The Oncoming Hope

So here we go. I'll be honest, this is the first science fiction novel I've ever reviewed (and actually the first I've read in a long, long time, unless you count the odd Philip K. Dick). I am no stranger to sci-fi, I gobble up the movies and the television shows.

The reason I've avoided science fiction novels for so long is that so much of it is in the 'space opera' tradition, which I find indulgent and irritating. For some reason, while I have no problem with the world building that goes on in fantasy novels, world-building in sci-fi is off-putting. Even in television/film, I tend to prefer sci-fi where the fictional world is different from ours in one key respect, rather than in every respect possible.

So Robert J. Sawyer seemed like a good place to resume. You may remember him as the creator of the novel that inspired the series Flashforward, which had a great concept but hilariously dire execution (though it was worth watching for Joseph Fiennes' "acting" alone). But I liked the setup: a normal world, hit by an inexplicable event, followed by human stories about how we deal with knowledge we were never meant to have.

Factoring Humanity is a much more small-scale story: we have two married (but separated) scientists at the University of Toronto working to decipher two of the most complex scientific problems of the day: Kyle works on building a quantum computer, and Heather works on deciphering cryptic alien messages from Alpha Centauri. The inciting incident, however, is much more down to earth: their estranged daughter, Becky, returns to accuse of Kyle of sexually molesting her when she was a teenager.

Naturally Kyle denies it, and Heather is inclined to believe him but is torn between the two people she loves. So what do they do? They appeal to science. Kyle's only friend is the AI test robot he calls Cheetah. In some of my favorite scenes in the novel, they have playful and witty conversations about the meaning of humanity. Heather, on the other hand, finally has a breakthrough in deciphering the alien code, which leads her to incredible discoveries that I will not spoil here.

Heather's story is certainly more compelling; we spend more time with her, get to know her desires and her quirks. And of course she's the one to build the alien machine. We get to know Kyle mainly in the reflexive sense: his character is defined mainly by how he reacts to his daughter's accusation and by how he interprets humanity for Cheetah.

There were many scenes in the novel that I enjoyed that I suspect might grind the reading to a halt for more experienced readers of science fiction. Every theory posited is explained at length, from the Many Worlds Theorem to Jungian psychology to the importance of prime factors in code-breaking. Each of these explanations were educational and interesting until they made the leaps necessary to go from, for example, hypercube tesseracts to MANIFESTATION OF ALIEN OVERMIND. I do appreciate the attempt to not just wave a magical wand and go 'wibbley wobbley timey wimey,' but I do wonder if undermines suspension of belief to explain everything so clearly up to a point and THEN wave the magic wand.

Now I couldn't put the book down; I love learning about scientific theory, and I was genuinely curious about what would happen to these characters. However, an issue I had throughout the first half was what I mentioned previously about its small scale, about the magnifying glass on one family. In a sense, this issue is resolved satisfactorily because the book maintains its humanist focus until the end, and does not try to be bigger than it is. This really is a story about one family (and first contact with aliens). But at the same time, I wish Sawyer would go further.

It's an excellent introduction to the concept, but I want to see that concept drawn on a more macro scale. The book seems to end just as it was getting started: a barely alluded to threat made by a powerful banking consortium materializes only in the final ten pages of the novel and then disappears just as uneventfully. Factoring Humanity does succeed as a stand-alone novel, but I can't help but think how much better it would function as the first novel in a trilogy or series.

Fair disclosure: I myself had a suspicion that these charges have been overblown as an excuse to bring Assange into custody. However, I did not feel remotely comfortable with that suspicion, and I'm glad I took the time to find factual justification before contributing to the caravan of dervishes whirling around this case. I definitely would not want to contribute to the 'blame the victim' culture that surrounds allegations of rape and sexual assault.

Now that Julian Assange has been apprehended by the police in London, the blogosphere has exploded with ill-informed opinions about the charges brought against him, ranging from hysterical misogyny to anti-government cynicism to glorification of conspiracy theories. And now for some devil's advocacy to augment this witch's brew.

