What can I say about Susanna Clarke's breathtaking debut novel that hasn't already been said? This novel, a perfect blend of fantasy and historical fiction is meticulously written, but never dull. Clarke's mythology is as whole and perfectly realized as Tolkien, but instead of crafting a new world, the action of the novel takes place in an alternate history of Napoleanic-era England, where magic, once thought to be a lost art, suddenly reappears in the form of Mr.Norrell, an unpleasant, bookish introvert who believes no one should study the lost art but himself, the sole master of it. Until, by chance, Jonathan Strange, a gallant young aristocrat, finds that he has the ability to wield magic too.
Melding together a meticulous mythology of an alternate world where magic has its own detailed history, medieval faerie lore, and the real world events of the era, including breathtaking depictions of the Napoleanic Wars, Clarke manages a wondrous magic of her own: a gargantuan, 800-page tome that is a gripping page-turner, a fantasy novel that feels, at times, more like the work of Jane Austen or Charles Dickens.
Not only does Clarke revel in the trappings of the era, but the book is infused with an Austenian wit and social comedy, as well as, at times, a Byronic sense of the Gothic. It delicately dances between genres and becomes a work wholly its own; something that would delight longtime fans of fantasy and readers who shudder at the very mention of wizards or broomsticks in their reading. Filled with unforgettable characters, dark magic, sparkling wit, and powerful social commentary, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is, at the risk of sounding cliche, sure to become (and rightly deserves to be) a classic of the genre, if not fiction as a whole.
“Since it is so likely that (children) will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.” - C.S. Lewis
In many ways Kate DiCamillo's award winning children's book is the embodiment of Lewis' sentiments. A beautiful book for children and adults, The Tale of Despereaux is a delightful adventure featuring a cast of unlikely nonconformists: a big-eared mouse who longs to be a knight, an ugly serving girl who longs to be a princess, a dungeon rat who longs for light, a princess named Pea. But more than a fun story, the book is also a beautiful parable about the power of forgiveness. While it is perfectly appropriate material for young readers, neither condescending nor too heady, featuring a few big words (and admonishments to look them up) and a friendly voice, DiCamillo does not shy away from talking about some very complex themes, including the capacity of everyone (both human and, in this case, rodent) for great evil and for great good, the pain of heartbreak, and, especially, the healing power of forgiveness, both on the people who have wronged you, and on yourself. It's a timeless story with a charming, fairy tale quality that does not shy away from darkness, but is lit through with plenty of light. It is written in a conversational style that is appealing, especially for kids just starting on chapter books, but would also make for a delightful book to read aloud (to your kids, or just to yourself). This lovely story has the lasting appeal of classics before it such as The Chronicles of Narnia, The Phantom Tollbooth, or Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, and should make its way into any child's-and adult's- library.
I've had strong opinions on this election. I don't think either major party candidate is fit to be the next president (though I strongly believe one is even less fit than the other) and while I voted third party, I know that after today, one of them will be declared the victor, to the chagrin of everyone on the other side.
And what is going to happen afterwards is, you're going to have to go home, or to work, or to school, or to your place of worship again, and you have face the same people you faced the day before. Every day you're going to stand in line at the store, or be stuck in traffic with, or sit on a bus next to someone who disagrees with you.
The election has brought out a lot of ugliness. Any competition, whether on a national or neighborhood level, that is based around the idea of "us" vs. "them" will do that. But we're all still human beings, we're all still Americans, and we're all still in this together. After tomorrow, we still have to work together, and sit together, and serve each other, no matter how differently we may feel about immigration and war, gay marriage and abortion.
You ultimately, as a single individual, have very little control over who becomes president. But you have all the power in the world over how you handle your side winning or losing, and how you treat the people on the other side.
An exceptional coming of age story, I Capture the Castle gives delightful, and occasionally moving, insight into the heart of the teenage girl. The novel is written as the journal of Cassandra Mortmain, a seventeen year old living in the crumbling ruins of an English castle with her unconventional family, all of whom are too artistic and out of touch with the world to have any practical life skills. While Cassandra is at times precious and, as one character deems her, "consciously naive," she does not romanticize her family's poverty, nor their inability to put bread on the table. Cassandra admits to her own failings, feeling that writing is her only skill, and wonders why her father, a once-famous author who wrote a Joyce-esque postmodern book, is unable to write again, or be bothered to support the family. As the family, consisting of her stepmother, Topaz, a former artist's model and all around eccentric; Rose, Cassandra's older sister who makes up what she lacks in personality in beauty; Thomas, Cassandra's younger brother who spends his days mostly at school; and Stephen, the long-suffering servant boy who harbors a deep and abiding flame for Cassandra; begins to sink into despair over their future, hope comes in the form of two handsome- and rich- American men who have just moved into the neighborhood. Thus begins a campaign to get one of them to fall in love with Rose, and thus save the entire family from destitution. As Cassandra joins in the hunt with the rest of her family, she begins to question her own motives, and feelings, towards the newcomers, the charming Californian Neil, and the gentle, bookish Simon, and thus begins a slow but inevitable transformation as Cassandra begins to mature from dreaming child to young woman. Along the way, she must put away her effected hobbies, her childish games, and force herself into awareness of the world- and the people- around her, and how what she says and does impacts them.
While Cassandra never ceases being herself, she grows up with realism and gentleness that few-if any- modern YA books manage to capture. Set in a sort of timeless post-war period, this book speaks the language of the heart and will always manage to be a relevant and accurate portrait of the pains and triumphs of growing up. At times poetic, moving, and hilarious, I Capture the Castle is a true gem to any who can put their hands on it.
On April the 21st, Annalise decided it was high time she visit a dear friend. She set off from the eastern-most border of West Clocktown, and headed towards Carroll Street. Her destination was a towering building, like a metallic rook in the game of chess. A light rain was drizzling outside, setting shining beads in her wild dark hair.
By the time she reached the Mayor’s Offices, now called some official title that no one really used, she was soaked through. She stared up at the imposing building, and grinned. Entering through the glass doors, she walked straight past the woman at the front desk without having a head turned in her direction. She flounced, in her ragged silk dress, straight up to the elevator, slipped in silently, and pressed the topmost button. She arrived in a red and wood room, with another desk, and another woman. Annalise allowed this second woman to see her and stood politely until she was noticed.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman intoned.
Annalise looked at her critically.
She was a pretty woman, but not too pretty She had a full figure and rather dull eyes, and wore her corset far too tight.
“Do I need one?” Annalise snapped, unimpressed by the secretary.
“No one sees him without an appointment or special invitation.”
“Well, he invited me.” Annalise rubbed her knuckles absently.
“I was not informed.”
Annalise’s milky blue eyes snapped into a fierce lavender. “I assure you, miss-” she began in violent tones.
Then she allowed her eyes to return to normalcy, and calmed her voice. Without another word, Annalise walked past the secretary, to the door of the large office behind the woman’s desk, and was not followed.
In that office, the first noticeable things were the bookshelves. They lined nearly every inch of wall space, save for where there was a mirror and a portrait of a small girl. The second noticeable thing was a rather large claw-foot bathtub, which was the only furniture in the room. The third noticeable thing, and the one that gathered the most of Annalise’s attention, was a man lying face-down in several inches of water in that tub.
Leaning over him, she reached down into the water, grabbed a handful of his hair, which was in a water-logged braid, and pulled.
Once his ears were above the water she casually said, “You’ve already tried drowning. Get up.”
In between spitting and coughing, the man grinned. “You’re late.” His voice was smooth and unstrained.
“You didn’t have to go and try to drown yourself because of it.”
He turned to face her, still grinning. “I thought for sure you would kill my secretary.”
“I was contemplating it.”
“I must admit, in spite of myself, I’m glad you are here, Annalise.”
“That may be the closest thing I will ever get to a confession of love from you, Chester.”
He stood, and twisted his fingers around themselves. The bathtub transformed itself into a desk and chair. He left watery footprints across the crimson carpet as he picked up his clothing from a bookshelf and put it on.
Annalise was not phased.
He then sat at his desk, and sighed.
Annalise seated herself on the edge of the desk, staring unwaveringly into his wintery grey eyes. “I have a gift for you, Chester.”
“If it is your virginity, I gladly accept.”
She twisted her arms. “What a naughty big brother you are.”
“I am not your brother. Get off of my desk.”
Annalise did not. “Father then.”
“Definitely not.”
“Then you leave me no choice but to call you my husband.”
“Get off of my desk.”
She did, crossing her arms like a child. “Before I give you my present, I must know exactly what you consider me.”
“I consider you to be the bane of my existence.” Chester pressed a button on his desk’s speaker. “Tea.”
“I don’t like existence tea,” Annalise muttered, half to herself.
Chester let his dim golden hair down and began braiding it again while he waited for his drink. Annalise studied his face while he braided his hair. In every aspect of his physiognomy he was beautiful, perfectly shaped, almost feminine. And he was graceful in his movements and precise. But he was no dandy, Annalise knew.
She looked at the books lining the walls. “There are so many now.”
He looked up, wrapping his braid around his left arm. “Yes.”
“Were they pretty? The girls you turned into these?”
“Some.”
“Why have you never turned me in to a book?”
He stared at her very directly. “I do not think it’s a story I’d enjoy very much.”
Her eyes briefly changed to lavender.
“In honest answer to your question, Annalise,” Chester spoke in a diplomatic tone, “ I view you, always, as a little girl I found in an alley.”
“It’s been ten years. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a little girl any more, Chester.”
“Nor am I,” he said seriously.
She smiled and her eyes fell back to their normal coloring. “I’ve often wondered why you took me in,” she said softly.
“Boredom, mostly. You know how teenagers are.”
“Do they often take in ten year old girls?”
“Daily, I’m sure.” Chester tilted his head until his neck joints made a cracking sound.
“When I was ten, I know you loved me,” Annalise continued.
“Perhaps. These days are different,” he replied nonchalantly.
“Of course. You only love your twin brother.”
His face darkened.
Annalise bounced over to his chair. “It is true, isn’t it?” She pressed close against him.
His thin hand shot up and grasped her neck. For a delicate looking man, his hold was strong, and closed fast on her windpipe. He stood and her feet lifted from the floor. She struggled against him. Her eyes flashed violently purple, and a powerful invisible force slammed into Chester and threw him backwards, into a bookcase. Annalise lay splayed out on the floor where he had dropped her, gasping.
“Don’t you dare try to kill me, Chester!” she spat.
He stood and brushed dust from his shirt. “You have gotten extremely good at that.”
“I’ve had to,” She lifted the hair from her forehead to reveal a mosaic of yellow, purple and blue splotches.
Chester approached her and offered her his hand. He looked, not with sympathy, but with a sort of scholarly concern at the mess of bruises. “That is revolting,” he pronounced. He then offered her a chair across from his at his desk. They sat like civilized people.
Annalise did not speak, but gazed at the books, old and new, tattered and torn, fresh and clean.
The secretary entered the room with a tray of tea, and set it on the desk.
Chester’s focus was unfalteringly on Annalise. When the secretary left, he stated, “You’ve made yourself invisible to her.”
Annalise looked at him curiously. Apologies from Chester were rare treats.
“I did say it was revolting,” he continued. “But I mean, more clearly, that it is revolting the way you continue living in abuse.”
She rubbed her neck, where Chester’s fingers had left red prints. “I’m used to it. I have you to thank for that.”
Chester leaned across his desk and placed his fingertips against her neck. He gently massaged the prints he had left, then pulled his hand away. He poured hot water in his cup and allowed the tea to steep.
“I meant it,” Annalise calmly spoke. “About you being in love with Adam.”
Chester added cream and sugar.
“Since he left, you’ve become...” Annalise grasped for a word.
“Insane?” He offered.
She stared at the carpet. “I loved him too. You two were the only family I’ve ever had.”
Silence filled the room, and Chester took a sip of tea.
Annalise placed a golden ring on the desk before him. “Here’s the gift I brought you.”
He stared at it for a long while. A slow grin began curling his lips. It was a malicious, fearsome thing. He picked it up and held it in his palm. “I accept,” he chuckled.
“You recognize it, then?” Annalise was like a spaniel, ears pricked, desperate for her master’s approval.
“Oh, my, yes.” His face was lit with the light of insanity.
“How did you do it?” He asked, excited. “Tell me everything!”
“I found her at her house....sleeping in bed. I cut her throat.”
“And?”
“I cut it right off of her finger.”
“And?” Chester was sitting on top of his desk, face leaning into hers. His braid fell loose from his arm.
