The perfect pet: a review of The Caline Conspiracy

His arms were outflung and his mouth was a wide, lipless—no, his mouth was closed, it was his throat that gaped in a ragged, cheerless grin.

Last week Margaret Yang and Harry R. Campion, who write together as M. H. Mead, got in touch and offered me a review copy of their latest book. By the sounds of it, The Caline Conspiracy wasn’t something I’d normally pick up, and the cover screamed the nineties, but I agreed to give the book a shot. Sometimes we need to step out of our comfort zones.

As silly as the plot felt at times—it’s a murder mystery in which a genetically enhanced pet (a “caline”) is the only suspect—the writing was, well, good. Nothing ground-breaking, but better than a lot of the books I’m handed to read on assignment. I didn’t have to parse the prose to discover the kernel of worth within it. The Caline Conspiracy is written by two clearly talented people.

Of course, M. H. Mead might be writing about the perfect pets (and the not-so-perfect pets), but that doesn’t mean their book is flawless. The writers brush on a futuristic gloss at will, rather than building a believable sci-fi world from the ground up. You can’t have your character make tea or order pizza and then have her use some sort of holo-vid system without making readers wonder if maybe the science fiction part wasn’t a high priority after all. If you’re going to set your story in the future, you have to simulate the future down to the very last detail. Or at least have a robot ringing the doorbell with a steaming pie.

The story held my interest regardless of its slips, but I have to wonder about the scene with Aidra, Edo, and the perficats. The grand realization that occurs then doesn’t seem to have much purpose overall, other than to maybe foreshadow how crazy meddlesome scientists are with things that shouldn’t be meddled in.

I’m not sure I entirely believe a few other plot threads, either: Aidra’s totally lax, “cool mom” treatment of her son had me cringing; and the explanation for their new family member at the end was surprising but not entirely convincing.The backstory about their old dog Nutmeg gave the characters and story some valuable context, but it was never explored as much as I would have liked. A few minor characters could have used more attention after their biggest scenes—like Quinn’s unexpected trip to the hospital and Freddy and his wife. These characters deserve more than a passing role.

These failings in plot aren’t as extreme as they might sound—the only parts I was rolling my eyes at were the one near sex scene that didn’t belong and the aforementioned introduction of Aidra’s son Jon. I can’t recommend The Caline Conspiracy to everyone, but if you like the suspense of mysteries or you’re just a huge animal enthusiast, then you’ll likely find enjoyment in its story.

Thanks to the authors for reaching out and providing a review copy!

Winter is coming: a review of A Game of Thrones

How small the difference between victory and defeat, between life and death.

Not all books muster up to the hype surrounding them. The Night Circus was one such example—a beautiful debut, but unpolished in many ways. George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones, the first entry in his A Song of Ice and Fire series, meets its praise full-on.

To be frank, I didn’t know what to expect from A Game of Thrones. I knew Martin had developed a reputation as a merciless writer, so I avoided reviews as usual to keep spoilers and impressions at bay. I also understood the HBO series was popular, but fantasy shows aren’t always made of the best stuff.

Reading the first book was an interesting experience because my boyfriend was starting a different fantasy series at the same time. Every complaint he had about the unrealistic writing, and every silly sentence I would see overloaded with Great Things in Capital Letters and Goofy Names, were refreshingly absent in Martin’s book. Where the other series lacked believable character motivations, A Game of Thrones gave me them in excess. These characters are so clearly positioned in opposition to one another, or conversely in alliance, that betrayals and back-stabbings are the only natural courses to take.

The first chapter perfectly demonstrates Martin’s skill as a fantasy writer: He knows how to use the world and, more importantly, the environment at hand. He crafts descriptions that feel authentic to the characters’ surroundings, and through them gives credibility to events. The whispered things that dwell outside the Wall are fit for the trees and cold and dark that they call home.

Martin also has a talent for bringing importance to every chapter, and he never fails to remind us of the misogynistic, war-hardened land and its brutal politics. That’s where the book takes its title from, after all: the different ruling classes and their endless games.

A Game of Thrones is a grounded, convincing tale because Martin introduces fantastic elements little by little, rather than all at once. There’s no magical prophecies or chosen ones, but there is a direwolf with a stag antler pierced through its body—an evil omen if one ever existed.

The writing never grows dull, although the middle does bend under its own weight as the author leads us toward the final act. He doesn’t make the mistake of focusing too heavily on the ending, so as to sacrifice story, but he could have cut a couple hundred pages.

