Saturday, March 13, 2010
Where Books Are Dropping Like Flies
I have worked in the same suburb of The Queen City, my adopted home, for three years. In that time, I have seen businesses come and go, at what I assume to be a normal rate. Even in a healthy economic climate, the retail landscape remains judiciously in flux; it usually comes as no big surprise to see occasional doors close. Any sizable mall is testament enough to this. Yet, over the last 13 months, there has been a sad trend in this otherwise jumping little town. In approximately a week's time, its remaining book-store will be gone.
Waldenbooks, though never a favourite of mine, was the first casualty. It disappeared from the mall after the 2008 holidays. It was replaced by a generic clothing store. Borders, located across the street, followed a few months later. The building remains empty, as does the hull of the Old Navy next door. Half Price Books formed the third side of the triangle. Fortunately, it is not going under. Rather, it is moving to a presumably better location 10 minutes away, to the next town over.
These are, of course, all large conglomerate chain stores. There were no Indie book sellers to go under; which, to my mind, is an even sadder statement. Of the 3, Half-Price Books is my favourite. It is not a bad little haunt to wander around in: there is a large, eclectic, ever-revolving selection of books and music. It is green to the extent that most items are used. The staff is friendly and not over-bearing, with a respectful amount of knowledge. (I will never forget over-hearing, many years ago in a different city, a customer ask a baffled and blank Waldenbooks clerk if they carried anything by Kerouac.)
The closure of 3 book stores may seem trifling. Those cavernous boxes will eventually be replaced by something else equally ephemeral. The world goes on, unblinking. Yet, for bibliophiles, the loss can dig down to a deeper place: it is not merely a matter of being inconvenienced by a longer drive.
The dream--and occasional reality--of dashing around the corner to browse randomly through stacks of books is finally, painfully gone. I cannot, somewhat leisurely, but to the countdown of a ticking lunch clock, make my way through my preferred shelves: Performing Arts followed, inexorably, by Literature, Reference, and Poetry. (Any left-over time being spent running up to a variety of entirely unrelated shiny books, spied from the corner of a wandering eye, like a literate crow.)
For those of us in love with it, reading is a complete and complex experience. It does not begin when you open the cover and turn to the first page. Selecting a book--and the myriad reasons that you can be drawn to one book over another--is an integral part of the process. It is the thrill of an intellectual, yet enticingly physical hunt.
This is, however, not an entirely personal and selfish lamentation. Every community needs to be artistically and intellectually enriched by at least a few of the businesses in its district. It cannot all be fast food joints and gas stations, mini-marts and office supply stores. A town that cannot, for whatever litany of reasons, support a bookstore, art gallery, or coffee shop while cheap, throw-away chains thrive, is poorer as a result.
Waldenbooks, though never a favourite of mine, was the first casualty. It disappeared from the mall after the 2008 holidays. It was replaced by a generic clothing store. Borders, located across the street, followed a few months later. The building remains empty, as does the hull of the Old Navy next door. Half Price Books formed the third side of the triangle. Fortunately, it is not going under. Rather, it is moving to a presumably better location 10 minutes away, to the next town over.
These are, of course, all large conglomerate chain stores. There were no Indie book sellers to go under; which, to my mind, is an even sadder statement. Of the 3, Half-Price Books is my favourite. It is not a bad little haunt to wander around in: there is a large, eclectic, ever-revolving selection of books and music. It is green to the extent that most items are used. The staff is friendly and not over-bearing, with a respectful amount of knowledge. (I will never forget over-hearing, many years ago in a different city, a customer ask a baffled and blank Waldenbooks clerk if they carried anything by Kerouac.)
The closure of 3 book stores may seem trifling. Those cavernous boxes will eventually be replaced by something else equally ephemeral. The world goes on, unblinking. Yet, for bibliophiles, the loss can dig down to a deeper place: it is not merely a matter of being inconvenienced by a longer drive.
The dream--and occasional reality--of dashing around the corner to browse randomly through stacks of books is finally, painfully gone. I cannot, somewhat leisurely, but to the countdown of a ticking lunch clock, make my way through my preferred shelves: Performing Arts followed, inexorably, by Literature, Reference, and Poetry. (Any left-over time being spent running up to a variety of entirely unrelated shiny books, spied from the corner of a wandering eye, like a literate crow.)
