Katrina is a vagabond, a professional suspender of disbelief, and a Jane Austen heroine. She's obsessed with truffle oil, pinot noir, and the Oxford comma. Her glass is always half full—of Champagne! Work aside, she is not to be taken seriously as she has her tongue permanently planted on her cheek. This blog is for the food supped, drinks sipped, books read, films watched, and people loved. She will try to include photos for posterity’s sake but makes no promises. If time permits, you may find her defending the good name of Queen Marie Antoinette. She, too, wants to be the girl with the most cake. Caveat lector: She's prone to extreme oversharing.
Greetings from the rock I’ve been hiding under. Ah, December, you’ve sucked the life force right out of me. I’ve got my anti-social mode on. I’ve pretty much hunkered down and avoided parties and get-togethers, even those I was excited for just last month. I can’t wait to be done with the holidays, especially since there’s so much to look forward to in the coming months. Travel, writing projects…I see it all in my crystal ball!
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. That Dickens quote is so overused. I wish I had something smarter and more arcane to sum up 2014, but I don’t. This year saw the fulfilment of a long-held dream. Seriously. Something I’ve been dreaming about since I was little finally came true. It took a lot of hard (but fun!) work, many caffeine-fuelled nights, and several fairy godmothers who encouraged me and helped open doors. You know who you are. Thank you from the bottom of my fat little heart. I still have to pinch myself to make sure it’s not all a dream. And this is all just the beginning. I did it once and so I go forth with the fledgling confidence that I might be able to do it again.
Despite the crazy busy year I also got to go on several mini-holidays, which I so desperately needed. I’m thankful for these new places, for new friends, for a new tribe—God bless the internet and how it connects like-minded people.
Onto the worst. I don’t mean to end in sure a sour note but, well, things are what they are. It has been a pretty dismal December and I’m still not sure how this drama-special will end. I read somewhere that writing can help get you through difficult times. And I’m glad I have that as an outlet. I’m glad that, as a writer, I can take a step back from my life and view everything—good and bad—as material. It’s a great coping mechanism.
That being said, I’ve never been one to wallow in depression. Dumb cheerfulness is my natural state. Happy New Year to one and all. Here’s to better things and new beginnings. And more books! More new places!
I finally crawled out of the rock I've been hiding under to see Divergent. Weee! Because this is an adaptation and because I enjoyed the books a lot, it's hard to not nitpick at what the movie got right and what it didn't, or what it stayed faithful to and what it completely upend. (I'm very upset about the absence of Uriah too!) But I'm going to stay away from the whole book vs movie trap and consider the film for it's own merit, ok? Ok!
1. Shailene Woodley can do no wrong. Love her. Love her!
2. Theo James. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm probably the only one who cried when Kemal Pamuk died in Downton Abbey after only one episode. I wanted more of him. Now I get my wish. I love you, Four!
3. The casting of Peter and Caleb aka Miles and Ansel aka Sutter and Augustus, it's all very incestuous.
4. I bet they have weed in Amity
5. All that blade and needle-sharing really, REALLY bothered me. Do they not have hepatitis or aids or other blood-borne diseases in this dystopian future? The dauntless kids, especially, look very wild and promiscuous.
If I belonged in that universe, I'd insist on my own faction. The Prissy. We'll wear pink, opt out of the blood-letting in the choosing ceremony and silently judge everyone else.
Everyone has a story worth telling. Everyone is interesting in their own way. Perhaps not interesting enough to be the subject on of a one-person play, but then again, very few people are.
Diana Vreeland, without exception the most fascinating woman that ever was, is, or will be, is one of those few. In Full Gallop, a one-woman play written by Mary Louise Wilson and Mark Hampton, Diana is on the cusp. Back from the four-month Euro-trip she embarked on after being sacked from Vogue, Diana comes to grips with the significant changes in her life with her characteristic aplomb.
The setting is the all-red living room of her New York apartment. It’s not a faithful recreation of the “garden from hell,” but it was still impressive. What was lacking in stage design, Cheri Gil more than made up for with her performance. For such a well-known face and personality, she slipped seamlessly into character and was utterly transformed. It was one of the best pieces of character acting I’ve ever had the privilege of watching.
