December 21 is the anniversary of the death in 1028 of Erling Skjalgsson, hero of my Viking novels.
I know what you’re wondering. “How do I express my condolences?”
The best way I can think of is to order a copy of West Oversea.
Even if you already have one.
I know it’s what Erling would have wanted.
(If you’ve seen the following review already posted at The American Culture, you may be wondering why I posted it first there, which is not my usual practice. The reason is that I was asked specifically by Sam Karnick of TAC to write this review last weekend, but was prevented by the weather from getting to the theater. So after I’d viewed the film yesterday, I made haste to post it for TAC as quickly as possible.)
The big question you’re bringing to this review, I’m pretty sure, is, “Is The Voyage of the Dawn Treader worthy of its source? Is it more like the first movie, which we loved, or the second movie, which we didn’t even bother to see?”
I’m happy to report that for one C. S. Lewis geek at least, the movie was very satisfying and provided an extremely good time at the movies. (I saw it in 3D. I don’t know if that matters or not; you’re on your own on whether to spend the money. Personally, I’m a sucker for flashy magic.)
It should always be borne in mind that books and movies are different species of story. What works for one may not work for the other (though it’s nice when they do). I ask just three things of a film adaptation of a beloved novel. First, it should make some effort to follow the general outline of the original (extra points for dialogue faithfully carried over). Second, it should hit most of the dramatic high points. And third, it should deliver something like the same emotional impact.
For this particular viewer, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader succeeded. Very well. I’m not sure yet, but I might even like it better than the first movie. Continue reading Film review: "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader"
Now hear me, children. When Santa Claus comes down Santa Claus Lane, he’s gonna be looking for right-thinking children this year. D’you hear me? Orthodoxy. I mean you’d better have your doctrine right or Santa’s gonna put your name on the Naughty List.
Santa’s getting back to his roots this year, and that mean fighting Christian heresy. You got those seeker-shmeeker churches in your town? Those entertainment-driven dives posing as churches? Or you got those preachers who tell you to clean yourself up, pull up your own boot-straps before coming to God for forgiveness? Santa don’t play that. You got that junk going down in your house, and Santa will lay the Holly-Jolly upside your face.
So, you better watch out, punk.
A North Korean sent to assassinate South Korea’s president back in 1968 failed to achieve his mission, despite remarkable successes along the way, and has since become a South Korean citizen and Presbyterian minister. He comments on his past and recent North Korean aggression.
Jared has the goods on how allegory is defined and why Narnia really isn’t one despite what you may have heard.
How then does he define Allegory? Perhaps the clearest definition in the most common language comes via a letter to Mrs. Hook (found in Letters of C.S. Lewis, 12/29/58):
By an allegory I mean a composition (whether pictorial or literary) in which immaterial realities are represented by feigned physical objects, e.g. a pictured Cupid allegorically represents erotic love (which in reality is an experience, not an object occupying a given area of space) or, Bunyan, a giant represents Despair.
Tonight, another Christmas hymn sung by Sissel. This one probably isn’t familiar to you (I think it’s Swedish), but it’s one of Sissel’s own favorites, and has become one of mine. “Mitt hjerte altid vanker” means “My heart always wanders,” and the song goes on to say that the singer’s heart always wanders back to the place where Christ was born, because all his/her joy is there.
I particularly like the way they use some strains of Grieg for the bridge.
I’d never heard of author James Church (a pseudonym for a former western intelligence officer) before someone lent me A Corpse in the Koryo
Inspector O, a police detective in Pyongyang, is a loose cannon in the honored tradition of fictional cops. Of course, a loose cannon in North Korea enjoys a lot less scope than one in, say, Los Angeles. He expresses his individuality through small acts of rebellion, like “forgetting” to wear the uniform badge that bears the portrait of the Dear Leader, and pursuing the solitary (hence suspect) hobby of woodworking, when he can get his hands on wood and supplies.
He’s lucky, too. He’s the grandson of a national hero, and a government minister who was his grandfather’s friend gives him a certain level of protection.
Still, Inspector O is under constant suspicion. But then, everyone is under constant suspicion.
The story, presented as a debriefing given to a British agent, begins with Inspector O sitting on a hill overlooking a highway, with a camera, waiting for a particular car to pass by. He’s supposed to take a picture of the car, but when he tries, the battery in his camera is dead (par for the course). Shortly after returning to his office, he is told that a little boy has been killed near the site where he had been watching. Then he attends a tense meeting with several police and intelligence officers, and is ordered to go to another city for a while and lay low. However, when he gets there, there are messages and clues, and mysterious meetings.
And so it goes. Nothing is what it seems in O’s world, and anyone not known to be a friend is probably an enemy. No one speaks directly. Messages are conveyed by nuances and things left unsaid. The mystery is convoluted, and the normal difficulties of police work are exacerbated by the difficulty of getting things as simple as aspirin, a meal, or notebooks (to say nothing of information).
But for all the subtleties of Korean society, death is brutal, bloody, and unsparing.
A Corpse In the Koryo is an excellent mystery for grown-ups not afraid of sorrow and futility, and anyone interested in a glimpse into the world’s most closed and secretive society. It’s not an easy read, as the reader needs to pay close attention both to spoken words and silences. Recommended.
Paste Magazine has some beautiful photos of books, bookshelves, books as artwork, bookstores, and alternatively, aisles lined with books. It’s beautiful.
Pay attention. Or don’t. This part is background, and really not all that important. And I probably remember parts of it wrong.
Once upon a time, there was a blog called Libertas, run by a conservative movie producer named Jason Apuzzo, and his wife Govindini (it actually still exists, or exists again). It was an entertaining blog on the movie business, and attracted lively discussions in comments. When Jason and Govindini went on hiatus for a while, they turned it over to a commenter (and fellow movie maker) named John Nolte. It became even more popular and interesting under John. Then the Apuzzos came back, there was some kind of unpleasantness, and John moved to his own blog, called Dirty Harry’s Place, and took most of the fun with him. Libertas languished.
Co-bloggers and commenters at Dirty Harry’s Place were three guys who called themselves Rufus T. Firefly, Floyd R. Turbo, and Charles Foster Kane. There was a great synergy at that blog, and it was a delight to read.
Then Andrew Breitbart invited John Nolte to head up his new Big Hollywood blog. Rufus, Floyd, and Charles spun off a new blog of their own, movie-oriented but eclectic, called Threedonia. I hang out there quite a bit, because it’s kind of like Duck Soup every day, and they’ve added my books to their Amazon selection.
Meanwhile, Big Hollywood is a blog I also read quite a bit, but it’s history has been… strange. I won’t speculate on the dynamics between John Nolte and his co-writers, but Big Hollywood isn’t nearly as much fun as Dirty Harry’s Place was, and some of the best writers he started out with are no longer in evidence. My own impression is that Dirty Harry’s Place was a blog for people who loved movies, while Big Hollywood is (mostly, not entirely) a blog for people who hate Hollywood liberals.
I told you all that so I could tell you this.
The chief writer I miss at Big Hollywood is Robert J. Avrech, who wrote with great sensitivity and knowledge about Hollywood history, especially its (frequently—often purposely) neglected Jewish heritage.
But Robert Avrech has his own blog, Seraphic Secret, and I recommend it. Often it deals with Jewish matters that don’t compel me much, but nobody writes about old Hollywood like Avrech. If, like me, you find old Hollywood fascinating, I recommend it.
“Must the artist always be vulnerable to being pushed aside by manipulative phonies?” A poem and a little talk by John Tranter from the current issues of Poetry.