For those of us in love with it, reading is a complete and complex experience. It does not begin when you open the cover and turn to the first page. Selecting a book--and the myriad reasons that you can be drawn to one book over another--is an integral part of the process. It is the thrill of an intellectual, yet enticingly physical hunt.
This is, however, not an entirely personal and selfish lamentation. Every community needs to be artistically and intellectually enriched by at least a few of the businesses in its district. It cannot all be fast food joints and gas stations, mini-marts and office supply stores. A town that cannot, for whatever litany of reasons, support a bookstore, art gallery, or coffee shop while cheap, throw-away chains thrive, is poorer as a result.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Fever. Spring.
"It's Spring Fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want--oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!"-Mark Twain
After a long, cold, numbing Winter, it is all too easy to prematurely jump into the heady concept of Spring. I know full well that we have not seen the last of frost, icy rain, or flurries. Yet, all it takes is a bit of sunshine to make me dizzy with the thought of the warmth and languor of the upcoming season. The evenings remain hot-chocolate worthy--my car is still tinged with a delicate layer of frost most mornings--but I cannot stop myself from dreaming of bright-green grass and fire-flies, sun-dresses and sandals. I suppose that it is only natural to want to shrug off the freezing, fat, short days of Winter at the first tiny sign of newness and freshness. Every store in the country is in cahoots with this feeling: bathing suits and flip-flops have been lining the racks for weeks. The April issues of magazines are touting the turn of the season in glorious, lush, expensive colour. I am tempted to take the dog on long sojourns to the park across the street where, if the truth be named, the grass is still a sad, drab shade of semi-green.
March is, indeed, full of the last vestiges of Winter. The Academy Awards ceremony is tonight. College basketball play-off madness is nearly here. Though I can go outside without a jacket, there is a slight chill in the air, which becomes all too obvious as soon as a foot is set out of the sunshine. Mark Twain was quite correct in his assessment of Spring Fever. I have become antsy for something new, bright, and lovely; annually I associate it with the dawn of warm weather, the chirping of birds, a breeze turned comfortable. It can never, never get here soon enough. I base every good, strong hope for the near-future on its arrival. It is amazing how a gentle reminder-to-self to live in the moment, to not wish away even an inch of your life, can be so fruitless when at long-last sunshine and heat is dangled before you. Fever, indeed.
It is difficult to rein in this type of giddiness yet, I am beginning to think, upon actual consideration, worth the effort. There is nothing wrong with a few more mugs of hot chocolate or bowls of soup, a few more weeks where the dog curled up at my feet is welcoming rather than stifling. Perhaps I do not really need those Coach sandals or cotton-coloured bikini right this second. Sleeping under a blanket has its merits, after all; and so does enjoying the air that you are breathing right now, exactly where you are, even if it is a bit nippy.
After a long, cold, numbing Winter, it is all too easy to prematurely jump into the heady concept of Spring. I know full well that we have not seen the last of frost, icy rain, or flurries. Yet, all it takes is a bit of sunshine to make me dizzy with the thought of the warmth and languor of the upcoming season. The evenings remain hot-chocolate worthy--my car is still tinged with a delicate layer of frost most mornings--but I cannot stop myself from dreaming of bright-green grass and fire-flies, sun-dresses and sandals. I suppose that it is only natural to want to shrug off the freezing, fat, short days of Winter at the first tiny sign of newness and freshness. Every store in the country is in cahoots with this feeling: bathing suits and flip-flops have been lining the racks for weeks. The April issues of magazines are touting the turn of the season in glorious, lush, expensive colour. I am tempted to take the dog on long sojourns to the park across the street where, if the truth be named, the grass is still a sad, drab shade of semi-green.
March is, indeed, full of the last vestiges of Winter. The Academy Awards ceremony is tonight. College basketball play-off madness is nearly here. Though I can go outside without a jacket, there is a slight chill in the air, which becomes all too obvious as soon as a foot is set out of the sunshine. Mark Twain was quite correct in his assessment of Spring Fever. I have become antsy for something new, bright, and lovely; annually I associate it with the dawn of warm weather, the chirping of birds, a breeze turned comfortable. It can never, never get here soon enough. I base every good, strong hope for the near-future on its arrival. It is amazing how a gentle reminder-to-self to live in the moment, to not wish away even an inch of your life, can be so fruitless when at long-last sunshine and heat is dangled before you. Fever, indeed.