“Then I set the house on fire.”
“I take it all back, Annalise. You are my darling daughter, my dear sister, and my greatest lover.”
Annalise basked in the words. “I did it for you, Chester. I knew you hated her. For taking Adam from us.”
He pressed his hand against Annalise’s face. “Yes. Yes. She deserved worse for what she did,” his eyes were elsewhere now, and his face was terrifying. “Not only did she steal my brother, she had to go and abandon him for other men. And it drove him away. But now,” he caressed Annalise. “Now she is dead. We no longer have to worry about his horrible wife again.”
“Chester,” Annalise ventured, when he finished his demented monologue. He stared at her, his winter colored eyes suddenly returning from the beyond.
“Have I made you very happy?” She asked, childlike.
“Oh yes, my darling. Very much.”
“Do you love me, Chester?” Her eyes were a deep purple, and her face was flushed.
He did not answer. His own eyes seemed to be everywhere at once.
“Do you?” She repeated, eyes shining.
Distantly, he nodded, as he began to pace around his office, seeming to be searching for something. He turned suddenly and twisted his fingers at odd, painful angles. The ring spun around on the table, and burst into a mess of pages between gold embossed covers.
Annalise stared at the new book, and then back at Chester. Her neck hurt. Tears stung her eyes. “I’m going to come back soon, Chester.”
“Why, are you leaving?” He seemed to have regained some composure.
“Yes.” She headed towards the door, and turned slightly, and looked at him. “Chester.”
He looked up, braid swinging.
“Why have you never turned me into a book?” She quietly asked.
Perfectly calm again, he smiled. “Because it is a story I don’t need to hear.... Not yet.”
She nodded, and left his office. She was satisfied.
Spanning twenty years, Tricks Every Boy Can Do takes you through the lives of Alvie and Frankie Farrell, twin- well, two triplet- brothers who are exact opposites. Raised by their resourceful single mother, Rose, and competing for the attention of the stubborn Lydia, the boys grow to very different adulthoods, informed by injuries sustained in a sibling rivalry gone too far, and wartime and a love of jazz, respectively. Set against the backdrop of the a Southern California town from the 1930s to the mid-1950s, the novel unfolds as a series of short stories, relaying essential, defining moments in the lives of the brothers, some taking place as many as ten years from each other.
While the novel starts out in familiar, almost archetypal territory, pitting the brothers against each other- with sweet, sensitive Alvie always losing out to the bullying and boorish Frankie, as the novel progresses, the boys become men and take on their own separate lives. Lacking a father figure, Frankie and Alvie grow into twisted versions of masculinity, with Alvie’s sweet side morphing into unappealing softness and passivity, while Frankie's brutishness grows into unpredictability and immorality. Their mother, Rose, disappears into her own world of early onset dementia, and Alvie’s fiancée, the stern Lydia, grows closer to both brothers and their foibles. As things grow more complicated between the characters, it becomes more apparent that Lydia will have to choose between what is safe and what is wild; between Alvie and Frankie. But this is no mere love triangle; the story also takes time to touch on heavy concepts like tolerance, racism, sexism, and even body image issues, all wrapped in a palatable package as it relates to the main two characters. In many ways, the novel is like the jazz that Frankie loves so well, starting with the familiar and then playing with them. Frankie is not just a brute and a boor, but also a man of deep compassion for outcasts and love for creativity. Alvie is not just passive, but a man who longs to understand the world around him and its beauty and mystery. Rose is not just a single mother, nor a victim of circumstance, but a woman who longs for acceptance and belonging in a community that has shunned her. Lydia is not just a woman caught between two men, but a woman longing to be seen for her real worth, her real value. Even the side characters, such as the obese jazz singer, Fat Sadie, have personality and depth far beyond their assigned roles, with Sadie becoming the unexpected breakout character, in my opinion- for all that she’s only in the book two chapters. And that's not even mentioning the ghost.
Even the choice of era is played with in this way. While it would be easy for a lesser writer to be nostalgic for a bygone era, Tricks Every Boy Can Do presents both the innocence and the insidiousness wrapped up in the era’s facade of politeness. In fact, the book is forever subverting the easy, lazy way, even if it sometimes sacrifices satisfaction. In a different writer’s hands, this book would have ended predictably. Instead, it chooses to give the characters what they need to grow, rather than what the reader would crave for closure, and in constantly playing such riffs on what we thought we knew, it grows into a book that is so much more than its simple premise would suggest. Not unlike, as the title suggests, a sort of magic trick.
Tricks Every Boy Can Do will be released in October 2016.
It's Doctor Who meets Downton Abbey in Connie Willis' witty, charming, and occasionally insightful novel. To Say Nothing of the Dog is set in a not-so distant future where time travel is possible, and limited only to scientists, it having been discovered long ago that it was impossible to bring artifacts from the past into the future, therefore eliminating any monetary motive. With interest in the field waning, Ned Henry and his associates at Oxford are under the employ of the terrifying Lady Schrapnell, who has hired out the entire department to held her reconstruct the Coventry Cathedral, down to every last detail. The last detail is to find the current whereabouts of a Victorian piece called “the bishop’s bird stump.” Ned is on the scene for one such mission when he is pulled out of duty after coming down with a severe case of “time lag,” a time traveler’s sickness. Addled by his sickness and out of his depth, he is sent on a last mission to the Victorian era, to right a wrong after a colleague, Verity Kindle, does the unthinkable: brings something forward in time- a living creature, no less- which threatens to upset the space-time continuum forever.
Confused and unsure of his own objectives, Ned is plopped into the Victorian era with Verity and together they must try and convince two sentimental Victorian lovers that they shouldn’t get married: all of time and space hinges on it! As they clumsily navigate with cultural expectations, flighty matrons, the class system, eccentric Oxford professors, a lovable bulldog and a very spoiled cat, Ned and Verity come to realize that the era’s romanticism has been greatly exaggerated, and that, even with their best efforts, every problem has a way of working itself out.
While the book gets off to a slow start, and sometimes relies too heavily on its inspirations, especially in the earlier chapters, it is unpretentious enough to be readable and does not allow itself to get too caught up in science fact as it plays with science fiction. And it is light enough on the fantastic aspects that it would be a good read for anyone interested in seeing the Victorian era through the lens of a modern.
Clever and stuffed to brimming with literary allusion and historical references, To Say Nothing of the Dog is wholly original and unsentimental, presenting the desperation to save the world as a madcap comedy of manners, wrapped in a story that is ultimately about human nature, love, and the Grand Design. Filled with memorable characters, this delightful little book will instill in any reader a more than passing fondness for modern sensibilities… and cats… to say nothing of the dog.
Unpopular Opinion: Captain America Civil War Review
Unpopular opinion time: I found Captain America: Civil War pretty underwhelming, to be honest. Now, I’m willing to concede that this is at least in part due to the fact that Marvel has been pushing it, and the fanbase has been frothing at the mouth over it, for almost two years now; it’s been about as hyped as Avengers was, and honestly, just kind of failed to deliver.
I’m not super into Marvel, so I’m not extremely familiar with the source material, but my impression was that the Civil War arc, one of the most famous stories in the comics, is a multifaceted arc spanning several characters’ books with timely political undertones about freedom and safety.
This more or less is the backdrop for the film, but it never really goes beyond that. The set-up is that Tony Stark is ready and willing to sign off on a proposal to keep the Avengers and other superheroes in check through political means, while Captain America sees the danger of such regulations. But this plot thread never really expands beyond background noise, serving to underscore the real drama of the story, which centers less on a “war” between two people who view each other as misguided, but on what basically amounts to a petty revenge plot and a playground fight over someone (Bucky, who is never 100% believable as worth the effort) being better friends with Cap than Tony is. The story, essentially, isn’t much of a story at all, and the “civil war” is just a disagreement. The film never delves into the problems with Tony’s viewpoint (such as that in this universe some people are born with powers; which always has to be skirted around due to the X-Men rights issue), and Cap’s viewpoint seems to center around trying to prove that his long lost BFF, Bucky, is a decent person despite being a brainwashed assassin, and everyone should stop trying to kill him. Cap comes across as less a righteous defender of the helpless, than a really, really dedicated friend. Which is in keeping with the character, but hardly the battle of ideologies the “Civil War” plot promised.
I suppose the film really centers around fight scenes over substance, but even in this arena the film falls rather flat. It’s not that it isn’t exciting to see Ant Man fight Spider-Man fight Captain America fight Iron Man fight Winter Soldier fight Black Panther. It is. But the choreography often comes across too stagey to be believable. At times, I wasn’t sure if everyone was supposed to be pulling their punches or if the fight scenes just held no weight. And the titular “civil war” basically boils down to just one big fight against the really dull backdrop of a seemingly abandoned airport. The opening fight had echoes of a million similar fights traipsed across a million similar films- and the car chase felt like something I’ve definitely seen James Bond partake in before. The only fight scene that really seemed to work was the final fight; and it’s barely a fight scene so much as a beat down- but at least it seemed like the punches actually hurt.
Now, that all said, the cast is, as usual, reliably great with the material, and the new additions in the form of Black Panther and Spider-Man are great. Spider-Man is twitchy and mouthy and awkward, and comes across as both inexperienced and juvenile, two qualities that previous versions of the character have not captured, and which make the overused character refreshing. And Black Panther, a character many, myself included, are unfamiliar with, is both noble and sympathetic by turns. Both introductions serve well, and leave the door wide open for greater expansion, which is probably the best thing Civil War offers. Robert Downey Jr. continues to fully embody Tony Stark, and Chris Evans brings the mixture of caution and idealism to Cap that became fully realized in Winter Soldier. Scarlett Johansson also gives another good turn as the complex Black Widow, leaving fans forever wondering why she doesn’t have, and Marvel has no plans to make, her own film. The absence of Thor and the Hulk are really glaring here, though, and one misses the boyish charm of Chris Hemsworth and the balanced skepticism of Mark Ruffalo.
Overall, this isn’t the be-all-end all film of the Marvel universe, not by a long shot, and the story is filled with missed opportunities. This doesn’t make it unwatchable or even necessarily bad. It’s miles above the disappointing Age of Ultron, but it’s just not anywhere near the level of the timely Winter Soldier nor does it tap into the popcorn fun of The Avengers. The film just promises more in the over-bloated Marvel universe, and while it promises an ever-expanding roster of characters, it does not at all promise that Marvel will deliver stories that make them worthwhile.
By turns poetic, enraged, and heartbroken, Barbara Kingsolver's postcolonial novel is both a gripping family drama and indictment against Western imperialism.
In 1959, the Reverend Nathan Price moves his family from their home in Georgia to the small village of Kilanga in the heart of the Belgian Congo. Fueled only by his desire to please a guilt-tripping version of God in his head, the Reverend does everything in his power to win the Congolese over except understand them or their ways. Told alternately by his four daughters; Leah, the intelligent tomboy with a desire to please her father, Adah, Leah's disabled twin with a chip on her shoulder, Rachel, who only wants to get home to boys and magazines, and Ruth May, the fearless youngest daughter, who views the world through the unique lens of childhood, and occasionally taken up by Orleanna, Nathan's harassed wife, The Poisonwood Bible unfolds a family falling apart against a dramatic political landscape as the Congo seeks independence. Told with a strong voice perfectly capturing the colliding personalities of the female leads, the story is unafraid to grapple with the big questions. While the family starts to come apart at the seams, realizing nothing in their white Christian lives could prepare them for the hardships or upheavals of the Congolese jungle, they begin to question the unquestionable teaching of Nathan's angry God. Kingsolver deftly draws the parallels between the Price women shaking off the oppression of their heavy-handed patriarch to the Congo's own struggle to remove herself from Western oppression.
While much of the novel takes place over the course of one dramatic year in the jungle, the book in total spans a thirty year period, detailing both the personal journeys of each of the Price women, as well as the Congo's own long journey to becoming Zaire and back again. While viewed through a white, American lens, The Poisonwood Bible, while grappling with faith, abuse, patriarchy and racism, is, first and foremost, about the heartcry of the Congo for justice and independence. The book is furious, not at God, a mysterious, ever-changing figure who looms large over the narrative, but at the men who come in his name and leave nothing but destruction in their wake. Each of the Price girls is firsthand witness-yet forever outsider- to the small and large-scale destruction of the Nathan Prices of the world, and the cost of such ignorance. Despite centering around the effects of the Congo on a family of outsiders, the book is filled with believable, realistic African characters, and a more than Western understanding of African values and language, approaching the themes of African colonialism with sympathy and outrage... while allowing Western readers a relatable lens through which to view our own failings. And the book somehow manages all of this while still reading like sheer poetry...Kingsolver's work here is nothing short of masterful.