The book itself bridges the divide between adult and children’s fantasy, focusing on explicit scenes of sex and violence in one chapter and the squabbles and pride of youth in another, and its presence in both worlds makes it all the more interesting.

Martin, a careful and wise writer who tends to characters as closely as plot, writes the beginnings of a tale not meant for the weak of heart. Characters suffer. You’ll dread the consequences … much like those tangled up in the war themselves.

Still flying, still stylish in affordable boots, still helping the helpless: a review of Joss Whedon: The Complete Companion

As you might guess from that mouthful of a title, Joss Whedon: The Complete Companion* spans the creator’s biggest productions and a number of smaller topics, such as his foray into comic books and his (returning) screenwriting days. It’s also a mammoth book. A good whack with this thing will knock a vampire right out.

Anyone who plucks down $18.95 or less will be getting exactly what they pay for: a whole lot of Joss Whedon, presented as a series of essays … after essay … after essay. The Complete Companion isn’t serious, dry-as-sand academic writing, but it is formatted that way, and that sensibility shows in some pieces more than others. You’ll likely fluctuate from bored to fascinated with each new read. Whatever your interest level or preference of writing (occasionally you’ll encounter an essay that’s bogged down with verbose and weighty language), the book caters to a variety of tastes and topics.

The Complete Companion covers it all: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and Serenity, the comics (including ones you might not have read), Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, Dollhouse, and finally Whedon’s films (counting those that came before he was famous). It’s a lot of reading, but even seasoned fans will learn some new insight or secret from behind the scenes.

But be warned: This book is laden with spoilers. If there’s absolutely anything you haven’t seen to completion but plan to, skip the entire section and return to it later. The editor didn’t censor the plentiful essays, so there’s no avoiding discussion of crucial scenes, characters, and plot points.

Luckily for me, I’ve already exposed myself to most of Whedon’s work, so I could handle the contents. Joss Whedon: The Complete Companion is a deeper look at the world of Whedon, but for the fan, it’s strictly post-show and movie-watching/comics-reading material.

*This book was provided for honest review courtesy of publisher Titan Books.

A call for comics! April’s pick of the month

As some of you have probably guessed, I’m a big reader of books … and that includes comics! The good thing about comics is that not only are they a fantastic medium for prose and visual storytelling combined, but they’re also much easier to get into than you might think. There’s something for all tastes.

While we can’t always read the same books at the same time (read-alongs are a nice idea, but they’re up there with book clubs: not always practical), we can read the same comics on a regular basis. They’re not as much of a time sink. That’s why I wanted to reach out to my fellow lovers of comics and anyone who’s interested in learning more about them with this proposal: What are your favorite series currently on sale? Recommend them to me! And would you like my suggestions? Together we can expand our familiarity with genres and talented writers and artists.

Before you say no, keep in mind that you don’t have to understand decades of a comic’s history to enjoy it—and not every series has years to its name. New books are always coming out, and for the ones that have been on shelves longer, many writers make “cannon” a very accessible, non-scary word. Plus, you can now buy comics digitally as well as in print (if you can find a local comic shop).

I’d even be up for discussion! What do you say?

My first pick is THE LI’L DEPRESSED BOY from publisher Image Comics. “LDB,” as he’s called for short, isn’t so much a boy as he is a young adult who doesn’t fit in. The comic is an accurate depiction of the shyness and self-doubt that accompanies cases of depression. “What,” you say, “like the mental illness?” Yes! Comics deal with real life issues! Awesome, right? Even the fantastical can be grounded in the realistic … not that every comic is unrealistic.

Everything seems to go wrong for LDB when he’s at his lowest, and for anyone who’s ever been down, you know that when one bad thing happens, it seems like your whole world starts to fall apart. Although LDB might not always feel included, he’s surrounded by people who care about him—and a few people who don’t quite understand his needs, like his crush Jazmin, who seemed to reciprocate that affection until she revealed she had a boyfriend.

One of the major recurring themes in LI’L DEPRESSED BOY is music, which can be used to enhance any situation. Sometimes we see LDB listening and then leaving a crowd. Other times music is a source of empowerment and positivity. The language of music is very personal, especially for LDB, and a good many of us are familiar with the contrasting effects music can have on mood.

For me, the most singular aspect about LDB is that he is literally a blank slate—a doll figure without any remarkable features. For a depressed character like LDB, that self-reflective attribute is spot-on. Credit to artist Sina Grace for making it so visually convincing.

