Bad Robot productions? said my movie companion. Yes, where had I seen that before? As the opening of Star Trek streaked past at lightening pace, the question got lost. Afterwards, I remembered it's a J.J.Abrams production company, the same man that brought us Felicity, Alias, Lost, Mission Impossible 3, and Cloverfield (which I enjoyed, though many people have said otherwise, for it's highly limited and cinematically experimental point of view).
I wasn't surprised to see Abrams named as the director for this latest Star Trek movie. It was fast paced, plot-driven, and, cinematography-wise, stunning. He casted contemporary and familiar actors, not mega-star types that would muddy the screen with images of their past films they would unwittingly carry over, but young working actors that are in the public eye from peripheral successes. Take for instance Harold (or John Cho) from Harold and Kumar as Sulu, or Anton Yelchin from the well marketed but terribly made movie Charlie Barlett (a Ferris Bueller wannbe) playing Chekov, or Sylar from Heroes playing Spock--an impressive feat of persuasion and chance-taking by Abrams, I thought. But then again, he knows that people love familiarity.
He also had simple, simple-to-the-point-of-ironic, humour in the film which hasn't always been successful or easy in other Star Trek movies. For instance, after the young Kirk drives his mother's boyfriend's (?) car over a cliff, the pursuing police officer points stoically, with an amusing lack of expression due to his robotic face, and says--what else could he say?--"What is your name, citizen?" Or when Sulu turns to Kirk when asked what sort of hand-to-hand combat training he's had and says, "Fencing." Or when Spock returns to the deck calm and ready to serve after a revealing heart-to-heart with his father, and Kirk say something like, "You see. I knew you'd come around," giving Spock a clap on the shoulder that made full use of the Dolby digital surround sound of the theatre. So cliche and yet I rubbed my arm wryly on Spock's behalf.
Never mind the humour. The key observation to make about J.J.Abrams' series or films is this: he's a story teller and he tells it fast. And he uses young actors on the rise to tell it. It's what keeps people on the edge of their seats. It's not just the story that seems to be leaping over an edge, but everyone on screen seems to be excited and ready to make the leap with him. He's got the American-underdog-slash-prodigal-son story line delivered by American-underdog-just-coming-into-the-spotlight actors. Sure, he's formulaic, but Abrams has shown himself to be a master wielder of equations, coming up with imaginative variations on old and tried themes over and over again. This is his genius.
If you think following a formula is for hacks and half-wits, try hacking a romantic novel with its strict rules on content and narrative arcs. It's hard as Fabio's butt. The difficulty lies in not ever becoming ironic or blank-brained faced with the rigid frames of the genre: you can never make fun of it and you must be just imaginative enough but never literary/unfamiliar.
Now, I noticed that even Abrams could not resist a little poking fun in the end: he had Kirk strut onto the commanding deck in the final scene and gave us that full frontal "look at this!" shot of him sitting effetely prissily cross-legged like William Shatner. But they were gentle pokes, digs the audience was primed to chuckle along with because the rest of the movie was so magnificently cozily familiar.
Overall, a two enthusiastic thumbs up, the best Sci-Fi film of the year. So far.
In the running: Transformers and G.I. Joe coming soon this summer.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Annals of Sci-Fi: A Primitive Heaven - The Final Season of Battlestar Galactica
Finally, after many months of waiting while working on my MFA, I finally sat down and watched the final season of Battlestar Galactica. What words of praise and pleasure, what confessions of satisfaction and wish fulfillment can I offer as tribute that hasn't already been proffered? (Rhetorical question can be so useful.)
So I will only make 4 relatively small objection and reservations about story choices.
One, was the pastoral ending. The gross primitivism that was propagated by "going back to nature" bored me to tears. Was this really the best solution they could find? Really? It's so cliche to look with that sepia lens of nostalgia upon the distant, "natural" past with the longing that is myopic and infantile (or geriatric).