It's a powerful, and timely work, asking big questions of life, death, faith, and redemption, angry and mournful, questioning a woman's place in a wide drama that goes so far beyond her. As each girl moves further and further apart from the other, they all still manage to collide, unable to escape the faith that the Congo- that all of Africa- deserved better... and sometimes, even (and perhaps especially) the Bible holds no easy answers.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: Book Review
By turns charming and heartbreaking, warm and tearful, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is the kind of novel that readers spend their lives on the look-out for. It's a book that's truly unforgettable and completely endearing.
Set in the aftermath of WWII, England is trying to rebuild and dust itself off. A writer, Juliet Ashton, has just finished promoting her book- a collection of wartime columns- and trying to pick up where her life left off. Just as she begins to be swept off her feet by an oily American suitor, she receives a letter from Dawsey Adams, a book lover from Guernsey, an island in the British channel, describing to her the trials of life on the island during the German Occupation, and how he and several other islanders survived by forming the outlandishly named "Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society." What started as a ruse to avoid German suspicion soon led Dawsey and several others islanders, many of whom have never picked up a book for pleasure in their lives, to a lifelong love of reading, and a valuable form of escape during five of the most harrowing years of their lives.
Fascinating, Juliet soon begins correspondence with Dawsey and other members of the Society, including the matronly Amelia, the flighty and dramatic Isola, the weatherworn Eben. As she becomes more engrossed in their lives, their love of literature, and their struggles during the war, Juliet finds the sense of belonging and purpose she was searching for, and comes to visit them.
Told as a series of correspondence between about five central characters, with supplemental letters here and there detailing the struggles of others, the book describes the horrors of war from every imaginable angle, from starvation to prisoner camps to befriending the enemy only to discover they are human too, with the single shining thread of the comfort and healing power of art woven throughout. While the story is kept somewhat light and happy, the sense of real horror and struggle and feeling is deep and impermeable, which elevates this from just a "cozy" British story to a story that is, ultimately, about the human need for peace and belonging, whether it be with others or in a book.
Often powerful, and often very funny too, the only downside to this book is that it ends.
Funny and very insightful, Eleanor Brown's first novel is an engrossing, clever look into sibling relationships, overcoming personal failure, and lifelong love of reading.
Set in the fictional college town of Barnwell, Ohio, the Andreas sisters all come together amidst massive personal failings to ostensibly aid their mother, who has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. But in truth, through the course of the novel, they do as much to aid themselves.
There's the eldest sister, Rose, who struggles to manage her absent-minded parents' lives, even at the expense of her own engagement to a wonderful man.
Then there's the middle-child, Bean, who has recently been fired for embezzling thousands of dollars from her high-powered New York firm.... and that's only the start of her desperation.
And finally, there's the flighty youngest sister, Cordy, who has never learned how to care for herself or own any responsibilities, but suddenly finds herself pregnant.
Playing with the classic "eldest, middle, youngest" character archetypes, Brown weaves an intriguing story around them, as each sister tries to navigate her own struggles while learning more about each other and her parents. While the story is a fairly straightforward family dramedy, with laughter and poignancy in large amounts, it's elevated by both the setting and the literary allusion. The "weird sisters'" father is a Shakespeare professor who knows the Bard better than the real world, and each girl takes her name from one of Shakespeare's heroines. Each girl struggles to live up to the expectations of the character, and each is capable of connecting her story to her namesake's in amusing and often brilliant ways. This is all somehow manages without the book coming across as pretentious or inaccessible; while knowing Shakespeare certainly adds to the experience, you needn't be a scholar yourself to enjoy the novel.
Woven together with delicacy, Brown touches on heavy themes from adultery to self esteem, abortion to faith, ultimately creating an understated story that is ultimately about redemption. While there is a subtle thread of faith throughout, the book never fully commits to being "religious" or "inspirational," but does take its characters through harrowing life experiences, even if you can see from miles away how they will grow.
It's a fun, occasionally moving work, centered around an unforgettable family and leaves me hopeful to read more of Brown's work in the future.
“You killed yourself once,” Con said quietly.
“Did I?” Trista folded her hands on the table. “Why would I do that?”
“You were depressed,” Con said. “You slit your wrists.”
Trista nodded. “I always said if I got to that point, that’s what I’d do.”
“You did it right in front of me,” Con said. “I couldn’t stop you.”
Trista looked at the man across the table. His eyes were brown, but if you looked long enough they seemed to be burning. He seemed to be burning. She wondered if it came with the job, or if Con was special.
“I’m sorry,” Trista mumbled, scratching at a spot of paint on the table.
“It’s in the past now.”
“No it’s not,” Trista said. “It never happened.”
“Right,” Con said. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
“So you’re in trouble, then? Because of me?”
“Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t know. Don’t know. You won’t ever know. I’ve told you this before.”
Trista shook her head. She felt her face get hot and her eyes water. “I’m sorry, Con. I’m trying to understand.”
“I know.” Con reached out a hand and placed it over hers.
“How many times has this happened?”
“Too many times.”
“How many?” she demanded.
“Let me tell you how it first happened.”
#
Con was standing on the edge of the road, checking his watch impatiently. It was a silver pocket watch, old fashioned, functionally elegant. He replaced it with a frown, then turned his face up to the sky. He watched the clouds, not making a sound for a long while. He took his hat off and put it under his arm. He had arrived too early. To judge by the sun, about three hours too early. He looked around, but the neighborhood was sleepy in the warm afternoon and quiet, save for children playing across the street. They were spraying the hose at each other, screaming in delight and shock at the cold water. Con put his hat back on and looked around. He was not scheduled to make corrections; he simply had to wait it out. He sat down on the corner, looking at the sky impatiently.
“Are you a detective?” a small voice asked.
Con looked around. There was a small girl with a mop of bright red curls, looking at him curiously. She had not been hosed down like the other children; she was perfectly dry. She looked about eight.
“No, why would you think that?” Con asked, amused.
“Your hat. In those black and white films, detectives always wear ‘em.”
“I just think they’re snappy.”
“Snappy?”
“You know, fetching. Becoming. Uh, handsome?”
The girl shook her head. “Well, I think it makes you look like a detective. I bet you’re investigatin’.”
Con smiled. “What do you think I’m investigating?”
“I dunno, some cat bugglar or something.”
“A cat bugglar?”
“Yanno, they take your things when you’re not lookin’ and turn into cats to hide from police.”
“Do they?” Con asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yup, I think so. I bet that’s a cat bugglar right there.” She pointed at a cat sleeping on a fence a few houses down.
“Just so,” Con said. “I’m watching to see if he’ll try to run.”
“Can I watch too?” The little girl asked.
“Of course, you can be a junior investigator.”
She sat down and put on a serious expression, watching the cat intensely.
Con once again heard the din of the children across the street.
“So why aren’t you playing with the other children?”
The girl looked over at them dubiously. “They don’t want me. I’m just a kid.”
Con raised an eyebrow. “They’re kids too.”
“Yeah, but they’re big kids,” She said solemnly.
Con was clearly out of his depth with the mysterious politics of the children in this neighborhood. He did not respond.
The girl looked at the cat intently, then back at him.
“You want a drink or something?” she asked after a while. “My mom made lemonade.”
Con fiddled with his pocket watch. “Why not?”
The girl went back into the house. Con watched her go, wondering at her enthusiasm. He glanced back at the sky, watching the sun. The girl soon ran back to him, half spilling the glass of lemonade as she did.
“Here ya go,” she said, handing it to him.
He took a sip while she watched him, eyes wide.
He coughed and stifled a gag. “It’s … sweet,” he said politely.
“I put extra sugar in it!” the girl exclaimed.
“Ah, sugar. That must be it.” Con carefully set the glass aside. “What is your name?”
“Trista,” the girl said, plucking idly at a red curl.
“Well Trista, you are very kind. But I promise you, I’m not very interesting. Why don’t you play with the kids across the way?”
She shook her curls.
“But isn’t it a warm day?” he gestured to the kids hosing each other down.
“Yeah but—” she fumbled.
The street was still, the heat enormous, the sun rising in waves off of the pavement. A car slowly rolled down the street, taking its time.
Trista stood up, her little face determined. “Maybe I’ll just see, okay?”
“Very good,” Con said.
The girl took a step towards the curb, then paused and removed her shoes. She ran across the hot pavement, the road burning her feet, the promise of the water … then the slam of the car into her body.
Con watched her trajectory. He stood up, involuntarily. The laughter from the big kids stopped. Trista hit the ground with a wet crunch that sent a shiver up Con’s spine. Screams took over. Con’s senses were crushed, but he kept seeing every horrifying detail. He could see every hair on her head clearly, the red of it sopping up the blood pouring out of her body, such a deep shade, a peculiar tint. His breathing became ragged. He slammed open his pocket watch and fumbled with the dials, his hands shaking. He felt a tug begin at his navel, as if a string was being pulled out of his spine. The world flattened and disappeared. Then he found himself still again, standing on the edge of the road. He snapped his watch shut. Once again, he was early. His hands still shook. He looked around and his eyes caught on a mop of red curls, the girl beneath it looking at him curiously. “Are you a detective?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s hot today. You should go inside.”
#
“I don’t remember that,” Trista said, standing up from the table.
“I don’t expect you would.”
“You’re right about the cat burglars though; I did think that when I was a kid.” Trista poured water from the kettle into a teacup and dropped a green tea bag in it. “You want some?” she asked, looking sidelong at him.
“No, I drink coffee.”
“Right, right,” Trista said, leaning against the counter. “Did you get in trouble?”
“Yes, for interfering with your timeline. The Bureau takes that sort of thing seriously. I argued that I was correcting an interference since it was my fault that you—” he choked.
Trista stared into her teacup. “I’ve only known you a year.”
“I’ve known you your whole life,” Con said.
“Why don’t you seem older than you are?” she asked after a while. “I’d think you were my age.”
“I am your age,” Con replied.
Trista shook her head. “So what happened after that?”
“I went to visit you, just sometimes, when I had time,” he sighed. “Of course, I always had time. For you. I maybe saw you every other week. Then you got sick.”
Trista gave him another blank look. “I was never sick.”
“No, you weren’t; not to your knowledge. But I watched, watched you dehydrate and waste away, too weak to hold up a teddy bear.”
“I would have been hospitalized.”
“You were a goner in days. No one knew how fast it would happen.”
“But you stopped it?”
“I convinced your parents to get medical help sooner.”
“And then?” Trista asked, spooning sugar into her tea, vacantly.
“Then you were fine for a while. But I started jumping too far ahead. Wherever I went, I could never find you in the future. That’s when I knew …” his voice trailed off.
“Are they punishing you?” Trista asked, not looking at him.
“Of course they are.” Con held up his wrist, and pulled back the sleeve of his dress shirt. There was a deep scar, as if he had been burned. “It wasn’t that I was rebelling. It was that I couldn’t accept it. Why should you die? I kept trying to plead your case. It was my fault; it wasn’t a stable event. They wouldn’t listen.” Con sighed, a sigh that seemed to echo stars. “I would visit you every year or so and every time …”
“So it’s fate.” Trista said.
“Of course it’s not fate,” Con nearly shouted, slamming his palm on the table. “It was a stupid accident.”
“But maybe it would have happened anyway,” Trista said calmly. “It seems like all you’ve done is drag me here, kicking and screaming.”
“You … don’t understand,” Con said to the table.
“Isn’t there death where you come from?” Trista asked. “Haven’t you learned to cope?”
“Yes, but. It’s different. The reason the Bureau exists is to correct past mistakes. Killing you …” he sputtered. “It was a mistake.”
Trista leaned over the kitchen table and looked into Con’s burning eyes. “It’s okay,” she said. “My whole life I’ve wandered around pointlessly; haven’t you seen it?”
“You weren’t meant to die.”
“Yes, I was,” she said firmly.
“I can’t …”
She reached across him and fished his pocket watch out of his jacket. “May I?”
He nodded.
She flipped the watch open. It did not have a face with numbers, or even symbols that she could discern. It was instead a spectrum of color, each fading into the next, a blur of vivid blue, red, yellow, meshing together into purples and greens and oranges of every description. A single hand seemed to drift across the face and pointed at a bright red section. She handed it back to him.