It is difficult to rein in this type of giddiness yet, I am beginning to think, upon actual consideration, worth the effort. There is nothing wrong with a few more mugs of hot chocolate or bowls of soup, a few more weeks where the dog curled up at my feet is welcoming rather than stifling. Perhaps I do not really need those Coach sandals or cotton-coloured bikini right this second. Sleeping under a blanket has its merits, after all; and so does enjoying the air that you are breathing right now, exactly where you are, even if it is a bit nippy.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Bookish Bliss: Silent Players by Anthony Slide
One of the things that I am fervently anticipating about our upcoming move is the chance to free the rest of my book collection from the storage bin, where it has unhappily resided for the past 18 months. As most of you probably know, I own a lot of books. Though my collection is not as vast as my heart would dictate if it had free reign over my pocketbook, it is still large enough to make a small-town pubic library envious. Pondered in this light, purchasing another volume is probably not the most necessary action that I could take. However, for us feverish-reader types, there are certain books that speak to us at such a high, insistent pitch that they cannot, for long, be ignored. On such occasions, a benign browsing-trip to the book-store can turn into a pleading session between your heart and your wallet. This afternoon, the former trounced the latter; this is how I came to have Anthony Slide's 'Silent Players' in my possession.
I have a mania for Pre-1930's cinema. Anthony Slide was lucky enough to befriend many of the performers of that era while they were in their twilight years; he is also a fantastic film historian, with many wonderful, insightful genre books to his credit. Although I am a critical reader, I will never be a jaded one; thus, I am nearly crazy with delight over the thought of delving into this volume. There are books that you purposely seek out, and those that you casually happen upon. (It is a toss-up as to which anticipation is more acute.) This one fell into my lap, as I was idly time-killing at Half-Price Books with The Chef. Although I will likely rush through it, I am going to try my best to slowly savor this particular word-sensory experience. However it plays out, I promise to write about it here, in one form or another. Reading may be a solo practice but its impact is ultimately collective; the best books are meant to be shared.
I have a mania for Pre-1930's cinema. Anthony Slide was lucky enough to befriend many of the performers of that era while they were in their twilight years; he is also a fantastic film historian, with many wonderful, insightful genre books to his credit. Although I am a critical reader, I will never be a jaded one; thus, I am nearly crazy with delight over the thought of delving into this volume. There are books that you purposely seek out, and those that you casually happen upon. (It is a toss-up as to which anticipation is more acute.) This one fell into my lap, as I was idly time-killing at Half-Price Books with The Chef. Although I will likely rush through it, I am going to try my best to slowly savor this particular word-sensory experience. However it plays out, I promise to write about it here, in one form or another. Reading may be a solo practice but its impact is ultimately collective; the best books are meant to be shared.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Let's All Say This Together in Case We Have Forgotten-Characterization is Why Actors Should Win Awards or: Why Christoph Waltz Deserves an Oscar
I love the glittery, hallowed, border-line kitschy pomp of the Academy Awards ceremony. The annual swagger-fest of self-love is always full of aesthetic delights and amusements; chock-a-block full of controversy, humour, ridiculousness, and genuinely heart-warming moments, it is ever entertaining. Stars, in all of their peacock-majesty, alight on the most famous red carpet in the world. This is where we, the fans, await; whether in person or sitting at home in our living rooms, we come to fawn, gape, admire and censure the entire whirring, colourful affair.
The experience is multi-faceted and highly individualistic; we all watch for different reasons. I love the dresses and the jewels--and the gossipy bonding opportunity shared with my mom. Yet, as a passionate cinema fan, ex-actress, and classic film writer, I come back year after year for that most elusive of things: a well-deserved win, one that is so right-feeling as to be virtually indisputable.
Last year, I was thrilled that Kate Winslet finally won a Best Actress statuette. She is my favourite actress (of my own generation, at any rate)--which makes the win personal, biased, and subjective. Her performance in 'The Reader' was certainly honest, sinewy, breathtaking. Her moment at the podium was , to most of us, long over-due. Yet, there are surely those who preferred another actress, another performance, for whatever mysterious, complex, or simple reason(s).
On this year's telecast, which airs on Sunday, 7 March, there is a single award that I am anticipating. Everything else can be shunted aside: the clothes, the accessories, the awkwardly long-winded acceptance speeches, all of the other golden accolades of the evening mean little next to this one presentation. Lifelong tradition or not, I am tuning in this year to watch Christoph Waltz ('Inglourious Basterds') walk away with the title of Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role.
