The Lovers

What an interesting film The Lovers turned out to be (directed by Azazel Jacobs). It's being marketed as a middle-age Cousin, Cousine, and while it has comic elements (a laugh out loud moment), it's going to disappoint folks who attend thinking that the two films are similar.

It has received a high rating from critics on Rotten Tomatoes (86%; by way of comparison, Wonder Woman got 93%), and it's easy for me to see why. It's fresh and original and features wonderful acting. Aiden Gillen's performance was especially fascinating to me. At first, I had trouble taking it in. It felt like viewing a cubist painting without being able to resolve the different points of view. I imagine that his performance in Game of Thrones made such an indelible impression on me that it was hard for me to see him as someone else. (Even though I'd also seen his performance in The Wire, which I also thought wonderful.) But I felt that I was able to see him as someone else, and his performance, as well as the others, all seemed to be very real, to be imitative of reality in a way that's unusual for a Hollywood film.

I loved all the performances. Tracy Letts and Debra Winger were wonderful. Melora Walters, who played the husband's lover, Lucy, was also wonderful. Winger and Letts were the cheating spouses, with so much vitality that it was easy to see how they could be loved despite their cheating ways.

After I thought I'd caught the tenor of the film, I kept thinking Ernst Lubitsch, Ernst Lubitsch, Ernst Lubitsch, he would have done something different with this material. I think I was troubled by the gap in expectation that this would be a funny film and its somber tone. Then I thought We can't have Little Shop Around the Corner, we've seen too much. Perhaps that's true, given that domestic violence made an appearance in Eleanor & Park, a cozy culinary mystery by Diane Mott Davidson and even Debbie Macomber. Does an escapist film have to deny reality? Can there not be an admixture of truthful comfort in the humor of a what is clearly a ridiculous (as well as sad) situation?

I did not like the music or the set design, and while both served to underscore the unsentimentality of the film I found them alienating. I imagine the set design was partly meant to underscore the idea that the wife was emotionally absent and had no emotional investment in her home, no motivation to make it beautiful or personal or full of sentimental touches like a ceramic napkinholder from Key West (not beautiful, sophisticated or elegant, nor even very personal but not anonymous).

Towards the end of the film Debra Winger's character is trying to grapple with the inherent deceit of cheating, and she says, "We're not bad people." At that moment, I wasn't convinced of that statement and I'm not sure that her character was, either. Contrast that with the last line of Billy Wilder's Some Like It Hot: "Nobody's perfect." The last line of this film is funny, and it has a happy ending.

If you're interested in Billy Wilder, you might enjoy the episode of the Austin Film Festival's On Story series, entitled Deconstructing Billy Wilder (Episode 709) in which Sunset Boulevard and Some Like It Hot are discussed.

Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell

This is a very entertaining and engaging book, and I think it's great for both teens and adults, and a wonderful title for a parent and teen to read together. I love this book, and certainly Rainbow Rowell fans are an enthusiastic group. I lent this book to a neighbor, and she agreed that it was good. (So nice of her to approve my enthusiasm.)

It's a love story about how Eleanor and Park meet, on a school bus, junior year, and confront a situation that's really scary and overwhelming. And they struggle with some of the same issues you would find in an adult romance novel.

It's a fast and easy read - I read it in five hours. I was just sharing my enthusiasm for this book with a friend, and as she said, I didn't want it to end. It was so sweet, but not maudlin. It's a real feel-good read, with lots of funny dialogue and well-rounded characters.

I was surprised to see that domestic violence is part of the story. It's presented in a psychologically realistic way. I think I was surprised because it seems to me to come up so often in my reading: it was a theme in the Debbie Macomber novel I read, and also in a Diane Mott Davidson novel (where I really didn't expect it). Dealing with tough real-life issues seems to be a hallmark of the best YA fiction.