Full Gallop was absolutely magical. It’s the closest we Diana devotees are ever gonna get to her and all her splendor. Those who are not already obsessed with her or familiar with her life and work may miss a few references here and there, but will still find something to love about the riveting performance and the witty script generously peppered with Diana Vreeland aphorisms. I watched it with my boyfriend, who claimed to have never heard of her before and asked for a quick wiki-length background right before the play began. I told him about her ugly-duckling childhood, her too-handsome husband, her work for Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue, her red living room, and her ground-breaking work for The Met. Finally, something he’s familiar with. Vreeland’s reach certainly goes beyond fashion and the pages of the glossies she helmed.
The play barely scratches the surface of what made Vreeland the legend that she is. Then again, neither did her 432-paged biography, Empress of Fashion: A Life of Diana Vreeland by Amanda Mackenzie Stuart, which I read and loved. Perhaps a life so fully realized and so fabulously lived such as Diana Vreeland's can never be done justice in any retelling. Don’t miss Full Gallop. You’ll never forgive yourself!
FULL GALLOP: A Play by Mary Louise Wilson & Mark Hampton
CHERIE GIL as Diana Vreeland
Directed by Bart Guingona
My Own Mann Production’s Full Gallop will run on March 14-15 and March 21-22, 2014 at 8 p.m. and on March 16 and 23 at 4 p.m. at the Carlos P. Romulo Auditorium at the RCBC Plaza, Ayala Avenue, Makati City. Tickets are at PhP1,500 for orchestra center, PhP1,000 for orchestra and loge, and PhP600 for balcony. Purchase tickets from TICKET WORLD.
Gabriel’s Inferno by Sylvain Reynard: Tropes, Clichés, and a Crap-Load of Literary Allusions
“My family is like a Dickensian novel, Julia. No, it’s worse. We’re a twisted mix of Arthur Miller and John Steinbeck, with a bit of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy thrown in.
“Is it really that bad?”
“Yes, because I have the feeling there are elements of Thomas Hardy lurking below the surface. And you know how much I hate him. Mind-fucking bastard.”
Julia thought about this and hoped for her friend’s sake that the Hardy novel approximating the Rachel Clark experience was more Mayor of Casterbridge than Tess of the D’Urbervilles or, God forbid, Jude the Obscure.
......
If the above excerpt from Gariel’s Inferno isn’t the clunkiest, most contrived paragraphs you’ve ever read in your life, you have to tell me what books you’ve been reading. I’m genuinely interested.
I’m not a snob. One glance at my Goodreads page will confirm that. I love genre fiction and, as of late, I’ve been devouring romance novels and frothy chick-lits like chocolates. (I mean that figuratively; I don’t really eat chocolates.) So much so that when I take stock of the amount of “trashy” lit I consume in a week, I find it a little disconcerting. Surely I can find a more edifying use of my free time. I’m beginning to suspect my recent trashy-lit reading spree is a way to avoid going to the gym. Like the cliché that I am, I signed up at the beginning of the year and yet I haven’t actually gone. Not once.
When I use the word “trashy” I’m not being derisive. I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. I like what I like and I feel no need to explain myself. Still, as Emily Gould wrote, “there’s trash and then there’s crap.” Gabriel’s Inferno is crap, so let me start this review in earnest with a disclaimer of sorts. I had just finished reading Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken. It was phenomenal! It’s the kind of book that will stay with you for the rest of your life. Naturally, I needed something sufficiently shallow as a literary digestif, if you will. Enter Gabriel’s Inferno by Sylvain Reynard, the first of an erotic romance trilogy. Like 50 Shades, the precursor of this whole mommy-porn genre, Gabriel’s Inferno began as a Twilight fanfic. That should tell you everything you need to know, but read on if you want more.
Gabriel Emerson is a brilliant and enigmatic professor of Dante studies at the University of Toronto. His cold, aloof exterior masks dark secrets he successfully hides, though he has never overcome them. Julianne “Julia” Mitchell is a compassionate, kind young grad student. When she enrols at the University of Toronto, she knows she will see someone from her past - a man she met once, in an encounter she has never forgotten.