Sure, it is seemingly easy to get behind the already awards-laden, critically lauded front-runner. He has won in his category at every major awards show of the season. Contenders rarely come this strong, especially when their performance is at the center of a popular commercial hit master-minded by the only director on the planet to enjoy rock-star like status. Yet, for all of this cache, for all of the silver-tongued words of praise, for all of the interviews, he remains largely unknown. He may be just below our consciousness, but his performance is not.
Occasionally, and to an entirely unpredictable pattern, an actor captures a character to scintillating, near-scientific perfection. You forget everything that came before, forget that you are watching a performance: you are deliciously in the moment. For a couple of hours, fiction attains primacy over reality. Being in the presence of a fully-realized character should be temporarily mind-altering. Waltz's urbane, gleeful, and horrifying Hans Landa does just that.
I do not worship without thought at the quirky, disheveled, disturbing altar of Quentin Tarantino. There is both much to love and revile in his work but when he gets it right, it is awe-inspiring. The script to 'Inglourious Basterds', also by Tarantino, is fantastic; the kind to make any writer envious.The bones of Hans Landa are laid out admirably, as scripted. Very little flesh-and-blood contribution from an actor would have been necessary to make him truly memorable; he was written that way. This makes Christoph Waltz's landing, and interpretation, of the role that much luckier for movie-goers.
In Tarantino's revisionist history, where hilarity and suffering cohabit in nearly every frame,Nazi Colonel Hans Landa is smooth, rotten-souled, honeyed, and terrifying. Evil has scarcely been more articulate. He's a hands-on, joyful killer of the innocent: the man clearly enjoys his work. There is no glimmer of redemption in this cold opportunist. Yet, Waltz as Landa mesmerises even as he terrifies. It is a rich, complex, brazen, center-of-the-spotlight performance. Many actors would have gone full-on ham with this role. Waltz, much more subtly, glimmers and thrives in a characterization that is startling; there is a sense of privileged acceptance, an acknowledgment of his great luck present in his brilliant performance, that is rare to see from an actor.
Hans Landa is, to my mind, the most fully satisfying film character in recent memory. This is not lionizing evil--he is chilling and too self-serving to have preserved even a breath of humanity. As such, he is appalling. It is not the role itself but the seamless, kinetic, unsettling inhabiting of the role accomplished by Waltz that deserves the most merit. A part as written, however promising on the white page, is like a master-less puppet. Though entertaining by itself, it takes talent, patience, and audacious manipulation by a professional to be brought to glorious, mobile, full-bodied life.
Timeless performances are often those that embrace the uncomfortable, the uneasy, the painfully humourous, the raw elements of human existence. Capturing even a sliver of that truth on celluloid happens too infrequently. When it does, it is nice to see it rewarded. This, readers, is why I will be keeping my fingers firmly crossed come Sunday. The Academy has a chance to get it beautifully, undeniably right. The occasional correct choice is, ultimately, what keeps us coming back for more.
The experience is multi-faceted and highly individualistic; we all watch for different reasons. I love the dresses and the jewels--and the gossipy bonding opportunity shared with my mom. Yet, as a passionate cinema fan, ex-actress, and classic film writer, I come back year after year for that most elusive of things: a well-deserved win, one that is so right-feeling as to be virtually indisputable.
Last year, I was thrilled that Kate Winslet finally won a Best Actress statuette. She is my favourite actress (of my own generation, at any rate)--which makes the win personal, biased, and subjective. Her performance in 'The Reader' was certainly honest, sinewy, breathtaking. Her moment at the podium was , to most of us, long over-due. Yet, there are surely those who preferred another actress, another performance, for whatever mysterious, complex, or simple reason(s).
On this year's telecast, which airs on Sunday, 7 March, there is a single award that I am anticipating. Everything else can be shunted aside: the clothes, the accessories, the awkwardly long-winded acceptance speeches, all of the other golden accolades of the evening mean little next to this one presentation. Lifelong tradition or not, I am tuning in this year to watch Christoph Waltz ('Inglourious Basterds') walk away with the title of Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role.
Sure, it is seemingly easy to get behind the already awards-laden, critically lauded front-runner. He has won in his category at every major awards show of the season. Contenders rarely come this strong, especially when their performance is at the center of a popular commercial hit master-minded by the only director on the planet to enjoy rock-star like status. Yet, for all of this cache, for all of the silver-tongued words of praise, for all of the interviews, he remains largely unknown. He may be just below our consciousness, but his performance is not.
