Jane Snare

Yes, Charlotte Brontë, even dead and unable to collect royalties you still get my money. Even though I have a hate-appreciate relationship with your critical blockbuster of a novel, I still cannot resist the siren call of another adaptation when it comes creeping into theatres (or onto my telly). Thus I gave in this weekend and ventured out, armed with a trusty band of ladies, to see what this new film adaptation held in store.
To start, I must say that the cinematography, lighting, and overall mood of the film better matched the tone of the story than just about any other adaptation. Also, though he doesn’t exactly qualify as a member of the Less Than Handsome Club (understatement), Michael Fassbender made a better-than-normal Rochester. Miss Mia also portrayed Jane’s different states of vulnerability and self reliance quite well. However, the chemistry between them left something to be desired, a fault I attribute more to the structure of the film and the absence of some vital moments from the book than to either actor’s performance. Let’s face it, carrying off believable chemistry between a man of forty-ish and a woman of seventeen presents a difficult challenge. However, as proved a few years ago by Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens, it’s entirely possible to do without being at all creeptastic.
Now for the, erm, issues. I’m going to try to steer away from the issues that relate directly to the source material (i.e. Rochester’s a douchebag), and just stick with the problems inherent in condensing and style. The concept of crafting a darker, more gothic adaptation worked well as a whole, however within the confines of a two and a half hour movie, some of the extended dark sequences in the end took up time that could (and should) have been given to some of the even darker and more important moments in the story. This, coupled with extended sequences of Jane moping around Thornfield grounds and a highly repetitive ‘escape’ sequence from the hall not only slowed the pace of the film, but took up time which could have been dedicated to more important moments… like the gypsy sequence, or the veil tearing, or Jane’s nightmares, or ALL of Grace Poole’s scenes. You know, the REALLY dark, gothic, scary and important sequences. These sequences not only showcase the best of the story’s gothic side, they develop and deepen Rochester and Jane’s relationship… so when she gets all mopey that he’s gone, you understand it better.
The flashback method worked well to a point. It helped speed along the childhood moments which, to be frank, aren’t why we watch the adaptations. We want to get right to the juicy stuff at Thornfield. Jane’s aunt and cousins are assholes; Lowood School is full of douches except for one friendly girl who dies, the end. Also, it was a nice change to see Jane start out with St. John and his sisters to see their kindness extended and give a basis for Jane’s affinity for them from pretty much the start (also, Jamie Bell, Holliday Granger, and Tamzin Merchant are all made of awesome -- I hope they continue to get more and more work). However, as the film progresses, there aren’t enough returns to the Rivers family to make their relationships with Jane strong enough to sustain her caring for them when they reach the climactic scenes. Also, um, cousins anyone? Did we just feel making that connection would get to creepy or something?
In any case, conceptually this adaptation works in bringing the darker (figurative and literal) aspects of the story out. However, too many sequences of empty moping and unnecessary eye flirting and candle lighting didn’t leave room to cover some of the most important emotional (and darkest) moments in the film, thereby not allowing for the real chemistry between Jane and Rochester to come through, thus leaving me more emotionally empty than I have been while watching other interpretations.
Sorry, Fassbender, Bell, and BabyDickens, you’re still trumped by Toby Stephens.

Why Are All My Relatives Such... Twats?

Having recently finished Jane Goes Batty (which I may rant/rave about soon), and with the timely-yet-unexpected random inspirational quote from one of my dear friends, I find myself compelled to follow in the footsteps of scholars and fans far more deserved than I to explore the realm of what many consider the anti-Brontë: Jane Austen.
One might surmise that my overall disdain for two-thirds of the Brontë sisters would create an automatic enjoyment of all works Austen. Sorry to disappoint, dear quick-to-judge readers, but I find Miss Jane flawed as well, though admittedly not with the kind of vehement passion I aim at her Byronic successors. Still, on the whole (and though I have not read all their works), I do gain more personal enjoyment and find more intriguing and worthwhile in Jane's writing than in Charlotte's or (*hurk*) Emily's.
The quote which helped spur on this Austen topic quite took me as both accurate and bitingly amusing:
Apparently to have an Austen-esque romance, your family must be filled with twats.
(Texts from my friends are not, I think, like most people's texts... also, at least in my circle, 'twat' seems to be making a much needed comeback.)

