The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins

****

An excerpt of a review recently posted on Schaeffer's Ghost:

Classic literature doesn’t offer much in the way of strong, single, unattractive heroines. If you’re a reader, it’s ridiculously easy to become persuaded that only attractive people matter—that they’re the only ones who get to have stories. Unattractive people are relegated to the sidelines. And a single woman, well, she’s just a problem to be solved. Elizabeth Bennet is witty and charming and attractive, so she gets a (fantastic) book and ends up with one of the Catches of All Time. Juliet’s story doesn’t end well, it’s true, but it’s highly regarded as a romantic classic—and she was no dog. Wuthering Heights, Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, Emma …these are stories about attractive women. Then there’s Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty (it’s right there in the name), Snow White … even biblical matriarchs, such as they are, skew hot—look at Sarah, Rachel, and Rebecca. Sure, Jane Eyre is no looker (and I love her for that), but even she winds up paired up with the gruff Mr. Rochester. And the unfortunate Leah, though unloved, still gets married. Only tragedies end with single heroines still single. Happily-ever-afters require marriage (or at least romance). [...]

But in the face of countless, gorgeous Disney princesses and their (admittedly dull-as-toast) Prince Charmings, it is crazy easy to believe that if you are not a) a knockout, and b) married, then you either don’t get a story, or your story is incomplete until you acquire both these things. You are incomplete until you acquire both these things.

Which is why I love The Woman in White’s Marian.

Full review available here.

The Mummy (1932)

***

An excerpt of a review recently posted on Schaeffer's Ghost:

The narrative here, like that of many monster stories, is at its heart a romantic one: Once upon a time, Priest Imhotep loved Princess Ankh-es-en-amon. When death separated them, Imhotep was so desperate to be with her again that he acted in deliberate rebellion against the gods he previously served by stealing the Scroll of Thoth in order to bring Ankh-es-en-amon back to life so they could be together. He chose human love over faith. 

Imhotep was caught in the act and, as punishment for his transgression, he was buried alive in complete mummy regalia. Now, having been accidentally resurrected by the nitwitted archaeologist’s assistant, Imhotep picks up where he left off, searching for his long lost love, whose soul apparently resides in her modern day ancestor, the young Helen Grosvenor. Along the way, Imhotep is perfectly willing to kill anyone who gets in his way. His ‘love’ for Ankh-es-en-amon results in disrespect—and violence—toward others. 

Then, it turns out that the final step in his long-planned reunion with Ankh-es-en-amon is Helen’s death—only by killing the body where the soul of Ankh-es-en-amon dwells can she be freed to be with Imhotep forever. This plan doesn’t seem to go over too well with Helen (or, it is implied, Ankh-es-en-amon), but that doesn’t stop Imhotep. What she wants doesn’t matter. His ‘love’ for Ankh-es-en-amon overrides all other considerations. He ‘loves’ her so much that he is willing to kill her—against her will—to be with her.

Full review available here.

Miracle on 34th Street (1947)

****

An excerpt of a review recently posted on Schaeffer's Ghost:

Miracle on 34th Street is, in many ways, a quintessential example of the heart-warming ‘Christmas’ movie. There isn’t even a whiff of the real Christmas story, of course. That would be too much to ask. Instead, it celebrates Christmas by decrying selfish commercialism and encouraging kindness and goodwill—though it is worth noting that much of the ‘progress’ is itself motivated by pure, unadulterated self-interest. For example, Mr. Macy endorses Kris’s new policy of sending shoppers elsewhere if Macy’s cannot supply their needs because he believes that it will benefit him to be perceived as kind and customer-oriented. Gimbel follows suit so as not to miss out on the public relations benefits of this ‘kindness.’ The two retail giants compete for the role of generous benefactor not because they actually are generous, but because they wish to appear generous in order to receive a financial benefit. And Macy later defends Kris in court not because he actually believes his claims, but because to do otherwise would be bad for business. Similarly, the judge who presides over Santa’s trial is reluctant to lock Kris away not because it would be unjust to do so, or because of any desire to uphold the ‘spirit of Christmas’, but because he fears it would hurt his chances of re-election. Thus, there is a broad streak of humorous skepticism behind this touchy-feely tale, which gives the story a depth and complexity that is lacking in much of the usual holiday treacle.