Are we to believe that these people who are used to indoor plumbing, whiskey, ice, glasses as opposed to gourd dippers, modern shelter and central heating, people who probably don't know the first thing about arable land, farming food, raising livestock, people who are used to "jumping" through space, having rubber soled shoes (where are they going to get rubber?), toothpaste for their toothbrush (where's the drug store? the plastic for the toothbrush? the fluoride for the paste?)--I could go on and on here so I'll stop--can any intelligent viewer take seriously this "solution"? (I love rhetorical questions.)
Two, was Gaelan killing Tory. I liked that the murder of the chief's wife was finally addressed/known by another person. But the murder of Tory seemed to me to be an endorsement for a ethics summed up by "an eye for an eye". This, too, is a bit sophomoric. Are we to believe that the death of Tory is only an instance of two characters colliding or a greater ethical proposition by the writers? Given that the whole episode felt like a laying out of moral and political ideals and tenets, I think it would be foolish to assume that Gaelan taking vengeance wasn't also a moral message.
Three, was who was Daniel and why wasn't his character developed? The great thing about Battlestar is that they never forget a storyline or a character and they never let either of those go to waste. So I was surprised that they would introduce such an enigmatic character like a malformed cylon and then drop it. It's unprecedented by nearly four seasons of habitual efficiency and care shown by the show's writers.
And lastly, four, was Kara Thrace. What were we supposed to think about her disappearance at the end? That she was a guardian angel . . . who happened to go through intense anxiety and agony over finding Earth after she returned to the Galactica early in the season? That she was never real . . . but real to herself, and to everyone around her, so real in fact that she held a gun to Roseline's head and burned her own corpse? (Did I mention my affection for rhetorical questions?)
In any case, in spite of all these trivial objections and niggling questions, Battlestar Galactica has been one of the greatest television experiences of my life. It was one of those rare moments when mythic proportioned story line, always captivating and almost involuntarily entertaining, was combined with legend-sized, fascinating characters.
I frakking loved every minute of it.
So I will only make 4 relatively small objection and reservations about story choices.
One, was the pastoral ending. The gross primitivism that was propagated by "going back to nature" bored me to tears. Was this really the best solution they could find? Really? It's so cliche to look with that sepia lens of nostalgia upon the distant, "natural" past with the longing that is myopic and infantile (or geriatric).
Are we to believe that these people who are used to indoor plumbing, whiskey, ice, glasses as opposed to gourd dippers, modern shelter and central heating, people who probably don't know the first thing about arable land, farming food, raising livestock, people who are used to "jumping" through space, having rubber soled shoes (where are they going to get rubber?), toothpaste for their toothbrush (where's the drug store? the plastic for the toothbrush? the fluoride for the paste?)--I could go on and on here so I'll stop--can any intelligent viewer take seriously this "solution"? (I love rhetorical questions.)
Two, was Gaelan killing Tory. I liked that the murder of the chief's wife was finally addressed/known by another person. But the murder of Tory seemed to me to be an endorsement for a ethics summed up by "an eye for an eye". This, too, is a bit sophomoric. Are we to believe that the death of Tory is only an instance of two characters colliding or a greater ethical proposition by the writers? Given that the whole episode felt like a laying out of moral and political ideals and tenets, I think it would be foolish to assume that Gaelan taking vengeance wasn't also a moral message.
Three, was who was Daniel and why wasn't his character developed? The great thing about Battlestar is that they never forget a storyline or a character and they never let either of those go to waste. So I was surprised that they would introduce such an enigmatic character like a malformed cylon and then drop it. It's unprecedented by nearly four seasons of habitual efficiency and care shown by the show's writers.
And lastly, four, was Kara Thrace. What were we supposed to think about her disappearance at the end? That she was a guardian angel . . . who happened to go through intense anxiety and agony over finding Earth after she returned to the Galactica early in the season? That she was never real . . . but real to herself, and to everyone around her, so real in fact that she held a gun to Roseline's head and burned her own corpse? (Did I mention my affection for rhetorical questions?)
