A Book of the Terrifying Kind

There's something scary about the beginning of a good book. It all starts out so innocently - you laugh at the first couple pages, agree with some of the narrative and if you're me, read it to the person sitting next to you.

Words progress, and you become emotionally involved with the character, admiring the witty dialogue, and find yourself reading more than you planned.

Then forty-four pages in, this terrifying realization sinks in: you really like this book. You'd recommend it to other people, but you can't - because you don't know how it ends.

That's the kicker - the better the beginning, the greater the disappointment if the writer screw up. Some examples -

Avoiding Prison, and Other Noble Vacation Goals - flat out hilarious, depressing (sorry, "disquieting") at the end.

Hypocrite in a Poufy White Dress - again, the beginning deserved to be framed. Then I wanted to clap my hands over my eyes during the middle, while the end was pretty good. But can you recommend a book when the entire second act inspires a gag reflex?

There was another book I can't remember the title of, but it was a modern take-off of Jane Austen's Persuasion. Loved it, until the author slipped in a scene that I'd rather like out of my head.

I'm also finding the ones with the most disappointment potential are the ones with the best title. The book inspiring this riff is Tolstoy Lied: A Love Story. And it's really, really good so far. As in, I want my own copy. And I'm petrified that author's going to get in the way of my transcendental experience.

Moral of the story: writing a book is hard. One scene can make the difference. The lack of a scene can make the difference. Writing is putting something down, then calling everyone who read it to make sure it's okay and you still qualify as a writer. It's ensuring that you're not cheating your readers. When someone's placed their faith in your prose to read your book instead of mowing the lawn, watching Desperate Housewives on DVD or staring at the ceiling, it's your responsibility to make it worth their time.

Scary stuff.

Pitter Patter of Small Army

Seriously, the babies are everywhere. I've been tooling around on facebook (code for procrastinating finishing a chapter rewrite) and commenting on pictures. Mainly baby pictures. Because that's mainly what there are pictures of.

(This particular picture is a snapshot of my husband that I'm rather partial to. Funny thing is, he still gets that look on his face, that "whadya know, that's pretty cool" look, mainly when he's reading his Popular Mechanics or his wife comes up with a fascinating new plot twist while making lasagna).

But I digress. Lots of babies, and more on the way. After two years of pregnancy speculation, Nicole Kidman is slated to deliver "any day now." Angelina's looks ready to pop, but isn't due till August. My cousins are expecting a little girl that same month. Another friend is due in September. I have a pregnancy shoot coming up in November.

At first I wondered if there was something in the water; then I thought about it. Count back nine months ago from August to November, and what do you have?

The Writer's Strike.

Case closed.

And then there were four

They hatched! They've actually been hatched for a while, but there were periods when I didn't see Cecelia (the adult female) or hear any sounds from the nest. I didn't want to say anything, then have to follow up with a "birds are hatched but dead" post - I really don't write avian tragedy.

Thankfully, I don't have to. And it's fun having them out there - the closest thing we have to pets. We see Cecelia less often, but I'm pretty sure she's out finding food.

So now we have four baby birds. Names, anyone?

Beware the Writers

I had this epiphany the other day. I was reading Behind the Screen: Hollywood Insiders on Faith, Film, and Culture, a book compiled of essays by members of Act One. Fascinating stuff. Craig Deitweiler's chapter, "Opportunity Lost," talks about how Christians were presented with the opportunity to connect with Hollywood with The Passion of the Christ. Instead, lines were drawn in the sand, and bitterness grew between the Christian camps on the outside, and the Jews on the inside.

After recounting a bit of film history, Deitweiler points out that a lot of Hollywood, in past and present, is run by Jews. Many of those Jews have valid chips on their shoulders from wrongs committed by Gentiles - pogroms, HUAC blacklistings, etc. So it makes sense when anti-Christian sentiment crops up in TV and movies from time to time; it's a writer's reaction to an injustice.

This correlated with a conclusion I drew a few years ago. My last summer in college, I took a lit class that presented material written by American women in the 19th and 20th centuries. We read (in a short time, I might add), Harriet Beacher Stowe, Kate Chopin, Sarah Orne Jewett and Nella Larsen. I noticed that none of these women were particularly kind to men; men were often portrayed as being weak and easily swayed by money or power. Women, on the other hand, were often strong, moral, and maternal. Those who weren't usually came to a bad end (Edna in Chopin's The Awakening).

But the male characters often bore the brunt of the criticism. And why wouldn't they? Until the 20th century, women were not encouraged to write. Many of them published under male pen names or remained anonymous (Jane Austen published Sense and Sensibility under the phrase "By a Lady") to get past the male gatekeepers of publishing.

Generations later, there shouldn't be any surprise that men in media are so often portrayed as weak, moronic thugs. Women writers were repressed, modern writers are still angry.

This is why you should be very careful with the writers. On the outside, we may be slightly disorganized, frumpy, and less hip than the actors, graphic designers, directors, and other people who create our media.

However, without the written material, there isn't much to act, design, or direct (moment of silent recognition for heinous amounts reality TV we endured during the WGA strike). Writers control a lot. We're also very sensitive individuals.

So be nice, or you may set off a series a cataclysmic reactions the likes of which the media world has certainly seen before.