Full review available here.

White Christmas (1954)

***

An excerpt of a review recently posted on Schaeffer's Ghost:

The overall theme is one of continued connectedness, obligation, and sacrifice. On some level, this works itself out comically (as in Wallace’s continued sense of obligation to Davis for saving his life, and Davis’ shameless willingness to exploit that sense of obligation). But there are more serious implications as well. [...] Wallace and Davis undertake to move their entire show—cast, sets, and all—to rural Vermont to help out their old Army general. This is far from a low cost endeavor. It is nothing short of an act of personal sacrifice. And when Wallace exhorts his fellow veterans to come to Vermont to show appreciation for General Waverly, they do so. That they would leave their families on Christmas Eve, and at a moment’s notice, is evidence of a deep devotion to the General. 

The interesting thing is that none of these individuals were supposed to have been terribly good friends. [...] Time and time again, Wallace and Davis remind each other that they are doing this or that undesirable task ‘for a pal in the Army.’ The emphasis is clearly on ‘Army’, not ‘pal.’ The connection between them is not personal; it is based on a shared commitment to and service of a particular cause—a common experience that transcends personalities, professions, geography, and even time. On the strength of this connection, Wallace, Davis, and the other veterans of the 151st Division make costly sacrifices.

Full review available here.

Dial M for Murder (1954)

****

Margot Wendice is the wealthy wife of retired tennis star Tony Wendice. She is also the sometimes-lover of Mark Halliday, an American author of detective fiction. Unfortunately for her, her husband is wise to the affair and decides to have her bumped off before she divorces--or disinherits--him. The murder plot seems foolproof, but circumstances intervene and his wife survives. The hired killer is not so fortunate. Now Tony Wendice has to deal with the police snooping about, and they're bound to get suspicious, unless he can convince them that his wife is herself guilty of murder ...

The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

****

An excerpt of a review recently posted on Schaeffer's Ghost:

[...] Both Mary and Colin start out as selfish, unpleasant children. They are rotten little beasts, in a way that the protagonists of children’s books are rarely permitted to be. It’s actually kind of refreshing. As a child, I remember identifying more strongly with the willful and autocratic Mary than I ever did with more angelic storybook children. 

The cure for this rottenness turns out to be, well, each other. [...] Until he meets Mary, Colin has never encountered anyone willing—or able—to stand up to him. Mary is impervious to his tantrums and refuses to cosset him when he’s engaged in a neurotic fit. In Colin, Mary sees what she used to be (and what, in many ways, she still is). She realizes that the things that helped her be less awful might have a similar affect on Colin, and so, for the first time in her life, she decides to do something for the benefit of another. 

In many ways, this is a rather upside-down example of ‘iron sharpening iron.’ (Proverbs 27:12) Rather than spurring one another on to good deeds, Colin’s sinful selfishness bumps into Mary’s sinful selfishness, and in order to get on together, they each learn to abandon their respective egos (at least to some degree) and become better, happier children in the bargain. And there’s certainly some practical truth to this. When we see our sins reflected in others, we get a better picture of just how awful and ugly our sins really are. And experiencing the practical consequences of our sin (like broken relationships) can certainly motivate us to behave ourselves better. 

But despite Burnett’s optimistic view of human relationships, the changes resulting from our interactions with others and with the world around us are, at best, external changes. Other people can’t change our hearts. The only way we can actually be transformed from rotten sinners into ‘good children’ is through the saving work of Jesus Christ. [...]

Full review available here.

The Call of the Wild, by Jack London

***

The adventures of Buck, a ginormous St. Bernard-Scotch Shepherd cross who is kidnapped (dognapped?) from his posh California home during the Klondike Gold Rush in the late 1800s.  Buck is unceremoniously shipped up to the Yukon, where he is forced to work as a sled dog for the Canadian mail.  Despite some initial difficulties, Buck adjusts quickly to his new life, and it's not long before he is top dog (so to speak).  Buck is passed around to various owners during his time as a sled dog--some foolish, some wise, some cruel, some just.  As time passes, he feels himself increasing torn between loyalty to the world of men, where he's always lived, and the inescapable allure of . . . the call of the wild.