In any case, in spite of all these trivial objections and niggling questions, Battlestar Galactica has been one of the greatest television experiences of my life. It was one of those rare moments when mythic proportioned story line, always captivating and almost involuntarily entertaining, was combined with legend-sized, fascinating characters.
I frakking loved every minute of it.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Oeuvre of Alice Munro
I'm currently reading Alice Munro's first collection of short stories called Dance of the Happy Shades. My enthusiasm for it drove me to purchase nearly every collection of short stories she's ever published. The volumes now sit on my floor in my bedroom waiting for my perusing eyes.
The idea for studying a single writer's body of work came to me from Pam Painter's revision class at Emerson College. Choosing Alice Munro had to do in part with her being considered the best short story writer in the last century, in other part with Anni Shamin, a fellow writer, who mentioned planning to do this very thing: read all of Alice Munro during the summer.
I remember thinking of The Beggar Maid, the only complete volume of Munro's stories I had read and wondering how much of her I could take. Perhaps it's because I read the book as assigned reading and perhaps as a class we talked all the magic out of it. But the prospect of a Munro summer didn't quite appeal to me.
That is, not until I started reading Dance of the Happy Shades. Almost all of the stories are written from the child to young adult's perspective. Yet Munro manages to never devolve into the Young Adult category. They also have a sense of humour, which I did not expect from Munro. And the writing. The writing. It is the epitome of fine.
After meeting Anthony De Sa, whose linked short stories were so well embraced by Canadian readers, and my recently sprung but ever deepening infatuation with Munro, also a Canadian short story writer, I can't help but feel a buoyancy about my future as a writer. You gotta take hope that feeds your ambition where you can get it.
The idea for studying a single writer's body of work came to me from Pam Painter's revision class at Emerson College. Choosing Alice Munro had to do in part with her being considered the best short story writer in the last century, in other part with Anni Shamin, a fellow writer, who mentioned planning to do this very thing: read all of Alice Munro during the summer.
I remember thinking of The Beggar Maid, the only complete volume of Munro's stories I had read and wondering how much of her I could take. Perhaps it's because I read the book as assigned reading and perhaps as a class we talked all the magic out of it. But the prospect of a Munro summer didn't quite appeal to me.
That is, not until I started reading Dance of the Happy Shades. Almost all of the stories are written from the child to young adult's perspective. Yet Munro manages to never devolve into the Young Adult category. They also have a sense of humour, which I did not expect from Munro. And the writing. The writing. It is the epitome of fine.
After meeting Anthony De Sa, whose linked short stories were so well embraced by Canadian readers, and my recently sprung but ever deepening infatuation with Munro, also a Canadian short story writer, I can't help but feel a buoyancy about my future as a writer. You gotta take hope that feeds your ambition where you can get it.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Anthony De Sa and "Barnacle Love" - A Numbers Dream
"I had never written before."
Was I, were we, supposed to believe this from Anthony De Sa, 40, whose 1st book, a collection of short stories called Barnacle Love, was shortlisted for the Giller Prize last year (the American equivalent would probably be the Pulitzer)?
I was there along with a 17 other University College alumni (University of Toronto), for the monthly book club. The club is unique for having the author of the book also attend the meeting.
Here's the rest of his incredulous tale of numbers:
5 years ago, De Sa took a year off from teaching English to high school students, a sabbatical year. A teacher for 19 years, he loves it. At the time he had three small children: a 4, 3 , and a 1 and a half year old. His wife told De Sa that he had to do something with himself. "Get out of the house," she told him, adding, "Why don't you take a writing course?"
De Sa, 35, enrolled in his 1st creative writing workshop at Humber College in Toronto. This is when he uttered the fantastic-to-the-point-of-unbelievable admission: "I'd never written before."
(I think I actually laughed out loud here. And I didn't apologetically cover my mouth, either.)