Like all romances, there are obstacles to be overcome. I think that one of the things that's charming about Pride and Prejudice is that the characters grow and change; that's true of Eleanor & Park. In fact, Park struggles with wanting social acceptance, and he worries about how the other kids will view him if they perceive that Eleanor is his girlfriend. Eleanor has a different set of issues to struggle with, including a desire to be invisible and to avoid notice (and therefore, trouble); for her own different reasons she hesitates to admit her feelings for Park, and to resist acknowledging the relationship.

Park learns that, after all, his friends don't care that much, and more importantly, Eleanor is far more important to him than their opinion. Eleanor begins to be able trust that Park's feelings for her are enduring. Classic romance!

After I read the book, I went to Google Images and found a collection of fan art depicting Eleanor & Park and scenes in the book. I was so delighted. Check it out. Knowing that the fans know how to depict scenes in the book makes me wonder why it is proving hard to get the film of the book produced.

The Unquiet Dead by Ausma Zehanat Khan

When I first found the Seattle PBS-produced show about books and authors, Well Read, I caught an interview with Ian Rankin. Ian Rankin lives in Edinburgh and is the author of the Inspector Rebus novels, a best-selling mystery series. During the interview, Rankin said that the crime fiction he writes gives him an opportunity to talk about the social issues of the day. I think that's the kind of writing I find most interesting; writing that offers some social or personal commentary wrapped inside a mystery story.

I really enjoyed Ausma Zehanat Khan's debut mystery novel. 
In the novel, Esa Khattak, a Canadian Muslim, is a special police detective assigned to investigate crimes that may be especially sensitive to the Muslim community. He has a partner, Rachel Getty.

Khattak is called upon to investigate an accident that took the life of a wealthy man. It isn't immediately clear why this accident is suspicious and merits investigation. Getty, Khattak's partner, is troubled by her feeling that she hasn't been told everything about the case. She soon learns that this is true: the dead man was living under an assumed identity and his hidden past may contain the motive for a murder.

There's a romance in this police procedural, as well as a very subtle sexual frisson between Khattak, a widower, and his single partner, Getty. There are several suspects, and the ending was a complete surprise to me.


I'm an armchair traveler, and reading books set in faraway places appeals strongly. This novel is set in Toronto, and some of the characters in the novel are Muslim refugees from the genocide of Bosnia-Herzegovina in the former Yugoslavia. Their memories of the genocide are part of the novel as well.

The role that the Bosnian genocide plays in the novel, especially the massacre of Muslim men and boys at Srebrenica, both gives it gravity and probably disqualifies it as an entertainment for some readers.

My take is a little bit different. There are no murders in my real life, but there is irremediable loss, grief, and suffering. There is the mystery that we all carry around, the mystery of the losses and hurts that have shaped our character in a way that is not always obvious to ourselves, much less others. How loss shapes us, or misshapes us, was a theme in Tana French's Faithful Place, and one of the reasons I loved that novel. To me, the ongoing role that loss plays in our lives is the serious business of mystery.

I learned that the term "ethnic cleansing" was coined during the Balkan war of the early 90s to permit officials to avoid using the term "genocide." The two terms mean the exact same thing: the systematic imprisonment, or murder, of a certain ethnic group. Using the term "ethnic cleansing" instead of "genocide" seems very reminiscent of George Orwell's 1984, in which a variety of doublespeak, some quite imaginative, was used to deceive the public. Of course, this doesn't seem very fictional, because it isn't. Doublespeak, or the use of occasionally bizarre, occasionally transparent euphemisms to obscure the truth, is a fact of life today.

This use of fiction, as an educational tool rather than only entertainment, may be a  little old-fashioned today. I think there was a time when more readers read fiction as an exercise in self-education. In 1967, Marshall McLuhan wrote:  Anyone who tries to make a distinction between education and entertainment doesn’t know the first thing about either. Although I imagine McLuhan offered this aphorism to provoke thought, I find myself agreeing in the context of popular fiction, and am happiest encountering fiction with a clear message. This fiction is meant to entertain but also to educate, and I find that this kind of fiction is something I admire.