“Where are you from?” she asked quietly. “I guess I don’t really know anything about you.”
“Over here,” he said, pointing to a deep black section that all the colors faded into at their darkest points. His face was grim; he carefully closed and replaced the watch in his jacket.
“How far in the future is that?” Trista asked.
“Enough to think fedoras are snappy,” he said, his face softening.
“What was the best time you ever had with me?”
He smiled.
#
It was July and hot as hell, even at 2 a.m. Trista’s eyes were closed. She was listening to the music on the radio, but Con could barely focus on it. He felt uncomfortable in the jeans he wore around her. The song was good, sung by some guy with a beard and a guitar. It was soulful and raw. Trista liked soulful, raw songs. And he liked that about her. Her hair was as red as fire. He ran a finger through it, gently tugging on a curl. The song went off and she opened her eyes and blinked at him. She was still so young, just finished with her freshman year of college. Barely a woman. She was wearing a tank top and oversized purple pajama pants, her hair messy, but her eyes wide awake.
“What are you lookin’ at?” She asked playfully.
“You.”
She smiled, showing slightly uneven teeth, but then she shrugged. “Not much to look at there, chief.”
He shook his head. “Of course there is.”
She tossed a pillow at him.
“So, where to?” She asked, changing the subject.
“What?”
“I’m bored and it’s hot. Let’s go somewhere.”
“At this hour?”
She nodded. “At least a drive.”
He smiled again at her, and she returned it. “Okay, my dear, we can go for a drive.”
“I know just where I want to go.”
She grabbed a blanket that seemed pointless and they headed to her beat-up sedan and piled in. Con sat in the driver’s seat and started the car while she turned on the radio. It was playing another good song, about love and loss and heartbreak, sung by a woman with a deep, soulful voice.
He backed out of the driveway. “Head east,” Trista said, grinning up at him. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Con drove for nearly two hours. He found himself yawning and turning the music up louder. Whenever he felt too tired, he looked at Trista, but she just looked back at him, sleepy but happy. Happy to be with him. He felt energized when she looked at him like that. When she finally directed him off the highway he saw they were at the beach. The air was still warm here, but the sand was cool underfoot as they left the car and wandered down towards the water.
“We came here last summer, after graduation. Spent a weekend at a house nearby, just my parents and I,” Trista said. She had slipped her hand into Con’s. He clung to the warmth of it like it was the dead of winter.
“Not with your friends?”
She shook her head. “Nah, I figure I have my whole life to spend with new people. But after high school they knew I wanted to move away for school. I wanted to spend time with them, just us. Things wouldn’t be the same after that, you know?”
He nodded. He knew that very well.
Trista spread the blanket out and plopped down on it. Con threw himself down next to her.
“I wish I could have that perspective,” Con said. “My family, I never knew them. None of us did.”
She turned her head and gave him a strange, curious look. “What do you mean? Are you like, a friendless orphan?”
He shrugged. “I mean, I hope I’m not friendless. But something like that.”
She tilted her head. “You’re very strange.” She smiled. “I realize I don’t know much about you.”
“What’s to know? I’m handsome and charming.” He flashed her a debonair smile.
“Oh yes, very charming, Mr. Constantine,” she laughed, rolling her eyes.
They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the dark waves lap at the shore. After a moment, Trista looked at him, her green eyes wide and watching him intently. Con was drawn closer to her like a moth to flame. She ran her fingers across his face. “Constantine,” she said, then she grinned, nervously. “I’ve always liked that name. So … imperial.” She bit her lip. “I’m really glad I met you this year.”
He leaned in and kissed her, and it was returned fiercely, if somewhat sloppily. She hadn’t dated much, he knew. She was always waiting for the right one. As Con moved to her neck, and heard her gentle sigh, he prayed to God that he was the right one. That he could be the right one for her.
#
“We watched the sun rise over the ocean,” Con said quietly. “It was the most gorgeous color you could imagine, purple and coral and pink. And … you went down to the water, you were wearing those purple pajama pants, and a wave came up and soaked you.”
Trista smiled back at him, trying to imagine the memory he saw so clearly.
Con swallowed, hard, trying to fight a lump rising in his throat. “We just talked. All night. In all my travels, a night never felt so short, so fleeting.”
“Con.” She put her hand under his chin and forced herself to look into his burning eyes, his burning face. She felt a deep ache in her chest. “This has to end. If this has really happened as many times as you say it has, then why are you torturing yourself? Just let me go.”
“No. Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love you.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I’m not worth it.”
“Please,” he folded his hand over hers. “Please don’t give up. Because I won’t.”
She pulled away from him and stood. She went to the window over the kitchen sink, and took a long sip of her tea. “My whole life I’ve felt like there was nothing I could do. Like my life was a meaningless cog in a clock that would never stop.”
“There are no meaningless cogs,” Con said. He remained sitting at the table, his posture stiff, his eyes wild.
“But I only exist because you want me to.”
“Isn’t that enough for you? To be loved so deeply that someone would …” he trailed off.
“Would what?” She turned back to face him.
He averted his gaze, running his hand along the face of his watch.
“Con, what did you do?” she asked, more pointedly.
“I’ve gone back to save you so many times that I’ve … broken … something.”
She was bemused. “Okay. What have you broken?”
“The universe.” He looked up at her. His face was serious.
The idea was so big and incomprehensible that she started to laugh. “What does that mean?”
“There are so many anomalies on your timeline that the universe is trying desperately to correct itself, and I won’t let it. Reality is being altered irreparably.”
The weight of his words could not sink in; they bubbled on top of a layer of hysteria rising in her chest. “How?”
He exhaled deeply. “Tides rising. Suns changing orbit. Volcanoes erupting. Worlds colliding. Everything. You’re cosmically important.”
Trista was standing here, in her kitchen, with this man who claimed many things he could not really prove. But she looked at him, the otherworldliness of him, the sorrow in his eyes. It was true. He had broken everything to save her. Her: insignificant, plain Trista.
“Oh my God.”
Con nodded.
“Why … why would you do that?”
He sighed and then looked at her. His strange eyes looked almost human, almost normal. “Because I like your smile.”
She looked at him incredulously, but he continued, “And your hair. And the way you eat ice cream. And I like the frown you get when you are reading, the way you hug your pillow when you sleep, and the way your face turns red when you’re angry, and how you crunch too loudly, and laugh at the wrong time of a movie, and the dimples on your thighs you hate so much, and how you lie when you’re nervous, even though you want to tell the truth. I think every mundane quirk and stupid flaw of yours is worth every moment of pain.”
She pulled her sleeve up to her eyes to hide the tears that were spilling out. “Con, I’m not worth more than the universe.”
“You are to me.”
She shook her head. “It’s not right, though, Con. The cost of it. I can’t—”
He went to her and put his arms around her. “Please stay with me,” he whispered into her neck. “Just this once. Just this once, don’t leave me.”
“But Con, I am ruining everything.”
“I just need more time with you,” he said, his hands squeezing her tightly, protectively against him.
She stood straight, not letting herself sink into his embrace. “Everyone dies eventually. It’ll never be enough time.”
“No,” he murmured into her curls. “It never will be.”
She pulled away from him. “I can’t let everyone suffer for me.”
“I know. You’re not selfish.”
“But … if I killed myself … you’d just save me again, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded. “I’ll never stop saving you, Trista.”
“When I killed myself before, was it because you told me then?”
#
He shouldn’t have told her. Con had watched her trying to cope with the truth of what he had done to save her and it was unraveling her, piece by precious piece. He knew now that the timing was bad … his timing was always bad. She was sitting in the bathtub, hugging her knees. The water had gone cold. Con knelt down next to the bathtub.
“Con, I can’t do this,” she whispered. Her hair seemed to have lost some of its luster, deep purple ringed her eyes. In every timeline, in every fate Con had seen her delivered to, this was the worst.
“I’m worthless. I’m garbage. I’ve hurt so many people.” She was rocking back and forth, her gaze unfocused.
“No, Trista, no. You’re the most precious thing in the universe,” he said. The words were stale in his mouth.
“I just can’t do it. I can’t stop thinking of everyone suffering because of me.”
“Just hold on a little longer, darling. I’ll figure it out. I promise.”
“I can’t live like this. I hate myself.”
“I love you, Trista. I love you so much.”
“I’m sorry, Constantine.”
He barely had time to see the razor blade she’d been holding in her hand, only the blood, pouring, pouring, pouring, so much it seemed to fill the tub. He did not think, he pulled her wet, bleeding body into his arms, screaming, begging her not to do what had already been done. She had cut too deep, too fast. He desperately tried to stem the blood flow with nearby towels, but it was too late. He held her until the light died in her eyes and her body became cold and stiff. He held her long into the night, feeling the blood and water soak into his clothing. It was many long, tortuous hours before he could think straight enough to use his watch to go back. Part of him felt like he deserved to stay here, feeling once and for all the deep ache of loss.
But no. This time, saving her would be easy. He just had to save her from himself.
#
Trista was silent. “Why did you tell me this time, then?”
“A lot has happened since then.” Con looked at the burn on his wrist.
She frowned, tapping the sink with her fingers.
“The Bureau … what will they do to you if this goes on?”
“Eventually, they’ll kill me,” he said. “But I can keep running for now.”
“But what happens if they catch you?”
He sighed. “I’ll just cease to exist. That’s really all there is to it.”
“You’re not being fair,” Trista said. “Why can you change the universe to save me but I can’t do anything to save you?” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you too, you know.”
He looked at her, almost startled.
“Don’t you know that?” Trista asked. Her fists were clenched so tight she could feel them shaking.
“But …” he paused. “But I have to save you.”
“And who saves you?”
“I don’t need to be saved,” Con said.
“Don’t give me that Superman complex bullshit, Constantine. If I’m cosmically important because you broke the universe for me, then what does that make you?”
“The greatest criminal of all time?” Con offered sheepishly.
“The man who broke the universe for love,” Trista said firmly.
“I can’t let you die,” Con said firmly. “I can’t.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “What’s the point of you doing all of this if I don’t even get to be with you in the end?”
He had no answer for her.
#
That night, Con fell asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around Trista. She listened to his breathing for a long while. Deep into the night, she loved to hear that sound. It was pleasant to know if she woke in the night, there were arms there to hold her, ease her back to sleep. She stroked the little hairs on his arms. He looked peaceful when he slept. Normal, even. He was not handsome, necessarily; his skin was ambiguously brown, his hair dark, his facial features symmetrical. It was his eyes that original drew her in—at least in this timeline. But she now tried to commit him to memory. The lines of his face were nondescript but utterly original. He frowned a little when he slept. She wondered how often, realistically, a time traveler got to rest at all.
Finally certain he was deeply asleep, she eased herself out of his grasp and, as quietly as she could, made her way out of the room. She went to the restroom, where she had left a small bundle of clothing on the floor. She threw on jeans, a tee-shirt, a worn purple hoodie, and some flip flops. She turned to leave and briefly caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked ragged, tired, underdressed for any occasion, and somehow she was the most important woman in the universe because a man had fallen in love with her. To her surprise, for the first time since Con began to explain this situation to her, she caught herself smiling. She ducked out of the bathroom and headed to the living room.
Con’s watch was still on the table. She opened the face and saw the color wheel again. She turned the watch over in her hands, and found the small button on the side that allowed her to change the position of the arrows. She held her breath. She did not have time to think. She pointed the hands to the deep black zone and waited.
And the world around her suddenly melted away and was replaced by harsh lights. She was halfway down a long, white hallway, with doors leading off to either side. There were no windows, no distinguishing features. Not even numbers on the doors. She was disappointed, half-expecting flying cars or a flashy light show or something. It was all very mundane.
There was a flow of people going to and from the doors, but they all seemed distracted, eyes forward. She noted that the men looked like Con had said, old grey suits and hats. The women were in pencil dresses and sensible pumps, some with elaborate hairdos. She felt awkward in her jeans and unkempt hair, but no one seemed to notice her at first.
A woman passed very close by her to enter a door behind her. The woman paused suddenly, and the focused look left her eyes, replaced by sudden curiosity. She pursed her red lips at Trista, looking her up and down. Trista noted that the woman was very beautiful, with dark skin and perfectly coiffed hair. When she looked into Trista’s eyes, familiarity lodged there.
“I know you,” the beautiful woman said.
Trista shook her head. “No, I’m … I’m not from around here.”
“You’re her—you’re the girl who is responsible for this mess.”