While at first glance the assessment holds true to the 'it's funny because it's true' adage, both for works of Austen and those who hunger to emulate her, on reflection it caused pondering of classic feminine literature in general and how applicable this statement may be.
First, with Austen, it rather amuses me that by all accounts her own family was quite stable and satisfactory, if a little wanting for financial stability. Yet the heroines in most of her novels must deal with family (or those who may become family) who exemplify twattiness while on their individual journey to personal (and matrimonial) bliss.
Obviously Lizzie has to put up with not only her own but Darcy's atrocious relations (I'm looking at you, Aunt Lady Catherine de Twatourge). Twatilicous Lydia even ends up marrying a complete asshat, and I still wonder who got the worst end of that deal: her or Wickham. Even the almost nauseatingly perfect Jane and Bingley must contend with Charles' complete twat of a sister. No wonder Caroline so longs to be in Darcy's family -- she and Aunt Twatty would be the Twats of the Town. And in an informal facebook poll, my friends unanimously crowned Mr. Collins as the King Twat of Pride & Prejudice.
Then we have poor Fanny whose own immediate family pawns her off on her rich relatives at an age where her female cousins can be expected to shat on her like their pet puppies do on the front lawn. Then of course we have the Twat Twins who seduce various members of the Bertram family and end up exposing the fact that Edmund and Fanny are about the only respectable people in that circle -- and even they almost get duped and seduced by the Cunty Crawfords (yeah, I said it).
Similar patterns of familial twattery appear in Emma, Sense & Sensibility and (at least the parts I've read) of Northanger Abbey. The only Austen work which I am almost completely unfamiliar with is Persuasion but I would wager the twat theme queefs mightily in that novel as well.

Still, on my brief contemplation of female literature in general, Jane is not exempt from familial twatishness as a plot device. Miss Charlotte created an epic family of twats with the Reeds, and even the boorish Emily ensured her characters would never see happiness due to their über-twat relatives (of which Heathcliff and Catherine both suffer from and then become themselves). Yes, even my Brontë goddess Anne enlisted the family twat device in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (though Gilbert's family of twats pales in comparison to Helen's husband and Lord Twat, Arthur Twatingdon).
While not 'feminine' literature, She Who Has More Money Than Everyone Else In The World Combined (aka Jo Rowling) excels at using FamTwat. Though young adult literature is steeped in twat tea, few families twat it up as well or as much as the Dursleys or the Malfoys (when your parents' names are Lucius and Narcissa, you're pretty much guaranteed a twatty childhood and thus becoming a top class twat yourself).

Obviously this is not a plot epidemic limited to female authors (Shakespeare was king of family twats), but from one little text I find yet another way to examine feminine literature and authors. I know Familial Twats: Exploring Twatticism in Post-Colonial British Female Authors probably won't garner me any academic accolades or grant money, but it is very interesting as a topic and damn fun to write about... or maybe I just like finding new ways to use 'twat.'

Coming Soon:
Coping with Twats Leads to Bliss? -- how the twatty behaviour of literary families correlates to the ultimate happiness of their protagonist relatives.

Fiction Battle

Or: Why snobbery in any form only makes you look like a douche...

