Gladiatrix, by Russell Whitfield

Mindful of my obligation to review this book for LibraryThing, I struggled valiantly to finish it, but despite my best efforts, I could only get halfway through. It would take a doughtier warrior than myself to conquer Whitfield's leaden prose, abysmal dialog, complete absence of characterization, and predictable plotting.

Except for the heroine Lysandra, there's not a single character with a spark of life, but in her case that's not a recommendation. The arrogant know-it-all who doesn't realize how others perceive her can work well when used sparingly or for comic effect -- see Elizabeth Peters' ever-adorable Amelia Peabody, for example -- but Lysandra is utterly without humor or charm. She is simply an unlikeable brat who needs a big dose of get-over-yourself.

Whitfield's endnotes (I always read the endnotes) acknowledges someone who helped him get rid of his contemporary point of view, but I'm afraid that person had too much to contend with to take care of it all. The author seems concerned, for example, that readers will find Lysandra's temple implausible and justifies it at some length. To me it seems perfectly plausible, except when we come to Lysandra's function as a "mission priestess." I am by no means an expert on ancient Greek religion, but it seems clear that proselytization was not one of its features; it spread haphazardly through conquest and syncretization with existing local deities.

The more serious historical lapse involves the so-called Tribe comprising the women from Gaul and Britain. We modern readers can accept that they all fall into an overarching definition of "Celtic," but I sincerely doubt that an Iceni and a Dacian are going to automatically recognize each other as blood-sisters.

On a shallow note, Whitfield's sex scenes are embarrassing and far from erotic, not only as though he knows nothing about lesbians, but as though he knows nothing about sex between any two people anywhere.

Murder on the Eiffel Tower

Murder on the Eiffel Tower, by Claude Izner

I received this as an ARC from the LibraryThing Early Reviewers group, and if I hadn't been obligated to review it, I would never have finished it. This book is a very weak historical thriller set in the heady atmosphere of the Paris Exposition of 1889. It has the stiff prose I associate with bad translation, but translation alone can't account for its clunky exposition, unrealistic dialog, shallow characterization, haphazard plotting, and pointless name-checking. The hero suspects his lover and business partner on less than no evidence, and never does come around to guessing the identity of the real killer until he reveals himself. In a way, that's not surprising, since the killer's motive is laughable, and the authors provide no substantive clues whatever.

Know How I Said I Was Back? Not So Much

Remember how I mentioned last time I'd been having some health problems? Well, they're ongoing. Nothing too serious, but debilitating enough that basically all I've got the energy for is working, reading, and sleeping. Lots of sleeping. Blogging? Not really on the agenda right now. So while I may pop in now and again, you can consider me on the dreaded hiatus until I get my innards seen to.

As long as I'm here, though, let me just say this about that. Did you ever have an old friend you hadn't seen in a while, and then you got together, and suddenly you realized that all his little jokes were really racist, or all she could talk about was dieting? That's kind of how I'm feeling in rereading the Smith and Wetzon mysteries by Annette Meyers. I really liked these books back in the day, and I kept them when sorting through Mom's collection, but on reflection, I have to wonder what it was I saw in them. The heroine, Leslie Wetzon, a former Broadway dancer turned Wall Street headhunter, is a terrible investigator; especially in the first book (The Big Killing), she consistently withholds information, tampers with evidence, lies for no reason, and fails to ask the crucial and obvious questions.

I can't blame her entirely for her dysfunctional relationships with her partner and cop boyfriend, though, because however prickly and defensive she is, neither one of them is any prize. Smith is materialistic, greedy, narcissistic, and manipulative (cue obligatory "and those are her good points"), while Silvestri is the sort of emotionally closed off guy who compartmentalizes so thoroughly he doesn't introduce Wetzon to his mother until they've been practically living together for 5 years.

The one thing I am digging is the way these books are a positive time capsule of a certain Manhattan yuppie milieu of the 1980s, complete with designer labels, hip restaurants, and a time before cell phones. But somehow I don't think that was what I found cool at the time when I too was running around looking for a phone booth.

I'm Back (Didja Miss Me?)

I didn't intend to take off the whole month of July. But first I went on vacation and then I went on vacation again and then I had some health problems. So before I knew it, boom! it was August.