When his turn came in class, he wrote his 1st short story called "Only a Boy". The reaction of his instructor and classmates was so positive ("Wow," was the sound bite that stuck with De Sa) that he stayed up until three in the morning sending his first story out to over 50 different literary journals.
He got 18 rejections. Danforth Review accepted it for $50. Canadian dollars. A couple of days later, 2 more publishers called to accept his story for publication. De Sa got to work and pumped out 2 more stories and had those published. His fourth story called "Shoeshine Boy", now the subject of his novel-in-progress, was sent only to Descant, a highly respected literary magazine out of the University of Toronto. He didn't hear from them.
2 months passed before he got a call from Emily Shorthouse who had read "Shoeshine Boy" as a Descant intern and now working at the highly respected Bukowski literary agency. The story, she said, "haunted her" and she could not forget it after all this time. Would he please send her a manuscript.
De Sa he had nothing and said yes anyway. Lies of this kind of entirely justified, as far as I and he was concerned, in the face of such glittering opportunity. For 3 weeks, he holed himself up in his cottage and wrote furiously, pumping out 240 pages.
3 more weeks of editing with his agent later, she asked him what his novel was about. He didn't have one. "Everyone's got a novel," she insisted impatiently, waving away his stunned expression. "Write me a 1 page summary of what your novel is about."
This synopsis combined with his 5 stories were sent out 8 publishing houses in Canada, including Doubleday. All but 1, wanted his manuscript, igniting a bidding war between the 7 largest publishers in Canada for Anthony De Sa's stories.
De Sa chose Doubleday for it's excellent editor. He wrote 7 more short stories and revised the collection through 17 drafts.
They ran an unprecedented 5000 hard cover copies of Barnacle Love, a number unheard of for a short story collection.
2 things to keep in mind: one, people in the publishing industry consider good a sale of 500 copies for a short story collection, and two, only 2 books, yes, 2 books, of short stories were published in Canada in 2008, one of which was Anthony De Sa's.
All the HCs are sold out and the book is now in trade paperback with publication set in the States, and incredible difficult country to crack into publication wise, and in many countries across Europe. (Wish I had the exact number here.)
Barnacle Love also became one of the 3 books that his publisher nominated for the Giller Prize. (Each publishing house is allowed three nominations from it's catalogue every year.) De Sa was eventually short listed for the Prize. Joseph Boyden's Through Black Spruce, a novel, won in the end.
De Sa recounted this memorable snapshot at the end of the prize giving night: the guests were directed into a lounge area, and he found himself sitting in the middle of a sofa surrounded by the top 3 names in Canadian literature--Margaret Atwood to his right, Michael Ondaatji to his left, and Alice Munro, with her feet on top of the coffee table, in front of him.
He hardly spoke a word. What did they talk about? "Everyday crap!" No, they don't talk about writing. And, no, De Sa never talks about his writing either.
I want to leave you with 3 salient facts I came away with at the end of the evening with De Sa:
One, if you're going to write a collection of short stories, make them linked short stories; it mimics the feel of a novel, which is what people prefer to read.
Two, if you are split between writing a novel and writing a collection of short stories, write a novel; you have a hell of a better chance of getting published.
Three, if a father of three small children with a wife and a full time career can write a book, well then . . . .
Was I, were we, supposed to believe this from Anthony De Sa, 40, whose 1st book, a collection of short stories called Barnacle Love, was shortlisted for the Giller Prize last year (the American equivalent would probably be the Pulitzer)?
I was there along with a 17 other University College alumni (University of Toronto), for the monthly book club. The club is unique for having the author of the book also attend the meeting.
Here's the rest of his incredulous tale of numbers:
5 years ago, De Sa took a year off from teaching English to high school students, a sabbatical year. A teacher for 19 years, he loves it. At the time he had three small children: a 4, 3 , and a 1 and a half year old. His wife told De Sa that he had to do something with himself. "Get out of the house," she told him, adding, "Why don't you take a writing course?"