P.S. For more information about Act One and its programs, click http://www.actoneprogram.com/.

Indiana Jones and the Extraordinary Frigidaire

In an age when many built fallout shelters in backyards, I'm sure the general population would have been heartened to find that their friendly family Frigidaire could function as a one-man shelter.

In fact, this particular Frigidaire can be tossed about by a nuclear blast and that latch will hold firm, even when it's impersonating a tumbleweed. Hey, it worked for Indiana Jones.

In Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the world has shifted since the last installment. The Nazis, what is left of them, are hiding out in Argentina. The war in Europe is over, but the Cold War rages on. The government is testing BOUSs (bombs of unusual size) in the desert. The fear of communism hangs in the air; not even Indy is exempt from suspicion. I mean, come on, nothing says pinko like a bullwhip, right? The fact that dear Dr. Jones is kidnapped by Colonel Doctor Irina Spalko does not help.

Let us pause in a moment of appreciation for Cate Blanchett's turn as Colonel Doctor Irina Spalko. The woman played Bob Dylan, after all, and now she's got Catherine Zeta-Jones's Chicago haircut, wubbled wubble-u's, and a desperate desire "to know!"

The quest for knowledge lays at the center of this installment; this is Indiana Jones meets post-modernism. The quest has less to do with religious relics than with the beyond, and the knowledge the beyond can offer.

Nobody asks how the beyond and the truth of items such as the Ark of the Covenant or the Holy Grail affect each other. Apparently, it's possible to have a beyond (at least in Peru) and an Ark designed by the most high God coexisting. And let's not forget the Sankara stones in Temple of Doom's India. In the Jones universe, truth may be a regional sort of thing - but this is pulp fiction, and we smile and go along.

Karen Allen reprises her role as Marion Ravenwood, now Marion Williams. She's older now, but believable as a real woman - her lips aren't jet puffed and she's earned her smile lines. Her main responsibility is her son Mutt (Shia LaBeouf), a charmer of a boy who enjoys leather, his switchblade, and perfecting his ducktail.

I wrote earlier about Harrison Ford and his advancing age. All men should hope to take a punch so well at 65. Indy doesn't shy away from the fact that he's not as spry as he used to be, but he wears it well. There are times when he reminded me of James Garner in Murphy's Romance; older, but wiser for it.

I haven't said much about the plot, not that there's a need. The plot provides opportunities for swordfights on Amphibious Assault Vehicles, trips down perilous waterfalls of death, scantily-clad living dead, ants of unusual size, large snakes, not-quite-quicksand, firefights, caves, spider webs, double-crossings, hidden doors...

Everything we've come to expect from Indiana Jones. So sit back, enjoy, and pass the popcorn.

Prince Caspian and Queen Susan the Babe

Summer movies are upon us, thank goodness. I didn't know how many months of Drillbit Taylor-type offerings I could take.

We went to Caspian on Friday, very curious to see how the Narnia franchise fared. Danny and I read through the books last fall; Prince Caspian, though, has always been one of my favorites. Something about the kids tramping around the ruins and scavenging their own past always appealed to me.

This version of Prince Caspian kicks off with the birth of Caspian's cousin. Some cousins have lovely relationships, but Caspian's uncle, King Miraz, decides to off his nephew and the rest of the plot skitters on.

Some events are reworked from the original material. Susan's horn is blown much sooner than the book, bringing the Pevensie children back to Narnia a little sooner. This works, though. At the end of the day, we care more (or should care more) about the Pevensie children than we do about Caspian, so seeing them sooner is good. Delaying the introduction of the main characters usually backfires (original Superman being an example).

When we pick up with the Pevensies, we learn that Peter is having trouble adjusting to civilian life. Edmund is a changed kid, Susan needs to learn to deter unwelcome suitors, and Lucy is adorable, as always. All of the children are a bit older than in the book, but it still works.

Peter Dinklage is a most welcome Trumpkin; it is a credit to his acting abilities that he can act through that much rubber. Eddie Izzard (Nagel from Ocean's 12 and 13) voices Reepacheep perfectly.

There are quite a few battle scenes, some veering from the original material; all you needed was some fluff in the air and it looked rather Ridley Scott-ish at times.

All in all, the whole thing was delightful BUT for one little teensy development: Caspian and Susan have a "thing."

This "thing" mainly consists of a lot of eye contact between the two and a parting kiss, but as a Lewis purist, I'm rather against it. Danny and I argued over it on the drive home. On one hand, I can say, "yeah, if you're going to have Fetching Teen Susan and Hunky Teen Caspian, some flirting and whatnot is to be expected." BUT, there's a kind of beautiful innocence in Lewis's books. Danny pointed out that, in the books, the kids noted that once back in Narnia, the air made them change. They weren't British kids, they were Narnian kings and queens. Their old skills came back, enabling them to maneuver a battle better than your average 12-year-old. Susan, having been matured by the air quality, wouldn't have thought to have a "thing" with Caspian.

But I came back with the fact that Susan, even as an adult, is really kind of silly (I'm thinking Horse and His Boy) and it's her boy-crazy nature that contributes to events in The Last Battle.

Those are my feelings, but I strongly urge everyone to see this film; just beware the mushy parts.