What do you think? Have you read LI’L DEPRESSED BOY before? Would you like to? Let me know in the comments whether you’re interested in more of these features and if you’d like to join the conversation. Feel free to hop over to the digital service ComiXology to make a purchase.

LI’L DEPRESSED BOY #10 hit stands yesterday, on Wednesday—new comics day!

Vampires, demons, and too much skin: a review of The Darkening Dream

She released Charles’ grip and the bloody tree vanished, in its place only the shadows of two young people who’d just shaken hands.

As far as I can tell, there’s been a decent amount of positive press for The Darkening Dream. Author Andy Gavin co-created the video game company Naughty Dog, and considering the minimal narrative template of games like Crash Bandicoot (and even the more story-driven Jak & Daxter), the transition between mediums must have taken work. Unfortunately, Gavin moves into troubled territory.

Pinning down exactly why I didn’t like The Darkening Dream wasn’t easy, but I knew something was off from the first few chapters. For a book set in the early 20th century, it doesn’t always show its age. Maybe it’s because the year 1913 wasn’t too long ago, but I had a hard time picturing old-fashioned young women running around an amusement park with men and then, scenes later, concealing their ankles and elbows with layers of clothing. And after that, frolicking in cosplay outfits.

This initial confusion as to the time period Gavin is portraying did wear off, but other problems ensued. I liked the author’s use of imagery (especially the bloody sycamore) and his demons, like the central vampire character. How often do vampires turn into bats anymore? Now that’s cool.

But every time I find myself liking the characters—and I do, honestly, like them—they’re reduced through awkward sexuality worthy of a good eye roll or two. Gavin clearly wants to write “modern” women here, but he’s not entirely sure what that is. To be frank, the trouble rests with the setting of the book—these are women still bound by old society’s rules, but they’re entering a world that’s more accepting of them. So at the same time Gavin is following outdated social standards in order to establish the times, he’s also trying to break free of them. For example, today’s age allows women to be more sexually free and active, but the events of the book still push the old idea: Women who openly engage in sexual acts are wicked (or, in some cases, in need of a good exorcism), while those who resist temptation are good. I don’t think Gavin is communicating that intentionally, but that’s what the prose is pushing.

Okay, here’s where things might get a little TMI, so read or skip this paragraph at your leisure—Gavin gets points for addressing menstrual cycles. Yes, you read that correctly. I completely believe his descriptions, too (down to the spot on the mattress, if you know what I mean), except for one crucial detail he leaves out every single time: When a woman stains her undergarments because of her period, she’s not just going to strip and be done with it—especially not women in the early 20th century, when Wal-Mart doesn’t exist in little old Salem. She’s going to wash her sheets and panties with soap and cold water. It was baffling to me that Gavin went to such lengths to realistically portray a monthly “accident” but never bothered to think the situation through to the end. Duh, you wash the thing! Ironically enough, these scenes always lead the character to the bathroom, where she wishes for hot water to clean herself off—but, of course, not cold water for a good soaking. /TMI

Another big issue for me was the overwhelming amount of sexual friskiness involved. Yes, I get that most of these characters are in their teens, and sex is on their minds even in the midst of demon-hunting and vampire-slaying, but Gavin can’t help but insert some perversion into nearly every scene. Not to mention he uses embarrassingly archaic phrases, like the “dark triangle” between a woman’s legs. I’m giggling right now, and not because it’s dirty—because it’s older than dust.

The pacing could use a little work toward the end of the book. Gavin rushes the story post-killing victory (you’ll know which one), and not much attention is paid to the remaining villains—especially not the Big Guy. Did I miss something? Is there supposed to be a sequel? Because it certainly feels like it should be, but apparently not. As a result, the ending resembles one big Hollywood “boo!” ending—you know the kind, where oh, they killed the zombies, but now there’s one more! Surprise! [Update: Yes, Gavin has confirmed a sequel. See the comments.]

Perhaps I sound a little bitter, but I was looking forward to The Darkening Dream with great enthusiasm. I love Gavin’s work in video games. In writing, he could use some guidance. But it’s not a bad first novel, all things considered. Just not one with enough foresight.

—

Okay! After I tackle another book for Kirkus Indie (sorry, can’t share the details), I’ll be back with a review of a nice, thick book that should appeal to Joss Whedon fans. Thanks for reading!

Magic at midnight: a review of The Night Circus

‘Though I’m not certain I’d want to be stuck in a tree for the rest of eternity, myself, would you?’

‘I think that would depend on the tree.’