De Sa, 35, enrolled in his 1st creative writing workshop at Humber College in Toronto. This is when he uttered the fantastic-to-the-point-of-unbelievable admission: "I'd never written before."
(I think I actually laughed out loud here. And I didn't apologetically cover my mouth, either.)
When his turn came in class, he wrote his 1st short story called "Only a Boy". The reaction of his instructor and classmates was so positive ("Wow," was the sound bite that stuck with De Sa) that he stayed up until three in the morning sending his first story out to over 50 different literary journals.
He got 18 rejections. Danforth Review accepted it for $50. Canadian dollars. A couple of days later, 2 more publishers called to accept his story for publication. De Sa got to work and pumped out 2 more stories and had those published. His fourth story called "Shoeshine Boy", now the subject of his novel-in-progress, was sent only to Descant, a highly respected literary magazine out of the University of Toronto. He didn't hear from them.
2 months passed before he got a call from Emily Shorthouse who had read "Shoeshine Boy" as a Descant intern and now working at the highly respected Bukowski literary agency. The story, she said, "haunted her" and she could not forget it after all this time. Would he please send her a manuscript.
De Sa he had nothing and said yes anyway. Lies of this kind of entirely justified, as far as I and he was concerned, in the face of such glittering opportunity. For 3 weeks, he holed himself up in his cottage and wrote furiously, pumping out 240 pages.
3 more weeks of editing with his agent later, she asked him what his novel was about. He didn't have one. "Everyone's got a novel," she insisted impatiently, waving away his stunned expression. "Write me a 1 page summary of what your novel is about."
This synopsis combined with his 5 stories were sent out 8 publishing houses in Canada, including Doubleday. All but 1, wanted his manuscript, igniting a bidding war between the 7 largest publishers in Canada for Anthony De Sa's stories.
De Sa chose Doubleday for it's excellent editor. He wrote 7 more short stories and revised the collection through 17 drafts.
They ran an unprecedented 5000 hard cover copies of Barnacle Love, a number unheard of for a short story collection.
2 things to keep in mind: one, people in the publishing industry consider good a sale of 500 copies for a short story collection, and two, only 2 books, yes, 2 books, of short stories were published in Canada in 2008, one of which was Anthony De Sa's.
All the HCs are sold out and the book is now in trade paperback with publication set in the States, and incredible difficult country to crack into publication wise, and in many countries across Europe. (Wish I had the exact number here.)
Barnacle Love also became one of the 3 books that his publisher nominated for the Giller Prize. (Each publishing house is allowed three nominations from it's catalogue every year.) De Sa was eventually short listed for the Prize. Joseph Boyden's Through Black Spruce, a novel, won in the end.
De Sa recounted this memorable snapshot at the end of the prize giving night: the guests were directed into a lounge area, and he found himself sitting in the middle of a sofa surrounded by the top 3 names in Canadian literature--Margaret Atwood to his right, Michael Ondaatji to his left, and Alice Munro, with her feet on top of the coffee table, in front of him.
He hardly spoke a word. What did they talk about? "Everyday crap!" No, they don't talk about writing. And, no, De Sa never talks about his writing either.
I want to leave you with 3 salient facts I came away with at the end of the evening with De Sa:
One, if you're going to write a collection of short stories, make them linked short stories; it mimics the feel of a novel, which is what people prefer to read.
Two, if you are split between writing a novel and writing a collection of short stories, write a novel; you have a hell of a better chance of getting published.
Three, if a father of three small children with a wife and a full time career can write a book, well then . . . .
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Politeness as Payback
After returning from Boston and finishing up my first year as an MFA student at Emerson, I went to visit my old Alma mater for a job. Scott, formerly Mr. Cowle, my old high school history teacher, who taught Canadian history, nothing of which found purchase in my memory, is the director of the summer school program. I'd been in touch with him about a summer teaching post since March.
