Inky Horizons

I saw this movie today and it wasn't half bad.

Randolph Scott is acceptable as Hawkeye and the story line itself moves along about as well as you can expect, though it's all "Hollywood." You lose some of the emotional impact in 1936 compared to the remake in 1992, but it's not a bad little film. Not really. Although some of the costumes and dialogue are too cliche.

Some things grate, however. All the Native Americans are, of course, white actors. You have to expect that from the time period in question, but you can't help but wince about it today. However, I must say the actors who portrayed Chingachgook and Uncas did a particularly good job, imo, though Chingachgook should have looked much older. (And maybe they should have done a little more makeup preparation than putting a black wig on the guy.) However, the final battle between Chingachgook and Magua is pretty violent and brutal, even by 1936 standards, and Chingachgook's final speech is, as always, moving. The movie nails those points.

If you like this story, and want to see a fairly good representation of the novel, and if you can view it through the lens of post-code 1936 American racism, you could do a lot worse than this movie. Give it a peek.

George Orwell's love letters are going on sale.

When he wasn't writing about steel boots stamping human faces the guy was kinda romantic.

I've seen this movie on TV several times. Okay, I've never watched it all the way through, but I just can't get behind the story to do that. I don't get it. I guess it was racy or controversial for 1959 but now it comes across as melodramatic. And not in a good way. And who can take Sandra Dee seriously in a dramatic role like this one unless they've ingested mescaline? And even then.

Funny how social mores change over time. What was considered risque now comes across as embarrassingly painful or sappy and coy.

I guess it depends on the story material you pick to write about. Let that be a lesson for all you writers out there. Sophocles got it right. His story about humping your mother and gakking your father has staying power.

Which says a lot about Sophocles. And us.

I met my writing buddy mjryan today and started the edit for "Alpenglow". So far I'm pretty happy with the way it's turning out. I've expanded the story a bit, fleshed it out, and I'm also seeing some fantasy elements I didn't really know were there the first time. Nice.

I got twelve pages in before I had to leave. Time pressure is limiting any further work on the story today, but maybe if I'm lucky I can do some tomorrow. If not I'm meeting my writing buddy Thursday anyway so I'll get more done then for sure.

I knew this would happen, though. Private life stuff interfering with my writing this month. Maybe it's good I didn't start a new story after all. I would be feeling some stress not being able to work on it and give it the time that is necessary. Editing a story is much easier in that regard. Even working at half speed my brain can accomplish that task. But I really wanted to start a new story and now I'm afraid when I do get the change I won't have the drive I have now.

Writers are such a flighty bunch. I'm not immune in this regard.

Last week I read To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Philip Jose Farmer. This was one of those books that was always on my To Be Read list, I just never got around to it. It's a Hugo Award Winner. Unfortunately that doesn't always translate to Good Read. 

I know a lot of people like this book and the entire Riverworld Series. But I won't be reading beyond this, myself. It wasn't very well done. The writing was fine -- it is Farmer after all -- but the overall story, the general worldbuilding, and the literary structure of the story combined to lessen my enjoyment of the book. I could see this being a rolicking novelette, though, or at the most a novella.

And, I'm sorry, but I don't find Riverworld a very interesting setting anyway. Farmer side-steps some crucial philosophical arguments he could have presented, thus making the book more powerful.  He alludes to them, yes, but then moves on as if they're not that important.  I think that was a mistake. He's a better writer than that.

Even so I'm glad I read this book because I had to read this book. It's one of those books you gotta read (in my case eventually) if you write SF and even fantasy.  Some books are like that. But I'm not going to read any more of the series.

Even if you haven't read it you probably have some idea what the novel Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe is about.

Do me a favor? Keep those ideas and don't read this novel, because if you do, man, are you gonna be disappointed.

Yep, this book sucked and sucked hard.  Forget about how slowly it moves. Forget about how unlikable the main character is, forget the ignorance Defoe has when it comes to geography, weather, sailing, farming, fauna, and pretty much everything else he writes about.  (Did you know penguins live on the equator and all Native Americans are cannibals? Oh, and men who sail ships aren't very religious and the White Man has a special dispensation from God to own the Black Man?)  Forget the racism when Crusoe forces Friday to address him as "Master" and dreams of making the island into a slave's paradise.  Forget all that. Some of these things can't be helped. It was published in 1719. It's not like a lot of people back then were enlightened.

It's just dull.  Like I said. If you haven't read this book you probably have some kind of take on what it's about. A man nobly learning to survive alone against Nature until he meets a native and they become fast friends and help one another.  Yeah. That sounds good.  Well, keep believing that because if you actually read this crap, man, are you gonna be pissed.

Crusoe is perhaps the most unbelievable character ever to appear in fiction.  He's smart enough to fire ceramic plates in a homemade kiln, but he can't find the brainpower to fashion a clay pipe to smoke his tobacco. He moans and whines about being alone, but when he sees that enigmatic naked footprint on the beach what does he do?  He runs to his little cave and hides.  FOR MONTHS HE HIDES.  He can't figure out how to kill the goats who live naturally on the island without worrying about using up all his gunpowder and shot.  He can't figure out maybe he could make a club or a bow and arrow to kill the goats. He doesn't realize when he cuts down a HUGE tree and hollows it out it's too heavy to drag to the beach so he can escape.  He can't figure out a lot of things.

