsome man like Paul who is still wallowing in excruciating despair five years after the tragic death of his wife and child. Director Peter Callahan wisely lightened up the film’s mood by choosing to send a couple of fun, cool friends along with the bummed-out widower for the big swim: Jeff (Justin Kirk) and Liz (Elizabeth Reaser). Their job, along with providing emotional support, is to drive a boat alongside Paul as he swims. Paul climbs aboard for rest periods after pushing himself to meet daily mileage goals.

Philosophically, the film asks the questions: do some people get more pain than they can bear? Is there a point at which a person knows the struggle to overcome is fruitless? Played powerfully and nobly by Fiennes, Paul needs to swim the river to prove he tried to swim through the tears of his grief. After that, he will know in his heart what he must do.

But it is Justin Kirk who makes the movie come alive: every gesture, remark and expression add up to a totally riveting performance. As Jeff, Kirk plays a sarcastic realist who also has a heart of gold that he keeps under wraps by cranking out lots of wisecracks and indulging in childish silliness. A solid loyal friend, he offers Paul a generosity of spirit and empathy while simultaneously brooking no pact-breaking nonsense. (After the death of Paul's pregnant wife, Jeff made Paul pledge not to kill himself for at least five years.) Jeff hopes Paul will work through his pain and get to the other side of it. It is now five years later and the pact will expire as soon as Paul finally emerges from his watery trial onto land in Manhattan.

Also along for the ride is Liz, a woman Paul met at a bar. She is searching for direction in life and, without knowing fully the extent of Paul’s inner turmoil, agrees to accompany the guys to help on the boat. She wants to have a fun adventure and just plain have a get-away from the limbo-like life she is leading. Little does she know what lies beneath the surface of this trip.

As the boat moves further along the Hudson, the friends decide to make a pit stop at Liz’s mother’s house, as she lives close by. The mother, played by the vivacious, triumphant Mary Tyler Moore, is all manic energy, nosiness, advice and fist-pumping optimism. Moore enters the tragic tale with a bang and speed-delivers a refreshing dose of comedy.

The metaphor of river as life could have been yawn-inducing, but in this director’s hands, it is beautifully and richly alive. The murky darkness of the river matches Paul’s mood while the summer sky overhead seems like a call to the brightness of hope and better times.

Written by: Cheryl Reeves, January 4th 2010

Bright Star

admin — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 10:24:00 +0000

Directed by Jane Campion

Apparition

When John Keats wrote "Bright Star, Would I Were Stedfast" for his beloved Fanny Brawne, he was a penniless wordsmith with a knack—but not a hankering—for stirring up controversy. Though history now regards him as one of the finest poets, Keats wasn’t popularly praised during his twenty-five year lifetime. In the era of Jane Austen and Washington Irving, Keats’ ethereal verses and passionate prose didn’t provide the right flavor of the week—or in his case, decade—to win over audiences. But what Keats lacked in literary respect was more than made up for in the ardor of his torrid relationship with Fanny Brawne, one of the most dazzling love stories to ever exist.

Bright Star, Jane Campion’s newest film, chronicles the Romance (with a capital "R") between Keats and Brawne from its budding first impressions until its final consumptive breath. Playing the doomed young lovers, Australian Abbie Cornish (Candy, Stop-Loss) and period-piece laden Ben Whishaw (I’m Not There, Perfume: Story of a Murderer) embody the very essence of cinematic enchantment, and their performances will leave you breathless. Like Bogart and Bacall, Cornish and Whishaw display a voracious onscreen fervor for each other. Throughout the film, their delicate moments together, though entirely chaste, are breathtakingly sensual, harmonious, and truly aching. Unlike contemporary romances where the two leads engage in a mandatory sex scene that shows all and absolutely nothing at the same time, Cornish and Whishaw’s light petting, caresses, and whispered sweet nothings envelop the senses. There is a burning desire felt between them that is sincere and bewildering.