I was overwhelmed by the warm welcome I received. My physics and finite teacher, Mr. Hall, whose Christian name alludes me and is now the vice-principle of the high school division, gave me a big ol' smile and hug. Chris Starkey, my gym teacher, gave me a thermos coffee mug, an alumni pin and a photo album of the last high school reunion. Dan Milkovich used to teach me English kept me in his classroom during lunchtime and talked to me about getting married to an English woman named Carolyn and being feared by Grade Nine students. The terrifying Tom Gough, the man who made Dan nearly jump out of his skin when he blustered, which was no infrequent back in the day and once directed squarely at me, asked me to come and sit in on a seminar by a student in his creative writing class.
A pestering pattern has begun to emerge.
It started with Laura McGivern, my Grade Nine English teacher, who sought me out in the middle of my meeting with Scott that I eventually managed to have after two hours had already passed visiting with all my other teachers since walking through the front door of the school, to ask if I wouldn't mind coming down to her classroom and reading the first chapter of the novel she's been working on.
Laura was a young, blond, newly trained teacher when she first began working at my high school. She was pretty enough and jumpy enough that she became an easy target for my classmates, fourteen and over-privileged and rabid. As if we didn't have enough ammunition with her navy blue eyeliner applied too heavily on her bottom lid in the fashion of the early eighties and her habit of pouting when she tried to be a disciplinarian, which made her seem contradictory and clownish, her husband was a police officer.
Even at that age, or perhaps because of it, the kinky image of the young blond teacher smacking her husband's law enforcing tush with his baton wearing nothing but her eyeliner incensed our hormone-driven energy and relentless appetite for teasing.
Over the course of the year, we wore her down and eventually, one day, made her run out of the classroom crying like a girl. I remember laughing and smugly shaking my head with the rest of them. It astonishes me now the capacity for cruelty by kids. Still more, their appetite for enjoying it.
It was a suspense thriller. I read the first chapter. She had be read dialogue and even a sex scene, which made me slightly uncomfortable and required me to remind myself that I was no longer her student, that I was an adult now. Still, in the small, preserved corner of my mind, the fourteen year old imp watched through slitted, glittering eyes this moment of the adult-me reading Mrs. McGivern's suspense thriller sex scene with howling delight. I gave her some criticisms off the cuff with a perfectly straight, mature face.
But that's not a point here. Later that week, while working at my mother's shop, a woman named Sharon started chatting with me while purchasing some things and when she discovered that I was studying creative writing, she brought me two short stories of her own for me to read and critique.
I'm not quite sure how I'll handle the next offering of unsolicited stories and novel excerpts. There are two things at work here: insincerity and cowardice. I don't actually want to read these stories, but I rather than refusing their invitations for my criticism, I say, "Thank you."
I've toyed with the suspicion that this guilt-ridden politeness is the burden borne in my adulthood for being such a twat as a teenager. But then again, this seems to emit the faint but noisome smell of Jesus-envy or Puritan morality that makes me put a lid on it.
I was overwhelmed by the warm welcome I received. My physics and finite teacher, Mr. Hall, whose Christian name alludes me and is now the vice-principle of the high school division, gave me a big ol' smile and hug. Chris Starkey, my gym teacher, gave me a thermos coffee mug, an alumni pin and a photo album of the last high school reunion. Dan Milkovich used to teach me English kept me in his classroom during lunchtime and talked to me about getting married to an English woman named Carolyn and being feared by Grade Nine students. The terrifying Tom Gough, the man who made Dan nearly jump out of his skin when he blustered, which was no infrequent back in the day and once directed squarely at me, asked me to come and sit in on a seminar by a student in his creative writing class.
A pestering pattern has begun to emerge.
It started with Laura McGivern, my Grade Nine English teacher, who sought me out in the middle of my meeting with Scott that I eventually managed to have after two hours had already passed visiting with all my other teachers since walking through the front door of the school, to ask if I wouldn't mind coming down to her classroom and reading the first chapter of the novel she's been working on.