Other novels in this detective mystery series include: The Language of Secrets, Among the Ruins, and the just-released Dangerous Crossing.

Hero of the Empire by Candace Millard

This is a very entertaining book, and I would certainly recommend it for any fan of Churchill or of history. Millard was recommended to me as someone who wrote history in a very accessible way, and I certainly agree. Her prose is lively, and she shapes her narrative for its maximum entertainment value. And the story of Churchill's escape from a prisoner of war camp was a ripping good yarn.

A Coffin for Demetrios by Eric Ambler

While I was doing informal research about Alan Furst on the Internet, after I'd read Hero of France, I came across an interview somewhere in which Furst reported, if I remember correctly, that he'd started his first novel after finishing A Coffin for Demetrios. I think I remember Frederick Pohl mentioning Ambler's novel in his book about espionage novels. I checked it out from my local library, finished it a few days ago, and must say that I really enjoyed it.

I thought that Ambler's prose was sometimes a little florid, and I found myself having an expectation that his exposition would be concise and his prose plain. Neither was true, and I found that I really enjoyed his prose.

Of course, I felt at sea reading this novel set in about 1925. The novel opens with a writer meeting a government official at a party in Istanbul. It turns out that the Turkish government official, Colonel Haki, is a great fan of police procedurals although, he points out, they bear very little relation to reality.

Latimer, the writer, is facing a deadline from his publisher. He's feeling uninspired, and an experience he has while visiting Colonel Haki intrigues him, and he's soon tempted away from his work by the project of acting as a detective himself, and uncovering the criminal career of a man who seemed to be notoriously amoral among the few who knew of him.

When Latimer first encounters a man whom he later learns is an associate of Demetrios, I found myself feeling, "This is the fifth or so really bizarre character that Latimer has met in the course of this novel." I felt Latimer was entirely too accepting of the company of these strange people. But, of course, these strange characters make the story.

Regeneration by Pat Barker

Regeneration is a tough novel to sum up. It's historical fiction: an imagining of the relationship of some real people, Dr. Williams Rivers, and his shell-shock patients at the Craiglockhart Hospital, renowned war poets Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen.

Author Pat Barker wrote this novel after she realized that her work had been pigeon-holed as women's fiction.

I find the inclusion of real people among the characters engaging. Barker did a lot of research, and I find myself imagining that this gave her the freedom to imagine her characters while grounding them reality, giving her work authenticity.

Underneath it all, Barker conveys something tough-minded and honest, and I think that is part of the appeal of the novel to me. Another aspect that I think interests me is the sense that this moment in time is a turning-point, a switch, or a change, from one culture to another, although in reality, contradictory cultural currents exist side by side.

A review I found somewhere emphasized the character of Billy Prior. Prior is not a historical person, and he is perhaps the least sympathetic of Rivers' patients in the book. As this essay asserted, Prior is an officer who is working-class, and has earned his rank through merit, and his attitude is one of fairly obvious scorn and disdain for the upper-class young men with whom he shares his rank.

Prior starts dating a girl in town during the course of the novel. At times, he feels anger toward her, and this may be simply a reflection of a soldier's contempt for civilians, or something darker. I felt I could never quite get a fix on his feelings for her. My difficulty understanding Prior, or fixing his identity, was the thing that troubled me the most about this novel. I wonder if the difficulty I had "fixing him," or pinpointing his identity, reflects his crossing class lines and his discomfort in the place where he has arrived.

I'd read this novel years ago, perhaps 15 or 20 - I can't remember exactly. As I read it again, I found myself feeling as if I were reading it for the first time. I loved the novel when I read it before, and I struggled to try to recapture the feeling that I had then. After turning over the elements of the novel in my mind, I suspect now that what moved me so greatly was Rivers' character, his kindness and his openness.

It was interesting to read Regeneration right after Longbourn, because the appearance of class in the former novel somehow made me feel more keenly the element of class in Longbourn.