Having done a little bit of research into the exact nature of the charges and of new information that has come to light, I have concluded that if the allegations are true, then under the letter of the law, Assange absolutely should be brought to trial (on the sex crime charges only). I'm going to leave aside my opinion on the 'correctness' of related laws, and merely discuss them in relevance to the case.

THE CRIME

Despite the reports in the media, the crime that Assange is being charged for is 'sexual coercion and sexual molestation' and not 'sex by surprise.' There is no such thing, I repeat, no such thing as sex by surprise, which is in fact an offensive colloquialism for rape in Sweden.

So what did Assange actually do? All the commentary along the lines of, 'ha ha, now sex without a condom is a crime, gotta get written permission before having sex with a women!,' completely misses the point at best, and at worst exposes a formerly latent misogyny in the left. (Ironically, some of the most virulently anti-women comments appeared as agreement with a Naomi Wolf(!!) article defending Assange).

The legal principle behind the two women's charges is 'withdrawal of consent,' the idea that a woman may consent to sexual relations and then withdraw them at any point. In the first woman's case, she agreed to have sex only if Assange used a condom. In the bedroom he refused the condom at some point and she repeatedly asked him to stop, but he forced himself on her anyway. (In fact, the latest release of the police report states that he used his body weight to hold her down). This is the basis of the sexual assault charge. In the second woman's case, he had sex with her while she was asleep (no consent there!), and did not use a condom on that occasion either, even though she'd also agreed to have sex only with condoms. This is the basis for the molestation charge.

There are two forces at play here. One, it is difficult for many Americans to grasp the very concept of 'withdrawal of consent' as a basis of a sexual assault charge, as it only exists in certain states and is rarely prosecuted. Withdrawal of consent is monstrously difficult to prove in a court of law. Second, making a successful legal case against rape in the United States usually entails proving that the rapist used or threatened the use of force to gain sexual power. Until the recent statement by the Swedish authorities, there was no suggestion of force.

This is my basic understanding of the legal context of the case, and I admit that it is just that - basic. Which leaves one conclusion: the law is responsible for determining the validity of the charges. Therefore Assange must be brought to court. I am fairly sure that 90% of commentators would agree if he weren't such an information hero at the moment.

THE PUNISHMENT

While it is likely true that Assange would not have been brought in for this crime if he wasn't so badly wanted for other reasons, the fact remains that under the Swedish law, he definitely committed a crime. Assange's lawyers have repeatedly parroted, incorrectly, that the maximum penalty for this crime is the kroner equivalent of $700, as if trying to diminish the crime by saying it's barely punished. This is false. According to the Swedish penal code, the maximum punishment is 2 years in prison.

The facts are these: the charges may be proven true or false in a court of law (that is why a court of law exists). However, it helps no one to misrepresent the nature or seriousness of the charges themselves, irrespective of the political context. Habeus corpus obliges the law to fully investigate and judge the case on its merits. If the charges are proven false, then the law is equally responsible to investigate and punish the perjurers.

When screener after screener starts to pile up in the viewing list of two movie lovers, arguments about which film to watch first reach an intensity only a few steps removed from domestic violence (this debate becomes more heated knowing that you only have time to watch one movie in the week).

This weekend, there was a bumper crop to choose from, which we did manage to pare down to two: The Town and Howl. Howl only won due to the fact that I already harbored serious misgivings about it, which meant that if we didn't watch it then, we never would, and it would sink into the deep morass of 'Is that the weird-looking James Franco movie? I kinda remember wanting to see it, but completely forgot about it.'

A good place to start might be my initial misgivings. First, when I first saw the preview, it looked like there was way too much going on.  Second, I have an innate disinterest in the subject matter; the beats are a bit like marmalade, either you love them or you don't. Firmly in the latter camp, I was convinced the whole movement was pretentious nonsense designed to give artistic justification to drug use and unemployment, whether that opinion was valid or not.

