This is one of those films that everyone says they don’t like “despite Paltrow’s amazing performance.” Well, I’ll be the contrary voice then that says her performance is the very worst thing about this lackluster movie. Everything about her character’s “depression” is evidenced not by felt emotion, but through outward signs: nail-biting, ridiculous rocking back and forth, stagey facial expressions – all a transparent mask for Paltrow’s stony boredom. She is a maudlin, insipid, immature caricature of Plath.

Granted, the screenplay and direction had much to do with this ruinous performance, as most of Plath’s writing comes across as a product not of persistent work and study, but as a side-effect of madness – a myth Hollywood has helped perpetuate about any number of “tortured artists.”

But film after film people talk about how Paltrow’s talent is “wasted” in this or that role…when all I can think is that there is a stable of better actresses who casting overlooked because they lacked the celebrity (and therefore box office draw) that she brings.

Even after watching the documentary about the making/writing of this film, I still think the “redemptive” ending is really jarring and strange…

The performances in this film are wonderful; however, it should be noted that there were serious liberties taken with Frances Farmer’s story. Much of what you see in the film never took place – the most notable fictional element being her lobotomy.

Be sure to watch this either in Spanish or with subtitles, as the dubbing really ruins the experience of this movie…

Available via Google Video, here

I think the three novels within are best read together. Though it adds up to around 1,240 pages, it is quite a page-turner. These novels reveal a side of America not widely discussed today, and I recommend them alongside something like Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States. This was a time of great opportunity and great upheavel, especially in the realm of ideas. To see how all the great societal powers formed and dissolved and how these wars played out in the lives of numerous individuals from all walks of life is fascinating.

Whatever their pedagogical utility, these novels stand alone on the strength of their scale, detail, and characterization. U.S.A is a window into the myriad lives and ways of living that existed in the early 20th century, and is as close to a time machine as I have found in print.

I’m really not sure. Now that I have read this, his supposed masterpiece, as well as As I Lay Dying, I really don’t understand why he receives so much deference. His style and structure was unique; however, the story itself is not terribly interesting. Faulkner maintained that he told the story (centered on Caddy) from a different perspective multiple times, because each section, for different reasons, failed to do a worthy job. Learning about his personal life, it is easy to see each character in this book as a different aspect of Faulkner’s own despair. They never materialize into complete persons for me, but exist almost as little more than props on a stage. Perhaps I am too hard-hearted?

In his Nobel acceptance speech, he said, speaking of the fearful modern writer:

“He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion.”

...

“Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man.”

...

“The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.”

Faulkner does not seem to follow his own advice. (With the possible exception of Dilsey), no one makes sacrifices for other than selfish reasons, trying and failing to uphold the good name of the family. Any concept of honour, of hope for a future, or of reverence for a past are dissolved in the slow malevolent dissipation of the family. The strong sense of fatalism makes it difficult to afford pity to any member of the family (Benjy being essentially an animal, Caddy being doomed from birth, Jason’s fundamental amorality, the mother’s incapacitating self-pity and narcissism), the best that can be said is that some of them endured. I don’t think that’s saying much.

There are few books about writing that I have really found worthwile to return to as a reference. Though I have gleaned a small amount from a number of sources, nothing really compares to John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction and On Becoming A Novelist.

This book is interesting to me though, as Smiley appears to connect the experience of reading with the craft of writing in a unique and thorough manner. I’m hopeful about this one…

OK, so I did not read Living or Party Going as Loving was such a disappointment. Some authors whose work I respect and enjoy heaped hyperbolic praise upon Green before it was fashionable to do so. Upon the reccomendation of Elizabeth Bowen and Rebecca West (whose The Fountain Overflows would have been a much better choice for the Modern Library’s 100 list), I expected a great deal from Loving, but found it life-like only in that it seemed a life-time had elapsed when I finally reached the conclusion. The pace is not sluggish. This is a social novel, where an ensemble of servants buzz about the castle grounds, filling the halls with gossip and ceaseless prattle and hand-wringing over their tired and tenuous lives.

While the dialogue is heralded as being as true to life as could be, this passes along not just the music of coloquial speech, but all of the cliches people resort to, the concealment through allusion, the dull vulgarity masking insecurity…

It is difficult to make out what the desires and temperments of each of the characters is, as they seem to shift quite often. This made it difficult to understand or sympathize with anyone in the book.

Perhaps I will return to this book at a later date if someone should convince me that it is worthwile, but for the time being, I would rather watch Manor House then re-read Loving.

Both funny and dark, ribald and ethereal, this is a wonderful book! I never needed a bookmark because as soon as I would put the book down, I would have to pick it up again immediately.

A familiarity with Kierkegaard will greatly enrich your reading of this novel (for example, see this brief essay on “Kierkegaard’s Narrative”), though it isn’t necessary to appreciate the trials of detachment and despair the main character weathers to reach the conclusion.