7/29/17  Today I read an interesting personal essay about how reading Regeneration influenced one student's feeling about her own disability. I found it interesting. Here's a link: http://bit.ly/2vGrrTL

Longbourn by Jo Baker

Longbourn is an historical fiction novel about the servants' lives at Longbourn, the home of the Bennet family in Pride and Prejudice.

The Longbourn house is too grand to be without servants but not nearly grand enough for there to be much of an hierarchy. Mr. and Mrs. Hill are assisted by two young girls that came to them from the local workhouse to help with the massive amount of laundry generated by the five Bennet sisters; both serving girls are orphans. Although none of the servants are related to each other, they make up a kind of chosen family. Sarah, for instance, as deeply exhausted as she is, allows Polly, the younger girl, to slack off early recognizing her need to play. Mrs. Hill becomes concerned when Jane, Lizzie and Lydia marry, knowing that there will no longer be enough work for Sarah and Polly.

Sarah is older, and perhaps a little more interesting because, as Baker tells us, Sarah has memories of her life with her parents, weavers, before they died. 

While the world of the novel seems to make clear that there is nothing for Sarah and Polly than a life of service, both are readers, lent books by the Bennets. Nevertheless, Polly eventually becomes the village teacher.

A stranger arrives to work as a footman, and his arrival perplexes Sarah greatly. She alternately hates him and confesses to herself that she is attracted to him. He, for his part, becomes gradually attached to her until he suddenly realizes that he loves her. I saw this as the chief way that Longbourn mirrored Pride and Prejudice.

Another way, though perhaps less obviously, Longbourn mirrors Pride and Prejudice is the concern of Longbourn with class. One example is Wickham himself; here is portrayed as "neither fish nor fowl," a man whose varied background has left him able to charm the Bennet sisters while he remains more comfortable visiting the Bennet servants. Pride and Prejudice implies that Wickham is a sexual predator; Longbourn makes this explicit.

Longbourn is gritty, lingering on Sarah's chilblains, on the long hours worked by the servants.

The characters are well-rounded and feel like real people. 

Baker's novel feels deeply authentic, in part because the characters behave in a way that seems to reflect the restrictions of the period. One note that I found jarring is when Mrs. Hill talks to Lizzie about Lizzie's engagement to Darcy; Mrs. Hill thinks to herself that she understood that Lizzie had made "a spectacular deal." That language seemed a little too modern for me, although it's certainly true. I like best historical fiction that feels authentic and seems to convey the concerns of the period rather than our own concerns. Longbourn is very good in this respect, and some of my favorite historical fiction ever.

The things that I liked best about Longbourn were:

1. The "downstairs" story mirrored the upstairs story, with a romance that included a "true" and a "false" suitor;

2. Sarah, the protagonist, was a complicated, sympathetic and interesting person;

3. Wickham, Lydia and Mrs. Bennet all make an appearance, and their character here is entirely consistent with the same in Pride and Prejudice, while elaborated.

4. Baker's prose  is very beautiful. She uses metaphor for economy in her description is a way that's quite poetic.

5. The novel is full of historical details that I imagine Baker carefully researched.

The Lewis Man by Peter May

Peter May, a television writer, has written a series of mystery novels set in Scotland. The Lewis Man is full of sharp observations of nature written in lyrical prose. Good choice for fans of police procedurals who do not mind some poetical writing. Loved it; recommend it.

This book is a good choice for folks who enjoy mysteries where the setting is strongly described, present, and/or influences the action.

A Hero of France by Alan Furst

A Hero of France was on the Washington Post's list of best mysteries of 2016. It has seemed to me that over the past few years, each newly released Furst novel of wartime Europe has been widely reviewed and greatly publicized.  After reading The Nightingale, The Paris Architect (by Charles Belfoure; I recommended it for its wonderfully clever premise, its clearly motivated characters, its detail and suspense), All the Things We Cannot See and The City of Women, I thought it was a bit surprising that I'd never read Furst.