Laura was a young, blond, newly trained teacher when she first began working at my high school. She was pretty enough and jumpy enough that she became an easy target for my classmates, fourteen and over-privileged and rabid. As if we didn't have enough ammunition with her navy blue eyeliner applied too heavily on her bottom lid in the fashion of the early eighties and her habit of pouting when she tried to be a disciplinarian, which made her seem contradictory and clownish, her husband was a police officer.
Even at that age, or perhaps because of it, the kinky image of the young blond teacher smacking her husband's law enforcing tush with his baton wearing nothing but her eyeliner incensed our hormone-driven energy and relentless appetite for teasing.
Over the course of the year, we wore her down and eventually, one day, made her run out of the classroom crying like a girl. I remember laughing and smugly shaking my head with the rest of them. It astonishes me now the capacity for cruelty by kids. Still more, their appetite for enjoying it.
It was a suspense thriller. I read the first chapter. She had be read dialogue and even a sex scene, which made me slightly uncomfortable and required me to remind myself that I was no longer her student, that I was an adult now. Still, in the small, preserved corner of my mind, the fourteen year old imp watched through slitted, glittering eyes this moment of the adult-me reading Mrs. McGivern's suspense thriller sex scene with howling delight. I gave her some criticisms off the cuff with a perfectly straight, mature face.
But that's not a point here. Later that week, while working at my mother's shop, a woman named Sharon started chatting with me while purchasing some things and when she discovered that I was studying creative writing, she brought me two short stories of her own for me to read and critique.
I'm not quite sure how I'll handle the next offering of unsolicited stories and novel excerpts. There are two things at work here: insincerity and cowardice. I don't actually want to read these stories, but I rather than refusing their invitations for my criticism, I say, "Thank you."
I've toyed with the suspicion that this guilt-ridden politeness is the burden borne in my adulthood for being such a twat as a teenager. But then again, this seems to emit the faint but noisome smell of Jesus-envy or Puritan morality that makes me put a lid on it.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Random Annoyances - Paying for Book Readings in Toronto
Perhaps I've been spoiled. Living in Boston, an intellectually thriving city that boasts such a dense gathering of ready resident writers that the supply of them exceeds the demand to hear them read, I've never had to pay a book reading.
Not even when T. Coraghessan Boyle came to the Harvard Book Store to read from his new book "Women", not even when the store had to set up television sets in other parts of the store so that the surplus of eager fans could still claimed to have inhabited the same air space as Boyle as they watched him read over a monitor, did they charge me for the reading. I got to see him in the flesh.
But here in Toronto, that doesn't seem to be the case. The demand far exceeds supply and they can charge you for it.
Take for instance, Chuck Palahniuk and his "Pygmy" Tour. Chuck's the guy who brought us "The Flight Club" and "Choke". He was here in Toronto to read from his eponymous book. The tickets, yes, tickets for the reading were sold out at $15 a pop. Larry King is coming to town to read from his new book and I would have to shell out $18 to see him. If I wanted to see him. Michael Ignatieff--distinguished professor, politician, writer, journalist, documentary filmmaker-- is gracing a brunch reading (I can't say enough about the tackiness of those two words being placed side by side.) For $40 you can eat eggs and hear him read his new book. The fee doesn't include the hardcover book "True Patriot Love", which attandees will feel great pressure to purchase and have signed after breaking bread with the man. I just want to add that you can save 50% off the cover price if you order your copy of Ignatieff's book ahead of time from Amazon.ca for the bargain price of $15, not including S&H. Neil Gaiman, $15. Griffin Poetry Prize Shortlist Reading, $10. Students $5.
To be fair, there are a few readings that I am surprised are free. Miriam Toews and Anne Michaels, both highly acclaimed and widely published, will be reading at no cost, other than your time and travel expenses.