To Trista’s great surprise, the woman did not sound angry so much as a little awed.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Why on earth are you here?” The woman hissed in a low voice, pulling Trista off to the side, away from the flow of people.
“I’m just trying to put things right … I never wanted this.”
The woman looked at her, not unsympathetically, and nodded. “Okay, then. You need to talk to Feldman then.”
“Feldman.”
“The head of the Bureau.”
“Where can I find Feldman?”
“I’ll escort you,” the woman said. She stuck out a hand. “Mariah Cole. I’m Mr. Feldman’s personal assistant.”
“Okay,” Trista said, shaking her hand and following her down the hallway.
“Now, keep your head down,” Mariah instructed. “May do you good to pull that hood up.” Trista did, feeling like she stuck out more than ever. No one else seemed to recognize her as readily, for which she was grateful.
“How did you know me?” Trista asked.
“You’re the most famous woman in existence; everyone here knows you.”
Trista gulped, but said nothing else. Her head was swimming. The lights were too bright. After what seemed like forever, Mariah turned a sudden corner and led her down another hallway, into another door, and down another hallway that had no doors at all but led to a large, circular antechamber. There were no windows here, but a small wooden desk where a man in an unremarkable grey suit sat. He was handwriting something on a piece of paper with an expensive-looking fountain pen. The future was dull, Trista thought. She hadn’t given the future much thought when Con had said he’d come from here, but in her head she’d expected something a little more grand.
“Mr. Feldman,” Mariah said gently. He looked up. He was an old man, with tan skin and white hair. He had hard lines and a rather pronounced nose. His eyes were dark and bright with intelligence and some of the fire she had seen in Con’s. To her surprise, his eyes softened as he looked at her. “So you’re Trista,” he said gently. “I suppose this day had to come.”
Mariah respectfully ducked out of the room, giving Trista an unexpected smile as she left. Trista found it all very baffling, but she pushed these thoughts aside.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Feldman, I have no idea where I am, really.”
“You’re in the head office for the Space-Time Bureau,” he said, almost cheerfully. Feldman turned in his chair and suddenly the white wall behind him seemed to dissipate. It was replaced by a stunning vista of an endless black night sky, scattered with billions of stars and, looming close, a ringed planet tinged in purple. Asteroids lazily whirled past, in unhurried orbit.
“I …” Trista’s knees felt weak. She was suddenly grateful that the future had seemed so ordinary at first. This had literally taken her breath away.
Feldman did not deign to turn his chair around. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she managed to gasp.
“The asteroids flying past us used to be a lovely world we called Tarsus. It’s gone now.” He turned his chair around to face her. “We relocated here to try and repair some of the damage, but we literally did not have enough time.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. He said it matter-of-factly, and Trista felt relief flooding through her bones.
“It’s Constantine’s fault,” Feldman said, in the same unaccusing tone of voice.
Trista felt her stomach bottom out. Somehow, hearing that was worse than thinking it was her fault. She felt strange, standing here in front of this man, seeing this vision of the future that was not meant for her eyes. But she had come this far. Just like Con had done—so many times—for her.
“Are you going to kill him?”
“Me, personally? No,” Feldman said. “But he will be disintegrated, yes.” He said it so impersonally, like Con was a chore to be checked off of a list.
“He wasn’t trying to break the universe. He was just trying to save me.”
Feldman looked at her kindly. “We know that, dear. But Constantine knew when he signed up for the Bureau what such an infraction would cost him. There are fixed events that must happen. If they are altered, the universe is altered irreparably.”
“What will killing him solve?”
“Killing him in itself, very little. But making it so he never existed would solve the problem entirely. You’d die on schedule, you see.”
“What about any other alterations he made, before he made that mistake?”
“We’d of course have to send in a cleanup crew. It would be tedious, but a small price to pay for repairing the universe.”
Trista’s head was swarming. Everything seemed too big for her. “What if, instead of Con, you made it so I never existed?”
Feldman frowned at her. “Any scenario where that happens doesn’t pan out. We’ve run the numbers. Too many anomalies on your timeline; you never existing would actually make the problem worse. It’s sweet of you to offer, though. I know how painful this must be for you.” He gave her a warm, grandfatherly look.
Trista shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Is there any scenario where Con doesn’t cease to exist and the universe repairs itself?”
Feldman frowned. “Time is infinite. There probably is. But the problem is, we haven’t found that solution, and we’re rather at a crisis.”
“I’ve tried killing myself,” Trista offered. “Con told me I did it once. But he just saved me anyway.” She looked down. “I don’t want this to go on. I want to save him. And the rest of the universe.”
Feldman frowned. “I wish we could find a better solution, truly I do. We aren’t monsters, my dear.”
Trista thought about Con, his brown eyes, and suddenly laid out before her she saw him—every time he saved her. That first time in front of the car. Through illnesses, tragedies, accidents. He’d had his heart broken hundreds upon hundreds of times and bore it all, over and over and over. She could see every time he’d loved her, every relationship they’d ever formed—every kiss, every touch, every laugh.
She blinked and found that tears were pouring out of her eyes. “What if he didn’t love me anymore?” She looked up at Feldman. “Can you make that happen?”
Feldman frowned. “We’re advanced, but we can’t control the human heart.”
“What about memory altering? If you can go back in time, surely you can do that.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“What if we never met, if Con and I never met at all? What if you went back and made it so someone else was on the street the day that car hit me?”
Feldman looked at her. “I suppose that could work, Miss Amici. It’s not as tidy as wiping him from existence, but it should work. But think of what you’re asking. You’ll die. You’ll never have loved him. He’ll never have loved you.”
“No,” Trista said, her face set. “I’ll have loved him hundreds of times. He’ll have loved me hundreds of times. And the universe … will be saved.”
Feldman stood from his desk and put out his hand. “It’s a deal then.”
She looked at him as she shook his hand and saw a shrewdness there. “You knew I’d come here today. You knew I’d give you the answer you were searching for, didn’t you?”
Feldman gave a short laugh. “When you’re around long enough, I suppose you see everything.”
#
Trista was eight years old, watching the street from her window. There was a man standing there, dark and large. He wore an old-fashioned hat. She thought he was a detective, but something about his stance made her want to leave him alone. She stayed inside that day, even though the kids across the street were playing with the hose. After all, they were big kids, and it was dangerous to play in the street.
#
Con never knew why he was removed from his assignment that day. The Bureau had been in discussions about taking him out of fieldwork around that time, but he did not know why. He’d always been professional. Occasionally though, he saw a girl with red, curly hair, flash across his memory. He knew the effects of time alteration, but he decided not to ask about it. Sometimes it was better just not to know.
But he couldn’t stop loving his memory of that smile.
#
Trista was leaving the coffee shop after another late-night study session. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her senior year was almost over. Soon, she would be a penniless graduate with a degree in history, and not just a penniless student. She gathered her books and hurried into the crisp autumn night. She looked both ways and crossed the street. She never saw the car coming around the bend, too fast, much too fast.
Adrenaline rushed into her veins and she jumped onto the sidewalk, her books flying, her hands scraping against the concrete, as the car continued on its way.
“That guy was a jerk!” she heard someone exclaim. “You could have died! Are you okay?”
She nodded as she gathered up her scattered books. “Yeah, I guess I’m safe for another day,” Trista muttered.
She looked up at the man who had spoken. He was forgettable looking, but there was something about his eyes, his face. Like they were burning. She knew she’d seen him somewhere before. He offered her a hand up, and she gladly accepted.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling at him.
Con instantly loved that smile. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
The Night is Dark and Full of Chaos: Batman V Superman Review
So I finally went to see Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice... and, despite my intense anger walking in, I actually didn't hate it. Don't get me wrong, the movie has a LOT of problems. But, and possibly because my expectations were so low going in, I have to grudgingly admit I liked it pretty well.
The biggest problem is just that the story is all over the place. It suffers the same problems that so many superhero sequels have suffered from before it. It tries to do too many things. The separate threads in the film- Lex Luther's escalating battle with Superman, Batman fighting his increasing disenchantment in the wake of 20 years of thankless work in Gotham, Wonder Woman's introduction, and yes, Batman fighting Superman- should have ALL been separate films. DC is trying desperately to play catch up to Marvel, and the lack of focus in this film shows it pretty badly. Instead of letting the film universe grow organically, they basically tried to shove what should have been several separate films into one.
As one of the biggest Batman fans I personally know, I have been pretty miffed- okay, pretty damn angry- about both Ben Affleck's casting, and the direction they've taken Batman in with this film. I still have a lot of problems with it, but it does sort of work. I don't like Ben Affleck as an actor. Even when he's at his best, there's something I find repellent about him that colors every performance he gives. And certainly, he's repellent enough here. But it actually somewhat works in the character's favor. Zack Snyder and co. have talked a big talk about this being a very Frank Miller-inspired take on Batman, and there are many elements that borrow heavily from Miller's iconic graphic novel, The Dark Knight Returns. Like DKR's Batman, this version of the character is grizzled, disillusioned, and has almost entirely lost his moral compass. Alfred (easily the best character in the film, as portrayed by Jeremy Irons) helpfully reminds him- and us- that Batman was not always so far gone. But times have changed. This is driven home with the understated revelation that, as in DKR, this Batman once had a Robin, who, it seems, was murdered by the Joker. And while much fuss has been made by both the director and the fans about Batman actually killing people in this film, he doesn't actually go so far as to kill anyone directly. He just seems to have lost the ability to care whether or not his actions indirectly result in someone dying. With the set up given, this does make some sense. Unfortunately, this isn't just a DKR Batman: It's Frank Miller's OTHER Batman too. Oh yes. I could easily see this Batman forcing Robin to eat rats. This Batman is awful. He's paranoid, brutal, and single-minded. Which is all fine. Except this Batman is also kind of stupid.
Not to spoil the whole meandering mess of a plot, but the film is basically that the World's Finest are both being manipulated by Lex Luther, who is disturbed by the presence of these "metahumans" to have their titular grudge match. This is a Tuesday for the Big Blue Boy Scout, but it's pretty off-putting to see for the World's Greatest Detective. Batman is supposed to have genius level intellect. Instead he spends much of the film having wild hallucinations and scowling while Alfred decrypts things and steers the Batplane. It sets up Lex as a fascinating character, though, and certainly Jesse Eisenberg brings a gleefully manic energy to the character that we've never seen before. In some ways, it feels as though Eisenberg is playing Michael Rosenbaum's Lex on speed... in other ways it just feels like he'd have been better cast as a different character altogether- he'd have been an excellent Riddler, in my opinion.
This plot, when broken down to base level, is idiotic. And this would be okay- heaven knows the Avengers movies have had stupid plots- except that the film takes itself incredibly seriously. Everything, from the swelling, operatic score with jarring and distinctive leitmotifs for every character, to the hamfisted use of symbolism to the brutal, gracelessly choreographed fight scenes, underscores how SERIOUS this film wants to be; how different from Marvel's colorful carnival. And that's okay in and of itself. After all, some of DC's best comics- The Dark Knight Returns, Red Son, Kingdom Come- are pretty dark and serious. And certainly, a comic book movie CAN have weight and depth. The problem is that in the film's reckless desire for us to take it seriously, it becomes utterly devoid of cheer or joy. If the film had even an iota of self awareness, the problems it suffers from could be more readily forgiven.
And just because there are problems doesn't mean it's an utter failure. There are many aspects of it I liked. The score, for all of it's clumsy attempts to elevate the film, does feature some excellent leitmotifs- notably, Batman's theme actually incorporates Danny Elfman's work into it.
Similarly, I enjoyed many of the dream sequences and strong use of imagery, some of which gave nods to classic moments in the comics, and all of which looked gorgeous. The film is insanely pretty- this is one thing Snyder DOES do well, and Marvel almost never does. Pretty much every shot could be framed on your wall.
The religious motifs that were established in Man of Steel also work strongly here, from Batman's literally demonic dreams to Lex's insistence that Superman is a false God. This also provides an interesting segue into the introduction of Wonder Woman, a literal demi-God. While Gal Gadot lacks the physical presence that the Queen of the Amazons should have, in my opinion, she does carry a screen presence with her that makes her few minutes of actual screentime somewhat mesmerizing.
I also enjoyed seeing fight scenes that seemed to carry real weight to them. Rather than the carefully choreographed dance offs that most superhero films have, the titular fight, and all others, actually seem real. Rather than an epic fight across a cityscape, Batman and Superman's confrontation has no frills. It's just two titans wailing on each other. Every punch actually seems to hurt. It's almost hard to watch. The ending of this fight is a relief.