I lifted that right out of Wikipedia (with some edits) because I can’t bring myself to write a synopsis of my own. The story is trite and plods along painfully page after page. The characters are annoying at best, boring at worst. In any book, being boring will earn you a place in the ninth circle of hell, to allude from Dante. This book does a lot of that, and not just from Dante, mind you. By the time you’ve finished reading you are pumped full of literary allusions, music, history and art references, and paragraphs upon paragraphs about food and drink. Kinda like reading a Murakami, except done badly, unnaturally and with a huge dose of cloying sentimentality. You will roll your eyes so many times you’ll get a migraine. I feel like the Sylvain Reynard is trying to prove that she is literate and well-read. Ok. Fine. I believe you.
Gabriel Emmerson is a sexy-handsome and rich (of course he is!) 30-something man with a shoe-fetish and a tortured soul. I don’t get the attraction. I found him a bit fey and a total asshole! He becomes even more unappealing when he falls in love with Julia and turns into a “good guy” (because love, like lobotomy, can change you). He turns into an overly-solicitous ninny who is decidedly unsexy and tiresome.
Julia is dumb as a doorknob. She meets Gabriel when she was an impressionable teenager and that single encounter spurns a mad interest in Dante, which will inform every major decision she will make in her life and career. Gabriel, on his part, was stoned and drunk out of his mind and has no memory of the event. If that doesn’t make you lose respect for her maybe this will: a guy drops her a line from a very well-known e.e. Cummings poem and she’s never heard of it! Really? A grad student with a background in humanities? I can’t suspend my imagination sufficiently to buy into the rest of the book after that. Julia will be making a series of dumb decisions throughout the rest of the novel.
I read 50 Shades, ok! I endured three books of Anastasia Steele and her inner goddess’ inanities. Believe me when I tell you that Julia is exponentially worse.
Not counting a couple of secondary characters in love with The Professor, there is a main love triangle (of course there is!) involving grad student/ teaching assistant Paul, the Jacob to Gabriel and Julia’s Edward and Bella. Paul has a weird obsession with bunnies and The Velveteen Rabbit.
Gabriel’s Inferno is neither erotic nor romantic. Gabriel and Julia’s relationship is unhealthy and so, so boring. As for the naughty bits that made 50 Shades, its precursor, famous, it doesn’t really happen in Inferno until the very end. You can skip right to it if that’s your thing. Let me warn you, it’s underwhelming. Gabriel is solicitous to the point of absurdity (he insists that Julia take an ibuprofen for the pain after he boinks her for the first time!) *Rolls eyes*
A little about the author: Sylvain Reynard is a nom de plume of an anonymous Canadian author. I’m guessing she chose to stay anonymous because she’s self-aware enough to feel some embarrassment for having written this book, which although became an international best-seller and has made her filthy rich, is very embarrassing indeed. Having all the money and none of the shame, now that’s having your cake and eating it too. It takes a special kind of talent to write something this bad and be an utter success at it. There are so many bad books out there, they don’t all make it to the New York Times best-seller list. Sylvain Reynard, whoever you are, wherever you may be, good on you, girl! If you are, in fact, a girl. Enjoy your wealth. Don’t listen to the little people like me and keep writing. Despite all the not-so-nice things I can’t help but feel for Gabriel’s Inferno, I’d freaky-Friday with you any day.
That said, I won’t be reading the rest of the books in the trilogy. I’ve recently discovered Sylvia Day’s Crossfire series. Now that’s trash that is more to my liking. (OMG! Gideon Cross!!!!!)
EDITS: Sylvain Reynard is a man. Inconceivable! All the more reason to stay anonymous. His bros will never let him live this down.
What The Dickens: On Reading The Classics…And Loving It!
“You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since-on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with.”