Furst's novels are often described as spy novels, and his most loyal readers are probably those who have enjoyed LeCarre, MacDonald, and Follett. I don't see A Hero of France as a spy novel, however. There are a few spies, and some spy characters who recur from other of Fursts' novels, but this novel is primarily about the leader of French resistance cell who is in contact with English spies and bringing downed British pilots out of German-occupied France.

Reviews that I read suggested that this is not Furst's most accomplished novel, and I found myself feeling that it did not quite make sense that the cell leader was so trusting, especially when he characterized himself as a shrewd judge of nature. I found suspense slow to build but did find the middle of the novel very suspenseful. The novel does have a very happy ending indeed, something that I am sure will please many readers.

What I'm reading now

I am slowly reading Underground Railroad, by Whitehead Colson, and also reading Jane's Fame by Claire Herman.

Perhaps the most interesting chapter of Herman's book is the one entitled, Divine Jane, which chronicles the rising popularity of Austen (only among some: I think I recall reading that John Irving never read Austen).

Herman talks about Austen's reputation as a miniaturist and I'd like to reread that again. I think Austen valued that subject and I think "miniatures" were a popular thing in the 18th and early 19th century. Today I think many think Austen too romantic and possibly too trivial. I don't agree with that assessment and I want to read Herman's book again with an eye toward collecting evidence to support my point of view.

What I've read recently

I read Martin Cruz Smith's somewhat surprising Girl from Venice, a World War II story set in the Venice lagoon. I think of Smith as a Follett-like thriller writer but the Girl from Venice is enchantingly lyrical, meticulously researched, romantic in the best sense, and an easy read. I thought it was beautifully written, and the information conveyed about fishing and the Venice lagoon's ecosystem made me think of Randy Wayne White and Melville.

I just read Deadline by John Sandford.  I found it a very funny book, about people who appreciate camo, guns, and dogs, sometimes all at the same time and not necessarily in that order.  There's a lot of blue language in the book which makes it a little bit harder for me to recommend, knowing that many of the readers who might enjoy this book would be bothered by that.

Loved reading 101 Things About Jane Austen:  I knew a lot about Austen, but was interested to learn more details about her family, their literary interests and especially about her mother's talent for versifying.

Walk through the Woods by Colin Dexter

This is one of the later Inspector Morse novels, and it's the first one I've ever read.

I loved it.

I thought it was so clever (the mystery's solution is advanced by the letters column of the local paper where enthusiastic amateurs offer the police their assistance in deducing clues from a poem ostensibly written, and published in the paper, by the murderer).

I was also charmed and bemused by Inspector Morse's need to correct the grammar of the suspects he is interrogating.

I felt the ending was very surprising.  Of course, I should say that I am not as good as guessing the ending as many other mystery readers, and I think I'm looking for local color, character, surprises, and originality rather than solutions.  Plenty of color and character here.  

The Snack Thief by Andrea Camilleri

This is the third book I've read in this series, and I've read them out of order.
First, I read The Shape of Water, which I loved.  It had plenty of local color and satire.  Then I read the Voice of the Violin, and was a little disappointed by what I viewed as a more conventional mystery.  I couldn't help noticing, however, what an odd jumble of characteristics Inspector Montalbano had - loved classical music, was clearly an avid connoisseur of fine cuisine, but also seemed to be intolerant, impatient, rude, judgmental and impulsive.  Well!

Now that I've seen the Italian TV show I know that the gourmet Montalbano has flat abs and couture clothes as well as the tastes of a gourmet.  Who knew?

I loved the Snack Thief, however, because while it was partly about how we live today in that there was a subplot about illegal immigration, it was also about how we would like to live in that Livia, Inspector Montalbano's long-time love, finds great joy in caring for an orphan.

Livia and I must be sisters under the skin, because I always find I enjoy a mystery more if there's a subplot involving an orphan in peril.