He's stupid.

And when he's not figuring out anything he's lounging around wondering why God let him live through that terrible shipwreck which took the lives of all the other men.  We're wondering that, too. Why didn't God let this loser drown with the rest of 'em? It would have saved us reading over 300 pages of this drivel. And when someone finally does show up...instead of trying to find out his name, Crusoe christens him "Friday" and makes him say "Master".  Well, first things, first, right?  Then he sends the little brown man off to pick his crops.  Nice.

I'm not saying there aren't some good things in this classic novel.  There are flashes of brilliance, but it's no more than heat lightening on the horizon. Still, despite Defoe's best effort, some of the noble quality of a man alone on a deserted island shines through.  There is a strong undercurrent of the philosophy of solitude and what that means to the human condition.  But mostly it's Crusoe moaning for hundreds of pages before he meets Friday and turns him into his footman instead of working together to make their lives better, which is what I thought the novel was going to be about.

It blows. It sucks. It sucks and blows, which isn't easy but Defoe pulls it off. 

There's lots more I could say about this novel, but why bother?  It would just depress you. I can't recommend it. Read at your own peril.

Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls might be the best book I've read all year.   It has a history of being a book for children but there's more here than meets the eye. There's a deep humanist philosophy at work, incisive social commentary and believable emotion.  It works on a lot of levels.

Most "boy and his dog" books are primarily about becoming a man. But, at their fundamental core, they are, more than anything else, simple love stories.  Where the Red Fern Grows is no different.  The boy in the picture, Billy, wants redbone hounds more than anything else in the world because he wants to hunt racoons. He works two years, scrimping and saving, and finally gets his dogs. On the way home he meets a primeval force in the mountains that threatens his life.  He escapes, and begins to train his dogs, but is flummoxed as to what to name them.  Down along a river bottom he spots a tree with the words "Dan + Ann" carved into it by long ago lovers.  It's a sign from God.  There will be many others throughout the book.

Old Dan is the larger of the two hounds.  He's steadfast and loyal and strong. Little Ann was probably the runt of the litter. Smaller, she's the more intelligent of the two. There isn't a coon alive who can trick her. Both dogs have a deep bond between each other and also with Billy. More than one character in the book remarks, "I"ve never seen dogs act that way."

They are more than dogs.  Much more.

Overall, the writing is pretty darn good. Rawls conveys a real feel for the country and shows how it affects people in all aspects of their lives. In one passage Billy describes the river bottom:

"I had never seen a night so peaceful and still. All around me tall sycamores gleamed like white streamers in the moonlight."

There are lots of little flavor touches like that throughout the novel. On a hunt, Old Dan throws himself into the water:

"White sheets of water, knocked high in the moonlight by his churning feet, gleamed like thousands of tiny white stars."

Other little descriptions make this novel come alive in your hands.  Like how water squirts out from the mule's hooves as he clops through the mud or how Little Ann darts across a field bathed in moonlight and is "silent as a ghost and as quick as a flitting shadow."

On their first hunt they tree a coon in the largest sycamore in the river bottom. Eschewing all help it takes Billy days to cut the tree down. He's at the point of exhaustion and his hands are bleeding when he's about to give up, when a stray breeze catches the top of the tree and finally brings it down along with the coon.

The three become well known among other hunters.  They even go after what is known as a "ghost coon" a racoon that no one has ever been able to catch or tree. Little Ann figures out his trick and they capture the animal, but not before another tragedy takes place amidst that action. Finally, Billy and his dogs enter a hunting contest and though we get the expected result, and Billy and his dogs earn the respect from other hunters they deserve, it's actually setting up the novel for what we knew all along was coming.

Back home, they run into the primeval force they once faced all those years ago when the hounds were just puppies.  We know what's coming but we still feel the emotion and it all ties into a very effective package when Billy, now a man, revisits the memory.

This isn't a perfect book, but it's a damn good book. I highly recommend it.  You won't be disappointed.  Give it a peek.

So, who out there likes it Greek?  No, not that.  I mean who likes Greek literature, sheesh.  Anyway, one of my friends, Defector1, on LJ posted about how he has a test coming up covering Greek literature and I got to thinking about one of my favorite Greek poems by Alcaeus of Lesbos, which I bring you forthwith:

The great hall is aglare with bronze armament and the whole inside
     made fit for war
with helms glittering and hung high, crested over with white horse-
     manes that nod and wave
and make splendid the heads of men who wear them.  Here are shining
     greaves made out of bronze,
hung on hooks, and they cover all the house's side.  They are strong
     to stop arrows and spears.
Here are war-jackets quilted close of new linen, with hollow shields
     stacked on the floor,
with broad swords of the Chalkis make, many tunics and many
     belts heaped close beside.
These shall not lie neglected, now we have stood to our task and
     have this work to do.

.......................
What imagery.  You can feel yourself inside the hall, waiting for the dogs to slip.

(Tomorrow: Why self-publishing must die)