I can walk with my head held a little higher now. I finally did it. I popped my Dickens cherry with Great Expectations! I started reading it last year and didn't finish it until now. As they say, better late than pregnant! I chose Great Expectations because I knew, even before having read the book, that Miss Havisham was the most compelling female character ever written. (I will not hear a word of dissent, thank you very much) Also, the 1998 contemporary film adaptation by Alfonso Cuaron (with Gwyneth Paltrow and Ethan Hawke) is one of my favorite movies of ALL TIME. I love the art, the clothes, and the soundtrack especially. That was Gwynnie at her absolute best, pre-GOOP. I didn’t mind at all that the novel’s plot had been pretty much spoiled. In fact, I deliberately steered clear of Dickens’ more obscure titles. I’m new at this, so…baby steps.
Is a synopsis even necessary? Here goes one anyway and I’m not gonna hold back on the spoilers because I’m probably the only philistine here:
I was truly stunned by how much I loved this tender, touching, captivating book and how much it moved me. I pretty much cried at every single scene with Pip and Joe Gargery. Joe is one the best father figures in literature, right up there with Atticus Finch. And that scene where Magwitch dies had me clutching my chest and bawling. I was furiously marking passage after beautiful passage. Why, oh, why have I waited this long to get into Dickens? Those who think the classics are staid or boring or dry have it all wrong, I tell you.
I love the classics. True, the language can be arcane and completely unnatural to our modern ears; reading it requires more effort, focus, and commitment than, say, reading a Dan Brown novel. The classics make you work hard; but it’s also very rewarding.
These books are considered the very best for a reason. Rather than disdain or fear, we should feel privileged that we have access to these tomes. Remember, these are survivors. Can we all just pause for a second to imagine how many great works of literature have been lost to humanity before they were even discovered? Before the era of cloud back up? Where would I be and who would I be without my girlhood heroes like Lizzie Bennett, Mary Lennox, the March sisters, or Jane Eyre? I shudder to imagine it.
I’ve never regretted any second I’ve spent pouring over a classic, even those that were required reading in school, like for my Great Books class back in college. I never would’ve chosen the works of Shakespeare or a bunch of toga-clad men, or that long-ass Don Quixote for myself. Yet I’m eternally grateful for having been forced to pick it up, taught to appreciate it, and given a taste for works of a similar caliber.
There’s no getting around reading the classics. Certainly not if you have designs of being a writer yourself—any sort of writer, even if you’re only writing for yourself and your mom, nor if you love reading and value good writing and good books.
One of my reading resolutions this year is to include more classics in the mix. I can’t keep up with new releases as it is, but nevertheless there are only so many books I’ll be able to read in my lifetime and making time to read “the best which has been though and said in this world,” to borrow from Matthew Arnold, seems like a worthwhile strategy.
I realize I can now use the adjective “Dickensian” without feeling like a complete fraud. I’m gonna use it every chance I get. Just you try and stop me!
I watched a bootleg copy of this with my very best friends while consuming copious amounts of red wine, Bridget Jones-style. There’s no better way to experience this film than that. Well, unless you’re also dressed in full Regency regalia. Everything’s so much better in costume.
This film was so bad, I loved it!
Based on Shannon Hale’s fun and frothy chick-lit of the same name, Austenland centers around Jane Hayes (Kerri Russel), an Austen-freak of the worst kind who blows her life savings to go to an Jane Austen-themed park in England. Whereupon, female patrons get to live out their wildest regency fantasies with hunky actors playing amalgams of the different Austen heroes. Maybe not their wildest fantasies. It’s all still very proper and chaste…by modern standards. The proprietress, Mrs. Wattlesbrook (Jane Seymour) maps out a story-line for each of the ladies based on what she thinks they would like.
It’s not hard to imagine how this all ends. This movie is very predictable, as was the book. Although the book was charming and heart-warming the way the movie was not. There were some funny bits courtesy of Jennifer Coolidge (love her!).
Jane Hayes utters this phrase near the end: “It doesn't even matter that you weren't real; you were perfect.” I’m gonna paraphrase that and say, it doesn't even matter that this film was a hot mess; it’s Austen-ish. That’s good enough for me.
The tail end of 2012 has been extremely stressful. It was self-imposed stress for the most part, but it was stressful nonetheless. I made it a goal to read 100 books by the end of the year—roughly 8.333 books a month. Big goal, I know, but I was on track for most months. But come October to December, things got hectic and it ate away at my leisure reading time. Story of my life: born to read, forced to work. Boo.