The Death Flu cramped my writing for over a week, no doubt about it. While my brain functioned on occasion and I wrote more than before I caught the Death Flu, little of it felt substantive to me. With the exception of the migraine rant, I wrote because I felt I needed to but the passion behind the writing, the drive that keeps me going, was simply lost in the sea of a mind clouded with phlegm.
I’d like to thank Joe Hill for breaking me of my malaise. After a series of tweets which delivered the right amount of snark and disdain for an article on literary versus genre fiction (in which he advised readers not to seek out the originating article), I caved and followed the desire to seek out this supposed atrocity.
To say that it bothered me would be a bit of an understatement. It’s not entirely the content of the article but the tone that drives me to imaginings of strangling this writer with his own pompous ascot, which I envision he wears just to keep his inflated head from floating off his body. Yes, I resorted to cheap jibes. I suppose I’m just not ‘literary’ enough to appreciate his pompous, condescending, insulting tone as it relates to the general reading populous.
However, in reading this article I found my way to this one which, while it doesn’t entirely refute Mr. Pompousity does point out that readership and acceptance is a two-way street. Just as an article slamming all fiction that isn’t literary makes one seem like a giant douche, a retort which only serves to praise the mass consumption of Grisham and Steel books and casts aspersions on meriting works of literary fiction for being too high-brow makes that critic seem like the giant douche’s hillbilly cousin – who’s still descends from the family of Lord and Lady Douchebag.
The writer of the second article sees merit in both types of literature, and the problems inherent in either side dismissing the other for either pandering to the common folk or targeting only the upper echelon that sneers at the fiction of the plebes.
“I understand that everyone has different tastes, but there is no pride in ignorance of literary fiction. Genre writers can learn from literary fiction, just as literary writers can learn from genre fiction. There's a middle ground.”
Now that is an anti-snobbery statement I can stand behind.

I won’t pretend that I do not place labels on certain types of fiction based on my own personal tastes. However, I will say that for me great fiction, regardless of status, is about a compelling story, engaging characters, and a mark of creativity. A lack in any one of these areas does not discount the book for me as an example of poor writing or storytelling because each of those qualifiers contains no small amount of subjectivity. Still, if my interest is not captured you’re probably going to lose my investment in your writing – and even high-brow writers of the highest caliber get props from me even if your writing (and subsequent acceptance into the bourgee canon) frustrates this little pixie because all I got from your story was an intense need to throw your book across the room. Unless you’re Emily Brontë, even a violent reaction still merits note because it provoked thought. I’m not a huge fan of LitFic, but I’d rather be incensed at your pompous popularity than bored to tears by your drivel.

Still, if you want my respect, be a good writer, a good critic and an anti-snob. In simple words: Don’t be a douche.

I promised you an eternity of misery, so I'm just keeping my word.

Since I apparently still possess the obsessive power of a twelve-year-old (at least emotionally, if not fiscally or with as much devoted time and energy), I decided that I could no longer wait the span of mere days in order to indulge my love of The Vampire Diaries. Thus, I caved and used some hoarded gift cards to purchase series one on DVD.
Surprisingly, my memory for this show only lasts about half a season as many things I noticed in watching just the first few episodes I completely forgot about. This either means I’m getting old, or I really did dismiss the show utterly in the early days and only focused on scenes Damon was in… or both (scary thought).
So here’s a few items I jotted down last night in my pre-NyQuil haze that struck me as Things Maybe I Should Have Noted and Retained From the Beginning:

Naïve Bonnie is Naïve – who’s the first person to notice Stefan? Soon to be anti-vamp-everything Bonnie. Her spew of how good he looks from behind is even more laughable when you know how much she grows to despise him (and it doesn’t take that long)

Emo Jeremy is kill this stupid child now – Elena has a line early on about how she knows who Jeremy really is and it’s not this guy. She’s right. Real Jeremy is the HotJailbaitMan we have now. Whiny, lovesick, druggie, emo Jeremy is just an annoying dick… almost as annoying as Tyler.

WTF fog? Damon! Really? Why doesn't he use this more. It's pretty freaking cool. – No, really, why did we get rid of vampires having the ability to control fog (and animals)? It’s a traditional and pretty awesome power. Plus, it’s like Damon’s slinking around Elena before Stefan even knows he’s in town, which is pretty brill.

Weeping angel statues For the Terror! – Forgot about those early cemetery scenes with G-D angel statues that are going to burst through the television and displace me in time or snap my neck as soon as I stop looking at them. Damn you, Steven Moffat.

Seriously... the Vicki/Tyler/Jeremy triangle makes me want to hurl – ‘nuff said.