Occasionally, and to an entirely unpredictable pattern, an actor captures a character to scintillating, near-scientific perfection. You forget everything that came before, forget that you are watching a performance: you are deliciously in the moment. For a couple of hours, fiction attains primacy over reality. Being in the presence of a fully-realized character should be temporarily mind-altering. Waltz's urbane, gleeful, and horrifying Hans Landa does just that.
I do not worship without thought at the quirky, disheveled, disturbing altar of Quentin Tarantino. There is both much to love and revile in his work but when he gets it right, it is awe-inspiring. The script to 'Inglourious Basterds', also by Tarantino, is fantastic; the kind to make any writer envious.The bones of Hans Landa are laid out admirably, as scripted. Very little flesh-and-blood contribution from an actor would have been necessary to make him truly memorable; he was written that way. This makes Christoph Waltz's landing, and interpretation, of the role that much luckier for movie-goers.
In Tarantino's revisionist history, where hilarity and suffering cohabit in nearly every frame,Nazi Colonel Hans Landa is smooth, rotten-souled, honeyed, and terrifying. Evil has scarcely been more articulate. He's a hands-on, joyful killer of the innocent: the man clearly enjoys his work. There is no glimmer of redemption in this cold opportunist. Yet, Waltz as Landa mesmerises even as he terrifies. It is a rich, complex, brazen, center-of-the-spotlight performance. Many actors would have gone full-on ham with this role. Waltz, much more subtly, glimmers and thrives in a characterization that is startling; there is a sense of privileged acceptance, an acknowledgment of his great luck present in his brilliant performance, that is rare to see from an actor.
Hans Landa is, to my mind, the most fully satisfying film character in recent memory. This is not lionizing evil--he is chilling and too self-serving to have preserved even a breath of humanity. As such, he is appalling. It is not the role itself but the seamless, kinetic, unsettling inhabiting of the role accomplished by Waltz that deserves the most merit. A part as written, however promising on the white page, is like a master-less puppet. Though entertaining by itself, it takes talent, patience, and audacious manipulation by a professional to be brought to glorious, mobile, full-bodied life.
Timeless performances are often those that embrace the uncomfortable, the uneasy, the painfully humourous, the raw elements of human existence. Capturing even a sliver of that truth on celluloid happens too infrequently. When it does, it is nice to see it rewarded. This, readers, is why I will be keeping my fingers firmly crossed come Sunday. The Academy has a chance to get it beautifully, undeniably right. The occasional correct choice is, ultimately, what keeps us coming back for more.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Bookish Acquisitions
I have been quite the good, responsible girl lately: I have abstained--and that is surely the only word for it--from purchasing scads of books. I realize that, if I followed my natural bent, I would need a separate building--and a large one--to house my collection. Oh, and I would be parlously close to bankruptcy. As such, I try to tether the passion as best I can. Yet, sometimes a book-addict must let loose. These are some recent acquisitions.
Deciding the order in which to read a new crop of books is almost more fun than choosing which ones to buy. It is a delicate, delicious process of anticipation; often it is also one of elimination. It helps to know which one to save for last. In this case, Simon Callow's Orson Welles Volume 2 Hello Americans, is the clear winner: it will be the last unread, sitting alluringly on my night-stand, impatiently awaiting its turn. The others will be read in rotation, constantly giving way one right after the other, a few chapters at a time. Perhaps, after a certain exciting or thoughtful passage, one will surge past the rest in my affections. For now, as I am in the early, heart-thumping stages of discovering all three, that shall remain to be seen.
Top Left: Proust at the Majestic The Last Days of the Author Whose Book Changed Paris by Richard Davenport-Hines (BLOOMSBURY)-Proust remains the King of pliant, serpentine, evocative language.
Top Center: She & Him Volume One-Zooey Deschanel's quirky, folky voice and thoughtful, simple and literary lyrics are my ideal accompaniment to reading.
Top Right: The Mammoth Book of Private Lives Edited by John E. Lewis (CARROLL & GRAF)-I have an insatiable curiosity about the inner drives of creatives and intellectuals.
Front Middle: Orson Welles Volume 2 Hello Americans by Simon Callow (PENGUIN BOOKS)- Volume 1 was superb.
Front Bottom: The Queen Mother The Official Biography by William Shawcross (ALFRED A. KNOPF)-Although I was sent this by mistake, it has already proven itself a keeper.
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