On the first point, I'm definitely not convinced Howl works as a movie. Seventy-six minutes (when's the last time you saw a movie so short) just isn't enough time to give due attention to the three parallel threads running through the film. For another, these three threads never really come together (you could say the censorship trial ties the film together, but I think the link is tenuous at best. Near the beginning of the film, Ginsberg directly says the trial has nothing to do with him).

Wonderful actors are brought in for minutes at best, and then discarded. For instance, Jon Hamm, in a top-billed role, has only two duties:the gesticular equivalent of the famous Don Draper 'what?', and a closing argument in the style of Don's Kodak slide-reel speech. Not that I'm suggesting that Jon Hamm is typecast. Oh, wait...

However, the filmmaker succeeds marvellously in creating a love letter to Allen Ginsberg's famous poem. There's something magical about the energy in Franco's voice as he performs the poem to a dim NY nightclub, which is filmed more as old documentary footage than as a biopic 'history in action' scene.

Which brings us to my second misgiving, which the film addressed and defeated. Hearing the poem read in Franco's voice, which sounds nothing like the arrogant voice I'd always imagined, made the work seem more heartfelt and personal, and less nihilistic and cod-philosophy-ish. The structure of the movie works well to aid understanding of the work as well, like the ideal Cliffs notes which not only describes plot, but presents context and clarifies allusions.

Basically, the film juxtaposes four scenes with each section of the poem: Ginsberg being interviewed about a particular period, the narrative context being brought to life, gorgeous animation illustrating the readings of the poetry, and then the obscenity trial scene relevant to the part of the poem that had just been read. In a loop, this structure continues until the whole poem is read, at which point we see the aforementioned night club scene. The trial scenes didn't really work for me, but the package of the other three scenes provides a deeper understanding of the poem. Some critics have taken issue with the animation scenes, as they obviously ascribe to one particular interpretation of the poem, but they were so beautifully done that I feel there is still room for more abstract readings.

After 76 minutes with the poem, I understand why "Howl" was important, and why so many people are deeply moved by it. While it was by no means perfect, a movie can do worse than cultivating love of a previously dismissed work of literature.

I used to love Julianne Moore, but it's no secret to those who know me that I think Julianne Moore's Boston accent to be the biggest travesty that 30 Rock has ever inflicted, and that happened in a season that was already fairly terrible. Since then, I can't really look at her without squinting angrily and thinking "I Hate You." So it certainly helped that she was sort of the villain of the piece here (inasmuch as this type of movie has 'villains.') Though her presence did give me the chance to spend an unnecessary amount of time wondering why someone had apparently left Julianne Lewis in an oven before shooting the film (JOHN BOEHNER LEATHER-FACE TAN).

The Kids Are All Right tells the tale of a married lesbian couple whose children have come of age and want to know about their biological father. That man turns out to be a hippie motorcycle god of virulity played by Mark Ruffalo, whose pheromones are so strong that he can apparently turn lesbians (at least ones with bad Boston accents). He gets on immediately with the kids, and then gets it on with Julianne Moore. His presence as an interloper has all sorts of effects, turning the family upside down by bringing various insecurities into play. Also it's Mark Ruffalo, and he is hot.

The movie also has some of the funniest scenes in recent memory, including a brilliant bit where the son, hilariously named LAZER, discovers his parents' penchant for gay cowboy porn of the exceptionally cheesy variety. We watch as Annette Bening alternately try to fob off and explain their peculiar amusement in a scene that escalates quickly into HORRIBLY AWKWARD.

But the best thing about the movie is Mia Wasikowska, an actress whose last name I hate because the end vowel makes no sense, but I'll get over it (some day). I'm pretty sure she's destined for great things, as she has the right mix of vulnerability, relatable good looks and actual talent. In fact, the trailer has just leaked for Jane Eyre, and I'm fairly certain it's the best casting yet (Jane Eyre baffles me, as I think it's a fairly straightforward novel to adapt, but they've screwed it up everytime).