One might perhaps argue that rather than a simple microeconomics explanation of supply and demand, the true reason for event organizers to charge for events is that Torontonians are willing to pay to see their celebrity writers. Canadians, they might argue, value their writers more and hold them up to the same spotlight that shines on rock bands and movie stars.
I don't think so. I think rather it is the typically Canadian obsequious attitude that makes them think they ought to pay for everything, including readings.
Readings are opportunities for the writers to advertise their books in order to raise sales and fatten their royalties. In Toronto, people not only buy the books, but then pay for the advertisement to boot.
To me, this is like paying cover at a supermarket.
Not even when T. Coraghessan Boyle came to the Harvard Book Store to read from his new book "Women", not even when the store had to set up television sets in other parts of the store so that the surplus of eager fans could still claimed to have inhabited the same air space as Boyle as they watched him read over a monitor, did they charge me for the reading. I got to see him in the flesh.
But here in Toronto, that doesn't seem to be the case. The demand far exceeds supply and they can charge you for it.
Take for instance, Chuck Palahniuk and his "Pygmy" Tour. Chuck's the guy who brought us "The Flight Club" and "Choke". He was here in Toronto to read from his eponymous book. The tickets, yes, tickets for the reading were sold out at $15 a pop. Larry King is coming to town to read from his new book and I would have to shell out $18 to see him. If I wanted to see him. Michael Ignatieff--distinguished professor, politician, writer, journalist, documentary filmmaker-- is gracing a brunch reading (I can't say enough about the tackiness of those two words being placed side by side.) For $40 you can eat eggs and hear him read his new book. The fee doesn't include the hardcover book "True Patriot Love", which attandees will feel great pressure to purchase and have signed after breaking bread with the man. I just want to add that you can save 50% off the cover price if you order your copy of Ignatieff's book ahead of time from Amazon.ca for the bargain price of $15, not including S&H. Neil Gaiman, $15. Griffin Poetry Prize Shortlist Reading, $10. Students $5.
To be fair, there are a few readings that I am surprised are free. Miriam Toews and Anne Michaels, both highly acclaimed and widely published, will be reading at no cost, other than your time and travel expenses.
One might perhaps argue that rather than a simple microeconomics explanation of supply and demand, the true reason for event organizers to charge for events is that Torontonians are willing to pay to see their celebrity writers. Canadians, they might argue, value their writers more and hold them up to the same spotlight that shines on rock bands and movie stars.
I don't think so. I think rather it is the typically Canadian obsequious attitude that makes them think they ought to pay for everything, including readings.
Readings are opportunities for the writers to advertise their books in order to raise sales and fatten their royalties. In Toronto, people not only buy the books, but then pay for the advertisement to boot.
To me, this is like paying cover at a supermarket.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Quotes and Ideas - DeLillo's The Names
"In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that be aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It's the drowning out of false voices" (DeLillo).
Two names immediately come to mind--Joyce, Woolf--though there are others. The irony of writing about madness and mimicing madness is that it demands from the writer a crytaline sanity and clarity of style. Only the most sane stylists are thus able to achieve this "final distillation of self."
The conclusion I come to with these two positions is this: if you question your sanity or mastery of your style, if you question whether you even have a style, don't write about madness or try to distill yourself. Be watery.
Two names immediately come to mind--Joyce, Woolf--though there are others. The irony of writing about madness and mimicing madness is that it demands from the writer a crytaline sanity and clarity of style. Only the most sane stylists are thus able to achieve this "final distillation of self."
The conclusion I come to with these two positions is this: if you question your sanity or mastery of your style, if you question whether you even have a style, don't write about madness or try to distill yourself. Be watery.
Random annoyance - Taking the stairs two at a time
A man who takes the stairs two at a time. Inexplicably annoying. Where is he rushing to? Is his life really so important, so full of pressing obligations that he can't use the stairs as they were designed? Stairs--one of the oldest architectural innovation in history--why must he pretend to know how better to use it or make them more efficient? What gross egotism is this?
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