Caroline doesn't change much and I kinda love her for this. Other characters I can't wait until they evolve, or die, but Caroline's basically a sweet but shallow, tactless twat from the get-go and I pretty much adore her.

I epically forgot about Logan... probably because I have infinitely more love for Alaric.

The pilot has Kevin Williamson all over it: teen delinquency, quippy one-liners, mystic symbolism... and that whole 'no teens actually talk this way' dialogue.

The diary device worked well in the early episodes, but I'm glad they did away with it. – Even by episode three I was tiring of it. It’s good establishing technique to see what Elena and Stefan are coping with internally, but as the writing and acting improve, it becomes rather ridiculous.

Wuthering Heights? NOOOOOOOO! Too cliché! – I mean, of course Damon knocks Twilight and Edward, but then why must Stefan give Elena a copy of this book? Not only is it a vampire cliché now, it’s a PIECE OF SHIT NOVEL.
Yes, the queen of anti-snobbery has a big vendetta against this book, but that’s a rant for another day.

Special Author Days and a Special Planner

In my attempt to organize life, and writing endeavors within that life, I invested in a planner for this year. You know, one of those compilations of paper with printed dates on each sheet and spaces between those dates to write important occurrences in one’s life, bound together in chronological order for the calendar year -- you write in it with a pen or pencil. It’s not electronic and you cannot schedule annoying dinging/vibrating reminders, but you have a physical record of what you are doing, should do, might do, and have done, should you choose to record any of those items.
I bought this planner, because well, I am that kind of ridiculous person who needs more than dates on a page to hold my interest when it comes to planners, and assaulting my eyes with deadlines for writing competitions, fellowships, etc. and helpful prompts and information might actually get my fingers typing something more interesting than a blog entry (not to say blogs don’t have merit, but it’d be nice to scribble out a poem or story one of these days).
Since I purchased the planner a few days into January as it was far cheaper, I didn’t start cataloging my life until last week. The planner includes birthday of what I at first thought were famous writers. I noticed as the planner goes on it becomes more the dates of birth of random famous people that the editors apparently think interesting enough to include (Eliza Dushku, I love you, but why are you in my writing planner?).
Still, last week I noted that two of me ‘hero authors’ had birthdays last week. I do not see this as coincidence, nor do I intend to indoctrinate their births as a time for me to emulate their skills. However, I just wanted to mention, for the record, these amazing authors whom I admire and can only hope to one day emulate: Edgar Allan Poe (1/19) and Anne Brontë (1/17).
Poe is, well, a master to put it simply. Not everything he wrote was great, but this is true of all authors, but what was great was nearly miraculous. To be a master of two (especially now) rather disparate genres and truly be responsible for their rise in popularity is nothing short of genius.
Anne,for me, will always be the most talented and sane of her family. Branwell was a mostly-talentless drunk. Emily and Charlotte were intelligent women with general ideas of strong women... but had a major soft-and-blind spot for Byronic men, who sound great in theory. In reality, Byronic men pretty much equate to the mopey, abusive, narcissistic, drunken lout of a cad named Arthur Huntingdon. Plus, Anne penned my favorite quote by any author regarding gender equality/standards in writing, which is why it’s the subtitle of my blog.

Dracula, My Love: Preview

Allusions to wanting to vomit are not exaggerated... sorry.

While I think it generous of Harper Collins to offer a free preview of this book, I can already tell it's one I will have serious issues with (not that this will stop me from reading all of it, or from throwing it across the room -- repeatedly -- once I have a hard copy). The amount of *headdesking* enacted within the first chapter, especially on page twenty-four, does not bode well for my acceptance of this book.
Granted, I have a certain appreciation for anyone who takes on the daunting task of adapting Dracula in some form. I merely have an obsessive nature surrounding this novel which renders me incapable of turning that appreciation into sympathy for the writer's struggle when they murder the themes and characters of the book.
In short: I explode with snark.