Oscar Chances:
-Maybe Annette Bening?
-I think a Screenplay nod is in order

I accidentally ended up in an Oxfam bookshop today, and perhaps predictably, carnage ensued. They had a 3 for 2 deal on, and given that most books cost less than 2 quid...

Let's get the preconceived notions out of the way! Maybe if I write them down I can banish them until I've completed the book (this is part of my quest to honor Updike's Rule #6.)

I've been meaning to give Sawyer a go for ages, especially Flashforward. So when Oxfam offered me the choice of TWO Sawyer novels (the other being Frameshift, which sounded a little too Robin Cook for what I expect from Sawyer), I snatched Factoring Humanity.

What do I expect from Sawyer? Hard physics, multiple universe paradoxes, elegant human relationships. Basically I expect Fringe in book form.

I'm already 86 pages into it, and it's very good so far, if a bit heavy on scientific and psychological theory. It seems to be struggling to find the correct balance between it's science and its humanity, but I'm not far enough in to determine whether these currently disparate elements come together later.




It's no secret that I really did not like the movie. That said, I keep reading and re-reading about how impressively Burgess recharacterizes the English language in this novel. By all accounts, the themes that the movie seemed only to grasp at are given full attention in the novel.

Also, I have realized that if I really want to be at all authoritative as a blogger, I need to be open to different types of novels that go outside of my comfort zone. While I have no idea what that zone is (I have read multiple books in pretty much any genre you can think of), I thought that the novel inspiring a movie that I hate is firmly outside of it. So when I spotted it on the shelves, I thought it was time to put aside preconceived notions and give Clockwork Orange another try, and maybe to approach it with a more critical eye.



This one needs no introduction I think. Like Clockwork Orange, part of its reputation rests with its fluid use of the English language. But the plot interests me: the main character is a music and sci-fi nerd who is cursed by the Dominican Republican dictator responsible for his family's exile to the United States.

I have a slight concern, based on what I've read, that this book might turn out to be like Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, a novel about teenage superheroes and jazz music that commits the unfathomable crime of being BORING.

But this one comes recommended to me by people I trust, so I look forward to it.
Again and again, I've read about how Henry James is one of the greatest literary stylists that America has ever produced. He is apparently one of the earliest experimenters with form and style, and is also considered a master of transnational social commentary, much like Twain or Moliere. All this is high praise indeed.

Given his reputation, I was shocked to discover I had never read ANYTHING by James apart from a few short stories. Filling the gaps, indeed.

I really look forward to this one as it's a ghost story (who doesn't love a good atmospheric scare), but once I'm done I'll delve into the Merchant-Ivory stuff.

(FYI, I do blame Merchant-Ivory for my lack of desire to read James until recently.)


I actually squealed when I saw this one. McInerney's been in my thoughts a lot lately. Bright Lights, Big City, considered his masterpiece, is a book I loved despite every expectation not to, and more surprisingly, it has stuck with me.

Like that novel, I understand this one is loosely autobiographical. But in a little bit of strange yet recently topical gossip, the model ex-girlfriend McInerney alludes to in this novel is based on *drumroll please* Rielle Hunter! AKA the temptress at the heart of the so-out-of-control-you-couldn't-have-made-it-up-if-you-tried John Edwards scandal.
I've always wanted to read this but never gotten around to it (actually, the same goes for the movie). When I graduated from high school and had that endless summer  anticipating college, it was my mission to be as well-read on the 'canon' as possible, so I could have late night conversations with like minded young aesthetes under romantic lighting in various parts of campus.  (This did happen, but 18th century classics were rarely the topic. Ayn Rand yes. Politics yes. But mostly I seemed to gravitate toward lovers of Dashboard Confessional and Jimmy Eat World. And Donnie Darko.)

But this was never top of the list, and it seems to be alluded to a lot more in recent times. But can I just mention how much I loath the cover? Basically I thought, "for God's sake, do we really need to put a bright chick-lit cover on E.M. FORSTER?!? Imagine my surprise when I found out that this cover was printed in 1990, well before the chick-lit genre existed. Still. Ew. Bergdorf font. The end.
We Need to Talk About Kevin is one of the most haunting books ever written, a tale of depravity right up there with Notes on the Underground, and a wantonly unreliable narrator to boot. Before I read Kevin, it had been a long time since I'd read a novel that made me want to shower every time I put it down.