If you’ve ever wondered what goes on behind the closed gates of the circus, when the people have gone home and the acrobats and fortune tellers have retired to their tents, Erin Morgenstern’s breakout novel will shock and delight you with tales of the inner workings of magic and illusion. The Night Circus constructs an elaborate plot, as ornate and fragile as clockwork, from a simple premise: two young illusionists, one game, and only one winner.

Maybe I wasn’t feeling the full grace of its magic, but this book wasn’t the masterpiece I had been led to believe it was. That’s not to say it isn’t good. On the contrary, The Night Circus is a very good work of fiction. Morgenstern tells a beautiful story, and her talent lies as much in its complex construction as it does her enchanting description. She maintains steady control over the pacing of scenes, but the larger, grand movement of the novel proves her weak point. The author’s many chapters and digressions (which are wonderful) come together in a big way, but not until much later on—the last third of the book, easily. For a book that’s 387 pages long, that’s a long time to wait to satisfy a reader’s curiosity.

Of course, the tactic worked, at least in my case. Less patient readers might grow bored of Morgenstern holding everything out at arm’s reach and turn instead to other pursuits. But for those who endure, the rewards are rich indeed. Morgenstern is enviously clever in her writing. She creates a memorable cast of characters who,  despite their collective number, each find a place that’s unique and important within the story.

Best is her description, which is clear and readable yet never dull and always mesmerizing. And, as briefly mentioned, her pacing of individual scenes is masterful—the push and pull of moments shared later on between the two illusionists, Marco and Celia, put all others to shame.

Morgenstern gives the story a lot of meaning. The black and white imagery obviously reflects the complementary yet contrasting relationship between Celia and Marco. The emphasis on clockwork provides a perfect metaphor for the fragile state of the circus. Morgenstein introduces the danger consequence by consequence, until the details have formed a frightening reality of the game itself. It’s impressive how well Morgenstern manages this feat.

As much as I felt the author waited too long to give us enough of the answers and to unite Celia and Marco, I felt it a fitting match for how the story operates. The characters know little of their role in the game, what the game truly is, or how much power secrets and magic can hold when they continue to build, beautiful in their expression for others but perilous and unwieldy the more complicated and structural they become, like something bottled with too much pressure inside.

Timing, and time itself, is a major theme in The Night Circus, and the events of the chapters (pay close attention to the dates) eventually converge for the book’s ending. But the entire novel and all its parts essentially jump around in the timeline, so I can imagine that a second reading would yield much more insight than the first.

But the special scenes that appear between chapters and sections, the ones that switch to a second-person perspective, do something very clever in the final pages of the novel. They basically establish a new way of experiencing the novel and the circus itself that fits nicely with one of the subplots that goes on in the book. The same happens with the occasional pages that are merely comprised of quotes about the circus in retrospect. Who’s saying them matters, especially when you progress to the later chapters of the book.

Would I recommend The Night Circus? Yes, wholeheartedly, but only if you’re willing to be patient. You have to come back to the circus, night after night, before it reveals all its secrets and wonders to you.

‘It is important. … Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. … There are many kinds of magic, after all.’

More about Erin Morgenstern.

Rewrites, remakes, and creative differences: a review of Tales from Development Hell

This script is perfect. Who can we get to rewrite it?

In his newly updated book, David Hughes gives more than a tourist’s definition of the dreaded “Development Hell.”* Like Bilbo Baggins, he’s been there and back again, and his difficulty in slaying the dragon—getting a movie made and in theaters—is a problem that plagues amateur and seasoned writers, producers, and directors alike. Tales from Development Hell: The Greatest Movies Never Made? is a insider’s guide to Hollywood’s rejects, flops, and almost-weren’t—and more so, Hollywood itself.

Like Vern’s Yippee Ki-Yay Moviegoer!: Writings on Bruce Willis,  Badass Cinema and Other Important Topics (also from Titan Books), Tales from Development Hell (the expanded version, out today) belongs in every cinephile’s collection. It profiles some of the hottest movies in years, beginning with their conception and detailing their progress and devolution from brilliant scripts to idiot rewrites, thrown about by bossy studio executives and moody actors. Most chapters strike a relevant note. For example, the Planet of the Apes story ties in nicely with the recent Rise of the Planet of the Apes movie starring James Franco, and Lady Croft’s big screen adventures are ripe for renewal now that Crystal Dynamics is prepping a total reboot of the video game series Tomb Raider. Hughes includes household names such as Indiana Jones and lesser known curiosities like Isobar, a broad selection certain to deepen the knowledge of any movie lover. Hughes even ends the book by describing his own excursions into Development Hell, reiterating the idea that regardless of a script’s quality, Hollywood is as Hollywood does.