I thought I could make up for it during my Christmas Holiday but I seemed to have over-estimated my powers of concentration. I ended up with 96 books completed and 16 more left unfinished. Ninety-six isn’t bad, but it felt short of my goal. I’m very, very disappointed with myself. I take this shit way too seriously.
I’ll do better this year, so help me God. A hundred is a reasonable goal; any less will feel like a regression, any more and I’ll be setting myself up for an even bigger failure, especially since this is going to be a big year for me with a great many things in the works. *fingers crossed* More on that some other time.
That said, not all of my 2013 picks have been supremely edifying works of literature. A lot of times, like in between dense Murakami, long-winded biographies or emotionally fraught Didion, I would need breaks—though not from reading, per se—and so I turned to ridiculous erotica/romance by Lora Leigh, silly pseudo-pshychology/self-help like Why Men Love Bitches and inspirational mumbo-jumbo I can’t even finish. I regret those deeply. I also read Dan Brown’s Inferno, some romance by Sarah McLean, some chick-lit by Jane Green and Louise Bagshawe, and Brandi Glanville’s memoir Drinking and Tweeting. I don’t regret those. They were actually kind of fun and reading, above all else, is great fun.
A bunch of best books of 2013 lists also came out towards the end of the year, which stressed me out even more. Where did all these books come from and how could I have missed out on them?! I tracked most of those books down and tried reading all of them simultaneously to make my deadline, which you can imagine, didn’t work out too well for me. Option paralysis. More on that some other time as well.
I find it nearly impossible to pick out my own list of favorites out of all the books I’ve read last year, because it’s hard to subject one’s reading experience under any sort of quantifiable cataloging and ranking method. The act of reading is highly personal and very much informed, not just by the text, but by the reader’s own state and set of circumstances while he/she reads. As writer Ali Smith puts it, books “are alive on their own terms.” Yeah, but I’ll try anyway. Any other time and I could very well likely have come up with an entirely different list. But right now, right this minute, these are the 15 books that I feel have made the biggest impression on me. They are listed in no particular order and irrespective of their publication date. I’m gonna do away with the blurbs but do look them up for yourself, I’ve had the greatest pleasure spending time with these gems, I hope you do too.
The Woman Upstairs, Claire Messud
The Defining Decade, Meg Jay
Max Barry, Lexicon
Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafon
The Know-It-All, AJ Jacobs
The Secret History, Donna Tart
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
Eleanor and Park, Rainbow Rowell
Gorgeous, Paul Rudnick
Just Kids, Patti Smith
In My Shoes, Tamara Mellon
Sweet Tooth, Ian McEwan
One For The Books, Joe Queenan
Jemima J, Jane Green
The Age Of Innocence
As you can see, it's an odd mix of classics, YA, fiction, non-fiction, literary fiction, pop fiction, 2013 releases and old best-sellers. If I offend any lit majors there, mea culpa.
Why I Won’t Be Reading Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy
I think it’s common knowledge by now so I’m gonna go ahead and lay it out there: sweet, lovely, perfect Mark Darcy is dead. Killed in a landmine explosion in Darfur during one of his do-gooder missions. Decent till the very end, that man.
Judging from the internet outcry, I’m far from alone in thinking that killing off Mark was V. bad move on Helen Fielding’s part. However, as far as I know, I’m alone in my boycott. Indeed, many of you, if you haven’t already, will probably buy and read (and maybe even like?) Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy. Traitors! No doubt Fielding will be laughing all the way to the bank while women everywhere are left weeping on the gutter.
As a long standing Bridget Jones fan, I refuse to engage in this sacrilegious, gratuitous, and heart-breaking plot twist. Just, no! I was so looking forward to this third installment, especially since Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason ended with Mark and Bridget together, presumably on track for happy ever after. I’d hope to read about domestic comedies, and ruminations about married love in Bridget’s unique, charming and incredibly funny voice. And yes, I realize Bridget will always be a little bit fat and neurotic but I was also hoping for great triumphs for our plucky heroine, triumphs that were so elusive for her during her chaotic thirties where she was screwing up left and right. With the love, support and calming influence of a man like Mark Darcy to count on, it finally seemed possible for her. That’s the book I would’ve wanted to read.