So yes, please, more Shriver. That said, I don't know if she can ever live up to the brilliance of Kevin. But then we'll see.

Also this is a first for me, reading a novel about tennis players. Could hit me too close to home, or be a straight ace (PUN!)

As any of you who have read the reviews featured on this blog know, there's a fairly intense struggle to determine exactly what should be the main approach, the reason for existence of this extra voice in the blog-verse. Of course, one of the beauties of the internet is that you can get published even without any overriding thesis, but I find that lack of direction to be analogous to stepping into a giant abyss.

For years, I have been interested in the philosophy and underlying ethics of any work of art, of its creation, of its presentation, of its place in the universe. So in keeping with that interest, I am going to start looking at different frameworks related to that. Today's debut will be thoughts on John Updike's Rules for Reviewing. I recognize that many of my comments might be internally contradictiory, but these are guerilla observations, and I look forward to arguing about them.

UPDIKE'S RULES FOR REVIEWING

1. Try to understand what the author wished to do, and do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt.
2. Give him enough direct quotation—at least one extended passage—of the book’s prose so the review’s reader can form his own impression, can get his own taste.
3. Confirm your description of the book with quotation from the book, if only phrase-long, rather than proceeding by fuzzy precis.
4. Go easy on plot summary, and do not give away the ending. (How astounded and indignant was I, when innocent, to find reviewers blabbing, and with the sublime inaccuracy of drunken lords reporting on a peasants’ revolt, all the turns of my suspenseful and surpriseful narrative! Most ironically, the only readers who approach a book as the author intends, unpolluted by pre-knowledge of the plot, are the detested reviewers themselves. And then, years later, the blessed fool who picks the volume at random from a library shelf.)
5. If the book is judged deficient, cite a successful example along the same lines, from the author’s ouevre or elsewhere. Try to understand the failure. Sure it’s his and not yours?
6. To these concrete five might be added a vaguer sixth, having to do with maintaining a chemical purity in the reaction between product and appraiser. Do not accept for review a book you are predisposed to dislike, or committed by friendship to like. Do not imagine yourself a caretaker of any tradition, an enforcer of any party standards, a warrior in an idealogical battle, a corrections officer of any kind. Never, never (John Aldridge, Norman Podhoretz) try to put the author “in his place,” making him a pawn in a contest with other reviewers. Review the book, not the reputation. Submit to whatever spell, weak or strong, is being cast. Better to praise and share than blame and ban. The communion between reviewer and his public is based upon the presumption of certain possible joys in reading, and all our discriminations should curve toward that end.

Ok, now that you've read the rules, let's look at them a little more closely. As you can see, there's a little touch of 'Updike's Golden Rule' about the whole thing, with more than a hint of self-preservation.

1. Try to understand what the author wished to do, and do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt.

Taken on its own, this rule is ridiculous. Surely the choice of content can be just as disappointing as any technical failings within the book? After all, how many novels do we need that are written by White Male Narcissists about White Male Narcissist midlife crises? (Granted, Updike may not be the best person to ask that question of).

How many novels do we need about post-adolescence ennui? The triteness of this topic was more than enough to reduce my enjoyment of Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise. I couldn't get past the fact that I was 24 and still reading about Holden Caulfield, slightly older but infinitely less wise. Just because it was Fitzgerald's intent to write about post-college drift, doesn't mean I have to judge it purely as a member of the genre of 'novels about post-college drift.'

If an author cannot start with subject matter that is ambitious, or at least interesting, of course that would color my review of it. Just as I couldn't help but blame The Help for being flat when it had such rich potential. Stockett set out to give voice to the black maid whose personal life she knew nothing about. She succeeded in this 100%, and failed on almost every other level. Under Updike's rule, I should ignore every other one of those levels.