That’s the most valuable asset of Tales from Development Hell: what it bares about Hollywood. From the outset, Hughes explains the process of filmmaking behind closed doors—a needlessly lengthy, overly complicated mess from start to finish, even in the best cases. While he doesn’t sound cynical, he isn’t exaggerating, either. Hughes supports his claims with 200+ pages of evidence that show how Hollywood dirties the handiwork of others, bringing in writer after writer, director after director, and actor after actor until the script either winds up in the trash bin or on the desk of someone who knows zilch about the project, reducing the finished film to a tenth of its original glory. That’s movie-making in a nutshell. Everyone blames the writers and often neglects to pay them for their numerous drafts. Meanwhile, actors push for fatter paychecks and meatier roles, occasionally arresting the entire development of a film. And studios turn down elegant scripts for ones that they think will resonate better with audiences—99% of the time for misguided reasons.

Tales from Development Hell teaches a brutal lesson to aspiring filmmakers and screenwriters: Even if your movie isn’t totally incinerated, you might have to trek through the bowels of Hell just to get it made. So the next time you criticize a movie for its untimely appearance, its poor writing, or even if you’re commending it for its success, keep in mind all the work—and conflict—that was dumped into it. The story is much bigger than you might think.

*This book was provided for honest review courtesy of publisher Titan Books.

Love at first anagram: a review of An Abundance of Katherines

Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for your forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.

I’ve been a fan of John Green ever since I started watching the Vlogbrothers videos on YouTube. Looking for Alaska is my favorite out of the three (and counting) that I’ve read, including Paper Towns and most recently An Abundance of Katherines. It might not rank first with me, but An Abundance of Katherines possesses merits that are undeniably strong. This is a young adult book with a surprising amount of depth but one that reads lightly.

For the most part, anyway. Green tries his best not to bog the book down with the equations that his protagonist, Colin Singleton, devises in his attempt to calculate the future outcome of all romantic relationships—specifically his chances with the many Katherines he’s dated and hopes to continue to date. You see, Colin Singleton is a borderline genius—a prodigy who knows more languages than he has fingers, loves to anagram, finds everything and anything fascinating, and above all is terrified of not mattering.

After Katherine XIX dumps him, his friend Hassan takes him on a road trip that leads them to Gutshot, Tennessee, the resting place of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—who was shot in the middle (a word that Green cleverly uses given the book’s context), leaving the same kind of gaping, empty hole that Colin feels he has without a Katherine in his life. Their adventure introduces them to a strange girl named Lindsey Lee Wells, who adapts her demeanor to whomever she’s with but who’s smarter than she lets on, and together they come unwittingly into a summer job, seating them across from the elderly of Gutshot in an effort to record their lives and memories of working for the town’s only factory.

As always, Green has a knack for crafting dialogue and a story that feels genuine to his audience. But the real worth here is found in Colin Singleton and his unmistakable need to matter—to be a genius, not just a prodigy. The novel beautifully unravels why he’s so obsessed with being the best, speaking more greatly to the human condition of loneliness. Colin might be a super intelligent nerd who’s painfully awkward in social situations, but he grapples with many of the same issues that the rest of us do.

More importantly, I think, is what Green is trying to say not only about the fear of relationships, and letting someone get close, but relationships in general: that we can’t go through life expecting to date only Katherines or Colins. When we put stipulations on who the right person is, we never find the right person at all because we’re looking for someone of unreasonable expectations—a kind of expectations that prevent people from truly falling in love with another human being. Some people say we find love when we stop looking, and for me, at least, that’s held absolutely true. My boyfriend doesn’t have striking blue eyes and a body like a Calvin Klein model, but he does make me happy (and he’s very handsome).

An Abundance of Katherines is also about letting yourself make mistakes, an act many of us never do out of anxiety for what might happen. Sound silly? It is.

The book is also about storytelling—mostly because Colin lacks proper foresight. For all his intelligence, he can’t understand why he’s fallen into the same disastrous pattern and why he’s intent to stay in it. Green establishes a noteworthy literary framework here, connecting the parts together at the end, when things finally make sense for the characters.

It’s about having confidence in ourselves—being okay with who we are and understanding that being “special” is not nearly as important as being present in the world. We have to live, really live, in it.

An infinitesimal change. And that infinitesimal change ripples outward—ever smaller but everlasting.