I can't seem to figure out if this is the first book written from a dog's perspective, but if it's not, it has to be one of the first.  Jim Kjelgaard (of Big Red fame) didn't start writing until the 1940s, Lady and the Tramp wasn't released until 1955, and lesser-known dog enthusiast (and breeder of rough collies) Albert Payson Terhune didn't publish Lad: A Dog until 1919.  Even London's own White Fang wasn't published until three years after this novella.  I don't know that he invented the genre, but I suspect this book and its widespread popularity helped lay the foundation for a genre that would be beloved by animal lovers everywhere (and myself in particular).  For that reason alone this book is significant, though of course that's not the only basis for its inclusion in the category of American classics.

Titus Alone, by Mervyn Peake

***

The final entry in the Gormenghast series picks up where Gormenghast left off--with young earl Titus, fresh from his hard-fought victory over Steerpike, headed off into the wilderness, leaving his family, friends, and responsibilities behind in a quest for . . . well, it's not terribly clear exactly what he's looking for, or what he hopes to accomplish.  Seeing the world, I suppose, or having some adventures before returning to the drudgery of Gormenghast.  He is able to accomplish both goals by leaving Gormenghast and promptly falling into a completely different book, peopled by a whole mess of loony characters living in a sort of futuristic, sci-fi, steampunk world.  The book pretty much goes off the rails from there --and stays off the rails, at that--though we do meet some interesting characters along the way.

This is deeply weird book.

A Journey to the Center of the Earth, by Jules Verne

***

Axel Lidenbrock, nephew of the dedicated scientist and professor Otto Lidenbrock, is pressured by his uncle to join him in a fantastic voyage from their Germany to Iceland, and thence into the belly of a volcano, where he hopes to trace the footsteps of a medieval alchemist who claims to have traveled to the center of the earth.  Axel reluctantly parts ways with his beloved Grauben (the Professor's god-daughter) and heads off into the unknown with his uncle and their preternaturally proficient and uber-reliable Icelandic guide Hans.  But will they really be able to travel into the center of the earth?  How will they get there?  What will they find?  And how will they ever get back?

This is a decent enough story (which makes sense, given its reputation as a classic work of science fiction).  the three main characters--the Professor, Axel (the narrator), and Hans)--are well drawn, and good thing too, since we spend almost the whole book with these three.  The Professor is dedicated to the point of mania and unfailingly optimistic about the success of their mission.  Hans, who speaks only Danish (and thus is unintelligible to the narrator and to us) is conveniently capable and willing to follow the Professor into any danger or seemingly hopeless situation, provided he is paid his weekly wages.  Indeed, more than once, he functions as a sort of deus ex machina to get the other two characters out of a tight spot.

As for Axel . . . well, he belongs in a Lovecraft story.  By which I mean, he is prone to fits of despondency and gloom and has a tendency to faint when things get too intense.  He waxes eloquent about Grauben, is devastated to be parted from her, is convinced the journey will be a failure, then becomes elated at its possible success, only to bemoan their certain demise when things go poorly.  He is the perpetual pessimist poking holes in the Professor's upbeat certitude.  Until, of course, he decides that they might just succeed, at which point he becomes positively giddy.  Not, perhaps, the most scientifically minded individual.

Still, for all that, it's a pretty enjoyable read.  The voyage drags on a bit--first they have to get to Iceland and make arrangements for their descent, which takes a while, then they're in tunnels for quite a while, then sailing on an underground sea for a while longer, and so forth and so on.  They do find some interesting things, but it takes a while before the reader gets that payoff.  The focus really is the journey, as the title suggests, and the reader spends a veritable eternity with the trio as they navigate the bowels of the earth.