Early running commentary through the samples 80 pages available:

- Dancing with Dracula? Going on a boating date (complete with casual notice that he doesn't reflect in the water)? Dreaming of Dracula on the ship as it crashes into the harbour, hearing him lustfully call out, "My love!" and whisper, "I am coming for you!" like Edward Fairfax Heathcliff Cullen... makes me want to heave, especially since it reduces Mina to a Victorian Bella Swan.
- So Dracula is like a HOTalian... an angel marble cupcake Adonis of mysterious and dangerous European hotness. Sure, if I ever get my wish to have the perfect Dracula it will be difficult to ever take one's eyes off him. That doesn't mean the overpowering sense of foreboding and danger which curls off him like his own mist will be ignored. Beautiful and mysterious does not equal harmless. That inexplicable feeling that your lunch is being tossed around in your stomach on an vessel during a storm? Yeah, I'm feeling that without having to get out of my seat on solid ground.
- Woman, if you italicize something one more time to get a point across especially about how mesmerized Mina is by Dracula's lusciousness, I'm going to scream.
- "I must have read Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre a dozen times!" And there we have the root of Mina's problem... He's read it, too?!?! Oh, heaven help us.
- Of course... it has now been hit upon: Dracula just wants to be loved. Cue the cheesy studio audience 'awww'ing as if this were a particularly heartwarming moment on Full House. Confirmation comes a little later in the book, but it is there nonetheless. Whether this is his true motivation or not remains to be discovered, yet the simple fact that he tells Mina this causes a swelling wave of nausea to overtake me.

When I buy this book, as sadly I will, I believe I shall have to take before and after photos of the book's condition. Something tells me it may resemble Joseph Andrews* by the time I finish it.

*I actually broke the spine on my paperback copy of JA which I had to read for a college lit class. Even after following my prof's advice of reading it out loud in silly, female Monty Python voices I still had issues getting through the book.

Important Quotage

As you may soon notice, I am a quote whore.
(My future self just came back through a crack in time and space to tell me that yes, indeed, in the future it has been established across the stars that I have a penchant for quoting -- especially when stuck on my own words and unable to create or express something meaningful... I guess it's old news, then.)

Thus I thought I'd take this opportunity to expound on my choice of header quote for this blog.

I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be truly disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.

The quote is from Anne Bronte, part of the preface to the second edition of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. For those unaware, when the Bronte sisters wrote their novels, they were all published under male pen names. This preface was written in the voice of Acton Bell, wherein 'he' explains some of the reasoning behind characters and events in the book that were seen to be shocking - namely a woman escaping her marriage to an absolute cad to save herself and her son, then trying to make a life for herself in a new town as a single mother. Horrors! (No. Really. To the Victorians that was horrific.) Other insinuations at the time had also been made that Acton and his brothers Currer and Ellis were, in fact, women (and possibly even all the same person). A fact that was never made officially public until after Acton/Anne and Ellis/Emily's deaths. While playfully not acknowledging the accusation of her gender, she points out, more accurately, succinctly and with a smidge of attitude than anyone prior to herself I have seen, that an author's gender should have no bearing on their writing or how it is judged. If a story, characters, and/or writing is good, then it is good no matter who wrote it. Because I love it so much, here is the whole paragraph:

Respecting the author's identity, I would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be attributed to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot greatly signify to those who know him only by his works. As little, I should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a man, or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I take the imputation in good part, as a compliment to the just delineation of my female characters; and though I am bound to attribute much of the severity of my censors to this suspicion, I make no effort to refute it, because, in my own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be truly disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man.

Preach on, dear lady.