We get none of that in Mad About The Boy. We have been robbed of a happy ending right alongside Bridget Jones. The wilderness years are NOT over.
Like many women out there, I saw myself in much of Bridget’s own struggles, shortcomings and desires. And with every wardrobe malfunction, every mortifying moment that may or may not have involved public speaking, every guy I’ve ever regretted, and every unwanted pound I’ve gained, I would feel like I was quite literally transforming into her. I have a soft spot for 30s Bridget; I’ve been her. However, I’m less inclined to be forgiving and tolerant of middle-aged Bridget.
In this latest book Bridget is 51 (51!), a mum of two, a widow, and none the wiser for any of it. Set aside the fact that the great love of her life is dead, I still find it hard to get behind this book. All her old hang-ups about weight, smoking, drinking, and men—while perfectly understandable and even charming at 30, is decidedly aggravating and not at all cute at 50. Where is the self-possession, the self-confidence, the wisdom, and the poise that supposedly comes with age? Where is the maturity, the selflessness that comes with being a mother? Where is the gravitas that comes with loss? Our once lovable, relatable heroine is nothing more than a cautionary tale.
Truth be told, I’m not a great fan of Helen Fielding outside the Bridget Jones franchise. I read Cause Celeb and Olivia Joules and The Overactive Imagination and found them underwhelming. I get what she was trying to do in Mad About The Boy, that’s not all lost on me. But it all seems like a bit of an overreach. I think I’d be better served spending my precious little reading time on other books.
What are you currently reading? If you don't mind me asking :)
oh my. ok. Those Angry Days by Lynne Olson and Plot Against America by Philip Roth. These are better read together, imo. :D I started Plot Against America many, many months ago but I never finished it. When I started reading Those Angry Days I just had this strong urge to pick up Plot again. Tampa by Alissa Nutting. OMG!!!!! EWWWWWW!!!! THIS BOOK!!!!!! I CAN'T STOP READING IT!!!
I don’t even know where to begin. Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl resonated so much and tugged on so many heartstrings that I would intermittently take quick pauses between reading to clutch the book tightly to my chest and squeal / sniffle / sigh tenderly. I am utterly besotted.
If you’re not a fan girl yourself, there’s still a lot to love about this well-written, funny and super heart-warming story.
I adore Cath, who is not very charming, not in the usual romantic protagonist sense, but who is endearing precisely because of her oddities. She’s painfully awkward, she can be annoying, unreasonable and even stupid. I just LOVE HER her! Finally, a recognizable and realistic romantic girl lead! She’s not professionally cool, she doesn't ooze with inexplicably sex appeal, and she mercifully doesn't spout vague pseudo-depressive lines designed to leave boys’ hearts aflutter. She's not some fetishized version of what a girl ought to be.
I love Levi, who is nice and decent. It’s a refreshing change from all the anti-heroes and bad boys in fiction—all swagger, strong jaws and angst. I love how nice and decent guys don’t finish last in the worlds Rainbow Rowell creates.
Most off all I love how finely-drawn and thought-out her female secondary characters are! I admire the restraint and diligence she displays writing characters like Reagan and Wren. She could’ve gone ahead and made them mean girl caricatures. Instead, she made them nuanced and sympathetic. I have absolutely no regard for fiction that has two (or more?) girls fighting over a boy as one of its major plot points. We are better than that!
Rowell is just amazing at dialogue and at setting up heartrendingly sweet, tender and poignant scenes that will leave you feeling like she physically reached out from the pages of her book and stuck her fist down your throat. I don’t know how else to describe it. I have very visceral reactions from reading her work.
This book made me want to give in to my own social anxieties, stay holed up in my room and geek out too, just like Cath. Unfortunately /fortunately, I’m not an 18 year-old college freshman. I’m a grown woman with career ambitions and bills to pay. Fangirls and otakus grow up too. Plus I have enough friends like Reagan and Wren who will haul me out of my house if necessary.