Which leads me to probably the thing I liked most about the film. While the film is still a bloated pissing contest between two of the strongest men in the world, there is an undercurrent of feminine strength to it. Lois, though sadly put in the distressed damsel position one too many times, comes through when these characters need her. Wonder Woman appears at the eleventh hour to offer her sword. And Martha Wayne is the one Bruce mourns. It's a subtle change, but in every other version of Batman, he longs to live up to his father's expectations. The fact that it is his mother he regrets not saving the most alters the character in subtle but significant ways, leading to, I think, one of the more inspired moments in the film, when he is able to connect with Superman, not over any moral lectures or sense of justice, but over a shared love for a mother.
The women are, of course, placed in tertiary roles to the action, as is usual, but there's something about elevating the mother's role that made the film less about big dudes throwing punches than a deeply human desire for security. In better director's hands, this could have been a powerful observation on human nature. As it is, it's an interesting parallel, with future potential.
Too Many Cooks in Hell’s Kitchen (Daredevil Season 2 Review)
When season 2 of Marvel's Daredevil was announced, I was excited but nervous. Excited because the first season was excellent. Nervous because both The Punisher AND Elektra were supposed to be introduced this season, and I've seen many superhero sequels go down this path before- it sounded like it had bitten off more than it could chew. And I'm sorry to say, that my fears were mostly realized. There were just too many cooks in Hell's Kitchen.
Following the continuing adventures of Matt Murdock, a blind Catholic lawyer who uses his heightened senses and even more heightened sense of justice to protect his beloved home of Hell's Kitchen, New York, as the vigilante Daredevil, this season picks up shortly after the first one, and hits the ground running. Just months after putting away Wilson Fisk, a developer and shady crime kingpin with a surprisingly sympathetic streak, Matt and his partner, Foggy and their secretary, Karen, find themselves embroiled in yet another insidious web of crime and conspiracy. At the center of this web is a new vigilante, Frank Castle AKA the Punisher, who seemingly has no moral code as he takes down whole crime syndicates, execution-style. As Daredevil gets closer to The Punisher, Karen does her own digging into Frank's, past and discovers a government conspiracy and the real reasons for his rampage. She develops a precarious admiration for the man, and possibly even his brutal methods. Daredevil eventually brings the Punisher in, and he is satisfied with this, knowing his anger is spent. This would have been a great season, with tension, mystery, and a fair amount of mayhem. Matt starts to question the logic of his own "no kill" code in the midst of the rising body count. An amazing one-take fight scene in a stairwell takes place. Frank recounts his backstory, in an utterly gutting performance by Jon Bernthal. Tears are shed. Loose ends tied. Oh crap, it's only episode four.
This is where the season starts down an increasing downward trajectory. Punisher is swept aside, with his ensuing court case, and eventual imprisonment treated as a side story to the real action: the introduction of Elektra. Sort of. Elektra serves not as an introduction to herself (she's given precious little development beyond "total sociopath") but as an introduction to the Hand, a quasi-mystical and vaguely racist Japanese organization whose introduction into the show was inevitable- like Batman's League of Shadows- it's an important part of the Daredevil mythos. Ninja fights ensue. Lots of them. And they're all somehow incredibly boring. Matt stops focusing on the Frank Castle case, his budding relationship with Karen, or his friendship with Foggy. Because he has to fight so many ninjas. The only interesting things happening involve Karen, Foggy, and Frank, but in sadly small doses. They feel abandoned and angry at Matt, and so do I.
A ray of light pierces through the boredom midseason- Frank finds himself in prison with none other than Wilson Fisk, with Vincent D'Onfrio performing to perfection the same vaguely autistic and utterly menacing take on the character. These few episodes featuring Fisk and Castle together mark a high water mark in the season, depiction two sides of danger and intensity of performance. It's so good that Elektra is even sent packing. Hallelujah!
Unfortunately, the good times don't last.
Elektra returns, this time with the equally grating Stick, and yes, lots of ninjas. Daredevil has to save the city from the Hand or else bad stuff will happen! This is war, apparently! Daredevil struggles more with his moral code. He makes some vague references to his faith, but the powerful confessions to his priest from season 1 are nowhere to be found. In many ways, Daredevil is hardly even the hero this season. There is too much other stuff going on. While Charlie Cox still continues to puts in a strong, convincing performance as the blind hero, the character lacks any real grounding this season, and often comes across as weak and unsympathetic.
While the tight faith-based struggle against the mob of season 1 was sorely missed, there are some good notes this season. Significantly, Karen is developed far beyond her occasionally annoying bouts in season one. She is a ray of light, and her constant pairing with the Punisher this season did nothing but improve both characters. There's also the small but significant subplot involving the always refreshing Rosario Dawson's Claire Temple standing up to the corruption infecting her hospital, which serves as a great reminder as to why Claire is such a great character, and why she is the perfect bridge between the Netflix Marvel shows. Foggy also gets some excellent moments this season, growing far beyond the easy-label of "bumbling sidekick" into a sort of everyday hero that's easy to like, and often manages to surprise. There's also the greatest use of "Shining Star" ever, and I won't spoil it for anyone here.
Bottom line is: it wasn't a terrible season, but it tried to do too many things, at the expense of real intrigue, as I feared it would. Matt is a fascinating character, and he seemed to develop little throughout the course of the season. Coming on the heels of the impressive and emotionally complex first season, and the equally fascinating first season of Jessica Jones, this was a disappointment, and it felt like season 1's emphasis on storytelling and development was pushed aside in favor of uninspired fight scenes (my kingdom for the hallway fight from season 1!), but the things it managed to do well, it managed to do very well. Buoyed by a solid cast with reliably excellent performances, I still look forward to what's next for the characters, and this chapter of the Marvel Universe.
“You killed yourself once,” Con said quietly.
“Did I?” Trista folded her hands on the table. “Why would I do that?”
“You were depressed,” Con said. “You slit your wrists.”
Trista nodded. “I always said if I got to that point, that’s what I’d do.”
“You did it right in front of me,” Con said. “I couldn’t stop you.”
Trista looked at the man across the table. His eyes were brown, but if you looked long enough they seemed to be burning. He seemed to be burning. She wondered if it came with the job, or if Con was special.
“I’m sorry,” Trista mumbled, scratching at a spot of paint on the table.
“It’s in the past now.”
“No it’s not,” Trista said. “It never happened.”
“Right,” Con said. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
“So you’re in trouble, then? Because of me?”
“Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t know. Don’t know. You won’t ever know. I’ve told you this before.”
Trista shook her head. She felt her face get hot and her eyes water. “I’m sorry, Con. I’m trying to understand.”
“I know.” Con reached out a hand and placed it over hers.
“How many times has this happened?”
“Too many times.”
“How many?” she demanded.
“Let me tell you how it first happened.”
#
Con was standing on the edge of the road, checking his watch impatiently. It was a silver pocket watch, old fashioned, functionally elegant. He replaced it with a frown, then turned his face up to the sky. He watched the clouds, not making a sound for a long while. He took his hat off and put it under his arm. He had arrived too early. To judge by the sun, about three hours too early. He looked around, but the neighborhood was sleepy in the warm afternoon and quiet, save for children playing across the street. They were spraying the hose at each other, screaming in delight and shock at the cold water. Con put his hat back on and looked around. He was not scheduled to make corrections; he simply had to wait it out. He sat down on the corner, looking at the sky impatiently.
“Are you a detective?” a small voice asked.
Con looked around. There was a small girl with a mop of bright red curls, looking at him curiously. She had not been hosed down like the other children; she was perfectly dry. She looked about eight.
“No, why would you think that?” Con asked, amused.
“Your hat. In those black and white films, detectives always wear ‘em.”
“I just think they’re snappy.”
“Snappy?”
“You know, fetching. Becoming. Uh, handsome?”
The girl shook her head. “Well, I think it makes you look like a detective. I bet you’re investigatin’.”
Con smiled. “What do you think I’m investigating?”
“I dunno, some cat bugglar or something.”
“A cat bugglar?”
“Yanno, they take your things when you’re not lookin’ and turn into cats to hide from police.”
“Do they?” Con asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yup, I think so. I bet that’s a cat bugglar right there.” She pointed at a cat sleeping on a fence a few houses down.
“Just so,” Con said. “I’m watching to see if he’ll try to run.”
“Can I watch too?” The little girl asked.
“Of course, you can be a junior investigator.”
She sat down and put on a serious expression, watching the cat intensely.
Con once again heard the din of the children across the street.
“So why aren’t you playing with the other children?”
The girl looked over at them dubiously. “They don’t want me. I’m just a kid.”
Con raised an eyebrow. “They’re kids too.”
“Yeah, but they’re big kids,” She said solemnly.
Con was clearly out of his depth with the mysterious politics of the children in this neighborhood. He did not respond.
The girl looked at the cat intently, then back at him.
“You want a drink or something?” she asked after a while. “My mom made lemonade.”
Con fiddled with his pocket watch. “Why not?”
The girl went back into the house. Con watched her go, wondering at her enthusiasm. He glanced back at the sky, watching the sun. The girl soon ran back to him, half spilling the glass of lemonade as she did.
“Here ya go,” she said, handing it to him.
He took a sip while she watched him, eyes wide.
He coughed and stifled a gag. “It’s ... sweet,” he said politely.
“I put extra sugar in it!” the girl exclaimed.
“Ah, sugar. That must be it.” Con carefully set the glass aside. “What is your name?”
“Trista,” the girl said, plucking idly at a red curl.
“Well Trista, you are very kind. But I promise you, I’m not very interesting. Why don’t you play with the kids across the way?”
She shook her curls.
“But isn’t it a warm day?” he gestured to the kids hosing each other down.
“Yeah but—” she fumbled.
The street was still, the heat enormous, the sun rising in waves off of the pavement. A car slowly rolled down the street, taking its time.
Trista stood up, her little face determined. “Maybe I’ll just see, okay?”
“Very good,” Con said.
The girl took a step towards the curb, then paused and removed her shoes. She ran across the hot pavement, the road burning her feet, the promise of the water ... then the slam of the car into her body.
Con watched her trajectory. He stood up, involuntarily. The laughter from the big kids stopped. Trista hit the ground with a wet crunch that sent a shiver up Con’s spine. Screams took over. Con’s senses were crushed, but he kept seeing every horrifying detail. He could see every hair on her head clearly, the red of it sopping up the blood pouring out of her body, such a deep shade, a peculiar tint. His breathing became ragged. He slammed open his pocket watch and fumbled with the dials, his hands shaking. He felt a tug begin at his navel, as if a string was being pulled out of his spine. The world flattened and disappeared. Then he found himself still again, standing on the edge of the road. He snapped his watch shut. Once again, he was early. His hands still shook. He looked around and his eyes caught on a mop of red curls, the girl beneath it looking at him curiously. “Are you a detective?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly, his eyes not meeting hers. “It’s hot today. You should go inside.”
#
“I don’t remember that,” Trista said, standing up from the table.
“I don’t expect you would.”
“You’re right about the cat burglars though; I did think that when I was a kid.” Trista poured water from the kettle into a teacup and dropped a green tea bag in it. “You want some?” she asked, looking sidelong at him.
“No, I drink coffee.”
“Right, right,” Trista said, leaning against the counter. “Did you get in trouble?”
“Yes, for interfering with your timeline. The Bureau takes that sort of thing seriously. I argued that I was correcting an interference since it was my fault that you—” he choked.
Trista stared into her teacup. “I’ve only known you a year.”
“I’ve known you your whole life,” Con said.
“Why don’t you seem older than you are?” she asked after a while. “I’d think you were my age.”
“I am your age,” Con replied.
Trista shook her head. “So what happened after that?”
“I went to visit you, just sometimes, when I had time,” he sighed. “Of course, I always had time. For you. I maybe saw you every other week. Then you got sick.”
Trista gave him another blank look. “I was never sick.”
“No, you weren’t; not to your knowledge. But I watched, watched you dehydrate and waste away, too weak to hold up a teddy bear.”
“I would have been hospitalized.”
“You were a goner in days. No one knew how fast it would happen.”
“But you stopped it?”
“I convinced your parents to get medical help sooner.”
“And then?” Trista asked, spooning sugar into her tea, vacantly.
“Then you were fine for a while. But I started jumping too far ahead. Wherever I went, I could never find you in the future. That’s when I knew …” his voice trailed off.