Slay Me, Please

Whilst delving into my newest read (Jane Slayre), I find it appropriate to discuss the recent influx of paranormal-centered re-imaginings, rewrites, 'sequels' and such of both 'classic' literature and historical figures.
Sure, everyone's heard of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and (like its Austen counterpart) the not-quite-as-popular Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. P&P&Z author Seth Grahame-Smith has metaphorical tentacles (I hope they're metaphorical, I haven't actually seen the man in person, so who knows?) stretching into the historical zone as well with Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter. However, are you aware of Mansfield Park and Mummies? How about Queen Victoria Demon Hunter? Or the dueling Alcotts, Little Women and Werewolves vs. Little Vampire Women? Lest I forget, there's also the Austen-centered vampire mania of Jane Bites Back and Mr. Darcy, Vampyre.
Obviously I have more than a passing interest in these books or I wouldn't be writing about them. Yes, I've read several. Several others stir in me conflicting emotions of being equal parts morbidly curious and more-than-slightly nauseated at the (to an English major) blasphemous nature of these stories. What probably would offend purists and English major snobs most is that eventually my morbid curiosity will overtake the appalled nausea and I'll end up reading the ones I haven't already.
So why this new-found obsession/fascination/fanaticism with the supernatural and classics? Sure, it's a post-modern hallmark to reinvent and retell past stories in a new way. Sure, the young adult section of your local bookstore has turned into the paranormal-pseudo-bodice-ripper section thanks to Stephenie Meyer. Sure, it's easier in some respects to bastardize adapt someone else's work than create your own. Yet the influx of this style hints more at a cultural shift than a bunch of copycats trying to make a quick buck (though there's plenty of that, too -- and I'm not saying there's anything inherently wrong with that, either).
For one, in my non-snob-ish opinion, while I'm all about people reading as much as possible to further the general idea that reading = essential to life, I also think some of this writing is popular because it's like the supernatural cliff-notes to books 'normal' people don't want to read in the first place (read: people who hear the term 'classic literature' and flinch while running off to find the latest trendy bestseller) . However, now that it has become acceptable in our culture to enjoy the more, shall we say 'macabre,' forms of entertainment (and boy is that a rant for another day), toss a few zombies or vampires or werewolves... or a robot into Anna Karenina, and suddenly it's more accessible to the masses. (Seriously a rant for another day: how/why/when vampires, zombies, and other assorted night-creature miscreants rose to the height of popular entertainment.)
In the case of Austen, re-writing and expanding her work is nothing new, in the relative sense that people have been doing it for decades. I suppose it's only natural that she really be the first to have her works re-vamped to fit present trends (pun intended). One could draw a comparison between Austen's work and the many interpretations, sequels and the like, and those of Shakespeare -- who himself is no longer above joining the ranks of the undead. Though in the Austen re-imaginings her characters and tone are more or less honored in a way that Shakespeare's frequently are not.
While I'm only at the beginning of Jane Slayre, I'm already intrigued by the concept of what possibilities lie ahead for young Jane as she discovers her slaying capabilities while still dealing with the tumultuous emotional fires stirred by Rochester. Granted, I'm not much of a fan of the original novel, or its author (Anne got all the sense in that family), though I have developed a respect for it over the years. From my personal perspective this particular book could use a little spicing up.
However, I think that's the inherent problem in the cavalcade of this type of writing: the assumption that a work, or figure, which has been worthy of accolade for decades, perhaps centuries, can be 'improved upon' or 'made more interesting' by adding some supernatural beings, violence and, in some cases, steamy scenes. I'm not saying we don't sometimes like a little more pepper or garlic in our classic dishes, but if a person's initial introduction to such culinary delights indulges some spices to the point where the flavor of the original dish is tempered and lost, they may never be able to truly relish the first bite of the 'real' meal...
Granted, I have just spent several paragraphs repeatedly saying I don't take much issue with the existence of these kind of books. I take issue more with the idea that people are reading these before and instead of their source material, and fear that in doing so when (or if) they eventually read the original it will seem 'too boring' or 'bland' or 'too hard to follow' or any number of a dozen excuses many of these books already get without the hack-and-slash treatment current popular fiction is giving them.

To sum up a long-winded rant, when someone who is as voracious about reading as I am sees each of these books, I get both exhilarated and queasy. Sea Monsters don't really interest me, so I won't be going down that road, but mummies invading Mansfield Park sounds fun. My biggest hope is that someone unfamiliar with the original stories and lives now presented in glorious alternate universe gore will be able to one day return to the zombie-less Pride and Prejudice and enjoy it on its own far more considerable merits.*



(*I spent the better part of this entry praising the talents and longevity of Jane Austen. A certain former English professor of mine would be so proud...)