I’m definitely completist; when I come across an author I like, I hunt for all of her / his work and DEVOUR as many as I can, as fast as I can. I’ve read Eleanor and Park, and Attachments right after. I’ve waited eagerly for Fangirl. The wait for Landline, Rowell’s next work, will be just as unbearable, I’m sure of it! Please, Rainbow Rowell, never ever stop writing!
Now, excuse me while I go write a Nick-Jandro slash. :D
Paul Rudnick’s Gorgeous: Inner Beauty is Overrated; This Book is Not
“Dysmorphia is when someone looks in the mirror, and sees something else. While I studied my own whatever I was, I decided that maybe everyone has at least a touch of dysmorphia; maybe it's impossible for anyone to ever truly know what they look like.”
From living an obscure life of minimum wage and trailer parks, Becky Randall is suddenly and mysteriously whisked off to glamorous NYC by Tom Kelly, a reclusive fashion designer extraordinaire. With a bit of magic and haute couture he transforms the painfully average Becky to the gorgeous Rebecca, the most beautiful woman in the world. Vogue and Hollywood soon come a-calling and with her face as her passport, Becky navigates a dazzling new world of photo shoots, private jets and chi-chi soirees.
Because this is a fairytale, there is a prince charming, who is in fact the heir to the British throne. Handsome like a prince ought to be and surprisingly—and endearingly goofy, Prince Gregory soon falls for Becky. Or is it the impossibly beautiful Rebecca he loves? High jinx ensues.
Gorgeous, simply put, is a fairytale—a modern retelling of Cinderella. But such a narrow definition hardly gives justice to this delightful romp of a novel. Whether you’re the type of girl who never got over her princess phase or a card-carrying feminist who thinks fairytales are evil, you shouldn’t dismiss this book. Don’t judge it by its cover (which I happen to think is perfectly nice), or by its genre (a lot of YA is hit or miss). Judge it instead by its author, the super talented writer /playwright / screenwriter Paul Rudnick. Every time I read something of his I am awash with extreme envy. That’s how good and clever I am in my head. It just doesn’t quite translate on paper.
It’s hard to believe this is Paul Rudnick’s first foray in YA because he is shockingly skilled at capturing voices of young adults, or what all young adults wished they sounded like anyway. The characters are all lovable and so lovingly fleshed out, I can’t pick a favorite. Best friend Rocher gets a special mention, because what’s a female protagonist without an awesome best friend?
This book had me laughing out loud from the first page with the witty dialogue and the characteristic screwball comedy antics. The writing is in fact very visual, the kind that just begs to be to be adapted into a movie. Somebody, please make it happen!
Mussing up some gorgeous actress’ hair and having her wear a pair of unflattering glasses to her pass as average won’t work. They will need to cast two different girls; it’s central to the story. (Maybe a Carey Mulligan type can play Becky and a Miranda Kerr type can play Rebecca).
I haven’t been as excited and engaged while reading in a long time. I never wanted it to end. Nevertheless, I have a bit of a problem with how this book is resolved. [SPOILERS] I’m not even talking about the somewhat contrived and ultimately unsatisfying way it ties up loose ends in the plot. I can forgive that.
In the end Gregory proves to be a true prince in all the ways that count, which was awesome. He and Becky (not Rebecca!) live happily ever after. He doesn’t mind so much that he’s the pretty one in the relationship. But I really, really wanted kind, level-headed and self-possessed Becky to have kept her good looks.
It’s the inside that counts, blah blah, we all know that already. Becky certainly did. She didn’t turn into a shallow, uppity bitch that needed to be taught a lesson once she got gorgeous.
But that ending wouldn’t have been consistent with the book’s message, which is simple and powerful, something we should all know by now but tend to forget, especially during those times when we feel like we need bit of magic in the form of a great blow-out, rib crushing spanx, or shoes we can’t afford. Clothes and other accoutrements, awesome as they are, can only do so much. Physical beauty, or lack thereof for that matter, can only do so much. Beauty is never a guarantee of a great life, or even a happy one.
Becky, gorgeous on not, decided to live the biggest life she can. So take a page out of this wonderful book and live the biggest life you can. It doesn’t necessarily equate to wealth or fame or a great career or any other trappings of a good life by current societal standards. The best thing about it is we get to define that for ourselves.