Definitely worth picking up if you enjoy old-school adventure stories, or if you just want to catch up on the classic science fiction that paved the way for the flashier, faster-paced stories we love today.  No sex or violence, really, though there's plenty of 'danger'--this should be fine for younger audiences, if they can pay attention through all the long and occasionally monotonous passages.  Though at 160 pages, give or take, even the monotonous bits don't drag on for too long.  The audiobook, narrated by Simon Pebble, is quite good (there is another version narrated by Tim Curry, which I suspect is also worth checking out).

Jane Eyre (1944)

****

I think we may have a winner.

While Joan Fontaine is far too pretty to be a believable Jane Eyre, Orson Welles is far and away the best Rochester I've seen to date.  And good thing, too, since this version focuses much more heavily Jane's gruff employer than on the titular character herself.  Jane's thought life and personality are not well developed, though periodic voiceover readings from the 'text' help flesh her out a bit.  But Welles shines as Rochester in all his brusque and peremptory glory.  Where other Rochesters are inclined to mopey artistic petulance and whiny temper tantrums, Welles explodes off the screen, full of thundering rage and masculine pride.  This is no mewling, puling poet, but a strong, authoritative man whose misguided efforts at courtship, though effective, are manipulative, cruel, and callous.  We believe that he is something of a social outcast, that Blanche must be after his money.  We believe that Jane, with her extensive experience of hardship and cruelty, is largely unperturbed by his bluster and can see through the rough exterior and harsh words to the man beneath.

Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake

****

This books follows the adventures of young Titus Groan, the seventy-seventh Earl of Gormenghast--a role to which he is by no means reconciled. As Titus resents (and occasionally rebels against) his lordly responsibilities, the cleverly malevolent Steerpike plots his own advancement, by whatever means necessary. His schemes take him through the vast expanse of Gormenghast--a sprawling, decrepit castle of truly mind-boggling dimensions.  But Steerpike's subtle machinations have not gone unnoticed, and Dr. Prunesquallor and exiled valet Flay are hot on his trail.  In other news, Dr. Prunesquallor's spinster sister is on the hunt for a suitor.

The Gormenghast novels are notoriously difficult to categorize.  There are definite gothic influences, to be sure, but there is a flavor of high fantasy about the series, even though it contains no magic or supernatural elements (unless you count the sheer size of Gormenghast itself), and no non-human intelligent races (though several human characters seem a mere hair's breadth from goblins or dwarves or gnomes or elves).  The focus on the hierarchical social structures, and the 'drawing room' nature of many of the sequences has led some to dub this a fantasy of manners.

A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

****

A beloved Christmas classic fully deserving of its reputation and popularity.  Dickens inserts himself as narrator from time to time, not intrusively but subtly, lending a 'storytelling' quality to the tale.  While not quite a 'ghost story' as such, the otherworldly nature of Scrooge's adventures makes this storytelling quality particularly appropriate.  It feels like a story that should be told to wide-eyed children in front of a crackling fire after a big meal. 

For Dickens, Christmas is about generosity, joy, and showing kindness to your fellow man.  None of which are bad things in the least.  However, any sense of Christmas's more explicitly religious foundations is utterly missing.  The story is still moving, and I still choke up a bit at the idea of Tiny Tim's passing, and when Scrooge lavishes his wealth on friends and family--to their utter consternation.  In fact, it almost makes me wish I'd been more miserly, so that I could see such a reaction to my change of heart.  There is something extremely touching in this kind of generosity--it moves us.  But it's not the whole story of Christmas, not by a long shot.  Then again, it doesn't have to be, provided that parents remind their children and themselves that Christmas is more than just a reminder of the benefits of kindness and prodigality.

This latest version--an audiobook narrated by Simon Vance--is a decent enough production.  As I've mentioned, the tale works remarkably well as an oral presentation.  Vance does a good job with it, though I think there have probably been better versions.  Tim Curry, Patrick Stewart, Basil Rathbone, Jim Dale, and Martin Jarvis are just a few of the notable names who've taken a crack at this classic, and I expect their narrations are all first rate. 

There are some excellent film renditions as well--George C. Scott and Patrick Stewart are fairly well respected, though I've always been partial to A Muppet Christmas Carol (which preserves the present narrator in Rizzo the Rat) and Mickey's Christmas Carol.  Then, too, Bill Murray's modern day take in Scrooged has its moments.  I cannot speak to the Alistair Sim, Kelsey Grammar, Albert Finney, Henry Winkler, or Jim Carrey versions, having never seen them. 