“Are they punishing you?” Trista asked, not looking at him.
“Of course they are.” Con held up his wrist, and pulled back the sleeve of his dress shirt. There was a deep scar, as if he had been burned. “It wasn’t that I was rebelling. It was that I couldn’t accept it. Why should you die? I kept trying to plead your case. It was my fault; it wasn’t a stable event. They wouldn’t listen.” Con sighed, a sigh that seemed to echo stars. “I would visit you every year or so and every time ...”
“So it’s fate.” Trista said.
“Of course it’s not fate,” Con nearly shouted, slamming his palm on the table. “It was a stupid accident.”
“But maybe it would have happened anyway,” Trista said calmly. “It seems like all you’ve done is drag me here, kicking and screaming.”
“You ... don’t understand,” Con said to the table.
“Isn’t there death where you come from?” Trista asked. “Haven’t you learned to cope?”
“Yes, but. It’s different. The reason the Bureau exists is to correct past mistakes. Killing you …” he sputtered. “It was a mistake.”
Trista leaned over the kitchen table and looked into Con’s burning eyes. “It’s okay,” she said. “My whole life I’ve wandered around pointlessly; haven’t you seen it?”
“You weren’t meant to die.”
“Yes, I was,” she said firmly.
“I can’t ...”
She reached across him and fished his pocket watch out of his jacket. “May I?”
He nodded.
She flipped the watch open. It did not have a face with numbers, or even symbols that she could discern. It was instead a spectrum of color, each fading into the next, a blur of vivid blue, red, yellow, meshing together into purples and greens and oranges of every description. A single hand seemed to drift across the face and pointed at a bright red section. She handed it back to him.
“Where are you from?” she asked quietly. “I guess I don’t really know anything about you.”
“Over here,” he said, pointing to a deep black section that all the colors faded into at their darkest points. His face was grim; he carefully closed and replaced the watch in his jacket.
“How far in the future is that?” Trista asked.
“Enough to think fedoras are snappy,” he said, his face softening.
“What was the best time you ever had with me?”
He smiled.
#
It was July and hot as hell, even at 2 a.m. Trista’s eyes were closed. She was listening to the music on the radio, but Con could barely focus on it. He felt uncomfortable in the jeans he wore around her. The song was good, sung by some guy with a beard and a guitar. It was soulful and raw. Trista liked soulful, raw songs. And he liked that about her. Her hair was as red as fire. He ran a finger through it, gently tugging on a curl. The song went off and she opened her eyes and blinked at him. She was still so young, just finished with her freshman year of college. Barely a woman. She was wearing a tank top and oversized purple pajama pants, her hair messy, but her eyes wide awake.
“What are you lookin’ at?” She asked playfully.
“You.”
She smiled, showing slightly uneven teeth, but then she shrugged. “Not much to look at there, chief.”
He shook his head. “Of course there is.”
She tossed a pillow at him.
“So, where to?” She asked, changing the subject.
“What?”
“I’m bored and it’s hot. Let’s go somewhere.”
“At this hour?”
She nodded. “At least a drive.”
He smiled again at her, and she returned it. “Okay, my dear, we can go for a drive.”
“I know just where I want to go.”
She grabbed a blanket that seemed pointless and they headed to her beat-up sedan and piled in. Con sat in the driver’s seat and started the car while she turned on the radio. It was playing another good song, about love and loss and heartbreak, sung by a woman with a deep, soulful voice.
He backed out of the driveway. “Head east,” Trista said, grinning up at him. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Con drove for nearly two hours. He found himself yawning and turning the music up louder. Whenever he felt too tired, he looked at Trista, but she just looked back at him, sleepy but happy. Happy to be with him. He felt energized when she looked at him like that. When she finally directed him off the highway he saw they were at the beach. The air was still warm here, but the sand was cool underfoot as they left the car and wandered down towards the water.
“We came here last summer, after graduation. Spent a weekend at a house nearby, just my parents and I,” Trista said. She had slipped her hand into Con’s. He clung to the warmth of it like it was the dead of winter.
“Not with your friends?”
She shook her head. “Nah, I figure I have my whole life to spend with new people. But after high school they knew I wanted to move away for school. I wanted to spend time with them, just us. Things wouldn’t be the same after that, you know?”
He nodded. He knew that very well.
Trista spread the blanket out and plopped down on it. Con threw himself down next to her.
“I wish I could have that perspective,” Con said. “My family, I never knew them. None of us did.”
She turned her head and gave him a strange, curious look. “What do you mean? Are you like, a friendless orphan?”
He shrugged. “I mean, I hope I'm not friendless. But something like that.”
She tilted her head. “You’re very strange.” She smiled. “I realize I don’t know much about you.”
“What’s to know? I’m handsome and charming.” He flashed her a debonair smile.
“Oh yes, very charming, Mr. Constantine,” she laughed, rolling her eyes.
They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the dark waves lap at the shore. After a moment, Trista looked at him, her green eyes wide and watching him intently. Con was drawn closer to her like a moth to flame. She ran her fingers across his face. “Constantine,” she said, then she grinned, nervously. “I’ve always liked that name. So … imperial.” She bit her lip. “I’m really glad I met you this year.”
He leaned in and kissed her, and it was returned fiercely, if somewhat sloppily. She hadn’t dated much, he knew. She was always waiting for the right one. As Con moved to her neck, and heard her gentle sigh, he prayed to God that he was the right one. That he could be the right one for her.
#
“We watched the sun rise over the ocean,” Con said quietly. “It was the most gorgeous color you could imagine, purple and coral and pink. And … you went down to the water, you were wearing those purple pajama pants, and a wave came up and soaked you.”
Trista smiled back at him, trying to imagine the memory he saw so clearly.
Con swallowed, hard, trying to fight a lump rising in his throat. “We just talked. All night. In all my travels, a night never felt so short, so fleeting.”
“Con.” She put her hand under his chin and forced herself to look into his burning eyes, his burning face. She felt a deep ache in her chest. “This has to end. If this has really happened as many times as you say it has, then why are you torturing yourself? Just let me go.”
“No. Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love you.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I’m not worth it.”
“Please,” he folded his hand over hers. “Please don’t give up. Because I won’t.”
She pulled away from him and stood. She went to the window over the kitchen sink, and took a long sip of her tea. “My whole life I’ve felt like there was nothing I could do. Like my life was a meaningless cog in a clock that would never stop.”
“There are no meaningless cogs,” Con said. He remained sitting at the table, his posture stiff, his eyes wild.
“But I only exist because you want me to.”
“Isn’t that enough for you? To be loved so deeply that someone would …” he trailed off.
“Would what?” She turned back to face him.
He averted his gaze, running his hand along the face of his watch.
“Con, what did you do?” she asked, more pointedly.
“I’ve gone back to save you so many times that I’ve … broken … something.”
She was bemused. “Okay. What have you broken?”
“The universe.” He looked up at her. His face was serious.
The idea was so big and incomprehensible that she started to laugh. “What does that mean?”
“There are so many anomalies on your timeline that the universe is trying desperately to correct itself, and I won’t let it. Reality is being altered irreparably.”
The weight of his words could not sink in; they bubbled on top of a layer of hysteria rising in her chest. “How?”
He exhaled deeply. “Tides rising. Suns changing orbit. Volcanoes erupting. Worlds colliding. Everything. You’re cosmically important.”
Trista was standing here, in her kitchen, with this man who claimed many things he could not really prove. But she looked at him, the otherworldliness of him, the sorrow in his eyes. It was true. He had broken everything to save her. Her: insignificant, plain Trista.
“Oh my God.”
Con nodded.
“Why … why would you do that?”
He sighed and then looked at her. His strange eyes looked almost human, almost normal. “Because I like your smile.”
She looked at him incredulously, but he continued, “And your hair. And the way you eat ice cream. And I like the frown you get when you are reading, the way you hug your pillow when you sleep, and the way your face turns red when you’re angry, and how you crunch too loudly, and laugh at the wrong time of a movie, and the dimples on your thighs you hate so much, and how you lie when you’re nervous, even though you want to tell the truth. I think every mundane quirk and stupid flaw of yours is worth every moment of pain.”
She pulled her sleeve up to her eyes to hide the tears that were spilling out. “Con, I’m not worth more than the universe.”
“You are to me.”
She shook her head. “It’s not right, though, Con. The cost of it. I can’t—”
He went to her and put his arms around her. “Please stay with me,” he whispered into her neck. “Just this once. Just this once, don’t leave me.”
“But Con, I am ruining everything.”
“I just need more time with you,” he said, his hands squeezing her tightly, protectively against him.
She stood straight, not letting herself sink into his embrace. “Everyone dies eventually. It’ll never be enough time.”
“No,” he murmured into her curls. “It never will be.”
She pulled away from him. “I can’t let everyone suffer for me.”
“I know. You’re not selfish.”
“But … if I killed myself … you’d just save me again, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded. “I’ll never stop saving you, Trista.”
“When I killed myself before, was it because you told me then?”
#
He shouldn’t have told her. Con had watched her trying to cope with the truth of what he had done to save her and it was unraveling her, piece by precious piece. He knew now that the timing was bad … his timing was always bad. She was sitting in the bathtub, hugging her knees. The water had gone cold. Con knelt down next to the bathtub.
“Con, I can’t do this,” she whispered. Her hair seemed to have lost some of its luster, deep purple ringed her eyes. In every timeline, in every fate Con had seen her delivered to, this was the worst.
“I’m worthless. I’m garbage. I’ve hurt so many people.” She was rocking back and forth, her gaze unfocused.
“No, Trista, no. You’re the most precious thing in the universe,” he said. The words were stale in his mouth.
“I just can’t do it. I can’t stop thinking of everyone suffering because of me.”
“Just hold on a little longer, darling. I’ll figure it out. I promise.”
“I can’t live like this. I hate myself.”
“I love you, Trista. I love you so much.”
“I’m sorry, Constantine.”
He barely had time to see the razor blade she’d been holding in her hand, only the blood, pouring, pouring, pouring, so much it seemed to fill the tub. He did not think, he pulled her wet, bleeding body into his arms, screaming, begging her not to do what had already been done. She had cut too deep, too fast. He desperately tried to stem the blood flow with nearby towels, but it was too late. He held her until the light died in her eyes and her body became cold and stiff. He held her long into the night, feeling the blood and water soak into his clothing. It was many long, tortuous hours before he could think straight enough to use his watch to go back. Part of him felt like he deserved to stay here, feeling once and for all the deep ache of loss.
But no. This time, saving her would be easy. He just had to save her from himself.
#
Trista was silent. “Why did you tell me this time, then?”
“A lot has happened since then.” Con looked at the burn on his wrist.
She frowned, tapping the sink with her fingers.
“The Bureau … what will they do to you if this goes on?”
“Eventually, they’ll kill me,” he said. “But I can keep running for now.”
“But what happens if they catch you?”
He sighed. “I’ll just cease to exist. That’s really all there is to it.”
“You’re not being fair,” Trista said. “Why can you change the universe to save me but I can’t do anything to save you?” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you too, you know.”
He looked at her, almost startled.
“Don’t you know that?” Trista asked. Her fists were clenched so tight she could feel them shaking.
“But …” he paused. “But I have to save you.”
“And who saves you?”
“I don’t need to be saved,” Con said.
“Don’t give me that Superman complex bullshit, Constantine. If I’m cosmically important because you broke the universe for me, then what does that make you?”
“The greatest criminal of all time?” Con offered sheepishly.
“The man who broke the universe for love,” Trista said firmly.
“I can’t let you die,” Con said firmly. “I can’t.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “What’s the point of you doing all of this if I don’t even get to be with you in the end?”
He had no answer for her.
#
That night, Con fell asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around Trista. She listened to his breathing for a long while. Deep into the night, she loved to hear that sound. It was pleasant to know if she woke in the night, there were arms there to hold her, ease her back to sleep. She stroked the little hairs on his arms. He looked peaceful when he slept. Normal, even. He was not handsome, necessarily; his skin was ambiguously brown, his hair dark, his facial features symmetrical. It was his eyes that original drew her in—at least in this timeline. But she now tried to commit him to memory. The lines of his face were nondescript but utterly original. He frowned a little when he slept. She wondered how often, realistically, a time traveler got to rest at all.