So anyway, I have lots of cool things to say about books I've read (and by the way, I'm so hopelessly behind tracking my reading that I've given up trying to catch up) and movies I've seen (three of 'em! in a theater!). But I'm not here to talk about that now.

No, what brought me back was the stupid Geico commercial where the customer explains that his father was CARJACKED AT KNIFEPOINT and Joan freaking Rivers makes jokes about her plastic surgery. And then the poor man graciously COMPLIMENTS GEICO ON THEIR SENSITIVITY.

I'm sure some ad guy just cracked himself up thinking he was so fucking clever and edgy. But guess what, bozo: when you cross the line into making fun of people who have had a horrific experience and make them thank you for it, that's not edgy, THAT'S JUST FUCKING WRONG.

Sheesh.

Edited 8/2 because I'm still pissed off.

Patriot Hearts

Patriot Hearts, by Barbara Hambly

I've read damn near everything Barbara Hambly's ever written, and while there were a few of her books I didn't like so much, I never thought she could write anything so BORING. This story of the first four First Ladies (counting Thomas Jefferson's slave mistress, Sally Hemings) is a rambling, episodic collection of flashbacks -- and often, flashbacks within flashbacks -- loosely tied together by an unnecessary frame device. None of the heroines emerges as a particularly interesting character, and indeed the book had the effect of making me less sympathetic with some of them (Martha Washington tsking that Pennsylvania's anti-slavery laws complicate her housekeeping arrangements, Abigail Adams fuming that an Irish immigrant shouldn't have political opinions because he has no stake in the country). There's no driving, overarching story here; and while I don't doubt that a peek behind the scenes into the domestic side of the great events of early American history could make a fascinating novel, this isn't it.

8 Unanswered Questions About The Tenderness of Wolves

It took me two tries to get into this historical mystery about a murder in the snowy Canadian wilderness in the 1860s. Once I did, I enjoyed it, but it's almost breathtaking in its loose-endedness, leaving plots unresolved and characters scattered across the landscape. So herewith, the list of things I still want to know:

1. Whatever became of Amy Seton?
2. With Moody dead, how are the Knoxes going to learn about Eve Seton/Elizabeth Bird?
3. Why and how did Mrs. Ross leave the asylum with Mr. Ross?
4. Who was Half Man and what was his relationship with Stewart?
5. Why did Mr. Ross start to turn away from Mrs. Ross, and what is she going to do about it?
6. What's Jacob going to do when he learns that Moody was killed while he wasn't around to protect him?
7. What's going to become of Francis, Line and her children, Susannah, Maria, and Mr. Knox?
8. So what is that mysterious bone tablet anyway?

I Defy the AFI

It's no use getting too bent out of shape about the lists published by the AFI. Tastes differ; also, they're an institution that depends at least partly on donations and they're not above pandering to certain films because they were popular or made a lot of money. But their broadcast last night of the 10 Top 10 was very badly done (each segment way too short, then wasting time on recaps; dubious experts), and I have to take issue with some of their more egregious choices:

• Titanic on the list of epics? ONE OF THE WORST MOVIES EVER MADE, PEOPLE.
• Moonstruck and Sleepless in Seattle in romantic comedies? These horrible, horrible films are better than Bringing Up Baby or My Man Godfrey or even Victor/Victoria? Don't make me laugh (they sure couldn't).
• The Usual Suspects? Good movie, but a better mystery than The Thin Man or The Big Sleep or Notorious? I don't think so.
• Both versions of Scarface on the gangster list? That's just lazy.

And whose idea was it to trot out Kirk Douglas? I'm sure whoever did it kidded themselves they were doing something very noble, but I found it just sad and exploitative.

True Dreck

I used to have a razor-sharp memory for everything I had read or watched, but as time goes on I find myself losing my grasp on the details. So, as it now often happens, I remembered that I really hated the movie True Lies, but not why. Thus, having nothing in particular better to be doing last night, I watched it again.

And then I remembered. Because this is the movie where THE HERO (Arnold Schwarzenegger) thinks that it's a fine idea not only to abuse his position as a Government agent to spy on his wife (Jamie Lee Curtis) when he thinks she's having an affair, but also to kidnap her, throw her into a cell, interrogate her, and threaten her with torture and exposure. And who also thinks it's fun to torture and humiliate the man she's involved with. And who thinks it's sexy to then force her to pretend to be whore and make her dance naked for what she thinks is a stranger.