All in all, it's a great story, and you could do a lot worse than this audio version. At just under three hours, you could probably get through the whole thing in an evening, and it would make a nice break from Christmas music during holiday baking or gift-wrapping or what-have-you.

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

****

I grew up watching this movie, and have loved it for as long as I can remember.  And not just because I have a serious soft spot for Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart (the latter of whom was awarded an Oscar for his performance in this film).  Rather, I suspect my affection for this film is rooted in its crisp dialogue and zippy one liners.  While Hepburn, Grant, and Stewart are the obvious heavy-hitters, the supporting cast turned in solid performances and earned a lot of laughs in their own right--most notably Ruth Hussey (who garnered an Oscar nomination), Roland Young, and Virginia Weidler.

Watership Down, by Richard Adams

*****

Man, I forgot how amazing this book is. The writing is fantastic, the story is compelling and suspenseful, the characters are incredibly empathetic and likeable, and Adams makes the reader really feel the terror of circumstances which, while hardly remarkable to humans, would undoubtedly be incredibly frightening and utterly overwhelming to rabbits.  The characters face adventure and violence with courage, fear, ingenuity, and determination.  It is always surprising a simple story about a bunch of rabbits can suck the reader in so thoroughly--and so quickly.  I find myself immersed in the story and invested in the characters almost from the opening page.  Even though the book is on the longish side (and includes several smaller story arcs), it is very readable and accessible to those at a variety of reading levels.

And the characters are amazingly well-developed and clearly differentiated. Hazel is quite possibly one of the best leaders in literature--he cares deeply about his followers and knows and uses their strengths with remarkable insight.  And each makes a unique (and necessary) contribution to the adventure. Bigwig is a perfect picture of brusque yet reliable, big-hearted courage--a true soldier.  Blackberry saves the rabbits time and again with his cleverness, Dandelion boosts their spirits with his stories, and Fiver guides their steps. Strawberry's knowledge of structure and design, Holly's discipline and patrolling prowess, even Pipkin's loyalty and trust--each rabbit is distinct and appreciated as such.

I must also confess a fondness for any book that bothers to include a unique linguistic element, and Adams 'lapine' language delights me.  His language is nowhere hear as fully developed as those in Tolkien or Lewis, but he still creates a linguistically consistent vocabulary for his characters.  Then, too, his rabbit mythology--again not as complex as Tolkien--is still intriguing and quite entertaining.

For those who find reading a chore, the 1978 film is actually an excellent adaptation of this classic (and Art Garfunkel does wonders with the music), but parents' should not be mislead by the animation--this is not a film for young children.  Animation was simply the best medium for telling the story. And the filmmakers tell it well--the animation is quite good, the story is faithfully told, and the voice work is fantastic.

The recent audiobook edition is also quite good, though it was a little jarring to hear Kehaar voiced as vaguely Swedish (I grew up hearing Zero Mostel's voicework from the animated film, which had  much more German/Polish/Eastern European flavor), though I don't know that one accent is more correct than another.  I was, however, struck by the similarities between the film Bigwig and Bigwig as voiced on the audiobook. 

In his introduction, Adams discusses the challenges of finding a publisher for this sort of in-between novel--it is a little complex for children (and includes some more mature themes), and publishers were worried that adults would not be willing to read a 500-plus page book about rabbits.  I am so grateful that a publisher finally saw this gem for what it is--one of the best books of the 20th century.  Love.

Bottom line:  This book rocks. Read it.

The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco

***

Man, what a slog.  This book clocks in at 536 pages (including author's postscript).  The story itself could be told in about 200 pages, maybe less.  The rest of the book is pretty much just detailed descriptions, accounts of dreams, and soliloquies on various religious topics.  I never thought a bunch of Benedictine monks--supposedly dedicated to silence--could spend so much time speechifying.  Then again, perhaps I ought to have expected a fair amount of pontificating in a story so focused on the tensions between Rome and Avignon.  (Etymological rimshot!)