Still, it would’ve been great if Becky got to stay gorgeous. That would’ve been a better ending. Inner beauty, if only in literature, is so overrated.
I always try to read or reread a book right before watching its film adaptation, but I did my Gatsby reread last December when it was originally scheduled for release. I have a soft spot for both the book and the 1974 film version with Robert Redford and Mia Farrow. Needless to say, the wait to see this film has been excruciating.
About Baz Luhrmann himself, I can't ostensibly claim to be a fan. I've seen all his Hollywood films and I don't know if they stand the test of repeat viewing as I've never had a desire to watch any of them in full again. His films tend to leave me overstimulated and his overall style is too cloying for my taste. That being said, and if it makes an sense, I've never seen a Baz Luhrmann film that I didn't absolutely love, or at least enjoy.
I loved The Great Gatsby, and I'd definitely watch it to again. (And the next time I do watch it, I'm going to take a shot of tequila every time someone says "old sport") I'm not sure if that's more to do with the source material or the director, because the film's strongest point is F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful prose. In fact, I am such a fan of it that I forgive the liberties they took with the original story, i.e., using the framing device of Nick Carraway in the sanatorium and having him ultimately write the novel The Great Gatsby. If it allows for chunks of Fitzgerald's original paragraphs and sentences that I love so much to appear as texts on screen then how could I possibly disapprove?
However, I thought that scene with the shooting star was much too much. Such beautiful language has no need of accouterments or gimmicks.
For your reading pleasure, something gratuitous, here it is:
He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.
Gatsby is a great book, and like all great books, I'm not sure anyone can adequately adapt in into a film. But on it's own, I really enjoyed this movie.
About the cast, as I've mentioned, I've waited for this movie a long time and kept tabs on all the casting news as they rolled out. I was very happy with the choice of Leonardo Dicaprio. His Gatsby was equal parts earnest, vulgar, sympathetic, artificial, vulnerable and eager to impress.
Robert Redford's portrayal of Gatsby was slightly more subdued and Redford's own innate and effortless brand of cool made it seem unbelievable that his Gatsby would at all need to try to impress anyone, let alone try hard! Leo did a better job, I would say. The only reason I prefer Robert Redford is that I enjoy looking at him more. C'mon, will you just LOOK at that? He rocked that pink suit better than anyone ever has or ever will!
I don't know how seriously Blake Lively, Keira Knightley, et al. were in the running for the role. Blake would've RUINED the movie. I'm a huge fan of Keira, but even I have to admit that her voice isn't right. I can get squeaky when she's being emotional. Plus, she looks more like a Jordan than a Daisy. Just check her out in Atonement.
Impenetrably cool, languorous and modern Jordan Baker was played to perfection by Australian actress Elizabeth Debicki. First of all, she looks fabulous, like she just walked out of an Erté artwork. I could not take my eyes off her. She towered over everyone in more ways than one and stole every scene she was in. I hope she gets a great career out of this. She deserves it!
Tom Edgerton, Jason Clarke and Isla Fisher as Tom, George and Myrtle were amazing as well. I LOVE Isla. Her earthy voluptuousness makes her a great Myrtle . She should be a bigger star.
This was more Nick Carraway's movie than Gatsby or anyone else's. He's more prominently featured here than in the 74 movie or the novel itself. Tobey Maguire is always a welcome screen presence, so I don't object.
The unmistakably Jewish Meyer Wolfsheim from the novel was played by Bollywood actor Amitabh Bachchan (his name will forever remind me of a particularly gross scene in Slumdog Millionaire). Strange, indeed. But Luhrmann is nothing if not over literal.
Catherine Martin, the costume and production designer, should come out with her own fashion label. The clothes were just glorious!
I loved this whole world that Baz Luhrmann captured/created, where everything is exaggerated and overplayed. No one can capture / romanticize drunken revelry / debauchery better than Baz. Sigh. He makes me want to run away and be a flapper girl, even though the drop waist silhouette is incredibly unflattering to my hopelessly pear-shaped body.
The soundtrack is awesome, as to be expected. I'm glad people are finally taking Lana Del Ray seriously. LUVS HER!