And not only does she not think he's a sick bastard, she LIKES IT. And then proceeds to torture and humiliate the other guy herself a little more at the end.

With good guys like this . . . .

As a side note, the whole conjunction of Arab terrorists/planes/tall buildings takes on a whole new resonance in the post 9/11 world.

You know, I've always kind of despised Tom Arnold. The fact that he's pretty much the best thing in this movie is deeply depressing.

Garden Spells

Garden Spells, by Sarah Addison Allen

I am in love with this book, which is all about love and loss and hurt and happiness. It's about families, about small towns where you carry the baggage of all your ancestors, and about sisters. It's about wanting to belong, and what happens when you don't. It's about magic, and some seriously tasty-sounding food. Go read it.

Long Overdue Post #2: Does the Wind Get Tired Out There?

This post also got started and lost in the shuffle a good while ago.

I watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington almost every time I run into it. There's a lot to admire in this 1939 Frank Capra classic, notably the acting from almost everyone involved: Jimmy Stewart as the idealistic young Jefferson Smith; Jean Arthur as Clarissa Saunders, the hard-boiled secretary who's transformed by Smith's sincerity; Claude Rains as stately, silver-haired, but corrupt Sen. Joseph Harrison Paine; and Edward Arnold as smooth-talking political boss Jim Taylor; not to mention Thomas Mitchell, Eugene Pallette, Harry Carey, and Jack Carson. The dialog by screenwriter Sidney Buchman is snappy and often very funny, as when drunken urbanite Clarissa tries to repeat what Smith has told her about the plains she's never seen.

In outline, the plot is simple. Naive young publisher Smith is appointed as an interim senator for his state, in the expectation that he won't get in the way of the Taylor machine. In the person of Sen. Paine, the machine is trying to engineer passage of a bill to construct an unnecessary dam on land owned by a Taylor advocate that will (somehow) enrich Taylor, Paine, and others. By chance, Smith decides to sponsor a bill asking the government to buy that same land to sponsor a boys' camp (you know it's 1939 when all the sincere speeches about kids growing up to respect each other never consider that some of them could be, you know, girls). Taylor tries to buy Smith; when that doesn't work, he decides to smash him by showing that Smith, not Allen, owns the disputed land. With coaching from Saunders, the disgraced Smith provokes a confession from Paine, brings down Taylor, and clears his name.

It's fine, rousing stuff. But despite my recognition of its good qualities, I've never loved the movie the way so many other people do, and it's taken me a long time to figure out why. I think it's a series of three interlinked problems. First, Smith does a terrible job of defending himself. Sure, the Taylor syndicate blindsides him with the forged contract, but if there is enough time for a trial with three different handwriting experts, there's enough time for Smith to try to expose the connection between the landowner and Taylor. But it looks like he doesn't even try; nor does he try to tell his story and ask for time to prove his allegations when he has the chance and it might do him some good.

That failure leads directly to his desperate filibuster, which is the second problem. For most people, I think, this is the highlight of the film: a lone man, battling the forces of corruption arrayed against him, with nothing but his voice and ability to stay on his feet. And I must admit it's genius when, hands deep in the negative telegrams Paine has trucked into the Senate chamber, an all-but-spent Smith turns to him and rasps, "I guess it's just another lost cause, Mr. Paine." But the whole idea falls flat for me. Smith really does nothing with his opportunity except assert his innocence again and again. It's no wonder his fellows turn their backs on him, if he can't summon up a shred of proof. He says he's trying to reach the people in his state, but again, what does he offer them except hollow assurances without evidence?

The third and biggest problem, though, is that he wouldn't need much evidence if he simply applied a little logic. Taylor's whole scheme depends on the fact that owning the land on which the dam will be built will bring in a huge profit. Would that not be equally true if Smith owned it? Why would he bother trying to con schoolboys out of nickels and dimes for a camp if he could sell the land to the Government for an enormous amount? It's so OBVIOUS, yet neither he nor anyone else ever points that out.

Honesty and bravery and patriotism and good intentions are all great qualities in their place. But I like my heroes, and my elected officials, to have a few smarts as well.