To me, this rule sounds too much like saying 'don't bring your life experience and philosophy into your reading and reviewing,' which is inane as an observation, and practically impossible.

2. Give him enough direct quotation—at least one extended passage—of the book’s prose so the review’s reader can form his own impression, can get his own taste.

This rule can only serve MFA style writers. Why is that? One word: NARRATIVE. While a quote is useful to illustrate the overall style of the novel, an extended passage serves little purpose, as it gives you no idea of the scope of the narrative. A novel needs a lot more than pretty sentences to be readable (in fact, novels written with such minute focus tend to drag). So while I agree that the reviewer's job is to give the reader enough information to form his or her own impression, recording extended passages is not the best way to achieve it.

Madame Bovary may now be considered the finest novel ever written, but that's not why it became a bestseller. Everyone who read it in 18th century France saw a version of themselves or their everyday problems in the novel. So in a sense, the job of the reviewer is to convey the relevance of the book to the reader, whether that relevance is cultural, moral, educational or strictly emotional.

3. Confirm your description of the book with quotation from the book, if only phrase-long, rather than proceeding by fuzzy precis.

I had to read this five times before I could even understand what it meant. So he's saying you need to find a quote from the author's novel in order to validate your own review? What if your issue is with character, plot, setting, detail or any of those other things that influence the quality of a book? Surely a review is all about creating a fuzzy precis: you want to give a little bite, a slight taste of the novel, without giving away any of the surprises. Let's see if I can break this down by example.

Say I was reviewing Les Miserables. To put it simply (what Updike calls a fuzzy precis), I would summarize it something like follows. "Les Miserables is the story of one man's desperate attempt to find redemption after one life-changing mistake, a quest that involves challenging both the conventions of society and the strong arm of the law." Can there possibly be ONE QUOTE in the entire novel that encompasses that theme?

Granted, that's a very top-level description of the novel's themes. Let's move a little closer in. "Through the course of the novel, Valjean learns that there is no salvation for himself, only for those touched by his revolution against social norms and expectations." Again, same question.

Which brings me to my main point: how can a review that is normally 3 columns on one page provide anything more than a fuzzy precis? And more to the point, would you want it to?

4. Go easy on plot summary, and do not give away the ending. (How astounded and indignant was I, when innocent, to find reviewers blabbing, and with the sublime inaccuracy of drunken lords reporting on a peasants’ revolt, all the turns of my suspenseful and surpriseful narrative! Most ironically, the only readers who approach a book as the author intends, unpolluted by pre-knowledge of the plot, are the detested reviewers themselves. And then, years later, the blessed fool who picks the volume at random from a library shelf.)

DO NOT GIVE AWAY THE ENDING. No arguing with that.

I also tend to agree about providing too much plot summary. Honestly, when I read a review, I want a holistic appraisal of a novel's merits, its themes, and whether the narrative ties together. That said, I do not want to know about exactly how the story arrives at its conclusion, I just want assurance that it does arrive in a satisfactory (and preferably unique) manner. Some reviews read like they're giving away the magician's tricks five minutes before the show.

5. If the book is judged deficient, cite a successful example along the same lines, from the author’s ouevre or elsewhere. Try to understand the failure. Sure it’s his and not yours?

I understand the point being made here; points of reference are the quickest shorthand for readers to determine whether a novel succeeds or not without reading anything but the review. But this also reminds me of the dominant creative writing teacher attitude: "Yes it's good, it's exciting, BUT WHY DON'T YOU WRITE MORE LIKE HEMINGWAY!" In which case the fault is absolutely with the reader.

Also, this rule is predicated on the assumption that one work can be objectively cited as more or less successful than another. How do you prove this, do you nitpick at sentences? In that case, see my response to Rule 2. If not, how do you judge the totality of a work against another? My opinion of Anna Karenina was tempered because I thought it had the same plot as Madame Bovary but wasn't executed as well. But I know a hundred people who would say the exact opposite, and I think both sides can justify themselves pretty well. So if I see a sentence in a review like, "The author would have been well served to refer to the exemplar of the female adultery story, Anna Karenina," then the trust is broken between me and the reviewer. And there's no reason for that sentence to really be there except to express the reviewer's own opinion on an unrelated work and then create false equivalences.