The Academy Award winning Campion has created some of the best female driven films of the last twenty-five years: An Angel at my Table, The Piano, and In the Cut. She is no stranger to the portrayal of doomed romance, and though usually a bit more carnal, Bright Star fits snugly in with the rest of her feminist-minded filmography. Her lady leads are often introverted, intelligent women with a quiet dignity and passion for artistic expression. Told strictly from Fanny’s perspective, Bright Star differs in that Fanny is more flamboyant than any other Campion creation by possessing an outspoken, flashy nature that she’s incredibly proud of. In a sea of endless, bland corsets and cotillions, Fanny expresses herself through fashion. She designs and sews all of her own garments, and as her love grows for Keats, Fanny’s wardrobe becomes more beautiful and glamorous. To show their mutual respect for one another, Campion composes many shots in which Keats and Fanny work on their own artistic mediums side by side.

Set in the English countryside, Bright Star is Campion’s most gorgeous film to date. Often juxtaposing femininity with nature, Campion shoots everything on location with an astute sense of how the surroundings relate to her central character. In Bright Star, countless flowers and butterflies, as well as vivid foliage set the stage for this tragic love affair. The happiest occasions take place outdoors with compositions intended to sweep the viewers' emotions with a series of cinematic ellipses.

Indoors, however, is a different story. After Fanny and Keats begin their infatuation, Fanny's circumstances dictate that she and her poor family move into one half of the house Keats is charitably living in. The house is owned by his good friend Charles Armitage Brown (the terrific Paul Schneider), a sarcastic curmudgeon who disapproves of Keats’ relationship with Fanny. He believes it takes away from Keats' poetry, not realizing Fanny is its inspiration. Brown abuses his ownership of the lodging by trying to force the young lovers apart.

Though the premise of Bright Star is familiar, its flawless execution is a breath of fresh air. It doesn’t take pride in being a period piece, like Pride and Prejudice or Atonement; instead, Bright Star simply and organically exists in that time. As a Campion fan (in case you hadn’t guessed), I had been looking forward to this film for six long years, and none of her other creations shook me as heartily as this. As I left the theatre, I could hardly breathe from the overwhelming emotion that invaded my soul in a way I've scarcely felt before. I can’t stop thinking about it and feeling the tremors it bestowed. Don’t forget the Kleenex.

Written by: Sara Freeman, October 1st 2009

Small Gods: Elena's Elegy

admin — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 22:59:00 +0000

By Dimitri Karakatsanis

Potemkind

Small Gods, a film by Dimitri Karakatsanis, is described as being part of the Belgian new wave film movement. What that means, I'm not sure, but I'm absolutely in love it. While shot on a dismally cheap budget, you would never be able to tell with the gorgeous visuals that play out on screen. The film opens with a teary-eyed David, kidnapping Elena from the hospital after she has lost her son in a car crash. Elena awakes in David's mobile home and little dialogue passes between the two of them. David and Elena become travel partners rescuing a young mute, Sarah, from the side of the road. The three characters are a motley crew, who refuse to fit into the roles given to them by society. David is a compassionate man who goes around hugging people, because he can feel when they need the contact, while Elena does not adhere to gender stereotypes, working the forklift in a factory and being known for her quick, bullish temper. Sarah, whose past is revealed towards the end of the film, has taken a vow of silence and refuses to speak.

The film unravels slowly, switching back and forward between Elena being interviewed by a lawyer, and clips of what happened between she, David, and Sarah. The film is stunningly beautiful. Karakatsanis uses Belgium's hazy landscape and overcast grayness to only deepen the colors and mood of the film. Some of the most beautiful shots between the actors are in silhouettes, where you can only make out the seemingly watercolor painted sky behind them, as their blackened shapes move in and out of the frame.

The only part of this film that isn't fantastic is the soundtrack, which is sometimes it is a little too upbeat for the particular scene it is describing. While the film is slow-paced, Karakatsanis' cinematography is what keeps you interested in each frame until the surprising twist ending. It's nothing like anything I have ever seen before.

Written by: Chrissie Thornburg, March 28th 2009