Finally certain he was deeply asleep, she eased herself out of his grasp and, as quietly as she could, made her way out of the room. She went to the restroom, where she had left a small bundle of clothing on the floor. She threw on jeans, a tee-shirt, a worn purple hoodie, and some flip flops. She turned to leave and briefly caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked ragged, tired, underdressed for any occasion, and somehow she was the most important woman in the universe because a man had fallen in love with her. To her surprise, for the first time since Con began to explain this situation to her, she caught herself smiling. She ducked out of the bathroom and headed to the living room.
Con’s watch was still on the table. She opened the face and saw the color wheel again. She turned the watch over in her hands, and found the small button on the side that allowed her to change the position of the arrows. She held her breath. She did not have time to think. She pointed the hands to the deep black zone and waited.
And the world around her suddenly melted away and was replaced by harsh lights. She was halfway down a long, white hallway, with doors leading off to either side. There were no windows, no distinguishing features. Not even numbers on the doors. She was disappointed, half-expecting flying cars or a flashy light show or something. It was all very mundane.
There was a flow of people going to and from the doors, but they all seemed distracted, eyes forward. She noted that the men looked like Con had said, old grey suits and hats. The women were in pencil dresses and sensible pumps, some with elaborate hairdos. She felt awkward in her jeans and unkempt hair, but no one seemed to notice her at first.
A woman passed very close by her to enter a door behind her. The woman paused suddenly, and the focused look left her eyes, replaced by sudden curiosity. She pursed her red lips at Trista, looking her up and down. Trista noted that the woman was very beautiful, with dark skin and perfectly coiffed hair. When she looked into Trista’s eyes, familiarity lodged there.
“I know you,” the beautiful woman said.
Trista shook her head. “No, I’m … I’m not from around here.”
“You’re her—you’re the girl who is responsible for this mess.”
To Trista’s great surprise, the woman did not sound angry so much as a little awed.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Why on earth are you here?” The woman hissed in a low voice, pulling Trista off to the side, away from the flow of people.
“I’m just trying to put things right … I never wanted this.”
The woman looked at her, not unsympathetically, and nodded. “Okay, then. You need to talk to Feldman then.”
“Feldman.”
“The head of the Bureau.”
“Where can I find Feldman?”
“I’ll escort you,” the woman said. She stuck out a hand. “Mariah Cole. I’m Mr. Feldman’s personal assistant.”
“Okay,” Trista said, shaking her hand and following her down the hallway.
“Now, keep your head down,” Mariah instructed. “May do you good to pull that hood up.” Trista did, feeling like she stuck out more than ever. No one else seemed to recognize her as readily, for which she was grateful.
“How did you know me?” Trista asked.
“You’re the most famous woman in existence; everyone here knows you.”
Trista gulped, but said nothing else. Her head was swimming. The lights were too bright. After what seemed like forever, Mariah turned a sudden corner and led her down another hallway, into another door, and down another hallway that had no doors at all but led to a large, circular antechamber. There were no windows here, but a small wooden desk where a man in an unremarkable grey suit sat. He was handwriting something on a piece of paper with an expensive-looking fountain pen. The future was dull, Trista thought. She hadn’t given the future much thought when Con had said he’d come from here, but in her head she’d expected something a little more grand.
“Mr. Feldman,” Mariah said gently. He looked up. He was an old man, with tan skin and white hair. He had hard lines and a rather pronounced nose. His eyes were dark and bright with intelligence and some of the fire she had seen in Con’s. To her surprise, his eyes softened as he looked at her. “So you’re Trista,” he said gently. “I suppose this day had to come.”
Mariah respectfully ducked out of the room, giving Trista an unexpected smile as she left. Trista found it all very baffling, but she pushed these thoughts aside.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Feldman, I have no idea where I am, really.”
“You’re in the head office for the Space-Time Bureau,” he said, almost cheerfully. Feldman turned in his chair and suddenly the white wall behind him seemed to dissipate. It was replaced by a stunning vista of an endless black night sky, scattered with billions of stars and, looming close, a ringed planet tinged in purple. Asteroids lazily whirled past, in unhurried orbit.
“I …” Trista’s knees felt weak. She was suddenly grateful that the future had seemed so ordinary at first. This had literally taken her breath away.
Feldman did not deign to turn his chair around. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she managed to gasp.
“The asteroids flying past us used to be a lovely world we called Tarsus. It’s gone now.” He turned his chair around to face her. “We relocated here to try and repair some of the damage, but we literally did not have enough time.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. He said it matter-of-factly, and Trista felt relief flooding through her bones.
“It’s Constantine’s fault,” Feldman said, in the same unaccusing tone of voice.
Trista felt her stomach bottom out. Somehow, hearing that was worse than thinking it was her fault. She felt strange, standing here in front of this man, seeing this vision of the future that was not meant for her eyes. But she had come this far. Just like Con had done—so many times—for her.
“Are you going to kill him?”
“Me, personally? No,” Feldman said. “But he will be disintegrated, yes.” He said it so impersonally, like Con was a chore to be checked off of a list.
“He wasn’t trying to break the universe. He was just trying to save me.”
Feldman looked at her kindly. “We know that, dear. But Constantine knew when he signed up for the Bureau what such an infraction would cost him. There are fixed events that must happen. If they are altered, the universe is altered irreparably.”
“What will killing him solve?”
“Killing him in itself, very little. But making it so he never existed would solve the problem entirely. You’d die on schedule, you see.”
“What about any other alterations he made, before he made that mistake?”
“We’d of course have to send in a cleanup crew. It would be tedious, but a small price to pay for repairing the universe.”
Trista’s head was swarming. Everything seemed too big for her. “What if, instead of Con, you made it so I never existed?”
Feldman frowned at her. “Any scenario where that happens doesn’t pan out. We’ve run the numbers. Too many anomalies on your timeline; you never existing would actually make the problem worse. It’s sweet of you to offer, though. I know how painful this must be for you.” He gave her a warm, grandfatherly look.
Trista shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Is there any scenario where Con doesn’t cease to exist and the universe repairs itself?”
Feldman frowned. “Time is infinite. There probably is. But the problem is, we haven’t found that solution, and we’re rather at a crisis.”
“I’ve tried killing myself,” Trista offered. “Con told me I did it once. But he just saved me anyway.” She looked down. “I don’t want this to go on. I want to save him. And the rest of the universe.”
Feldman frowned. “I wish we could find a better solution, truly I do. We aren’t monsters, my dear.”
Trista thought about Con, his brown eyes, and suddenly laid out before her she saw him—every time he saved her. That first time in front of the car. Through illnesses, tragedies, accidents. He’d had his heart broken hundreds upon hundreds of times and bore it all, over and over and over. She could see every time he’d loved her, every relationship they’d ever formed—every kiss, every touch, every laugh.
She blinked and found that tears were pouring out of her eyes. “What if he didn’t love me anymore?” She looked up at Feldman. “Can you make that happen?”
Feldman frowned. “We’re advanced, but we can’t control the human heart.”
“What about memory altering? If you can go back in time, surely you can do that.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“What if we never met, if Con and I never met at all? What if you went back and made it so someone else was on the street the day that car hit me?”
Feldman looked at her. “I suppose that could work. It’s not as tidy as wiping him from existence, but it should work. But think of what you’re asking. You’ll die. You’ll never have loved him. He’ll never have loved you.”
“No,” Trista said, her face set. “I’ll have loved him hundreds of times. He’ll have loved me hundreds of times. And the universe … will be saved.”
Feldman stood from his desk and put out his hand. “It’s a deal then.”
She looked at him as she shook his hand and saw a shrewdness there. “You knew I’d come here today. You knew I’d give you the answer you were searching for, didn’t you?”
Feldman gave a short laugh. “When you’re around long enough, I suppose you see everything.”
#
Trista was eight years old, watching the street from her window. There was a man standing there, dark and large. He wore an old-fashioned hat. She thought he was a detective, but something about his stance made her want to leave him alone. She stayed inside that day, even though the kids across the street were playing with the hose. After all, they were big kids, and it was dangerous to play in the street.
#
Con never knew why he was removed from his assignment that day. The Bureau had been in discussions about taking him out of fieldwork around that time, but he did not know why. He’d always been professional. Occasionally though, he saw a girl with red, curly hair, flash across his memory. He knew the effects of time alteration, but he decided not to ask about it. Sometimes it was better just not to know.
But he couldn’t stop loving his memory of that smile.
#
Trista was leaving the coffee shop after another late-night study session. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her senior year was almost over. Soon, she would be a penniless graduate with a degree in history, and not just a penniless student. She gathered her books and hurried into the crisp autumn night. She looked both ways and crossed the street. She never saw the car coming around the bend, too fast, much too fast.
Adrenaline rushed into her veins and she jumped onto the sidewalk, her books flying, her hands scraping against the concrete, as the car continued on its way.
“That guy was a jerk!” she heard someone exclaim. “You could have died! Are you okay?”
She nodded as she gathered up her scattered books. “Yeah, I guess I’m safe for another day,” Trista muttered.
She looked up at the man who had spoken. He was forgettable looking, but there was something about his eyes, his face. Like they were burning. She knew she’d seen him somewhere before. He offered her a hand up, and she gladly accepted.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling at him.
Con instantly loved that smile. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Check it out! A new Scuba Deer EP! It features four delicious songs written and performed by Ed White and myself, and original artwork by Sierra Choate, Ellianna Abreu, and Quinn Abreu. Check it out!
Zootopia just might be Disney’s most important film.
Zootopia just might be Disney’s most important film.
While Walt Disney Animation studios has been on a nonstop hit train in recent years, Zootopia, at a glance, seems a tired idea. We’ve seen slick anthropomorphic animals in Disney films plenty of times. And lacking the geek-appeal of Wreck-It Ralph or the anthemic girl power message of Frozen, Zooptopia seems like a low point in a decade where the company is batting a thousand, the Cars of the current Disney streak.
But that’s only at a glance. Sure, Zootopia has all of the trademarks of Disney: lovable characters, sumptuous animation, easy going dialogue, and humor (complete with tons of visual puns and sight gags) with wide appeal for both adults and children. But beneath the paper-thin veneer of a world of cute talking animals is a timely and nuanced parable of racism. And for a movie featuring an adorable bunny protagonist, it packs a pretty heavy punch.
The movie escapes easy allegory, setting up a world where “prey” animals, such as our feisty bunny heroine, Judy Hopps, live and work alongside “predator” animals, such as the smooth talking fox, Nick Wilde, who have evolved past their primitive and brutal ways.
It sounds idyllic, and Judy, not dissuaded from her dream of being a police officer in the big city of Zootopia, a sort of animal world version of Los Angeles, by being, well, a bunny, longs to see a world where animals of all stripes (and spots) live in harmony together. Despite the constant derision of others (no bunny has ever been a police officer before, it’s a job reserved for stronger animals), she achieves her dreams and soon finds herself surrounded by bigger and distinctly more predatory animals in the city, and despite wanting to live in harmony with others, starts to wonder about the motives of the people around her, particularly when she meets the con artist, Nick, a fox, whom she, as a bunny, should be predisposed to dislike.
A buddy-cop scenario ensues in which Nick is, well, blackmailed into helping Judy solve a case that merely uncovers a larger conspiracy to create panic and distrust towards predatory animals, causing the prey animals of Zootopia to become suspicious and wary of their friends and neighbors. After all, the innocent prey creatures, are naturally good, and predatory animals are naturally bad- it’s just biology! Thrown into the midst of chaos, Judy begins to question her own prejudices, and Nick’s, and whether their newfound friendship can weather such a storm.
It’s a sweet story of friendship and tolerance. It’s also a too-accurate portrait of modern America, with an almost sinister political angle that seems painfully timely. While it would be easy to pin a label of what the predators and prey animals represent, the film dances around this line, having Judy and Nick both alternately represent minorities in specific contexts, whether it’s being taken advantage of, stereotyped, or simply underestimated. There are good predators in the film, and bad predators. There are good prey animals and bad ones. There are fat ones and skinny ones, tall ones and short ones. There are elephants that refuse service to foxes, and gazelles that inexplicably speak Spanish. It is not a film that exists as a straightforward analogy or allegory- certain species don’t represent specific cultures or ethnicities, or anything so heavy-handed as that— but it’s a powerful portrait of racial tension and a plea for understanding between people groups that have traditionally hated each other. Maybe, the film posits, our hate is not evolved. Maybe it’s downright primitive. And it’s time to move on. There has never been a better tribute to American diversity or more innocent, hopeful plea for racial reconciliation. Maybe, the film says, there’s no predators and there’s no prey. Maybe we’re all just wild animals.