I realize that these extended periods of discussion and description were a stylistic choice.  Eco, a semiologist, is using the novel to showcase his expertise using the medieval opera-buffa structure with its "long recitatives and elaborate arias."  (See Author's Postscript).  However, the knowledge of the artistic intent does not make these sections any easier--or more entertaining--to read. 

But perhaps I am not being fair.  I am admittedly not in the best position to appreciate this novel.  First of all, having heard it billed as "Sherlock Holmes in a medieval monastery", I was undoubtedly expecting something more akin to Doyle's terse, plot-heavy, and action-packed writing.  Which this is most assuredly not.  Second, a novel this stylistic and slow-moving is clearly meant to be ingested at a leisurely pace, possibly in a large overstuffed armchair.  With a snifter of brandy (or a mug of something hot).  In a dimly lit room.  With a crackling fire.  In the dead of winter.  I used it as a commuter book, reading snatches of it on the way to and from the office or during breaks, and I tend to get restless when my commuter books take too long to read, so I was ready to be done with this book long before I reached the end.

Speaking of endings, I have to say I was quite underwhelmed by the "big reveal."  The forbidden secret did not, in my opinion, live up to the hype.  The evils encountered on the journey were far more exciting than the final destination.  Especially since the "moral" arrived at by the book seems to be "enough of this 'truth' business already." 

Still, the action sequences, such as they were, were quite enjoyable and even compelling.  And the seemingly interminable discussions of poverty, dreams, books, heresy, and laughter were well-written, even if I didn't particularly enjoy reading them.  So while I might rate this only a two star book based on my personal enjoyment level, it gets three stars because it is well-written. 

Titus Groan, by Mervyn Peake

***

I'm still deciding what I think about this one. I expect I won't really know until I finish the next book, if not the whole trilogy. Lots of elements that I appreciate, but I won't know if it was all worth it until I see where Peake takes it.

On the Road, by Jack Kerouac

*

This book sucks. Not only does Kerouac treat women with disdain, but there's no discernible plot and the writing is terrible. If I wanted to listen to the drug-and-booze-addled ramblings of a shiftless vagabond, I would go hang out at a dive bar or sit on a street corner downtown. "Blitzed" is not a legitimate writing style.

The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster

****

A delightful read, full of humor and whimsy. If you have a fondness for words, it is quite likely that you will enjoy this book. In his "Appreciation," Maurice Sendak compares The Phantom Tollbooth to Alice in Wonderland; he is not mistaken.

Also, Norton Juster's opinions to the contrary notwithstanding, the Chuck Jones movie is quite good.

From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, by E.L. Konigsburg

****

Every bit the adventure I remember. Love this book. Konigsburg perfectly captures the arrogance and narcissism of children and pokes fun at their simple and naive self-assurance. She plants the children in a fairly commonplace and yet nonetheless unorthodox setting ripe for ingenuity and creativity, essentially moving the Swiss Family Robinson into downtown New York.

The only possible downside is that it makes running away sound fairly easy and fun and safe. I wonder how many kids ran away after reading this book? On the other hand, it paints museums as places of wonder and mystery rather than musty old buildings devoid of anything remotely interesting.

I had forgotten that the book is narrated by the title character. I suppose that's further evidence that I really DO love voiceovers.

North and South, by Elizabeth Gaskell

****

This was my first Gaskell novel, and I have to say, I enjoyed it. She doesn't have as light a hand as Austen, and the writing lacks the humor that defines Austen's most appealing reads, but it's still an excellent book. Then again, I tend to have a bit of a weakness for strong female characters and male leads who impress with their integrity and good character.

Gaskell's focus on social and economic issues of the day keeps her from merely being Austen-lite. In this particular work, she touches on the industrial revolution, the social prejudice against trade, unions and other labor issues, and religion and conscience. Her writing is thus likely more significant than Austen's--Austen's stories are only ever about the people in them, not about the surrounding world--but I confess I can't help liking Austen more.

NOTE: The BBC version is quite good, and goes well with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and the company of a few female friends.