6 (ish). To these concrete five might be added a vaguer sixth, having to do with maintaining a chemical purity in the reaction between product and appraiser. Do not accept for review a book you are predisposed to dislike, or committed by friendship to like. Do not imagine yourself a caretaker of any tradition, an enforcer of any party standards, a warrior in an idealogical battle, a corrections officer of any kind. Never, never (John Aldridge, Norman Podhoretz) try to put the author “in his place,” making him a pawn in a contest with other reviewers. Review the book, not the reputation. Submit to whatever spell, weak or strong, is being cast. Better to praise and share than blame and ban. The communion between reviewer and his public is based upon the presumption of certain possible joys in reading, and all our discriminations should curve toward that end.

Principally, I agree with this rule completely. Practically speaking though, I'm not sure how feasible it is, especially with books; so few make it to the level of societal conversation that I can imagine professional reviewers are forced to read them even if they are predisposed against them. Frankly, some books just fail to provide any joy in reading them, and if that is so, then it becomes the responsibility of the reviewer to convey that.

But I subscribe to the Nick Hornby theory of reading: if you really really don't like it, don't feel obliged to finish it, so then you don't feel resentful towards the author and the novel for taking up your time and preventing you from reading something else.

As for the point about never putting an author in his place to make an ideological point, I've already broken that in the course of this review by employing the phrase "White Male Narcissist." But in Updike's time, the majority of the literati were white men. Now, the majority of readers and writers are women. It is absolutely an ideological concern that novels about male midlife crises are considered "Great American Novels" while novels about female midlife crises are considered women's fiction, so often I am compelled to fight back against that. But should I be doing that as a reviewer? Probably not, but it's impossible to leave such concerns at the door.

I do agree that in an ideal world, you should surrender yourself to a novel free of any knowledge of its reputation, and review it on those merits. But in this era of universal media saturation, I don't always think that's possible.

CONCLUSION
What is the purpose of a review, at the end of the day? It is not the same as criticism. It serves to inform people's awareness of art that is being produced, and enable them to make their own judgment. If I were to follow Updike's rules, I don't think that I'd actually be providing enough information for a reader to make that decision, and would in fact be misleading them on multiple points. (Now off to find objective proof of this in reviews written by Updike, so I can discuss this in more than just abstract terms in a future post. I might even be proven wrong.)

The press has long been obsessed with documenting the downfall of achievers, whether the achievements are academic, athletic, cultural or even pop-cultural. For me, there is no high greater joy than watching someone perform at the top of their game (which is a little bit ironic, given that I can't stand to watch any sports of any kind).

Anne Hathaway's performance on Saturday Night Live last week was one of those moments where you watch and you feel a little bit transcendent. She sings! she dances! she is HYSTERICALLY FUNNY! I know some reviewers have said that part of the reason the episode worked was that the writing was far superior than the rest of the season, which may be true, but she was so good that even the lesser sketches didn't seem to drag on.

Like her superbly ridiculous rendition of Obscene Mary Poppins last time she hosted, her impressions this time managed to get straight to the heart of the innocent victims, whether it be Katie Holmes (how the hell did she do the upside down eyes?), Kate Middleton, or in my favorite sketch, Alanis Morissette.


Part of the joy in finding out what a great comedienne she is comes from the fact that she also managed one of my favorite dramatic performances in Rachel Getting Married, and her two minutes in Brokeback Mountain were chilling.
 
So when they announced that she was hosting the Oscars, I just thought, what a FANTASTIC fit! She has more range than any host of the past few years (except perhaps Hugh Jackman, who was a joy to watch). So the combination with James Franco promises a more unpredictable, energetic and fun awards show than they've had in years (even though I still think that hardly any movies released this year so far have been awards-calibre).